Cowboy Crazy

by Joanne Kennedy

  “You cowboys have a little problem with testosterone, don’t you?”

  “Some of us do. I don’t.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “Really.” He looked down at her, then back at the cowboy who was leaning against his pickup clearly enjoying the rear view of Sarah walking away. “You want me to go back there and knock him out?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. No testosterone problem here.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re being irrational.”

  “What do you mean? He was rude to you.”

  “Why would that bother you? You’ve been nothing but rude to me since we met.”

  “Not that kind of rude.” He looked almost contrite, staring down at the gravel-strewn dirt lot as they walked. “Well, not really. Besides, I have reason to be rude to you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You came in here from God-knows-where, cozied up to my brother, and messed up my family. Messed up my life.”

  “I’m not cozying up to anybody. And I’m not the one messing up your life. You’re the one who trashed your own company on TV.” She slipped her hands in her pockets. “And don’t try to tell me your family is your life.”

  “Isn’t yours?”

  She winced. Only my sister. She’s all I have left.

  “Family’s always part of your life, whether you want them to be or not.” She shoved her hands deeper in her pockets. “But if a messed up family means your life is messed up, I’m a train wreck like you’ve never seen.”

  “What’s wrong with your family?” He actually looked concerned, and she had to squelch an impulse to tell him—about her sister, about herself, about all the ways she’d failed her own family after her stepfather died.

  “Never mind.” She tossed her hair and hoped she looked casual and at ease, not nervous and flighty like she felt. “We’re not talking about my family. We’re talking about yours.”

  “Right. Because your family’s probably not exactly fascinating. Where you from? New York or something? Your family’s probably got the permanent pinkie cock.”

  “The what?” So far as she could see, it was the cowboys who had the permanent—whatever.

  “The pinkie cock.” Lane lifted his hand and mimed sipping from a cup, his little finger thrust out in an exaggerated imitation of an aristocrat drinking tea.

  She smacked him in the arm, then remembered she was hitting an injured man and laid her hand over the spot she’d struck. “Sorry. Forgot.”

  “Didn’t hurt.” He sounded unconcerned, but he was speaking through clenched teeth. “But for a pinkie-cocking girl, you pack a wallop.”

  “I’m tougher than I look.”

  “You’re different than you look.” He gave her one of those appraising stares, but this one felt even more intimate than before. It was like he was seeking out who she was deep down, not just what she’d be like in bed. She fumbled with the gear bag so she didn’t have to look back.

  “If this business with your brother ruined your life, you’re not tough at all,” she said. “He figured you didn’t care about it. You never returned his calls.”

  “I didn’t know what he wanted. Figured it was just more Carrigan bullshit.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “I can tell your family’s everything to you.”

  “Well, it seems to be everything to you. And I still don’t understand that.”

  His fifth wheel was parked on the edge of the lot, the gaudy gold Carrigan logo glinting in the fading light of the sunset. She remembered how he’d asked if she was “something more than an employee” and stopped feeling bad about hitting his hurt arm.

  “I’m not taking anything from your family, Lane. An honest paycheck, that’s all. I’m just doing my job.”

  “And that makes everything okay, right?”

  “It’s what I have to do, so yes, it does.” She tightened her lips. “If you’ve been shut out, it’s not my fault.”

  “I wasn’t shut out. I was never in. My father just trotted me out like a prize pony every once in a while.”

  “Like Whiplash.” She couldn’t help smiling.

  “What?”

  “Whiplash the Cowboy Monkey. He rides a dog around the arena, does some rope tricks. They trot him out—I don’t know, what you said just made me think of him.”

  He lowered his brows. “How do you know about that? You a rodeo fan?”

  She flushed. “Of course not.”

  “Hardly seems like your kind of thing. And anyway, I’m not a monkey.”

  He reached for the gear bag, lifting it as effortlessly as if he’d never been hurt.

  “Where’s the sling?” she asked.

  “Took it off.” He flung it on the bed along with the gear bag.

  “Doesn’t your arm hurt?”

  “Nope. You want to come in? I need to check on my dog.”

  “No, I’ll wait.” What did he think she was, stupid?

  Lane stepped inside and whistled. “Willie? Come on, Willie.”

  Sarah laughed. “Does this work very often?”

  “What?”

  “Getting girls to come to your trailer to see your Willie.”

  He didn’t answer, just called again, sounding slightly muffled from the back of the trailer. “I can’t find him.”

  “And I suppose you want me to help you look.”

  He reappeared at the door. “He’s probably out visiting the barrel racers.”

  “Yeah, right. I bet he does that a lot.”

  “He does, actually. Sociable little dude.”

  Sarah snickered, but he didn’t seem to notice as he jumped the steps and relocked the door.

  “So,” he said. “Beer tent?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You were going to show me something good about your world tonight. You had all that talk about community, but the only cowboy I’ve met tried to steal your girl.” She grimaced. “Worse yet, he assumed I am your girl.”

  He grinned. “Well, you are a woman, princess. And you are walking beside me.”

  “Behind you, actually.”

  He paused and waited for her to catch up. “Sorry.”

  He sounded like he meant it, but she couldn’t tell if he was going to fling another zinger her way because his eyes were hidden in the dark shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “You know, you’re right. This hasn’t exactly been the best of the West.”

  He set off again, but this time he eased his pace so she could keep up. They passed the grandstand, heading toward the pens where competitors kept their horses. “Want to take a look at the horses?”

  She shook her head so fast she almost gave herself a case of whiplash. “No. I’m…” Dang. What could she tell him?

  Maybe it would be good to tell somebody the truth for a change. “I’m afraid of them.”

  “Really? I didn’t think you were afraid of anything.”

  She shrugged, suppressing a faint glow inside at the compliment. Fearless. That’s what she wanted to be. What she’d been, once. But fear ruled her life these days. Fear of poverty. Fear of losing control. Fear of failure.

  Because she’d failed her family back when Roy died. All the way home from the hospital after his death, she’d listened to her mother rant about Flash, about how dangerous he was. He should be put down, she said. Sarah had convinced her to call the sale barn instead of euthanizing the horse, but her mother had still insisted that Flash would stay in the trailer until they came to take him away.

  It was the one time in Sarah’s life she was glad her mother reacted to stress by drinking herself into a stupor. With her little sister asleep and her mom passed out, there had been no one to stop her from sneaking out to save Flash.

  ***

  The stallion’s coat had been hot and damp, lathered with sweat from the stress of staying so long in the trailer. She’d whispered soothing words to him until he calmed, nudging her pockets for treats like his old self. Then she�
��d walked him to the barn and groomed him slowly and carefully in a slip of moonlight that slanted through the door. At first he’d spooked and sidestepped, but she’d stroked him until he stood quietly. Nothing but the tension rippling under his skin told her how the day’s tragedy had affected him.

  “I’m scared too,” she’d told him. “But it’s going to be okay.”

  She’d saddled him slowly, methodically, taking comfort in the familiar motions and hoping the horse did too. It seemed like it, because she could feel the knotted tension in his mind giving way as she slipped on a bridle with a sweet iron snaffle bit and led him outside. Then she’d slipped her foot in the stirrup and grabbed the saddle horn, just like she had a hundred, maybe a thousand, times before.

  She’d visualized this ride all the way home from the hospital. She’d ride him up to the house, spin him right and left in the front yard, then holler to her mother to watch so she could prove he was safe as a child’s pony. Or maybe she’d ride him into the sunset like a movie cowboy, leaving her old life behind and taking him with her into some unknown future.

  Somehow, some way, she’d save him from going to the sale barn.

  But as she shifted her weight to the foot in the stirrup, Flash rolled his eyes back and whinnied, a hoarse scream tearing through the night. She’d clung to the reins, knowing that if she let him go he’d bolt off and run until a semi on the highway stopped him or a barbed wire fence cut his legs and tangled him to a stop.

  He spun to face her and reared, and in that instant she could only think of Roy, broken in the dirt at the foot of the trailer ramp.

  She’d been afraid of a horse for the first time in her life. She’d barely been able to hold him, but he’d finally bucked out and stood trembling, docile as a kitten. With shaking hands, she unsaddled him and led him back to the trailer.

  He’d loaded without a fuss, just like he’d always done for her, and she’d thought again of how different things would be if she hadn’t been so selfish, if she hadn’t thought it was so important to primp and preen for some boy she barely knew. Roy was dead. It was her fault. And the next day somebody from the sale barn hitched the trailer to a growling diesel pickup and took Flash away for the last time.

  Flash had sold for two thousand dollars—a tenth of his value. And no wonder: the last thing he’d done was kill a man. It didn’t help that the various stories Sarah had told Brian Humboldt about how hard he was to handle had made their way around the small world of horse traders.

  Everything Roy had brought into their life was gone, swept away by his death and her foolishness. Everything he’d worked for was gone.

  All because Sarah couldn’t work up the courage to ride a horse.

  Chapter 8

  Scanning the scattered lights from horse trailers and RVs decorating the rodeo grounds, Sarah let the hum of engines and the buzz of generators chase the memories out of her mind. Somehow, she needed to change the subject and get Lane talking about something other than horses.

  “You know what would be good right now? A turkey leg. And maybe some ribs.” She wasn’t the least bit hungry, but it would provide a distraction.

  “A woman who eats real food. I like that.” He stopped and touched her shoulder, and she felt the mood between them shift. She should have kept walking, pretended she didn’t notice, but something in his tone made her stop and turn toward him. He wrapped his hands around her biceps and ran them down to her arms, leaving a shimmering trail of sensation in his wake.

  “I like you,” he murmured, taking her hands.

  She stiffened, trying not to react to the scent of him, the warm awareness of his body inches from hers. “Come on, Lane, stop. You’re not my type and I’m not yours.”

  He scanned her face, his eyes probing hers. “I’m not so sure of that. You’re pretty spunky once you get out of that straitlaced suit.”

  She pulled her hands away, wondering just what he’d meant by that comment, and was surprised to see he was flushing a little. The double entendre must have been unintentional.

  “Sorry,” he said. “But you were right—testosterone runs high around here. Girl dressed like you might as well be running a gauntlet.”

  “Dressed like me?” She was suddenly conscious of the way her old jeans clung to her flesh. Maybe it wasn’t that the cowboys were overloaded with testosterone. Maybe she just looked like a woman who was willing to help them work some off.

  He glanced down at the jeans, then caught himself and returned his gaze to her face.

  “Didn’t mean it that way. You just—you look good, that’s all. Really good.”

  ***

  Lane could have kicked himself for being so clumsy. Sarah looked great in her jeans and T-shirt. There were plenty of buckle bunnies prancing around like prize ponies for sale, dressed in slutty midriff-baring tops and jeans so low you could see butt cleavage. Compared to them, Sarah was a thoroughbred.

  But she wasn’t the tight-assed professional type his brother usually hired. She was funny, smart, and sassy. She’d joined in on the banter with Doc Myrna like she’d known her all her life.

  He was attracted to her—and not just to her body, though that was damn near enough. Unlike most women, she could carry on a conversation and he actually enjoyed being with her.

  Too bad it was all about Carrigan. She wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for business.

  They’d strolled into the shadow of a shuttered concession stand, and the faint light glinted on her cheekbones and the delicate curve of her shoulders.

  Damn, that filmy, silky shirt was pretty. He didn’t usually notice a woman’s clothes, but the pastel peachy color brought out the delicacy of her complexion, and the fabric skimmed over her skin so smoothly he could make out the lacy borders of her bra. He wondered what it would feel like if he took a slip of the cloth between his fingers. It was so finely woven it would probably catch on his rough hands, maybe even tear. He wasn’t the kind of man who could handle delicate things. Fine china broke in his hands, and delicate women didn’t last long either.

  And for all her spunk, he sensed a fragility behind Sarah’s professional facade, a hidden store of secrets and insecurities. Not that she’d ever admit it. He could tell she was a regular warrior princess when it came to shielding her feelings.

  “Princess.” He realized too late he’d said the word out loud. Worse yet, his hand had followed his thoughts, reaching out to touch the silky surface of her shirt.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  She might be objecting to the name, but she wasn’t pushing him away. He ran a cautious, gentle fingertip down the faint outline of her bra strap, tracing the delicate line of lace down to the place where her breast swelled in a sweet, sensuous curve.

  “Sorry.” He toyed with the necklace that dangled between her breasts. At the office she’d been wearing a dignified diamond chip in an abstract setting. Now she was wearing a little silver horse charm on a chain. It looked like a kid’s necklace.

  He lifted his finger to touch the point of her china doll chin. “Can’t help it. Can’t help—any of this.”

  He tipped her face up to his. With her pale skin and wide eyes, she made him think of a fawn, sleek and soft and Bambi-eyed. Was this the same Sarah he’d met in the office? She seemed so hesitant now. So—womanly. A tangle of conflicting feelings welled up in his chest, a need to protect her combined with an urge to dominate her now that she’d showed a hint of submission.

  He smoothed a lock of hair behind her ears. He hadn’t intended it to be a sexual touch, just a comforting one, like you’d use to calm a skittish horse. She tilted her head and for a moment he held her cheek in his palm. She closed her eyes and drew in a soft breath, her lips parting, and there was nothing he could do but kiss her.

  Her lips were so delicate, so perfectly shaped. He’d just meant to touch them with his own, but he couldn’t resist flicking out his tongue to trace the smooth curves of her upper lip and that sweet little dip in the middle.
When he felt its pillowy, velvet texture give way, an arrow of desire hit his heart as surely as if she’d aimed it. But she hadn’t aimed it. She wasn’t half-trying. She was giving in to him, surrendering.

  So why did he feel so damned helpless?

  He buried his fingers in her hair and deepened the kiss, wrapping his other arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him. Sure enough, the silk shirt snagged on his rough hand, but when he slid his grip down to her waist the cloth wafted weightlessly over his hand and he was touching her skin, smoother than any silk and warm, so warm under his fingertips.

  She shifted in his hands and he started to pull back, but she was moving toward him, not away. He realized with a start that her lips were seeking his as desperately as he’d sought hers. His palms cupped her waist and her body bent backward, arching not to escape but to press herself against him. He moved one hand up her side, savoring the way she shivered as his fingertips ran along the edge of her bra. The other drifted low, stroking the perfect curve of her ass, and she let out a sound that was feminine and wild and totally uncivilized.

  Her little tongue touched his and slicked along the side, then dipped teasingly past his lips and flicked out again. That might have been an accident, but then she did it again and they were past kissing. This was something far more, him thrusting, her parrying, and he felt desire spiral up in his loins and make him so hard so fast he thought he’d die if he didn’t reach down and release the pressure. But his hand got sidetracked on the way, sliding over her breast, feeling the soft flesh yield while the lace teased his fingers.

  Smoothing his thumb over the curve, he felt her nipple hardening to his touch and had a flash of what she’d look like naked, all that smooth perfect skin and hard, pink nipples begging to be kissed and licked and more. He wanted to take her back to his trailer, pull that slippery little shirt off over her head, and shimmy her out of those tight jeans. He wanted her legs around his waist and her breasts in his hands. He wanted to keep on kissing her, but he wanted more than that—a lot more.

  A car door opened in the alley behind them and a slash of yellow light sliced into the shadows. It slanted across her body, traveling from her white throat up to the soft curve of her jaw, rising to light her flushed cheeks. With her swollen pink lips and wide eyes she looked like a sexy Madonna, Venus in blue jeans, tempting and sultry and sexy as hell.