He frowned. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”
“You won’t. You’re not.” And if he was, she would deal with it. “In a weird way, it feels good to be hashing about something like this. Sure, the SM complicates things by making a conversation into a guessing game, but at least this is normal kid stuff.”
“Normal kid stuff,” he repeated. “You mean like her mom dating?”
“That would be the one.” Her heart gave a thudda-thudda. “Which brings us back to the whole ‘I’ve suddenly got the evening free’ thing.” And the night, too, though she wasn’t going there. “I believe you were going to ask me something?”
“Pushy little filly, aren’t you? Okay, fine. I’ll ask . . . Shelby, will you come to the bunkhouse later for dessert?” He grinned. “And no, that’s not a metaphor. I was thinking popcorn and a movie, if you’re into it. Or—”
“A movie? On a real TV?” She nearly moaned it.
“A big one, with surround sound, even. And I’ll let you pick the movie.”
“I’ll watch a guy flick if it gets me a couch and a snuggle. Apocalypse Now or Enter the Dragon or something. I’d even grit through The Three Stooges or Jackass, if that’s what it takes.”
He chuckled. “Okay, I guess it’s movie night, then. Say seven? Will that give you enough time after the dinner rush? Or would you rather do it later so you can hang out in the barn for a bit with the girls first?”
That loosened a tension she hadn’t really been aware of. “Yeah, I would. Especially if my darling daughter is coming out of her snark fest.”
“Stay as long as you want, or until they kick you out, whichever comes first. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
And that, she thought, was what made him the real deal.
• • •
Foster told himself he wasn’t going to clean up the bunkhouse—not looking to change, begin as you mean to go on, that sort of thing. Then he cleaned up anyway.
Eh, the place needed it.
He transferred the mountain of to-be-fixed tack from the love seat to the spare bedroom that only really got used when Tish and her kids visited, then sorted the slippery piles of magazines and comics into a “keep” pile that followed the tack into the spare room, and a “recycle” pile that quickly overflowed the recycling bin. The sofa cushions got banged out on the front porch, and his gramma’s afghan went over the back of the sofa, covering the destruction done by the last litter of rogue foster kittens Krista had foisted off on him.
He could’ve sworn he’d done the dishes before he left for the gather, but somehow there were still a few in the sink, wearing crusties he didn’t want to think about. They went in the dishwasher with an extra soap pod, and he wiped down the counters with bleachy-smelling cleaner. Finally, he soaked a couple of paper towels with Endust and swiped at the end tables, TV, and video racks, not so much dusting as making it smell as though he’d dusted.
Vader watched the proceedings with a look of canine mistrust, then slunk off when the vacuum came out.
“You’re lucky I don’t have enough time to give you a B-A-T-H,” Foster called after him, then decided that since he needed a shower anyway, they could get in a two-fer.
So after running the vacuum around the living room and swiping the kitchen and downstairs bath with one of those mop pad thingies, he rousted Vader out from underneath his bed and dumped them both in the upstairs shower to scrub off two weeks’ worth of trail grime, hard riding, and—at least in his case—mirror-free shaves. Six soggy towels and a puddle on the bathroom floor later, they both smelled better, but suddenly, Vader was shedding like crazy, coating Foster in a Shake ’N Bake layer of black and white hair that itched like crazy.
“Well, at least they’re clean hairs,” he said, and doubled up some duct tape to play lint brush before pulling on clean jeans and a favorite T-shirt.
Back downstairs, he looked around and decided that he and the main room both looked pretty good. A quick trip into the kitchen, a head poke into the fridge followed by the eviction of some hairy dairy, and he was good to go in there, too. But when he headed back into the main room, he stopped dead and groaned.
It smelled like Endust and wet dog.
“You need a blow-dryer or something,” he said. “Maybe some Febreze.”
Vader shot him a Seriously, dude? look and jumped up on the couch.
“Oh, no, you don’t. Down. Now. Go sleep in your own bed for a change.”
The border collie heaved a sigh and complied, leaving Foster standing in the middle of the main room with escapee dog hairs on his jeans and a definite funk in the air just as headlights came over the hill and shone in his front windows.
“Oh, crap. She’s here.” The kick of excitement was tempered with dismay. He should’ve met her somewhere, picked her up, taken her riding—anything that would keep them in the dude ranch space they knew worked for them, with him in full-on cowboy mode. Because what if she didn’t like Foster the guy as much as Foster the wrangler?
It was too late now, though, because boot steps thunked on the porch, there was a pause—yeah, he so didn’t have a doorbell—and she knocked.
Vader whuffed, shooting him a You gonna get that? look.
“Oh, shut up.” Resisting the urge to swipe at his jeans or straighten his shirt, Foster took a deep breath and opened the door.
And there she was.
The gut punch one-two’d him as it had each time he’d seen her over the past week, a sort of there you are followed by a deep possessiveness that left him feeling twitchy and heated. She was wearing a pair of black, clingy pants and a soft blue shirt that dipped low in the front, serving to reinforce that they weren’t out in the backcountry anymore. It was strange, seeing her on his porch wearing fancyish clothes. But strange in a very, very nice way. The kind of way that had him wanting to reach out and haul her in for a deep kiss. But he knew he wouldn’t want to stop at a kiss—not tonight, not with too many soft, horizontal surfaces within range—so he kept his hands to himself, and chuckled down at the bright orange bag she held clutched in front of her. “You brought Cheetos.”
A subtle tension eased out of her face. “It was that or the Swedish fish, and it’s impossible to look at all attractive while eating Swedish fish.”
“Cheetos make your fingers DayGlo orange.”
Her smile went wicked. “True, but then you get to lick them off.”
“Hel-lo.” Heat kicked into his bloodstream, though it wasn’t like he needed more of a buzz. If his system got revving any faster, he was going to go caveman, grab her, and drag her upstairs. And that was the exact opposite of the whole “take it slow and don’t skip any steps” theory they had agreed to. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, when he’d at least partly been figuring that some one-on-one would convince them both that this was a bad idea. Only it hadn’t done that. Exactly the opposite, in fact, and now the anticipation was killing him. Every kiss, every touch, every wicked look and sassy comment just made him want her more.
“Nice.” She tapped his T-shirt, with its “May the Schwartz be with you” on the front in cartoon letters.
She had probably missed the reference and was just being nice, making conversation, but he liked that she hadn’t made a face at the spaceship. “You drove over?” he asked, and then winced. Brilliant. Um, yeah, that was her car in the driveway. Duh.
“I thought about hiking over from the main house, but after a week on the trail I’m feeling lazy.” She paused and tipped her head. “That’s okay, right? If you don’t want people seeing my car—”
“No! No, it’s fine.” Better than fine, though he wasn’t quite steady with the sudden surge of hell, yeah that raced through him, the one that wanted everyone else to know she was there, with him. “Ah, are things okay with Lizzie?”
“I guess so. She seemed fine, and her mood didn’t change when I said I’d be out with you instead of back at the cabin.”
“Stace will call here if she needs to.”<
br />
“That’s what she said.” She paused, took a breath. “So . . . this is a little weird, isn’t it? No horses to focus on, no riding to do. Just the two of us, a bag of Cheetos, and a movie. It’s . . . it feels more official somehow. But in a good way.”
“We could go out if you’d rather.”
“No way.” She dimpled. “Unless you don’t want me to see your den of iniquity.”
“Better sooner than later, I guess, though I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you on the iniquity.” He stepped back. “Come on in. Make yourself at home, though I have a feeling your home probably doesn’t look like this.”
She came in, glanced around at the framed movie posters and rodeo memorabilia, and laughed. “Not so much. But it suits you. And you weren’t kidding about the flat-screen, were you? It’s huge.”
“One of my hidden vices.”
“Oh? What are some of the others?”
“Junk food, which you already knew about. Comic books. The occasional convention, though I swear I don’t wear a costume.”
“Aw, and here I was, imagining you as Wolverine.” She crouched briefly to pat Vader.
“Wait. He’s—”
“Wet. And shedding.” She grinned up at him. “But clean.” She gave the wiggling dog a good scratch, shook off the loose hair, and didn’t seem at all put out when some of it clung.
Pressure fisted in his chest, even stronger than he’d felt the last few days, reminding him suddenly of the feeling of riding along an eyebrow trail with a hard surface on one side, a steep fall on the other.
Standing, she headed for the double rack of discs on the wall. “You’ve got quite a collection here. And you know what they say about all the things you can tell about a man from his videos.”
He didn’t know what they said, and decided it was better that way. Like his vices, the movies probably screamed “stalled in adolescence” even though he was pretty sure he hadn’t. He just liked to unwind after a long day of dude-ing it, and had long ago learned that movies were better for him than some of the alternatives his buddies had leaned toward. He didn’t try to explain, though. He just said, “Ladies’ choice, either there or online.”
“Hmmm . . . what to watch, what to watch . . .” She went along the rack, making a humming noise. “Star Wars? Tempting, but I’d want to see all three in a row and we’d be here ’til morning. Props for not having the newer ones. They were just tragic. Blade Runner, Dune, a couple of seasons of MST3000—you’re dating yourself. But here’s Wall-E, three Transformers, and all the latest superheroes. Chris Nolan only on the Batmans, I see, none of the cheesy older ones.” She flashed a smile over her shoulder. “You’ve got good taste, cowboy.”
He was also having trouble catching his breath. “You like sci-fi?”
“What’s not to like?” She kept browsing. “All of the new Battlestar Galacticas—again, very cool, but not looking for a film festival. Besides, the finale annoyed me. Fifth Element, one of my favorites.” She paused and tapped two discs off to the side. “Princess Bride and Ladyhawke?”
“My sister gave ’em to me. Good movies, though. Want to watch one of them? Or I’ve got a dish, we could get an on-demand.” He’d even watch something with “Wedding” in the title if it made her happy. Except it seemed that he wouldn’t have to. He never would’ve guessed her for a sci-fi wonk. And oh, boy, he was in even more trouble than he’d thought.
It was one thing to share some killer kisses and moonlit conversations, another to find an unexpected piece of common ground.
“Only if there’s something you’re jonesing to see,” she said. “Otherwise, how about this one?” She held up his copy of Cowboys and Aliens. “Or is that too much like your day job to be fun?”
Finding a smile, he said, “Can’t say Loco and I have ever had to fend off an aerial attack, except maybe a buzzard now and then. You want to put the movie in while I wrangle some popcorn?”
She eyed his entertainment system, which wasn’t brand-new, but had more buttons than the average cockpit. “Brave man. You’re not afraid I’ll click on something you’d rather I not see?”
“Nope. But if you’re worried about it, I’d stay away from the computer cache.”
Her chuckle warmed him. “Oh, Pandora, don’t open that box.” But then she flipped him a sassy salute. “Aye-aye, trail boss. I’ll subdue the movie, you herd the snacks, and we’ll rendezvous at the couch in five.”
“You want ice cream?”
“You got anything with chunks in it?”
“Always. If not, we can mix in the Cheetos for some texture.”
She laughed. “Then yes, ice cream, please. Hold the Cheetos for right now.”
“You got it.” Unable to resist—and not fighting the urge too hard—he caught her by the back of the neck and drew her in for a kiss that started out quick but just as fast mellowed to something longer and lingering. When it ended, he was breathing hard as he pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m really glad you’re here.” Then he let her go and stepped back. “Five minutes. Couch. Be there or be square.” And he headed for the kitchen, knowing he’d better get moving before he gave in and skipped some steps.
She blinked after him, looking as warm and befuddled from the kiss as he was. Because as he dug in the freezer for the Chunky Monkey, his head was spinning and he couldn’t feel the floor beneath his feet. And for a guy who usually had his boots planted firmly on the ground, that was a heck of a thing.
14
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The movie was a solid B-plus, the snacks a satisfying hodgepodge, and the company an A all the way. And as the credits rolled, Shelby snuggled closer against Foster’s side, unwilling to move, even to turn off the DVD.
They had drifted low on the chaise end of the soft couch so they were pretty close to horizontal, tangled together in a comfortable curl of bodies. Her boots were off, her feet linked around the backs of his calves, and she was lined up with him everywhere else, her head pillowed on his chest. With an age-softened afghan thrown over them and Vader snoring softly nearby, she was utterly content.
“Like it?” he asked, his voice rumbling beneath her cheek.
She shifted to look up at him, and her heart got all warm and fuzzy at the sight of him, drowsy-eyed and relaxed. Even though she knew he’d been asking about the movie, she said, “There isn’t anything I don’t like about it.”
His eyes sharpened and heated, and the hand he’d been stroking down her back paused and urged her up against him, instead, so their lips met.
They had kissed during the movie—quick pecks and longer explorations—but none of those kisses had been anything like this one. Now he rolled against her and held her close so they were pressed together at every point as they kissed and kissed again. He touched; she tugged clothing free; he kissed her throat, her lips; she skimmed her fingers along his ribs and the lean play of muscles. Breathing went ragged—his, hers—and she shuddered against him, unable to think much beyond I want and yes, there.
He eased the kiss but didn’t pull away. Instead, he touched his lips to her cheek, her temple, pressed his face in her hair. “I promised we weren’t going to skip any steps.”
The huge flat-screen had defaulted to the DVD’s menu page, offering “Home,” “Play” or “Extras,” which made her want to laugh. Just press Play, please. She hadn’t expected to find someone, hadn’t even been looking, really, but here he was, in living color, a man who was somehow exactly right for the woman she’d become here at Mustang Ridge. A man she wanted to be with, here and now. “Would we be skipping steps?” she asked.
He gave a raspy chuckle. “We still haven’t swum naked together.”
“If I go jump in the lake now, will you take me upstairs?”
He caught his breath, then shook his head, but not like he was saying no. More like he was trying to clear it. “Are you sure?”
“Aren’t yo
u?”
In answer, he stood. And then, before she could rise to join him, he’d scooped her up against his chest and lifted her as easily as she’d seen him muscle hay bales into place. “Foster!”
He headed for a hallway. “Hm?”
“Put me down!”
“Second thoughts?”
“Only for your back. I’m—”
“Lighter than a weanling,” he said easily. “No squirming, though. I’d hate to drop you.” He faked losing his grip, then caught her again.
She collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and laughing helplessly. “Cowboy goes caveman. Oh, help.” Inside, though, was a glowing warmth that said this is real.
“That’s better. I like saving a damsel in distress. It’s part of the code.”
The hallway was wide and high, with bark-on logs for beams and white plaster on the walls. They passed a couple of closed doorways, then reached an open arch at the end of the hall. He stepped through, but then stopped with a muffled noise that was part laughter, part dismay.
Turning back, he set her on her feet, angling so his body was blocking the view. “I, ah, didn’t pick up in here. Sorry.”
Feeling unutterably tender—with the man and the sheepish look on his face—she ducked to look under his arm. It wasn’t bad, really, just cluttered, with more clothes folded on the bureau than hanging in the open closet, and an unmade bed piled high with a tangle of pale green sheets, a heavy woven blanket, and another knitted afghan in a different shade of green.
Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 19