She shrugged as the knife split the skin of the tomato with a sudden thunk, going all the way to the board in one quick cut. “He may be upstairs in his room. But remember, dinner will be in twenty.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He took the stairs two at a time. Twenty minutes should be enough time to set that boy straight or die trying.
“Mitch?” He pounded on the door as he jiggled the knob. “You two better be decent in there.” The door gave under the pressure. Travis nearly fell into the room.
Which was empty. At least June wasn’t going to be around to hear what he had to say to Mitch. And he had a lot to say.
The bed was made, with two duffels snugged up close together on the floor.
Rushing water. That jerk was in the shower.
“Mitch!” The bathroom door wasn’t locked, so in he went. The steam hit him like a wet blanket. Wasn’t enough to dampen his anger. “This has gone on long enough. I am not going to stand by and watch you build up that girl’s hopes and dreams. Introducing her to your mother? Are you insane? You know as well as I do that you aren’t gonna marry her. What are you thinking?”
He didn’t get an answer. Which only made Travis madder. “You listen to me, you rat bastard. You hurt that girl and I’ll make you pay for it, you hear me?”
Nothing. Just the sound of the water shutting off.
“Well?” he demanded. “Are you gonna stop leading her on, or am I gonna beat the hell out of you?”
There was no response, only the sound of water droplets hitting the shower curtain.
That did it. “You can’t ignore me.” He flung back the curtain.
His brain short-circuited.
Instead of Mitch, he found himself looking at the bare back of a woman, with a towel hanging down low enough that he could see the full expanse of golden-brown skin.
June.
His body responded, but his own angry voice echoed back to him from the sunny-yellow tiles.
He’d been yelling at June. About June.
Her head tilted to one side as she squeezed the water from her black hair in long, even trickles. Even though he knew he was screwed in the worst sort of way, he couldn’t help but watch her hands methodically move down the river of wet hair. Strong. Steady. Sure.
She was going to kill him. He had that coming.
Finally, after he was positive he couldn’t take another moment without passing out from sheer mortification, she draped her hair back over her shoulder, pulled her towel tighter and turned to face him.
With an amused smile on her face. What the hell?
“You really think Mitch is leading me on?”
“Where is he?” he squawked, unable to not look as she gathered the towel into one hand, right below the soft sculpture of her collarbone.
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” she replied, apparently oblivious to the fact that Travis had barged in on her while she was showering.
He tried to get his mouth shut. It didn’t work. “You aren’t?”
“Travis,” she said, sounding just as amused as she looked, “have you ever noticed that you are inordinately concerned with my safety?”
“I—uh—” She stepped one foot out of the tub, and that’s when he saw. Delicate little toes on the end of a perfect foot, each nail painted cherry-red—
His blood spiked again. No—he could not have a hard-on for Mitch’s girl, even if that pip-squeak was being a first-class asshole.
Which still wasn’t as big of an asshole as Travis was being right now.
“It’s sweet, really,” June went on, placing one damp hand on his shoulder to balance herself as she stepped the rest of the way out of the tub. Her touch almost obliterated the last of his self-control.
“What I can’t figure out is why you are so inordinately concerned with my safety,” she added, her fingers trailing down his arm until she stepped out of the bathroom. He had no choice but to follow her. “I mean, what does it matter to you if Mitch isn’t planning to marry me?” She stood in the middle of the room, the sunlight streaming in from the window making it hard to see her from the glow. “If you knew Mitch at all, you’d know that’s not in the cards. Where did you get such an idea?”
“He— You— His mother—”
Then she did something that completely shut him up. The towel slipped down to the ground with a barely audible whoosh, leaving her backside completely bare.
And her front side. And all sides.
He swore he saw some of the steam from the shower still floating around her, making her look like she was so hot she was smokin’.
Because hot did not begin to cover the vision that was this woman right now. He could see the firm curve of cheeks peeking out from behind that hair still dripping big, glossy drops of water onto the carpet as she took two steps to the bed and plucked something off the cover.
So slowly it hurt him, she leaned down and stepped into white lace panties. They slid over her skin like he wished his hands could right now, covering that perfect curve with a sweetness that made him throb.
All he could do was swallow. And watch, because Lord help him, she wasn’t done.
She grabbed a pair of jeans next, moving with a grace he wasn’t sure he’d ever really appreciated before. She was transforming from water nymph into cowgirl right before his eyes, a reverse striptease that wasn’t going to leave him satisfied. Would he ever be able to look at those jeans again and not see lacy white underwear over bronzed skin?
She kneeled on the bed, her legs far enough apart that he couldn’t stop thinking of the lace panties that went between them—at least, until she reached down, revealing the swelling curve of a breast, the deep brown of her nipple that was too quickly hidden beneath a smooth brown bra. Still kneeling, she straightened up and effortlessly hooked the clasp behind her.
Damn, that body—had he ever imagined that body was underneath those clothes? Why the hell not?
She leaned forward, seductively pulling the flesh of her breast up and settling it back into the cup with expert precision. Then she crawled forward like something out of a music video and grabbed a crisp white shirt, the mother-of-pearl buttons catching the light and throwing it back into his eyes.
By the time he got his eyes focused again, she was standing before him, snapping the last buttons over the bra he’d just seen her put on.
His brain short-circuited again. He’d seen his share of strippers and had more than his share of groupies flash their headlights at him but bar none, nothing came close to watching June Spotted Elk getting dressed. Nothing.
“Travis,” she said, her voice still low and sweet and amused at his stumbling inability to get his mouth shut, “you don’t have to worry about me and Mitch. We have an understanding—a working relationship, if you will. There’s nothing wrong with any of this—not even with you being here right now.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” she agreed, taking a dangerous step closer. He couldn’t help but look at those toes peeking out from underneath the hem of the jeans. Good God, would he have ever guessed that underneath that unflappable cowgirl exterior was such a beautiful woman? “I don’t expect you to approve—or even understand. You don’t seem to approve of anything I want to do—bull riding, seeing Mitch, meeting his mother. Why should this be different?”
He had ten good reasons why this should be different—ten cherry-red reasons that were just inches from the beat-up toes of his boots. The contrast sent his heart thumping again.
“What—what do you want? Do you want Mitch?”
“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.” She moved in so close that he could see the pulse beat on her neck. Still steady, but maybe a little fast. Maybe she was as turned-on as he was. Maybe he wasn’t going to die, but live again in he
r arms. Maybe—
She reached up and rested her hand along his beard, right over the scars. “You won’t like what I want.” Her tone was playful, but the challenge was still implicit.
The room was filled with nothing but want, and he was real sure he would like it, whatever it was. The moist heat from her body radiated through his chest, warm and inviting.
“Tell me.”
Tell him this wasn’t a dream, that he wasn’t imagining her leaning forward, her chest brushing against his as she stood on her bare, perfect tiptoes to reach his ear. He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her steady against his chest. She fit just like she’d always been there.
Her hand left his jaw and snaked down to his hip, pulling him closer. “I want to see your scars,” she whispered as her other arm looped behind him, giving him nowhere to go.
His scars? Maybe he’d heard her wrong. No one wanted to see those—
“Your scars,” she whispered again, her lips moving against his ear, her hand tracing the red rope of skin hidden under his belt almost exactly. “I want you to show me every inch. I want to see what you were strong enough to survive. I want to see you. I want to see it all.”
Suddenly, he was pushing her away so hard she hit the bed and lost her balance, plopping down with a surprised “whoa.”
His feet were moving before he even realized he was out the door, flying down the stairs as fast as he could and out the front door, away from her tight little body and Mitch’s smiling mother and a slice of almost-normality that had blinded him to the failure he had become.
She was perfect.
And he wasn’t.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WHAT THE HELL had she been thinking?
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mrs. Jenner asked as she settled onto the porch swing next to June.
Not really. June kept her eyes focused on the distance, past a neat herb garden and the well-kept corral with Mitch’s old paint pony whinnying for treats, past the sun setting behind an ancient hill. She knew if she looked at the kind but worried face of Mrs. Jenner, she might start crying.
What the hell had she been thinking?
“Did he do anything he shouldn’t have?”
“No. I did.” This had been her mistake, not his. If Mitch and Paulo thought Travis had done something ungentlemanly, there’d be blood spilled tonight.
“Paulo said you had an interest in the young man...”
“Paulo talks to you?”
Mrs. Jenner nodded. “He’s not known for being a man of many words, is he?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Lawsy, you sound like all those boys out there.” She waved a hand toward the remaining guys. Longnecks in hand, they were cussing and whooping it up just as much as if they were still in the arena. Life was one big contest, a competition to see who could stay on the longest, who had the best ride, who could toss the most washers in the cup.
June was exactly like all those boys out there. Everything—from the eight seconds to the battle of the sexes—was just that, a battle. Her father had told her she couldn’t do something and she had to prove him wrong.
She hadn’t rolled with it. She’d tried to force Travis to do something he wasn’t ready or willing to do, and he’d thrown her. For the first time in her life, she hadn’t landed on her feet. In fact, she had no idea where she stood.
“My name is Caroline, dearie. Oh, you should hear how Paulo says it. It’s enough for an old lady to go to Brazil with them.”
“They’re going to Brazil?” Yes, much easier to think about Mitch and Paulo and Caroline and their complicated lives than the simple fact that she’d had Travis right where she wanted him and—
“Oh, yes. Mitch talks about when he’s won enough money, he and Paulo are going back to Brazil and start their own bull-riding school. They seem to think that having both the Brazilian and American styles of riding in the same school will be a good business model. Very international.”
“Wow.” It did sound good.
“I know Mitch will miss Travis. That man has looked out for my son. He’s the only one who came to visit him last year after he got busted up— besides Paulo, that is.”
Travis did check in on other guys. Maybe June had read all the signals wrong. Maybe she’d—
“When Mitch first came out to me, I’ll admit, I was pretty upset. I hit all the highlights—the immorality, the guilt, blaming his father, blaming myself. I knew it was all my fault. There were so many ‘if onlys.’” She shrugged, keeping a close eye on her son. He and Paulo were standing next to each other, not touching and not talking as they watched the washers fly. “But you can’t change what you can’t change, and sometimes, a body’s just got to get used to an idea, that’s all. Paulo is such a dear—I hate to say it, but Mitch has much better taste in men than I ever did.”
“Wow” was again all June could get out.
“So, give Travis some time.” Caroline patted June’s leg. “He just needs to get used to the idea, that’s all.”
Get used to what—that she was demented? She couldn’t have someone as nice as Caroline Jenner thinking this was all on Travis. “I told him I wanted to see his scars,” she blurted out. “From the wreck three years ago. I had him in my arms and when he asked what I wanted, I said I wanted to see his scars. What is wrong with me?”
“The...scars?”
“It just popped out! I wasn’t trying to throw him!” Those tears she didn’t want to cry moved up, catching halfway in her throat. “Then he bolted. What did I think was going to happen?”
There it was. What had she thought was going to happen? She’d assumed it was going to go just like in the romance books? Everything was going to work out?
She’d been telling him for months that it was not about him—he wasn’t the reason why she did or did not ride, did or did not wear a helmet.
But this? She didn’t want to see anyone else’s battle scars. Just his.
She’d wanted him to feel the attraction between them—that was about him. Him and no one else.
But he hadn’t.
* * *
HER RIDE THAT weekend was the worst on the tour. And she’d always had such a fond spot in her heart for Cheyenne. After all, it was the place where she’d won her first official rodeo and gotten her first official check for riding bulls. But when a girl couldn’t get the right grip on her ropes, didn’t make time on any of her rides, took home no money and sprained her ankle—again—well, it was enough to think that maybe Cheyenne wasn’t her town.
The next week in Helena, Montana, didn’t start out much better. June couldn’t focus enough to stay on any bull. She managed to avoid any breaks, but she landed on her ankle wrong as she once again missed the buzzer. She took home no money. She’d half hoped that, after a week to cool off, Travis would come back over and work her ropes again. But a man couldn’t work ropes from fifty feet away.
No man, no money. Nothing but an ankle brace.
And a Sprite. Fridays had been a time for celebrating a good ride, but tonight was so not her night. Instead, she sat brooding at the local bar with Mitch and Paulo in their usual triangulated position. The ankle wasn’t too bad, but another off landing and she’d be really hurting.
“I still don’t understand why you wanted to see his scars,” Mitch said over the lip of his fourth beer. “I mean, why didn’t you just sleep with him?” Paulo nodded in agreement. She knew his hand, beneath the table, was resting on Mitch’s leg. Another stolen touch.
The kind of touch she didn’t get to steal from Travis.
Damn it, she couldn’t take much more of this questioning. “I don’t know, Mitch. Now shut it.”
“I mean, you had him right where you wanted him? What is wrong with you, Girlie?”
There was j
ust no good answer for it. None that made any sense. All June knew was that Travis Younkin had probably had his share of women along the way, women like the ones fawning over Randy and Red and trying and failing to make eyes at Paulo. But the way Travis guarded his injuries like his medical history was Fort Knox just said to her that no one else had seen those scars. And for reasons that didn’t make a lick of sense, she wanted to be the first. What kind of answer was that?
“Gee, maybe it’s pretending to be in love with a man who belongs to someone else?”
“Pssht. You’re just pissed I took second tonight.”
That wasn’t helping. She’d built up a decent nest egg, but not enough to get her and Mom through Christmas. Not if they actually wanted to have a Christmas, anyway. She’d been doing well enough that she’d started to look for presents for her mom—a true celebration of being sober a year. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if they had to skip Christmas—again—but June had wanted to celebrate like normal people. And normal people opened presents. She needed to ride a lot better if she wanted to start spending money on something besides heating bills.
Come to think of it, Travis had only had one clean ride since the shower incident. He wasn’t the top dog anymore. Red Willis was. And Red was celebrating, whooping it up with a bevy of bunnies at the bar.
“Yeah, you keep chugging beers and we’ll see who wins tomorrow, buster,” she said under her breath.
One of them kicked her under the table. “Ow! What the—”
“I want to talk to you.”
For a white man, Travis Younkin had the singular ability to sneak up on her like no one else. One minute, he wasn’t there. The next, he was standing close enough to her shoulder that she could feel the heat from his hip. And she was in no mood for anyone to sneak up on her.
“This is a honky-tonk, Travis. Nobody came here to talk,” Mitch scoffed. “You’re either here to drink or to dance. Oh—wait,” Mitch added. “I forgot. Girlie here doesn’t drink, does she?” He made a big show out of trying to hoist himself out of his seat. “Guess I better get Girlie out there!”
Rodeo Dreams Page 13