Cowboy Lessons (Harlequin American Romance)

by Pamela Britton

  “I only did all that because I knew you wouldn’t dance with me otherwise. And that I couldn’t let happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Amanda, I’ve wanted to hold you from the moment I saw you. Because you are, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on and I’m dying to kiss you again.”

  He felt her body tense, saw the way her eyes swept back and forth between his own as if wanting to avoid his gaze, but unable to do so.

  “May I, Amanda?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, and Scott didn’t wait for one. He kissed her, not as Scott the nice guy. Not as Scott the geek, but as Scott the man. Funny thing was, instead of sparking off his lust, his first thought as he kissed her was that their lips seemed to fit together perfectly. That when he increased the pressure of his mouth, she seemed to know exactly what he wanted. That he didn’t think he could have found a more perfect woman in the world to kiss.

  She tilted her head, opened for him, their tongues touching each other’s again. Then, then, the fireworks exploded. He pulled her even closer, stooped a little so his lower body was cradled in the valley between her thighs. And when he did, it was better than fireworks. Better, even, than he’d fantasized about while he’d been going about the chores she’d given him today.

  And then they both pulled away at the same time, and it was only then that Scott realized it was because they’d both heard voices. He straightened. She pulled back a bit, too, but neither of them looked away. Scott knew it was because she was thinking the same thing as he.

  She stepped back. And then stepped back again, wiping at her lips as if he’d left her with a bad taste, which, Scott thought, he was sure he hadn’t. Breath mint. Five minutes ago.

  “How do you do it?” she asked. “How do you make me forget that you’ve stolen my father’s ranch? That you’re only here because of some childhood fantasy you’ve had about being a cowboy?”

  “I—”

  “Mr. Beringer?”

  They both stiffened. Turned.

  “Mr. Beringer,” said a boy who looked about ten, but he might have been older or younger. It was hard to tell in the parking lot’s half light. “My mom told me not to bug you, but I’m doing it, anyway, even though she said you and Amanda are arguing.”

  “Oh, great,” Amanda muttered. “The whole town knows.”

  The boy looked up at her. “Hi, Amanda,” he said.

  “Hi, Sam,” she mumbled back, shaking her head.

  The kid looked back at Scott, his blond hair striking, as were his wide, blue eyes. “I was wondering,” he began, his little Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “See, I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

  “Shoot, pa’dner.”

  The kid smiled at his Old West slang. “I was wondering if you ever have any old computers lying around.” He swallowed again, looking back toward the hall, as if he expected his mother to come bearing down on them like Attila the Mother Hun. And maybe she would. “Computers that you, ah—”

  “May not want?” Scott finished for him.

  Sam nodded. “I have some money saved up,” he said. “It’s not much, but I could pay for a broken one, maybe, one I could fix. I love fixing things.”

  A kid after his own heart. “Nah,” he said. And the crashing disappointment he saw on the boy’s face made him add quickly, “You don’t have to give me any money. I have lots and lots of computers.”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Really?”

  Scott nodded.

  “Right on.”

  “But why do you want a computer so bad?” Scott couldn’t resist asking, because if it was just so he could play video games—

  “It’s not for me. It’s for my mom. See, she’s going back to school and she’s always having to stay late so she can use the computer lab at college. My dad left us a few years ago, so it’s just her and me. But if she had her own computer, then she wouldn’t have to stay late—”

  Scott held up his hand. “Kid, you got yourself a computer. A new one, no less.”

  “Right on,” Sam said again.

  Scott smiled. He looked up at Amanda, surprised to see her shaking her head. When she caught his gaze, he could have sworn she had tears in her eyes. Then she turned on her heel and walked away.

  Chapter Eight

  The scene kept repeating in Amanda’s mind the whole way home.

  Scott Beringer was a nice guy…well, most of the time, anyway. And the way he’d handled Sam…The poor kid and his mom had had it pretty tough in recent years. Amanda’s heart had gone out to them more than once. Having grown up with only one parent herself, well, if you could call a dad who’d been drunk half the time a parent. She knew what it was like to have to struggle to survive. To have to do what was needed to be done to better yourself. But for Scott to be so nice to a kid he didn’t even know—

  She shook her head, looking in her rearview mirror as if waiting to see Scott’s helicopter behind her. She almost hoped he’d follow her.

  Now, now, Amanda. Don’t start softening toward the guy. Just because he’s done one nice thing.

  I’d buy you ten Thumpers. Or two.

  But he didn’t follow. Then again, seeing as how he had a helicopter, he could fly like a crow, so to speak.

  When she arrived home, the quiet of a spring evening was the only thing to greet her. Even though she cocked her head to listen for that whump-whump-whump off in the distance, she heard nothing but the sound of crickets and steers calling to one another in the distance. No helicopter in sight, though her headlights had caught a spot along the road where either a UFO had made a crop circle or Scott’s pilot had picked a new landing sight. Either way, she suspected he was home, even though nothing stirred as she entered the front door.

  She half expected him to jump out from a doorway.

  But he didn’t, so she made her way to her room, flipping on lights as she did so, but she was jumpy the whole way and kind of—all right, she could admit it—disappointed. First he hadn’t stopped her from leaving. Then she’d kind of expected him to do a James Bond move with that helicopter. Only he didn’t and she was disappointed, darn it because she’d realized tonight that she really shouldn’t blame him for her dad’s mistake, not when she had a feeling Scott would sell the place back to her if she really wanted it. The question was, did she? Was now the time to find that job breeding horses? Could she leave behind the only home she’d ever known in pursuit of that dream? She had once before. Did she have the courage to do it again?

  She closed the door to her bedroom and leaned up against it. So where the heck did that leave her? And if he would sell the place back, how the heck would she afford it? She had no idea, which only made her even more depressed.

  She heard a creak.

  Was it him?

  Then she realized it was her own weight shifting that had caused the noise.

  Darn it, she was losing her mind. She needed to get it together, she told herself as she changed into her flannel nightgown, skulked into the bathroom across the hall and brushed her teeth. When she opened the door a few minutes later there was still no sign of Scott, which only heightened her awareness even more.

  He was doing this on purpose, she thought. She would stake her championship barrel-racing saddle on it, because as certain as she was of her determination to keep her distance from him, she had a feeling he had every intention of doing the exact opposite. And that made her feel—she closed her eyes as she lay in bed a little while later—turned on. No sense in denying it. She felt desired in the most basic of ways, and it made her feel more like a woman than she’d felt in, well, in a long, long time.

  As she lay there, her body tingling and throbbing as she recalled their brief kiss, she tried not to panic too much at the thought of spending the next day with him…and the next…and the next.

  She must have been more tired than she thought because she fell asleep pretty quickly, waking with a suddenness that made her jerk
up in bed. A glance at the clock revealed it was 8:00 a.m.—8:00 a.m.!

  She’d overslept.

  A held breath revealed it was quiet in the house. A glance out her bedroom window revealed that her dad had returned sometime during the night. That worried her, though it took her a moment to realize why. His boots were missing from the front porch, which meant he’d likely taken it into his head to do morning chores, something he shouldn’t be doing considering the way his health was failing.

  “Darn that man.”

  Quickly, she pulled on a pair of jeans so worn and faded they were three shades away from being white. Next she found and then discarded a T-shirt she’d had forever. Too many holes. Another one was too baggy, one was too tight—she almost grabbed that one, which made her wonder just who the heck she was trying to impress?

  Scott? a little voice asked.

  That made her angry all over again, so much so that she darted from her room, pulling her hair back into a ponytail as she did so, and telling herself that she didn’t care if she ran into Scott on the way out. Of course, she didn’t, but that didn’t stop her from peeking around for him, so absorbed in her task she caught her elbow on the doorjamb as she met cold morning air.

  “Ouch,” she yelped, wiggling her tingling fingers. Get it together, Amanda.

  Frowning, she took three steps at a time, heading toward the barn, figuring that was where her father would most likely be…and Scott.

  “He’s not here.”

  Amanda stiffened, turning toward her father, who was coming from the hay barn.

  “Who’s not here?” she asked innocently.

  “Your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” her dad said, and he lifted his brows at her just like he had the day she’d brought a saddle home she’d bought using credit.

  “Um. Where is he?”

  “Had to leave. Business, he said. Be back next week.”

  Next week?

  She should be glad. Should be calling out “Whoopie.” Only she was curiously, strangely…disappointed.

  And from beneath the brim of his worn cowboy hat her dad said, “You better watch yourself, Amanda. That man is trouble, mark my words.”

  IT WAS ALMOST A WEEK to the day that Amanda pulled into the driveway and saw Scott riding in the arena. And it was strange how her heart leapt, though that was likely because her father had him on Rocket again. All week long she’d waited to hear from him, but he hadn’t called. Not to say hi, boo, or otherwise. Her foot pressed down on the accelerator, and it wasn’t until she was almost at the arena that she realized what she was doing. She stuffed her foot down on the brake.

  He didn’t even look up as she got out, just kept his gaze firmly fixed on Rocket, reins in hand, tan cowboy hat contrasting with his dark hair, though it matched his buff-colored denim shirt.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” her father asked as he walked toward…the back gate? What was he doing? “I only told you about this technique as a way of making conversation.”

  “I’m sure,” Scott answered.

  She closed the truck door just in time to watch Scott point Rocket toward the gate her father had opened, then push the cowboy hat more firmly on his head.

  Uh-oh.

  “Scott, no,” she cried, but he didn’t hear her. Or maybe he had but couldn’t stop, because with a jab of his heels that would have done a rough-stock rider proud, Scott told Rocket to go.

  The horse went, the gelding heading toward the open gate as if it was shot from a giant rubber band. Scott got thrust backward. His hand shot to the saddle horn. His hat flew off his head.

  “The reins,” she cried. “Pull back on the reins.”

  But the leather strips were too loose, and he was leaning too far back.

  “Whoa,” she ordered the horse, as if she was Dr. Dolittle and could talk to animals.

  “Whoa doggie,” her dad cried, his standard war cry when observing a good show.

  “Whoa,” Amanda tried again, running toward the arena. Ridiculous. As if she could sprout cheetah legs and catch Scott and a bolting horse. She gave up after a few yards and cupped her hands instead.

  “Hold on, Scott,” she yelled, and darned if he didn’t, though how, she had no idea. Some root instinct long buried inside. He clutched the horse, leaned forward and rode off.

  She turned on her dad as she stopped along the arena fence, dew making her hands wet as she set them on the white boards. “What in the heck do you think you’re doing?”

  Her dad, a man who’d chewed tobacco since before it came in cardboard cans, turned his head and spat on the ground, jerking his battered and worn straw hat low. “Teachin’ him to ride.”

  “You’ll kill him.”

  “Na-a-ah,” he said. “He’ll be fine. Best way for a man to learn how to ride is by doing it.”

  “Have you forgotten that you tried to teach my cousin John how to ride that way? And that he broke his collarbone as a result?”

  Her father scrunched his face up, his hands hooking in his belt loops. “Guess I did.”

  “Ooh,” Amanda huffed, turning away.

  “You going after him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Might want to bring that fancy cell-u-lar phone, just in case.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I appreciate the advice.” Ooh, she mentally repeated as she headed for the house for said cell phone. Of all the fool, irresponsible things to do. Her dad had lost his mind.

  And Scott, too. They should both be committed.

  It took her less than five minutes to tack up Fancy in the cross-ties of the horse barn aisle, mostly because she decided to ride out bareback. Well, not entirely bareback. She strapped on one of the fuzzy pads she used when she was a kid—a bareback pad.

  Fancy had been her horse for almost ten years. She seemed to know urgency was involved for she didn’t take her customary five steps when Amanda swung up. Instead she stood stock still, her ears pricked toward the pasture, as if she could hear Scott’s cries for help.

  “Be careful,” her dad said from behind her.

  “It’s not my health you need to worry about,” she said as she kicked Fancy in the sides.

  FINDING A LONE HORSE and rider in the midst of rolling acres was like searching for gold dust in a bathtub. It wasn’t the size of the pasture. Amanda always laughed when people made a big deal about owning a hundred or two hundred acres. Fact was, two hundred acres was small for a cattle operation. What kept her from finding him was the dag-blasted hills. Tall, giant oaks, ones that were in full foliage this time of year, obstructed her view in some areas until she was so angry and so frustrated she vowed to put her dad in a retirement home.

  In the end, it was more blind luck that allowed her to find him. She and Fancy crested yet another hill, one that overlooked a two-acre pond created for their stock. Relief caused her to just about slip from her horse when she spied Scott and Rocket at the shoreline, the horse’s head lowered to the water as he drank deeply. Terrific. Next the horse would colic.

  “Are you okay?” she called.

  Why didn’t you call? was her next question, though she kept it to herself.

  Both Scott and the horse whirled, or rather, Rocket whirled and Scott stayed put. Odd how he seemed to hang in the air for a second before he splashed into the water.

  SCOTT FELT HIMSELF FALL in slow motion. It was odd, because that was exactly what it felt like. He slid off one frame at a time, landing in the water back first.

  “Scott,” he heard Amanda say as his head broke the surface a few seconds later. “Are you all right?”

  No. That water was cold, though thankfully not deep.

  “Scott,” she said again, sounding closer. A glance in her direction saw her all but galloping down the slope, panic on her face.

  “I’m fine,” he called. Man, he was tired of making a fool of himself in front of her. He’d taken a week to pull himself together. Obviously, it hadn’t
worked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have startled Rocket like that.”

  An apology. Progress.

  “Head to the shore.”

  “C-c-can’t,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “S-s-something’s wrong with my legs.”

  She stared at him from shore, and darned if he didn’t see her bite back a smile. He was positive of it because he saw her lower lip clamp down on her upper before she said with a stiff I’m-trying-not-to-laugh voice, “There’s nothing wrong with your legs. They’re just objecting to the ride you took.”

  He knew that. He wasn’t an idiot. But, man oh man, if someone had told him it was possible to have one’s legs hurt so much, he’d have never wanted to learn to ride.

  “Get out of the water, Scott. You need to walk around a bit.”

  “H-h-hoping they’ll g-go numb,” he said. And he meant it.

  “Look, if you stay out there you’ll get hypothermia. That’s spring water. It’s cold. Besides, if you don’t come out, you’ll force me to rescue you. Again.”

  Again? When had she rescued him before?

  Oh, yeah, the steer-feeding incident.

  Fine. When she put it that way—

  Taking a deep breath, something that was hard to do since his chest had contracted from the cold, he pushed off, his booted feet seeming to be held down by mud. Or maybe it was the cold. Or his sore muscles. He didn’t know. One thing he did know, though: lower-extremity amputation was looking mighty good by the time he reached shore.

  “Lord,” he said, the cold morning air sticking to his wet legs like a block of ice. “My legs are wobbly.”

  “Here,” she said, and in a motion that Scott envied—half feline grace, half athletic beauty—she slipped from her horse’s back. He’d never be able to get off a horse like that. Not if he rode a month straight. But who was he trying to kid? He’d never be able to get back on a horse after today, not if his legs were any indication.

  “Let me help you walk.”

  She came forward, slipping an arm around his waist. All thoughts of the kiss they shared last week must have fled from her mind because it was a purely impersonal touch. Not so, Scott. The minute she touched him, his legs warmed immediately, or rather, his groin did. And when she stared up at him from a face framed by wispy tendrils of her pretty red hair, her blue eyes concerned, he saw an opportunity.