by Lynn Cahoon
The Bull Rider’s Keeper
Lynn Cahoon
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2014 by Lynn Cahoon.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-8119-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8119-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8120-7
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8120-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123RF/alanpoulson
To my own cowboy who held me up even during the dark times.
Acknowledgments
Big thanks to Emily Tatum, beta reader extraordinaire, as well as my CORE group. Thanks for pushing me to think past the first answer. Jess Verdi, thanks for your editing wisdom.
Jesse’s story and the Bull Rider series started with my trip to a rodeo in a small town known for throwing a heck of a celebration party. My life was in upheaval at the time, but this nugget of story stayed with me. Shawnee, Idaho, might be a fictional place but the mountain valley town keeps me connected with home.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
More from This Author
Also Available
Chapter 1
Time waits for no man, and as usual, Jesse was late. Peeking in the doorway of the class that was supposed to start any minute, he breathed a sigh of relief. Professor DeMarco wasn’t there. He crossed to the next door that led to her office, knocked quickly, then burst in. “Professor DeMarco, I need to leave early today …” He stopped two steps into the room, glancing at the open door for the name plate. Right office, wrong woman. Instead of the elegant art instructor, a very curvy Venus stood in a black bra and lacy black panties, holding a privacy sheet out from her body like she didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Her eyes widened as she realized he was in the room. “Get out of here!” she shrieked. Then, realizing she still held the sheet at arm’s length, she grabbed it and pressed it against her body.
Jesse could have told her it was a lost cause. What he’d seen couldn’t be unseen and she would be haunting his dreams for a while. Instead, he cast his glance regretfully downward and turned around. “Sorry, I guess I should have waited in the hall.”
He was closing the door behind him when he heard her response.
“Neanderthal.”
When she entered the classroom a few minutes later as that week’s live model, he saw her gaze stop at his easel for a second. Then she did something that never happened when Jesse met a beautiful woman. She ignored him.
He glanced at his watch: ten to four. He’d promised to be at the airport no later than an hour before his plane left at six. Yet he still sat in front of his easel.
Focusing on the study he’d been working on for the entire class period, he sighed, knowing he’d missed something. The model today was exquisite, a woman who could have been not only Miss Idaho, but also Miss Freaking Universe. Her blond hair fell straight, ending in the middle of a tan, well-defined back. The girl’s body showed a healthy addiction to working out.
He knew the curves that were covered by the privacy sheet, and Jesse felt his body reacting to the view. Not the most professional of reactions for an artist, especially if he wanted to be taken seriously in the art industry someday. He shifted on the stool, his attention falling on her hands. Strong hands that gripped the cloth keeping her covered. The fabric draped around her as if she’d just woken from a night of wild sex. She sat like a goddess in front of the drawing class. Long, slender fingers displayed her nails painted in that weird clear and white thing girls did. He focused on his canvas and, using his pencil, gently added a shadow to the back of the hand.
He tuned into his artist’s eye, noticing the play of light off her straight hair, the gentle curve of her shoulder. Her long, regal neck. Glancing back at his sketchpad, he knew the only things he’d managed to capture from the vitality of this woman were the hands. He’d nailed the hands. A smile curved on his lips as he looked back up at the goddess in front of him to discover her staring back at him.
Heat coursed across the room, his desire hot, his feelings similar to what he often felt when he locked eyes with a gorgeous woman from across a crowded bar. But this, this felt different. His smile faded as hers gently grew. Did she know what he’d been thinking? Hell, he wanted her to know. He wanted to feel those lips against his own, uncover the body only hinted at in the crowded art room. He wanted to possess her. He felt like a teenaged boy looking at his first girlie magazine. No, this was more than youthful attraction. Their gazes locked, and he started to rise from his stool, wanting to introduce himself. To get her name, for God’s sake.
A beeping from his watch broke his focus, and he dropped his gaze for a second. When he looked back, she’d turned her head away, the moment lost.
Jesse sighed and opened his case, putting away supplies. Time to go back into the real world. Time to become Jesse Sullivan, Champion Bull Rider and Professional Bull-Shitter. Eight seconds riding a bull and hours of interviews with reporters wondering why he would risk his life day after day. Wondering who Jesse Sullivan really was underneath that cowboy hat.
“Packing up already? We’ve got the studio for an extended period.” Susan DeMarco came up behind him, staring at his drawing. “This is very good. You’ve captured something here, something vulnerable. I’m sure with a bit more time …”
“Sorry, professor. I have a ride waiting for me. Start of the season, and my manager already has my weekends scheduled to the gills. I had to fight to keep these last four Fridays free so I can finish your class.” Jesse stared at the image on his paper and then back at the model. He pulled himself out of the trance. “It’s easy to have a quality product when you bring in models like that. She’s amazing.”
Susan DeMarco smiled. “I’m glad you think so. I’ve been meaning to introduce the two of you. That’s my daughter, Taylor.”
“Your daughter?” Jesse choked out, looking between mother and daughter. “Now I know I’m out of here. No matchmaking, Professor. I have plenty of buckle bunnies chasing me out there in my other life. I don’t need that kind of a distraction.”
He glanced around the studio at the other students, most at least five years younger and fresh out of high school. He stuck out like an old man in this group of metrosexuals, with their flip-flops and long shorts. Ever since he had started taking classes last year, he had felt out of place. Nevertheless, he kept coming back, needing to be more than the image of him painted by the reporters on the rodeo circuit.
He tapped his hand on the professor’s arm in a farewell gesture as he
walked past her. Susan DeMarco had been his first instructor at this school. Her gentle instruction and kind words were] part of the reason he kept coming back. No way could he be caught even thinking about what he wanted to do to her daughter. Some problems didn’t need to happen. He turned on his famous bull rider smile and teased, “Besides, you know you’re the one I want.”
Susan laughed. “Flirting with the professor doesn’t give you bonus points in my class, Mr. Sullivan, even if it has worked on other instructors.”
Jesse opened the door of the classroom. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. See you next week.”
She followed him out into the hallway. “You’re coming to the gallery opening Monday evening, right? My secretary says she hasn’t received your response to the invitation.”
Jesse paused, leaning against the wall. “I don’t know. I do so many of those types of receptions for the job … I hate to play Jesse Sullivan on my time off.”
Susan’s eyes sparkled. “Then don’t come as Jesse Sullivan, bull rider. Come as a serious art lover. I have no doubt you can hold your own with that group.” She stepped closer. “Besides, I’d love to see you in a tux.”
“Now, see, you shoot me down, then butter me back up.” Jesse grinned. “As long as you don’t introduce me as the bull rider-gone-artist, I’ll come.”
“You’ll just be one of my students, I swear.” Susan held her hand up in a three-fingered Girl Scout salute.
“ If the airline gods smile on my travel plans, I’ll be there. My plane gets in around two on Monday.”
“You need me to send over a tux?” Susan glanced down at the t-shirt and Wranglers he’d worn to class. A pair of dress Tony Lamas peeked out from under the jeans. “Maybe some shoes?”
“Now don’t be telling me I can’t wear boots with a tux.” Jesse laughed when he saw Susan flinch. “I’m kidding. It might surprise you to know I own more than just jeans and t-shirts.”
“Jesse Sullivan, nothing about you would surprise me.” Susan waved and re-entered the classroom.
He walked past the elevator, taking the stairs instead. When he reached the parking lot, he saw Angie’s blue BMW idling near the curb. A lit cigarette hung outside the rolled-down window, and Jesse could hear the strains of Martina McBride flowing from his mother’s car. Not for the first time, he wondered what life could have been like if she’d stayed home instead of running off to Vegas when he and James were kids. If wishes were horses, all beggars would ride.
He opened the back door, and dropped his portfolio case and supply bag on the floorboard. Angie had his overnight case and rodeo bag sitting on the seat waiting for him.
“How was school, sweetie?” His mom leaned over and kissed him on the cheek as he settled into the passenger seat.
“Kenny beat me up and stole my lunch money. Oh, wait, that happened when I was eight and you weren’t there.” Jesse reached back and grabbed his sponsor button-down shirt, sliding it on over the tee before he snapped his seatbelt into place. He buttoned the front and glanced at his watch. The conversation with Susan had made him later than he’d planned.
“Don’t talk back to your mother.” Angie checked her rearview mirror and gunned the gas, pulling the car out into traffic. “Snark isn’t in your character. You’re the sweet one. Your brother is the one who gives me heartache.”
“Just kidding.” Jesse checked his phone. Three missed calls and a terse text from Barb. The woman was an amazing manager, but just a bit anal. He texted a short reply, then looked over at Angie. “My professor tried to fix me up with her daughter.”
“And when are you going out?” Angie swerved around a car that she had determined was holding them back. The airport was ten minutes away from the university in light traffic. Angie could get him there in five minutes, despite full-blown rush hour traffic. The woman had no fear.
“I said no.” Jesse remembered Taylor’s hands, and wondered how they would feel caressing his arms, rubbing down his back. How his hands would feel stripping her of that damn sheet. He flipped down the visor and checked his hair in the vanity mirror. He finger-combed a few stray locks, then, satisfied, flipped the visor in place. His hat would cover most of his hair anyway, at least until they were seated on the plane. Then Barb could take over the fussing.
“Heavens, why not? Is she not up to your standards?” Angie sped through the intersection as the light turned yellow.
Jesse didn’t answer, only raised his eyebrows as he stared at her. He tucked in his shirt and replaced the everyday leather belt with one that had his name engraved on the back, his latest championship buckle adorning the front.
“What? It wasn’t red.” Angie glanced at him, her brow furrowed. “And you’re trying to change the subject.”
“She wasn’t my type.” Jesse stared out the side window. No, the woman who had sat for class today wasn’t in his league. Not even close. He was a shimmer of light, and she was an exploding sun. No way would he be able to ask her out for coffee, much less anything else. What would they talk about? Professor DeMarco was out of her mind to think her daughter might say yes to a casual conversation with this bull rider who pretended to be an artist. For a moment, when their eyes had met, Jesse could see a past, present, and future with this woman all rolled up into one second. He shook his head. Maybe he’d find the one, someday. Right now, he was too busy to notice.
He watched as Angie pulled the car over to the curb and stopped in front of the airport departure area doors. After she slipped the car into park, he patted her hand. “Thanks for the ride, Mom.”
“I don’t know why you’re keeping your classes a secret from your brother. James and Lizzie would support you.” Angie shooed him away with her hand. “Just get going. And stop calling me Mom. Angie. I want you to call me Angie.”
Jesse reached over the seat and grabbed his black Stetson. After he’d slipped out of the front seat and retrieved his luggage, he stuck his head back in the front door. “Love you, Mom.”
He slammed the door shut and tapped on the car’s roof. Putting on his hat, he watched her speed away in the little sports car. She barely missed a cab whose driver had only thought he had the right of way. As he watched Angie leave, a striking brunette climbed out of a cab that had just arrived. The girl slowed her movement when she noticed him standing there, making sure he saw enough of her to entice. Catching her eye, he put on his million-watt grin, then tipped his hat and turned away. He had business to attend to.
Jesse walked up to the curbside check-in and handed his bag to the skycap. Barb stood just inside the glass doors of the terminal, glaring at him. He lifted his hand in a wave.
“Where you headed?” the older man asked, carrying Jesse’s bag to the counter.
There were so many answers to that question, but all the man really wanted to know was the next stop on Jesse’s tour.
“Cody, Wyoming.”
• • •
Taylor pulled on her robe, watching her mother interact with the remaining students. When she’d gotten the call this morning, she had wondered if maybe things were finally getting better between them. Stupid. Mom never just wanted to see her. No, it was always about something someone needed. And she continued to act like the dutiful daughter. Old habits die hard. She grabbed her bag and hurried into the bathroom attached to her mom’s office. Despite her working at a state university, Susan DeMarco got the best of everything. Of course, it didn’t hurt that her family owned the oldest art gallery in Boise, and they donated heavily toward the university’s public art program.
“It’s part of the image,” her mother would chirp if Taylor ever questioned their funding of some off-the-wall projects. At least she’d only had to work for the western art exhibit last year. Finding unknown and upcoming artists was like mining for diamonds or panning for gold. She smiled at the analogy.
Main Street Gallery was thriving under her control. They’d had some tough times in the past, but she knew if she could just get through December, she’d ha
ve her first year in the black. They had a major show next Monday, and she should have been at the gallery finalizing details instead of sitting for her mom’s class.
She thought about the man in the last row. He’d left early, right after she had caught him staring at her. Of course, that was what they were supposed to do—watch and draw—but for some reason, his attention had felt different. Like he could read her mind, or something. She shivered. Too bad she didn’t have time for a quick relationship. She had to get the gallery’s profit margin up soon. Her parents had dropped too many hints that they were running out of patience with her management. Taylor found herself remembering how the man had focused on the canvas. Then he’d turned those artist eyes on her, poring over her body so deeply that, sometimes, she had thought he could see through the drape. Hell, he’d seen her practically naked before class started—he had probably kept replaying the tape in his head of barging in on her. When the other men, little more than boys, in class looked at her, she felt naked, exposed. However, when that tall hunk of muscular man in the back stared, she’d felt a different emotion flow from him. She’d felt reverence. She blew out an exasperated sigh. Typical, she was reading too much into a look. Assuming the best out of men always caused her trouble.
She was losing perspective. Ever since Brad had dumped her with the old, “it’s not you, it’s me” line, she’d been gun shy. Especially, since she’d found out he had been seeing other women while she was in the middle of planning their wedding.
There couldn’t have been that strong of a connection with the hot guy in the class; they hadn’t said a word to each other. However, for one second, when their gazes had locked, she’d felt drawn to him. It was the same feeling she got when she fell in love with a painting and, later, the artist. She was unable to tear her eyes away.
She pulled on her designer jeans and silky peach shirt. Slipping into her bejeweled flip-flops, she checked her messages. She texted a few responses to Brit back at the gallery. Brit had been her best friend in high school and now was more than an assistant. She swore the girl could read her mind. Hours spent together developing new shows and finding new artists had a tendency to do that to people.