Travis’s lips lifted at the corners, erasing the groove dug between the pinch of his nose. “Maybe we’ll get another one in later.”
Instead of falling into Nash’s arms, she remained frozen, rubbing her hand over the goosebumps prickling her upper arm. His gaze slid up and down with every stroke of her hand, casually inspecting the tattoos coloring her skin.
As if reading her hesitation, he extended a hand and slipped the other around her waist. Ember placed her palm in his, her balance disintegrated, loosely easing into the rigid framework of his body.
He felt…so good.
Attempting to settle her angst, she pulled a deep breath through her nose, filling her lungs, before slowly pushing out a heavy exhale through pursed lips.
Nash held her secure, leading her through the narrow passages between other couples crowding the floor. Ember followed blindly. The uncomfortableness she felt a few minutes earlier cooled considerably. Their hips and thighs brushed against each other as they danced. Each point of physical connection became a comfort, but the silence oozing between them felt like thick mud after a spring Texas rainstorm.
Halfway through the song, he bent, lowering his mouth to her ear. The heat of his breath drew her closer as he asserted in an even tone, “He’s bad news, you know.”
Head sloping to the side in thought, she offered her own assessment, “He emanates heavy vibrations.”
“Then why are you dancing with him?”
“In case you haven’t noticed this is a dance hall. People come here to dance,” she pointed out. The atmosphere surrounding them arced with energy, passing between them on some invisible thread of wire. A constant push and pull of wariness versus want. “Thought you said you were out of commission?”
The warmth of his hand on her back sank through the thin cotton material of her shirt, sidetracking her thoughts. Once she noticed it, she couldn’t stop focusing on the heat seeping beneath her skin everywhere they touched.
“I’ll manage.” A small but genuine smile touched his full lips. Muted lighting played over the waves of thick hair. “What are you, some sort of psychic?”
Laughter shook her chest. She slipped her hand up over his shoulder to the nape of his neck. “No, just intuitive. I can usually a get a good read on someone the first time I meet them.”
“What’s your first impression of me?”
She considered stating the obvious, rich rancher’s son, but this man had as many layers as an onion.
Rocking back, she put a bit of space between them. Her head slanted, gaze falling to his hips. A severe blush seeped into the apples of her cheeks. Nice ass.
The fine lines near the corner of his eyes deepened, taking his own appraisal of her long legs.
At that moment, they were both psychic.
“You’re difficult for me to figure out.”
“I’m as easy as the day is long.” The teasing in his tone was full of allure. Sexy.
“Somehow that doesn’t shock me.”
Ember shivered as his soft laughter sifted through her long dark hair.
“Most people think they have me pegged within a matter of minutes.” He paused adding, “But they’re usually wrong.”
Filter lost to the distraction of his fingers toying with a strand of hair at the middle of her back, she answered honestly, “Other than saving my life, and a bit of charm that pops out occasionally, you’re kind of a jerk.”
His eyes broadened in mock surprise.
Realizing she’d just insulted him, she began to ramble, “Sorry, not a jerk. Well actually, I hate to break it to you, but you’re sort of rude. Half the time. Your vibrations are all over the place. You’re nice one minute and—” she hesitated, searching for the right description. “—cold the next.”
He bit back a smug grin, casting his gaze out over the crowd, seeming to ponder their previous interaction. He didn’t deny it, and she wondered why. Turning back, his eyes brimmed with humor and acknowledgment.
Ember’s eyes bore into his. “Maybe you’re bad news too.”
It was a lie. Though she sensed a wild roughness hidden beneath his fine exterior, he emanated strength and dependability.
“Honey, I’m not bad news,” he assured. Nash shifted to look down at her. His blue eyes flashed with uncivilized suggestion, warning, “I’m a whole different kind of trouble for you.”
She forced a swallow down her dry throat.
“Travis—he’s got dirty hands—the kind that ain’t made for shakin’. He probably wants to get you drunk so he can take you home. The fact that you’re Walker’s daughter would only be an added bonus.”
Ember considered explaining it wasn’t the first time a man bought her a drink in hopes of taking her home. It’s the precise reason she opted never to let men buy her drinks. However, Mr. Montgomery held him in high regard, and she suspected there was more to Travis White than a pair of chaps and a layer of Texas dirt.
Glancing at their connected hands, her thumb turned a lazy circle over his palm. “And what kind of hands do you have?”
The bold question slipped out without reserve. His eyes narrowed, and though his feet glided forward on the dance floor, he took a giant emotional step back, his expression now unreadable.
The song ended and he released her from his hold, the warmth disappearing from her flesh and his eyes as fast as it had arrived. The man had the personality of a pendulum, his mood drastically swinging from side to side. Her heart spurred into a ramshackle pace, not wanting him to let go, yet needing to retreat as quick as possible.
“Thanks for the dance,” she said, before he had the opportunity to rattle off a feigned excuse. Looking up, her eyes burned into his. “Seems like your injury is flaring up. You should probably get some ice on that knee.”
Turning away, she forced herself not to rush as she made her way back to the bar. Nash followed right behind.
With the mere ease of raising a finger, he called over the bartender. Nash slid Ember’s half-empty glass forward and tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “She’ll need a fresh drink.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Harris.”
Ember held her tongue casually watching the exchange. It became obvious that the Harris brothers had clout, but there was something more. Respect.
Nash passed out a round of well-mannered goodbyes to the rest of the group, quick cheek kisses for the ladies and firm handshakes for the men. Ember kept her view forward, expecting him to pass her by. Much to her surprise, he rested a hand on her shoulder and brushed a quick, meaningless kiss to the edge of her cheek.
The warmth of his breath drew goosebumps to her flesh.
Ember strove to keep a calm, subtle tone. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Make sure you have someone walk you out when you leave,” he advised. Nash tipped his head signaling for a response.
Sorting through her small crossover purse, she retrieved a pink container of pepper spray hanging from a lanyard next to her keys. “I’ll be fine.”
He clasped her upper arm capturing her attention, unraveling her composure even further. “I’m not foolin’. Make sure Sam or Reed see you to your car.”
“Oh, okay,” she stammered, eyes blinking. Part of her felt as if he was treating her like a damn child and the other swooned over his concern. Her emotions zipped up and down like a yo-yo.
Now who’s the fucking pendulum?
By some miracle, Reed overheard his warning. “We’ll make sure she gets home safe.”
Nash’s expression cleared, smoothing the worry from his creased forehead. He leaned in closer. “I’ll try not to be such a jerk the next time.”
“Looking forward to it.”
He walked away, leaving her with a fleeting glance of his fine ass.
Chapter 7
Ember
If your boots have never seen anything but country music than you’re probably from the city.
Over the next couple weeks, days bled together like the colors of the setting sun. Ember had never
been so exhausted in her life. After being a yoga instructor for years, she considered herself to be in great shape, but the difference between working out and hard work was like comparing a babbling brook to a rushing river.
“Depending on the season and drought conditions, we typically have about five thousand nursing cows,” Mr. Montgomery informed as they rode along the pristine river frontage. “Black and Black Baldies make up the majority of our cow population.”
“Why do you stick with that particular breed?” she asked with interest, riding alongside Mr. Montgomery’s buckskin horse.
“They’re a moderately framed cow with good maternal and carcass characteristics. After wintering on wheat, they reach an average weight of eight hundred and fifty pounds by the time they’re sold. They’re a top-quality beef.”
Ember grimaced, pressing her boots deeper into the stirrups, adjusting her sore bottom in the saddle. Looking out, she watched the cattle cross a broad, shallow section of river, stating, “My God, there’s got to be an easier way. This is awful. My butt is never gonna survive. I realize I’ve no idea what I’m talking about, but why not use a truck or at least an ATV?”
“We do everything old school. No feed yard or sperm bank or that cloning malarkey, we prefer to keep to tradition.”
“I don’t know why, but I’m surprised you still use horses.”
“You’re not too far off. Cattle ranching is an industry in transition. The future looks very different from our past. Cowboys on horseback are a fading era. The art of roping is being replaced by shoots and hydraulic cages. Hell, our youth is spending more time in the seat of a truck than a saddle.”
“That’s’ just a given in life, isn’t it? Evolution.”
“I reckon. A lot of ranchers have switched to a more modern set up of helicopters and ATVs.”
“Other than tradition, is there another reason why Walker Ranch isn’t moving into the twenty-first century?”
“Mr. Walker preferred to use the same methods as his forbearers used over one hundred years ago. We’ve made changes when necessary but have never forgotten traditions and ethics that have allowed this place to survive while many others have failed.”
Sensing some hesitancy, Ember questioned, “But what do you prefer?”
“I prefer to do what I’m told.”
“I take it that means you disagree?” she questioned. He didn’t resist, so she continued. “Look, Mr. Walker isn’t here and I’m clueless. I need to know your ideas and thoughts as well as his. If there are changes that need to be made, don’t you think it would be fair to me that I be informed of all my options?”
He merely scowled sending a wad of tar colored saliva flying to the ground.
“One of the things my father wrote in that journal was There ain’t a rule that ain’t meant to be broken.”
His grunt of approval disintegrated into quiet laughter. “That was one of your father’s favorite lines.”
“I think maybe that applies here too.”
“You know what I think?” Mr. Montgomery didn’t bother waiting for a reply. “I think you’re starting to sound like a woman who wants to stick around.”
She couldn’t hide the pride settling in the grooves surrounding her mouth. “It’s growing on me.”
“There are benefits to both. In my opinion, I think a mixture of old ways and new would be a better, more productive fit.”
“Would it profit the ranch, economically speaking, to make some changes?”
“It’s not all about the bottom line, Miss Thompson. Your father, as well as the generations before him, nursed this ranch through the changing era when it came under fence, through drought and blizzards, and panic when prices fell and cattle died.”
“I bet they made changes to improve herds and their bottom dollar.”
“Cattle business is hard and dirty and there are no guarantees. However, I do believe that if we made a few adjustments, the ranch’s bottom dollar would grow.” Another spit of tobacco skewered the ground. “And the hands are all deserving of a raise.”
“How long has it been since any of them got a raise?”
“It’s been quite a spell. We’ve lost a few good hands to other ranches. Several stick around because they were loyal to your father, but I’m aware of offers that have been made to a few.”
“Is Travis one of them?”
Concern notched a deep groove between his brows. “Are you taking a likin’ to…”
“No no. Just curious. You said he was one of the best workers on the ranch.”
Mr. Montgomery dipped his head, hat shadowing his features from her view. “Yes, Travis is considering a move.”
Ember remained quiet for a moment. “If they’re giving us their loyalty, shouldn’t they be our most precious assets? Other than the cattle of course. I mean, after all, you’re only as good as the people you surround yourself with.”
“Did you read that one in that journal too?”
“No, that one came from my mother.” Ember smirked, lifting the straw hat from her head, wiping the sweat from her temples with the back of her hand. “I’d like to sit down and at least look at the numbers and discuss some of the possible advantages.”
“I suppose we can do that,” he acknowledged with a whiskery grin and another spat of tobacco juice. “While we’re on the subject of making some changes, how ‘bout you get yourself some real boots.”
Her lips turned upward teasingly. “How ‘bout you consider giving up that horrid habit, Mr. Montgomery?”
Half a dozen boxes of roper-style boots sat on the floor beside a long wooden bench. She slipped into the third pair hoping for a more comfortable fit than the first two. Ember walked to the end of the aisle, checking for comfort and support.
Hearing a deep, familiar voice in the near vicinity sent a rush of delight spindling through her. She decided to extend her boot comfort test, fighting to slow her steps as she meandered to the next aisle over.
Rounding the corner, she was greeted with the view of Nash’s firm muscular butt as he hinged at the waist, assisting an older man with a boot. A pleasant, ticklish heat prickled her skin. The play of his sunbaked muscular arms, cording and flexing, drew a small sigh of appreciation.
Ember cleared the nerves from her throat. “Hey.”
Still bending, Nash cocked his head, showering her with a surprised smile. “Hey, yourself,” he said, taking her in. “Boot shopping?”
“Yeah, apparently, mine weren’t up to snuff.”
He nodded in agreeance.
The older man sitting in a chair looked her over with wide-eyed curiosity. He bore the same square jaw and rugged handsomeness as Nash. His frown was a clear indication the boots on her feet were still not up to par.
“You lookin’ for a riding boot?”
“Yes, sir,” Ember said. A large knee brace running from his shin to his thigh hindered his movements, so she stepped closer and extended a hand. “You must be Nash’s father, Mr. Harris.”
“That I am, and who might you be?” His striking blue eyes were a little less intense, the vibrancy tamed over time, but the orneriness a mirror image of the young man standing at his side.
Nash straightened to his full height, his long fingers brushed downward against his abdomen, tidying the creases in his perfectly pressed blue shirt.
Her thoughts scattered remembering how good he felt, hard muscles pressed against her body, when he tackled her to the ground.
Rolled on top of her.
Wedged himself between her thighs.
“Dad, this is Mr. Walker’s daughter, Ember Thompson.”
A puzzled look came over his face, softening his features, pulling years from his weathered skin. He may have been maimed, but the man sitting before her wreaked of power. Other than the glow of his umber skin, layer upon layer of years in the sun, she would’ve never guessed him to be a rancher. He had the appearance of a well-kept businessman, slacks and button-down shirt neatly pressed, gray hair trimmed to perf
ection, and an expensive watch wrapped around his thick wrist.
He reached for Nash’s arm, struggling to his feet. Tucking a crutch up under his arm, he clasped her hand between his. The flesh of his palm was smooth and uncalloused. “It is a pleasure. Sorry for your loss, honey.”
“Thank you.” Her gaze drifted between them. “What’d you do to your leg?”
“Knee replacement,” he said with a speculative gaze, stacking up any similarities she shared with her father. “I knew your daddy for nearly half my life.” He smiled, a genuine smile that made her want to sit by his side and soak up the years of knowledge tucked beneath a headful of thick gray hair. “It’s a damn shame you never got a chance to know him.”
The admiration in his tone surprised her. Mr. Montgomery had only mentioned Mr. Harris’s name in passing a few times, but there was always a hint of disapproval in his tone. She tried to innocently pull information out of him, but at times Mr. Montgomery could be as tight-lipped as a turnip.
“You were good friends?”
Their gazes met and held. His throaty chuckle reverberated through her bones. “We were many things, but friends might be stretching it a bit.”
Ember’s eyes widened, darting toward Nash hoping for a little more input. “You were enemies?”
“Honey, this is Texas. We don’t have enemies. We have friendly adversaries.”
Nash made a face, eyes dusting shut as he shook his head. Cynicism coated his tone. “It’s a long story. One I’ve heard a hundred times.”
“Ha! Is there ever such a thing as a short story?” Mr. Harris’s booming voice carried through the store.
“Not when it comes from you, Dad.”
The old rascal looked at her as if they were old friends, giving her hand a few pats before easing back onto the bench. “Your father was a good man and a great rancher, but he could hold one hell of a grudge.”
Curiosity too much to endure, she asked warily, “What kind of grudge?”
“According to him, the kind that spans a few decades.”
“Now, why would my father hold any resentment against you?” she questioned sweetly, the twang in her accent a bit thicker than normal.
Catching Ember (Buckle Up Series Book 1) Page 7