Tougher in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  A great team roping run, maybe. Not sex. Please. Nothing was better than sex, except more sex. As she stood under the lukewarm shower and soaped up, her body was more than happy to recall all that muscle wrapped around her. That excruciatingly sweet kiss, totally at odds with the erection he’d made no attempt to hide. How could he be so damn hard and so vulnerable at the same time?

  But the hot tinglies weren’t near as disturbing as how much she hadn’t wanted him to let go. How his strength had drawn the anxiety out of her, like a human poultice. As long as he was holding her, she’d felt—

  Horny. Anything more was out of bounds, so she shoved her head under the spray and forced her mind back to the good stuff.

  Sex in the shower with Cole would be…well, impossible. First, the two of them would demolish the trailer shower if they started throwing their considerable weight around. Second, if he ever unwound enough to steam up a bathroom, he’d probably imprint on her like a baby duck. He’d already penciled her in on the Stuff Cole Is Responsible For list, and as far as she could tell, the man didn’t own an eraser. And it wasn’t even because she was so freaking irresistible.

  Cole had decided he needed a wife, and once he set a goal, he became that boulder, rolling straight ahead until he reached his destination. Shawnee’s life was all detours and winding back roads. But they would eventually collide. With five weeks of the rodeo season left, practically in each other’s pockets all day, every day, and that kiss simmering between them? Yep, it was gonna happen. She’d just have to post all the hazards going in, like they did on arena gates. Warning: the owner of this facility is not responsible for injuries. Participate at your own risk.

  She blew out an irritated sigh as she towel-dried her hair. Why couldn’t he just be a regular guy? But no, he had to be…Cole, whatever that was.

  She slipped into her most comfortable gym shorts and an extra baggy T-shirt and padded barefoot to the refrigerator. She’d picked up some excellent homemade hummus and pita chips at the farmer’s market in New Mexico, and she intended to gorge while binge-watching NCIS reruns. And if she felt a little lonely, it was only because she’d let herself get used to hanging out at Tori’s place when Delon was on the road. Roping, pigging out, and swilling beer—now that’s what she called girl time.

  She had just hunkered in when a tap at the door shot her heart straight into her esophagus. Oh shit. Butthead. Shoving her plate aside, she scrambled to answer.

  Analise looked her up and back down again. “God. Mariah was right. You are in bad shape.”

  Only because Analise had damn near given her a heart attack, knocking at her door at this time of night.

  “Says the girl with a…” Shawnee leaned closer, squinting at Analise’s lip ring. “What the hell? Is that a real black widow spider?”

  “No. But cool, right?”

  Uh…that was one word for it. But she’d bet Analise didn’t have men just up and kissing her without warning. Or permission. Or…or…

  Oh hell, who was she kidding? She’d been pumping out kiss me vibes like a freaking lipstick commercial.

  Analise gave her a shove. “Go on. Get dressed and we’ll go drink a toast to Butthead. May he find his bliss. Or least a really good buzz.”

  Shawnee folded her arms and didn’t budge. “Who is this we you speak of?”

  “Um…me and you, mostly, but Hank did promise to buy the first round. I tried to drag Cruz along, but he’s got some horse thing he has to finish making. You know how he is.”

  Analise made a face that was at least partly admiration. Marcelino Miguel Ruiz de la Cruz had come straight out of the El Paso projects, one of Wyatt Darrington’s first and most successful reclamation projects. He didn’t waste time or money on dancing and beer. Inside the seventies vintage camper trailer he pulled behind a well-preserved El Camino from the same era, he created intricate rawhide masterpieces. Braided reins. Bridles. Halters. If you wanted it—and could afford the steep price tag—Cruz could build it. And every extra dollar went toward getting the rest of his family out of the ghetto.

  “Tyrell and Mariah will be there for a while,” Analise went on. “She found Cole a woman.”

  Shawnee’s arms dropped, along with her jaw, too. Cole had a date? “What woman?”

  Analise shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? If you get a move on.”

  Without thinking, Shawnee backed away to let Analise in the door. She was not jealous, dammit. Just…curious. And protective. As a friend. Violet would have to live with whatever woman Cole dragged home. It was Shawnee’s duty to screen the prospects, that’s all.

  And she had told him to run. She just hadn’t expected him to listen.

  She eyed Analise, whose miniskirt was stretchy black lace to match her black lace gloves. Even her chunky high-heeled boots had lace insets on the sides and yes, more of those creepy black widows dangling from the laces.

  “It’ll be last call by the time I do something with this hair,” Shawnee warned.

  But she pulled out her best jeans—the ones that left no doubt how much junk she packed in her trunk—and a loose-fitting silky bronze tank top that slithered over her skin and showed enough cleavage to impair male judgment. “I’ll just be a few—”

  “Ooh, hummus!” Analise plopped her bony butt down on the couch and helped herself.

  “I gotta quit answering the door,” Shawnee said, and stomped into the bathroom.

  She went heavier with the makeup than usual, especially on her eyes. A handful of magic goo worked through her damp hair tamed it from wild woman to a mussed-up Yeah, I just got laid look. She hardly ever wore it completely loose. The curls tickled her bare shoulders and smelled like an invitation to hot jungle sex. She added a necklace made of chunky amber glass beads with matching earrings, examined the result in the mirror, and smiled.

  Yeah. That’d do.

  When she stepped out of the bathroom, Analise’s eyes popped wide, her gaze taking in the hair, the makeup, then zeroing in on Shawnee’s chest. “Holy crap.”

  Shawnee propped a hand on her hip and struck a pose. “And honey, I know what to do with all of it.”

  “Do you give lessons?”

  “Depends. Are we talking lecture or hands-on?”

  Analise rolled her dark-rimmed eyes. “You’re a little old for me, don’t you think?”

  “Gee, thanks.” Shawnee grabbed her wallet, fished out cash and her ID—she wasn’t too damn old to get carded—and shoved them in the back pocket of her jeans, then slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops blinged-up with rhinestones and turquoise. “If we’re gonna do this, let’s go.”

  Before this woman of Mariah’s had too much time to get her hooks into Cole.

  Chapter 22

  Cole had to admit, the woman seemed nice enough. Pretty, friendly, and very interested. Her face was vaguely familiar—one of the cluster of photographers who followed the rodeo circuit—and Cole had no doubt Mariah was telling the truth when she dragged the blonde over and said, “Of course, you two have met.”

  As if that meant he could pick her out of a lineup, let alone remember what she was called. Unlike so many other trivial bits of information, he was lousy with names and faces.

  And the blonde had smiled and said, “Hi, Cole,” as if they were old friends, so he couldn’t very well say, “I’m sorry, what was your name?”

  Worse, after Mariah shoved them onto the dance floor and disappeared, the blonde kept trying to strike up a conversation. She didn’t seem satisfied with “Yep” and “Nope” answers, but he doubted she wanted a lecture on the role of selenium in horse nutrition, and that was all he had to offer at the moment. And every time she asked a question, he fumbled the steps.

  “Oops,” he muttered. “Can’t talk and dance at the same time.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  For him, or for herself now that she
was beginning to realize he had the personality of a brick wall? Cole only nodded and swung her around again, holding her close enough to avoid eye contact, but not so close as to give her ideas. The noise, the crowd, the constant movement bombarded his eyes and ears, and he could feel the anxiety coiling and hissing in his gut, like a snake preparing to strike.

  He forced his mind to focus on one sound—the deep twang of the bass guitar—and let everything else fade to a blur. The blonde said something, but Cole was so zoned out he only caught one word. He blinked back to full reality. “Excuse me?”

  “Shawnee,” the blonde repeated, with a tilt of her head toward the fenced-off, adults-only section of the dance hall. “Who knew she could look like that?”

  Cole whipped his head around, searching the mob. Then he saw her, and stumbled for real.

  Whoa. Just…whoa.

  She was bronzed, earthy, full-bodied, her hair an entity unto itself, like one of those ancient goddesses of fertility. Or lust. Was there a goddess of lust? If not, he had a nominee…

  A hand tugged at his arm and he realized he’d come to a complete stop. Luckily, the song ended right then. Thank God. His focus was shot. Well, his focus on dancing, anyway. He zeroed right in on Shawnee, shouldering through the crowd until they were face-to-face.

  “You do realize you just left your date standing alone in the middle of the dance floor,” Analise pointed out.

  “I…oh.” Cole glanced back to see the blonde staring after him. Even he could decipher that expression. Lord knew he’d seen it often enough. “She’s not my date.”

  “Well, that makes it okay, then,” Analise said dryly.

  Cole peeled his eyeballs off Shawnee to glance at her. Was that an actual…no, never mind. He didn’t want to know. His gaze snapped back to Shawnee like a tractor beam. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Having a beer.” She held up her longneck.

  “Why do you look like…that?”

  She bristled so hard her hair practically crackled. “What exactly is that?”

  “All…girly.”

  Her mouth dropped open, but her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I am a girl. I sorta thought you noticed when I showed you my tits.”

  Analise choked on her Coke. “You…showed him…”

  “Not this kind of girl.” Obviously, Cole knew she was female, but like Violet. A cowboy who just happened to have a few extra curves. He could talk to a cowboy. But this—

  Shawnee very deliberately looked down, dragging his gaze along to her cleavage, where it threatened to burrow in and refuse to come out. “Are you implying that I’m not properly dressed?”

  “I…” He drew a blank, every single neuron too busy shouting WANT. NOW.

  Tyrell pushed through the crowd, dragging a sulky Mariah with him. “Found her. And now we’re turning in.”

  “It’s not even midnight!” Mariah tugged at the hand he had clamped around her wrist, scowling. “Why can’t I stay here with these guys?”

  “You’re sixteen, this is a bar that’s getting drunker by the minute, and these people aren’t babysitters,” Tyrell said, reasonable enough to make any teenager scream.

  Mariah muffled hers, but the sentiment came through loud and clear. “I’m not a baby. I’m going to be a senior in high school. Nobody my age has a curfew.”

  “Or you can just skip going out altogether,” Tyrell said.

  Mariah clamped her mouth shut and seethed in silence for a few moments. Then she looked around. “Where’s Tabitha?” she asked Cole.

  “Who?”

  “Tabitha!” Mariah threw up her free hand. “Blonde? Photographer? I left you dancing with her…”

  “Oh. So that’s her name.”

  Mariah gaped at him. “She said you’ve met at least half a dozen times.”

  Cole could only shrug. “Probably.”

  “And she is…” Mariah prompted.

  “He forgot to bring her back from the dance floor,” Analise said.

  Shawnee smirked. “In case you were wondering why he’s not already married…”

  Mariah closed her eyes, shook her head, and heaved the eternal Men! sigh. “Fabulous. Come on, darling Daddy. If we have to go, let’s make tracks before she hunts me down.”

  They squeezed out past a group of local college kids. A couple of them hooted and catcalled after Mariah, then clammed up under Tyrell’s murderous glare. Back here in the bar everything was moving and shifting, closing in. The only constant Cole could find was Shawnee, but she wasn’t right either. All the differences caught at his mind like tiny hooks.

  Hank appeared in his peripheral vision, angling past a pair of drunk girls who were propping each other up while they howled an off-key version of “Hell on Heels.” Cole hadn’t seen him out on the dance floor earlier, or anywhere else for that matter, but this crowd could swallow up a full-grown bear.

  Hank’s face broke into a huge, leering grin when he saw Shawnee. He let his gaze zero in on her chest. “Well, hello, girls.”

  “They’re out of your league, Junior,” Shawnee said, cuffing him upside the head.

  Hank grinned, rubbing his ear and straightening the cowboy hat she’d knocked sideways. “Can I at least take ’em out for a dance so I can enjoy the scenery?”

  “No.” Cole grabbed Shawnee’s arm and pulled her toward the dance floor.

  To his surprise, she followed, dropping her beer bottle into a trash can along the way. As he turned her into his arms, he looked back to see Hank scowling as he slapped what appeared to be a twenty-dollar bill into Analise’s hand. She flashed him a superior smile and stuffed it down the front of her tank top.

  The song was something Cole normally wouldn’t choose, too fast for a decent two-step, with a lot of showy fiddle and steel guitar. Add the distraction of Shawnee not looking how she was supposed to, and he was too overwhelmed to find any kind of rhythm.

  “If you don’t approve of how I look, what are we doing out here?” she asked.

  “Dancing.” Cole tried staring off into the middle distance, but it was a whirl of faces and bodies. They did a half shuffle, half stumble around the corner of the floor, Cole’s elbow missing an amplifier only because Shawnee steered him away. “I don’t disapprove.”

  “That’s sure as hell not your happy face.”

  “You changed.” It came out as an accusation, as if she’d broken a sacred vow.

  She glared up at him, her eyes all dark and smudgy like a makeup commercial. “This is how I dress when I go out.”

  His gaze strayed down the front of her shirt. From his height, he had an unobstructed view. He yanked his eyes back up again. “I got used to you the other way. Now you’re different. It’s…confusing.”

  “Seriously?” She huffed out a laugh. “It’s just me. The one you don’t have to impress, remember?”

  He’d strayed off the dance floor, so when he swung her around she hip-checked a bowlegged buckaroo type. Beer shot out of his nose and soaked his fancy neckerchief. He whirled around to look up…and up…and up…and finally meet Cole’s grim gaze.

  “Sorry,” Cole said.

  After a brief moment’s consideration, the buckaroo’s handlebar mustache twitched into a grudging smile. “No problem.”

  When they were back on the dance floor, Shawnee stopped, forcing Cole to do the same. “I know you can dance. I’ve seen you. So why are we crashing around like somebody turned Flight Risk loose in here?”

  “We’re talking, and that”—he gestured toward her face—“is distracting, and I can’t find the bass.”

  Her eyebrows crimped together. “Which base? First, second…home run? I didn’t think you were that kind of a boy.”

  “The bass,” he repeated, the static inside his head crackling louder, making his voice rise in pitch. “I need to follow it, but there’s too m
uch noise and…stuff.”

  She stared up at him. “Okay, now I have to know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s just something my mother taught me. To help shut out all the commotion. She told me to follow the bass guitar because it sets the rhythm.”

  He’d listened to hours of music, until he could pick that deep, resonant thread out of a song almost instantly. The bass was his optimal wavelength. He could feel it humming through his body, into his bones—and out through his feet. Like magic, he could dance…as long as nobody talked to him. As a bonus, he’d learned that finding a dark, quiet place, putting on his headphones and easing his mind along the pulsing path of the bass settled his anxiety.

  Probably the only reason he’d been able to cope unmedicated for three decades.

  He waited for another smart-ass remark. Instead, Shawnee cocked her head as she listened to the music, beginning to nod along with the beat.

  “I get it. No talking.” She tightened her grip on his hand and stepped in closer, her palm firm on his back. “Close your eyes so you can’t see my fancy face, and I’ll make sure we don’t mow anybody down.”

  “You might shove me headfirst into a trash can.”

  “Tempting.” She made a show of considering it, then shook her head. “Nah. I’m not feeling it tonight. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  Trust Shawnee Pickett. A month ago, he would’ve laughed at the idea. But he’d been putting his faith in her every night in the arena, ride after ride, and she’d never let him down. Doing a job she’d only taken as a favor to Violet.

  And Shawnee kept her word.

  He drew in a deep breath of the dank beer- and body-scented air, and wished desperately for his stock pens and the good old smell of manure. At least the band had moved into his favorite Aaron Watson song. He closed his eyes and mentally caught the bass thread.