Cowboy Crazy

by Joanne Kennedy

  A little wild, too. Her hands raked his chest and he took them in his own so he could kiss her better, but now she really was pushing him away.

  “Lane, no,” she hissed. “Wait!” She snatched her hands away and skittered backward, smoothing her shirt, tucking her necklace beneath it. She was buckling her belt too. When had her belt come undone?

  “Sorry.” His head was spinning. “What…”

  “It’s okay. I—I—it’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but it is.” She was frantically twirling her hair in a frantic effort to redo the ponytail at the back of her neck. He bent down and plucked her barrette out of the dirt.

  “Oh. Thanks.” She clipped up her hair with a practiced twist and straightened, smoothing her shirt and squaring her shoulders. “Do I look okay?”

  He grinned. “Do you mean like normal-okay, or sexy-okay? Because I’m not sure I’m qualified to judge the kind of okay you want to be.”

  He felt suddenly energized. The kiss had made him forget his aches and pains. He’d been hoping this jaunt was something more than a job for her. He’d caught a distinct hum in the air at their meeting this morning, a sexual tension between them that ran both ways.

  If only she wasn’t scared of horses.

  But wait. That had to be a lie. He’d woken from his bull-riding wreck to see her standing over him, her eyes glowing with an otherworldly light as she held a white horse like some equestrian angel who’d come to carry him to heaven. Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe it was wishful thinking. But if he was going to indulge in wishful thinking about Sarah Landon, wouldn’t she have been naked?

  And there was that necklace. A horse. She was lying when she said she didn’t like horses. He was sure of it.

  She frowned and that little crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Button your shirt.”

  He looked down to see his chest exposed nearly down to the waist, bandages and all. “Hey, I didn’t unbutton it.”

  She let out an exasperated breath and leaned toward him, her fingers brushing his sore ribs as she struggled to fasten the buttons she’d clawed loose. He took pity on her and helped, which probably slowed things down as their fingers tangled together. Her gaze flashed up to meet his and skittered away again. She bit her lip and concentrated on the buttons.

  When she finished the last one and started to pull away, he took her hands in his own, holding them against his chest.

  “Does this mean we’re not having sex?”

  “Lane, shh.” She nodded toward a group of men emerging from the nearby car. “Tuck in your shirt and let’s go.” She was all business now, except for the flush that reddened her neck and cheeks. He wondered if it was embarrassment or passion or if she was just pissed off. Probably all three.

  He shoved his shirttail into the waistband of his jeans, wincing as his hand hit his still-eager buddy down below. She turned to him, her eyes stern, and he had to resist the urge to kiss her into submission again.

  She smoothed her shirt and he almost groaned as the fabric tightened over her breasts.

  “Is there any sign of… anything?” she asked. “Can you tell what happened?”

  “Not by looking at you. Maybe by looking at me, though.”

  Her eyes flicked downward and away, her cheeks flushing.

  “Want to go for that beer?”

  She swallowed. “Sure.”

  She gave him a stiff little nod and he wondered what had happened to the woman who’d kissed him a moment ago. She was all tense now, and he couldn’t think of a thing to say to her as they headed past the bright lights of the midway and made their way through the dimly lit parking lot. He usually found it easy to talk to women. He talked, they giggled. Then they went to bed, and he didn’t have to talk anymore. But that obviously wasn’t the way it was going to go tonight.

  Most of the concession stands were closed for the night, but a string of plastic chili pepper lights glowed red against the buff canvas of the beer tent. The catcalls and whoops of celebrating cowboys drifted through the canvas and swirled on the night air, mixing with the sharp scents of spices and barbecued meat. Sarah kicked a stone with the toe of her boot and sent it skittering across the walkway. Lane looked down and froze.

  “What’s with the boots?”

  She pulled her wallet out of her pocket and pulled out a five for the cover charge, ignoring Lane’s efforts to pay. “Nothing.”

  She edged through the crowd and plopped down in a folding chair, swinging her feet under a long table that looked like it had been borrowed from a school cafeteria. A couple guys waved at Lane, but he nodded and sat down beside Sarah, bending down to tug at the hem of her jeans. “Let me see those.”

  They were brown leather cowboy boots, square-toed and unadorned. They weren’t girlie fashion footwear with fancy tooling; they were working boots. Judging from the worn, scuffed leather, they’d been used and used hard.

  She pulled her foot away. “They’re cowboy boots. Is that a problem?”

  “Real cowboy boots.”

  She tucked her feet under her chair and he knew he’d scored a point. He just didn’t know how.

  “No city girl has boots like that.”

  “This city girl does.” She shrugged and looked away. “They come that way these days.”

  This was getting interesting. He’d seen the so-called “distressed leather” boots they sold in stores. Sarah’s were the real thing, broke in, broken down, and used damn near to death.

  He was sure now that she was lying about the horse thing. And he definitely wanted to go on with the game.

  ***

  Sarah glanced around the crowded interior of the tent, searching for familiar faces. Humboldt was far enough from Two Shot that she might go unnoticed—but there was a chance somebody would turn up who knew her when.

  When she’d been dirt-poor trailer trash. When she’d been the daughter of a drunk, the only defender of a family that fed the gossip vine like Miracle-Gro fed potted plants.

  “Shit,” she muttered, then winced. She wasn’t thinking. She hadn’t been thinking when she let him kiss her, and she hadn’t been thinking when she swore like some spunky heroine in a Reba McEntire song, either. He was scoring points right and left, and she was losing the game big-time.

  “Sorry,” he said, surprising her. “It’s not exactly the Ritz. I just thought this would give you a sense of the kind of people you need to deal with, the kind of minds you’re looking to change.”

  She nodded, realizing she’d almost forgotten the whole purpose of the evening. It was hard to squelch her old self—the self that would have given her right arm to go to the rodeo with a guy like Lane, share a kiss in the shadows, go for a beer and maybe a dance. It was a redneck girl’s definition of fun.

  But Sarah knew now that there was a price to pay for fun. Her sister had paid that price and Sarah had been careful ever since—the responsible sister. She tipped out one foot, frowning down at her worn-out boot. When things went wrong, you had to have a plan. That’s where Roy had gone wrong. He hadn’t planned on the accident. He hadn’t planned on Flash selling for next to nothing. He’d bet everything and lost, so they’d had nothing to fall back on.

  That was never going to happen to her again. She’d worked hard to become a new person. A successful person, a rich person who could take care of herself and have enough left over to help her family.

  She needed to get back to work, where she only had the younger brother to contend with. The safe one.

  Because being with Lane was not safe. She could feel her old self clawing at the cage she’d created, trying to break through the layers of sophistication she’d built up over the years. And if her old self got loose, she was liable to do a lot more than kiss Lane Carrigan the next time they ended up in a dark alley.

  Chapter 9

  Lane watched Sarah sit primly in a folding chair, watching the band crank out country’s greatest hits on the platform at the front of the tent. Her lips were pressed tightly together, her hand
s knotted in her lap. She was probably afraid the locals would eat her alive.

  He smiled at the thought. As far as he was concerned, her world—the business world—was full of piranhas and barracudas. Worse yet, the predators there dressed like regular folks. In his world, people might look a little rough but at least you knew what to expect. Bikers wore leather, and cowboys wore hats. Easy girls wore low-cut tops, and good girls—good girls dressed like Sarah.

  The top of the tent was a tangle of electrical wires, each one leading to a paper lantern. The individual circles of light made each table a mini-stage, highlighting the various dramas taking place. At one, a woman sat slouched over a beer, watching with wounded eyes as the cowboy beside her chatted up a woman at the next table. At another, three women watched the band, their eyes fixed in identical predatory squints on the lead singer. At the one closest to the door, a man and woman conversed in furious whispers. Lane couldn’t hear what they were saying, only the faint hiss of anger in their tone.

  He let his eyes roam down the bar, where cowboys and cowgirls perched on tall stools, boy-girl, boy-girl. Some of the women leaned close to the men beside them; others seemed determined to shrink into the smallest space possible as eager cowboys waved imaginary lassos in the air, recounting their glory days.

  Everyone was trying a little too hard, including the band up on the makeshift stage. A singer with serious dental issues was rasping out the lyrics to “Sweet Home Alabama” with his stance spread wide and his skinny hips thrust forward. Behind him, a fiddler sawed determinedly at a battered violin. Everything was a little too loud, a little too desperate.

  Sarah’s eyes flicked from one face to another, then slid back to a thirty-something cowboy who was standing a few feet from the bar, talking with a bunch of other guys. Lane had seen the guy ride a few times, and his mental tape loop pictured him getting bucked off a lot. He remembered a fatal tendency to misread the horse’s cues, a habit of letting his shoulders tilt into the spin and pull him off center.

  The guy sure wasn’t making much of an impression on Sarah. Lane hoped she never looked at him like that, with her brows lowered and her lips tightened in disapproval. He scanned the luckless cowboy from head to foot, wondering what annoyed her so much. He wasn’t bad looking—reasonably fit, dressed in the typical cowboy uniform of striped shirt, Wranglers, and boots. The shirt was faded as if it had been washed about a hundred times, but Lane didn’t think Sarah cared about the condition of a man’s clothes. If she did, his own would never pass muster. And however cold she was now, she’d kissed him like she wanted him. He brushed a finger over his lips and she flashed him a glare almost as cold as she’d given the other guy.

  Maybe coming to the beer tent was a mistake. He should have kept her in the shadow of the potato skins stand.

  As Sarah swung her gaze back to the cowboy, the guy turned like he could feel the chill. When his eyes lit on her face he froze as if he’d been turned to a pillar of ice.

  “Sarah Landon,” he said. “Shit.”

  So he knew her? That was odd. Though she’d seemed remarkably comfortable at the rodeo, she sure didn’t seem like the type to spend time in the kinds of places where this guy probably hung out. Unless he was from Texas or Colorado, where she’d stomped out a couple small towns at the bidding of the corporations she’d worked for. Maybe that’s what this was about.

  “Mike Sullivan.” Sarah spat out the name like it was a cuss word. She turned to Lane. “Could you get me a beer, please?” She said it curtly, still staring down the mystery cowboy. Suddenly, she seemed less like a delicate flower and more like a cactus blossom, beautiful but ringed by thorns. He felt like saying no, but maybe it was better to get away before she started scratching the other guy’s eyes out.

  Starting toward the bar, he wove his way through the crowd of cowboy-hatted men and tight-jeaned women. Halfway there, he turned and saw the guy striding over to her, fists clenched at his side and a pugnacious scowl on his face. Lane paused midstride to listen in.

  “What are you doing here?” the guy asked Sarah.

  “Working,” she said. “And I suppose you’re having a good time.”

  She said it like it was the worst thing a guy could do. Lane definitely needed to rethink hanging out with this woman. She was even more straitlaced than he’d thought.

  “I suppose I am.”

  The guy’s chin jutted in defiance, his hands still clenched into fists. Something was wrong with this picture. Maybe it was the familiar way the guy spoke to Sarah. Maybe it was the way he stood, stiff and hostile. He looked like a man about to start a fistfight. Surely he wouldn’t hit a woman. Lane walked back to Sarah and stood just behind her. The guy’s eyes flicked toward him and he did a quick double take.

  “Hey, you’re Lane Carrigan.”

  Sarah turned and scowled at Lane. “I thought you were getting a beer.”

  “Thought you might need me.”

  “I don’t.” Her tone was frosty as a chilled mug.

  “You sure?”

  “Hey, run while you can, buddy.” The guy spat out a bitter laugh. “Sarah’s liable to spit in your eye before she even knows your name.”

  “Spit?” Sarah snorted. “That would be too mild.”

  “Yeah, well,” the guy said. “Having second thoughts isn’t a capital offense, you know.”

  “No?” Sarah lifted her chin imperiously. “Well, it should be.” She waved the guy away. “Have a good time, Mike.”

  What the hell was she so upset about? And how did she know this guy? The mystery was intriguing, but if she had a problem with a guy having a good time Lane was done with her. Sarah might have softened when he’d kissed her, but now she was all sharp edges.

  He’d get her the beer she’d asked for, but then he needed to get her home and get away from her. No matter how much he’d enjoyed that kiss.

  ***

  “Who was that?” Lane had returned from the bar with two beers, making his way through the crowd in record time despite the shout-outs of half-a-dozen cowboys and an equal number of eager buckle bunnies.

  “He’s nobody.” Sarah downed half the beer in one gulp, determined to finish it and go. She’d thought she could get away with coming here. Because of the lack of jobs, there was hardly anyone under the age of sixty left in the Two Shot area.

  But Mike didn’t care about jobs. The guy had all the ambition of a cat in the sun. He’d seemed smitten with her sister, and he’d done the right thing for a while, sticking around after the baby was born. He’d found a steady job at the feed store and come home to Kelsey’s cooking every day. He didn’t spend much time with Katie, but Kelsey thought parenting was the woman’s job.

  Then the feed store had shut down and instead of finding another job, Mike had left his family for the rodeo road. Said family life was too “confining.” He’d married too young, he said. He needed to “have a good time.”

  Sarah wanted to kill him. He’d left Kelsey with a two-year-old daughter and Kelsey started the single mom struggle for yet another generation of the Landon family.

  She threw back another slug of beer as Lane hailed a waitress who was edging through the crowd with a tray full of oversized shot glasses. Grabbing one, he shoved it at Sarah.

  “Drink up,” he said. “I’m driving.”

  She sniffed the amber liquid and the scent of tequila almost knocked her head back. A shot was the last thing she needed. She’d already loosened up way too much, kissing Lane in the alley, letting Mike get her steamed. Or was she already drunk—on Lane, on all the testosterone he put out? Could pheromones make you dizzy?

  Maybe. He gave her a smile and a wink that made the rage ebb a little, raising his beer in a toast.

  “Come on, it’ll do you good,” he said. “You’re a little tense. I’m afraid to get back in the truck with you.”

  She didn’t blame him, but there was nothing to worry about. She’d spent all her anger and adrenaline on Mike, and now she felt like she was made
of glass and might shatter any second.

  Bringing the glass to her lips, she tilted her head back and drank. The liquor traced a fiery path down her throat and coiled in her belly, spiraling up to warm her from the inside out. She set it on the table and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Dang. What a redneck move that was. But Mike had already blown her cover, and Lane didn’t seem to care. He grinned and draped an arm over the back of her chair.

  “See? Having a good time isn’t such a bad thing.”

  He had a point. She let herself lean into him a little. It felt good to have a big, muscular man beside her. And Lane really was trying to show her a good time.

  That kiss. Now that was a good time.

  She turned and scanned his face, wishing she could just give in to the urge to nestle into the crook of his arm, tuck her head under his chin, and enjoy the music. But what must he think of her? He didn’t know Mike had walked out on her sister. He probably thought the guy was an old boyfriend. He must think she was a total bitch.

  As a matter-of-fact, a lot of people thought that. And maybe they were right. When had she changed so much? She just wanted security, financial and otherwise, for herself and for Kelsey, but most of all for Katie. She didn’t want her niece growing up with the same doubts and uncertainties she’d had.

  But sometimes it seemed like her ambition had taken on a life of its own. It was eating up her life and her personality until she’d become a woman she barely recognized—and one she didn’t like very much.

  She wouldn’t blame Lane if he let her go, but he pulled her a little closer and she went limp, tucking her head under his chin and resting her cheek on his chest. She felt safe for the first time in years.

  “That guy,” she said. “It’s not what you think.”