Falling For A Cowboy

by Anne Carrole

  Previously published as Re-ride at the Rodeo through The Wild Rose Press

  Copyright ©2008 by Carol Aloisi

  Cover Art by Rae Monet

  Formatting by www.formatting4U.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at annecarrole@annecarrole.com. This book is a work of fiction. The, names characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For more information on the author and her work, please visit www.annecarrole.com

  ISBN: 978-09885616-0-1

  Love Western Romances

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  A word about the author…

  Chapter One

  “There he goes, ladies and gents. Tyler Wright has done it. An eighty-five. That’s about as good as it gets,” the announcer blared over the loudspeaker.

  The cheers from the crowd were deafening, but Dusty didn’t care to notice. She’d heard it all too many times before. Since the start, just about any weekend from March to November, it seemed, she’d been at the rodeo arena. First watching from the stands. Now as barkeep handling the beer stall.

  There was no escaping the rodeo if you lived in Langley. It was the only game in town except for Friday nights at the high school field during football season. It was also a major source of the town’s revenue. One way or another, if you lived in Langley, you were connected to the rodeo. She was connected in more ways than she cared to count. More ways than she cared to remember.

  The musty odors of horse and hay wafted through the walkway, competing with the scents of spicy tacos and refried beans emanating from Rico’s food stand next door. Her stomach rumbled, a reminder it would be a while until closing time.

  Tucking in a strand of blond hair that had loosened from her bun, Dusty wiped down the scarred Formica counter with a damp gray rag. She watched the few patrons who had left their seats to use the bathroom and tried to guess their stories. It was a game she played to help with the boredom. The old man and the young boy exiting were probably grandpa and grandson. The two noisy towheaded adolescents entering were most likely brothers.

  Few people had ventured from their seats since the final go-round for saddle bronc was up and that was a particular favorite with the Langley crowd. Once or twice a summer, the rodeo extended over the whole weekend to pull in the tourist trade. Friday night the qualifying go-rounds were held for everything but barrel racing and bull riding. Today, Saturday, the finals for those events would be held with qualifying for bull riding the evening closer, and Sunday afternoon were barrel racing and bull riding finals.

  Local rider Tyler Wright had just scored big for the home crowd. After the final bronc had been ridden, they’d come pouring out for refreshments before the bull riders took their turn. Life was nothing if not predictable in Langley.

  “Holy cow, folks. That was some ride from newcomer Clay Tanner. He’s posted an eighty-seven on Miss Popularity to slide into first place. What a night…” Announcer Adam Greene’s voice faded into the din of applause.

  Eighty-seven? Even she had to admit that was a good score. And Miss Popularity was a rank bronc. That cowboy had some grit. But grit alone was not enough to make it in this world. She knew that from personal experience.

  A hot breeze blew wisps of hair around her face and into her eyes. She smoothed them back, trying to tame the fine strands and grateful for nature’s air conditioning because even the West Texas wind could die in the heat.

  She lined up the plastic cups and began to squirt beer from the tap into them, a few drops landing on her. She always smelled like beer after a night at the rodeo. Once the standings of the riders were called, she’d have her hands full keeping up with demand if she hadn’t prepared. The rodeo crowd liked their beer. No doubt the Beehive Saloon would pack them in again tonight after the competition was over.

  Fifteen minutes later she was serving the last man in line. An impatient son-of-a-gun, he clicked and clucked and drummed his fingers while she poured his drink. The announcer was already calling for the first bull.

  “Here.” The barrel-chested cowboy slammed down a five dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he growled and hustled back to his seat, gulping the beer as if he’d just come off the trail.

  She rang up the sale and slid the change into the pocket of her worn denim skirt. Something to be said for impatience.

  A few people scurried by, Coke and popcorn spilling from their hands. Dusty wiped the perspiration from her face and stole a look at her reflection in the shiny metal of the fountain.

  She hated wearing her hair up. It was long and wavy, and when clipped on top of her head, it was heavy. She squinted at her blurry image and readjusted the loosened clip.

  “Personally, I’d take it down.” The unfamiliar voice was rich and husky, its deep timbre sending a little shimmer through her.

  Taking time to get the clip right, she turned around. A tall, lean cowboy with slate-blue eyes was giving her the once-over. His lips curved into an unexpected smile. The sexiest she’d seen in awhile. A long while.

  Staring into those clear blue orbs framed by dark lashes, too thick to be wasted on a man, threw her a little off-kilter, like her knees would give out any second. Years of being a waitress had taught her how to school her features into an expressionless stare, even as his gaze traveled from her face to her waist and back up again. He lingered at her small chest for an extra split second. About all the attention most men thought it was worth.

  “How many?” she asked in her most business-like voice. No way would she let him see he’d had any effect on her. That handsome boyish face, shaded by a black Stetson, no doubt had left countless broken hearts along the way and was used to unbalancing women. He wouldn’t get any satisfaction from her.

  “How many times have I taken down a woman’s hair?” That smile became lopsided. Those eyes sparkled. And her heart skipped a beat.

  Damn he was hot. Slim hipped and nicely formed, he was too tall to be a rodeo rider. The most successful ones topped out at 5’10”, most were shorter, like her father had been. Had to do with the center of gravity or something. Between her mother and father, she was lucky she’d made it to 5’4” herself. But the stranger no doubt had something to do with the rodeo and that was enough to make her not interested.

  She fought the smile forming on her lips at his question. No need to encourage. “How many beers?” she said, emphasizing the last word. She slapped a napkin onto the counter ready to do more.

  “Just one. I’m celebrating. Alone it seems.” He gave her a “feel sorry for me” look. She didn’t.

  “What are you celebrating?” she said, knowing she shouldn’t be continuing the conversation, but curiosity was often the bane of her existence. She filled a plastic cup and placed it on the napkin.

  He leaned both elbows on the counter. A firm butt jutted behind to fill out his worn Wranglers. Along with the plaid, pearl-buttoned shirt, he had on the uniform of a cowboy. Based on the weathered cast of the fabric, she figured he might be for real rather than a wannabe tourista,
even if he wasn’t a contender.

  “I just won saddle bronc.”

  His smile lit big, showing off snow white teeth and a very kissable mouth. It would definitely be someone other than her enjoying those full lips now that he’d confessed he was a rough stock rider. Not that she’d had any intention of trying, or any hope of success. She wasn’t the kind of woman that guys like him went for.

  She gave him a once over for effect before commenting. “You’re too tall to be a bronc rider.”

  “So I’ve been told. But then Dan Mortensen’s been an NFR saddle bronc qualifier multiple times and he’s close to six feet. And, of course, I did just win a couple grand.”

  Langley had just upped its prize money to try to attract more cowboys. With the changes in the PRCA tour, the town fathers were afraid the best riders might neglect Langley if it didn’t provide more incentive. It had caused quite a ruckus until Dan and Jenna Connors, local ranchers, had agreed to guarantee the additional money.

  “True, but he’s the exception.”

  “That proves the rule?”

  This time she couldn’t help the smile.

  “There it is.” The cowboy chuckled, those blue eyes of his lighting right up. “I thought maybe you didn’t know how.”

  “I know how about a lot of things.” Those words snapped out before she could stop them. Last thing she wanted was this cowboy to think she was flirting. She wasn’t into puffing up cowboy egos. Especially at her own expense.

  He brought the beer to his lips while his gaze held hers. Darn if she could look away. “I bet you do darlin’.” He took a sip and set the beer down. “This place on your T-shirt…” he stared at the small rise of her chest where bold blue letters spelled out Beehive Saloon. “You’ll be working there tonight?”

  Heat stole up her face as his gaze locked on her body. She’d never been well-endowed like her best friend Tara Lynn. Dusty was tiny—small-boned, her mother called it. Another name for barely there. She wasn’t the kind of girl Texas cowboys hungered for. Not that she wanted this one to hunger for her. But she didn’t appreciate the reminder his stare sent.

  She waited for him to look up. No way was she going to have a conversation with his hat.

  When he finally raised his gaze, she answered. “No.”

  “Just run the concession?”

  This was getting beyond mindless conversation. Didn’t anyone else want a beer? She stared out at the almost empty walkway. The announcer’s voice was still booming from the box and cheers were heralding good bull rides.

  “Only Saturdays,” she said. “That’s four dollars.”

  He fished in his pocket causing the denim to stretch over private places. Damn. Don’t go there, she silently cautioned her eyes. Too bad they weren’t listening.

  “If I go to the Beehive tonight, will I at least see you there?” he asked, giving her the kind of smile that promised a good time. He held out a five dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you,” she said, ringing him up. “And unlikely.”

  He frowned for the first time. He obviously hadn’t expected that answer. Good looking as he was, she imagined few women said no to him.

  “I’d appreciate the company unless you’re in a relationship or something. Maybe even then.” He flashed another grin but this time it didn’t reach his eyes. He was undoubtedly looking for a reason for her refusal.

  She wouldn’t lie to spare his pride and she wasn’t fooled into thinking he really wanted to be with her. He was just placing a safe bet in case he couldn’t score with anyone else. She was all too familiar with the routine. She’d show up and he’d already have his arm around a woman with ample curves in all the right places and he’d forget he’d ever met Dusty. Not that she would have agreed under any circumstances. He was a rodeo cowboy after all. “No relationship. Just not interested.”

  “Ouch.” He straightened to his full height, a frown creasing his rugged forehead.

  Movement behind him caught her eye. Finally someone else was coming for a beer.

  A wiry young cowboy sauntered up and slapped her customer on the back. “Hey, Clay. Thought I’d find you out here.” He was shorter than his friend. His denim jeans and chambray shirt were dusty, his broad brow sweaty under the beige cowboy hat. “Where there’s a pretty woman, that’s where you’ll find Clay. Howdy ma’am.” He tipped his hat and settled it back on his blond head of hair. “Don’t believe anything he’s told you.”

  She graced the newcomer with a smile. He’d just confirmed her instincts. “Beer?”

  “Please,” he answered, giving her a huge grin in return. He wasn’t handsome like his friend but he had an open, honest face.

  “I’ll buy,” Clay called from behind as she drew the beer. When she turned around a five dollar bill was on the counter.

  She set the beer down and retrieved the money. The cowboy said his thanks, keeping his mouth in a grin.

  “Keep the change but at least tell me your name.” Clay’s hands were keeping his hips company.

  She rang up the sale, staring at the register rather than at him or his friend. “Dusty. Dusty Morgan.”

  “For your hair, I’m guessing.”

  She glanced up. He was smiling at her again. She had to give it to him for persistence—and for guessing right. She nodded.

  “I’m Clay Tanner and this here grinning fool is Jesse Blair.” He reached out a hand. She could do nothing but grasp it. His grip was strong, his touch warm. When he released, she felt tingles clear through her arm. Lordy. Jesse shot his hand forward and she gave it a quick shake—and felt nothing.

  “How long is it?” Clay asked, staring at her hair. With it clipped haphazardly to her head, she must look a sight.

  She glanced at Jesse. Clay’s friend was sipping his beer, watching the by-play over the rim of his drink and just as interested.

  She shook her head. “I’ve never measured.”

  “Well where does it come to?” Clay’s eyes were like magnets, drawing her so she couldn’t look away.

  She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry from all the scrutiny. “The middle of my back.”

  Both men let out a long whistle, breaking whatever spell had been cast on her. With that reprieve she grabbed the rag and started to wipe the counter. “If you boys don’t mind, I’ve got to set up before the last bull rider gets thrown.”

  His friend tipped his hat again. “You’ll be at the Beehive tonight?”

  “I already asked her and she’s not interested.” Clay scowled as if he was seriously annoyed.

  “Can’t imagine your charm turned her against us,” his friend said with a chuckle. “Hell, most of the time he’s got to peel the women off him.”

  “Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much, Jess?”

  “All the time.” Jesse’s brown eyes danced with mischief. “Don’t matter though.”

  “Are we staying ‘til tomorrow?” Clay questioned, still obviously irritated.

  “Yep, got a seventy-nine. Guess you weren’t watching. Had better things to view.” He sent a wink her way. “Tomorrow will be the finals. If I can hang on, I should be in the money.”

  Dusty could hear the sound of marching feet coming her way. The crowd was moving.

  “Well, bye, Miss Dusty Morgan.” Clay drawled her name like a caress, sending a shiver up her spine despite the warm weather. His smile said he knew it. “If you change your mind, you’ll know where to find us tonight.” Both men lifted their hats.

  She watched as they walked away, her mind concentrating on the easy, rolling gait of the tall one as the breeze teased at the shirt stretched across his broad back. Their spurs jangled along with her nerves.

  Why she felt so unsettled she couldn’t say. They were rodeo cowboys. She’d been around them her whole life—one just like the other. She’d always been immune to their charms, vaccinated by life. So why had this one gotten under her skin? Before she could answer her own question, the line started to form.

/>   * * *

  “What were you doing flirting with a sweet thing like that?” Jesse asked as they headed toward the truck, past the other concessions and the medical tent. He gulped his beer down as they walked.

  “Sweet? You should have been there earlier. I felt like I’d been skewered.”

  Jesse shrugged. “Maybe you’ve lost your touch. She was accommodating enough to me.”

  “Lost my touch?” Hell, he hadn’t lost his touch. Just the other night he’d ended up in a curvy red-head’s bed back near home.

  Jesse snorted. “She ain’t your type anyway. She’s mine though. Short and sweet with just the right amount of sass to keep things interesting. Did you see those big blue eyes and that cute dusting of freckles across her nose? Woman has a face of an angel with lips made for sin. That’s the kind of woman you marry, Clay. Not dally with.” Jesse batted a fly away from his beer. “Wish you hadn’t gotten her all bent out of shape before I got there. Besides I’m sure the Beehive will be filled with ones who fit your physical requirements. Me, I’ll take that slim little body and those slender legs stretching between the teeny jean skirt and those snakeskin boots, any old day.”

  What had he been thinking? Jess was right. She wasn’t his type. He liked them with lots of curves, big peaks that overflowed when you palmed them, valleys you could sink into, and a welcoming attitude. Dusty Morgan was slim and tiny and delicate and feisty as all get out. Still, he wasn’t used to women refusing him. And what was with that smile she’d sent Jesse’s way?

  “Your type or not, I’d bet you wouldn’t have any better luck landing in her bed, even if you had seen her first,” Clay challenged.

  Jesse didn’t have much luck with the ladies. In Clay’s mind it had more to do with the man’s mouth than anything else. Jesse believed in telling everyone what was on his mind, whether they wanted to know or not.

  His friend pulled up short in front of their battered Ford pick-up, sending gravel from the parking lot flying. “How much?”