by Cindy Gerard
“He nursed a goat?”
“For a fact. And when he got too big to bend down and reach her teats, the goat’d just climb up on a stack of straw bales so Baby could nurse until his belly was full. They’ve been inseparable ever since.”
“Except when a cowboy climbs on his back for eight seconds a night, a couple of nights a week during the season,” she attested.
Jesse folded his forearms over the top rail and propped his chin on stacked fists. “Hell. That bull’s never let dust settle on his back for eight seconds, let alone a cowboy.”
“So it’s true. He’s never been ridden.”
“Not yet, he hasn’t. But him and me—we’re going to see about changing that real soon. Ain’t that right, you huge hunk of T-bone?”
The meal in question slowly lowered his massive head, tore a chunk of hay off a slab and, black eyes rolling in Brahman ecstasy, gave the challenge as much consideration as the fly buzzing his ear.
Darcy wrinkled her nose meaningfully. “It really stinks back here.”
Sure does, Jesse thought, hiding another grin. It was one of the reasons he’d insisted on meeting her in the pens: helped discourage lengthy interviews.
“What do you say we finish this little chat over a drink, say... someplace where the leather is tanned instead of on the hoof?” She flashed a winning smile. “Or better yet, we could go back to my motel—I left my laptop and the rest of my notes there.”
Patently excluding D.U., her pause was just long enough to be suggestive, just short enough to be subtle. And just about as straight up an invitation to bed as he’d ever fielded. That’s why when he walked her to her rental car a half hour later and sent her on her way, Jesse was just as puzzled as she was when he didn’t jump into his truck and follow her.
When he rounded the corner of the cattle barn, he ran into D.U. again. His grunt relayed his surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you again until chute time.”
“Gettin’ old,” Jesse said with a throwaway shrug.
Twenty-nine was middle of the road when it came to bull riders, but some mornings after a competition he felt as ancient as Methuselah. Of course, this wasn’t the morning after a competition; it was the afternoon of. And when D.U. fell into step beside him, he knew he hadn’t bought that argument any more than Jesse himself had.
Okay, he reasoned as he headed for the chutes and tried to fool himself into believing he wasn’t looking to run into Sloan. So you’re not old. You’re just slowing down.
“It’s not like I say yes to every offer that comes down the pike,” he muttered as if D.U. had posed the argument.
“Never said you did.”
“What’s the matter with women, anyway?” he continued, suddenly and unaccountably perturbed with the entire gender.
“Didn’t know there was anything wrong—leastwise not where you’re concerned. Me, now... I don’t get all the invites a fancy face like yours does.”
Jesse snorted. “You do all right. I happen to know there’s a waitress in Boise who’s pining away for you as we speak.”
“Well, that there’s a fact,” D.U. agreed, “but I’d say she ain’t the only one doin’ the pinin’ ’round these parts.”
Jesse stopped, spun to face him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you been off your feed since Rapids City when you met up with that Gantry woman.”
“That’s bunk.”
“No, sir,” D.U. insisted, leveling him a squinty-eyed stare. “That’s fact. Better get your head back in the game, boy, or you’ll end up using it for a posthole digger.”
At eight fifty-nine and three seconds that night, that’s exactly what it felt like he was using it for after a black-and-tan Brahman, aptly named the Exorcist, spun Jesse every way but inside out. He’d climbed on that bull’s hurricane deck a dozen times. Knew his moves like he knew his own name. Yet the old gladiator had nailed him on his first spin out of the chute.
As the eight-second buzzer sounded and Jesse pried his head out of the arena floor, he damned himself for ten kinds of fool. No day money. No go-round money. No chance at the short go again tonight.
And when he wove his way behind the chutes and met D.U.’s eyes, they both knew exactly what had happened.
He’d lost his concentration. He’d wrapped his bull rope, settled tight, tucked his head—then made the near fatal mistake of thinking about a pair of cinnamonbrown eyes belonging to the Snowy River stock contractor. And he’d lost it.
Instead of visualizing his way through the ride to come, he’d visualized satin black hair freed from its confining braid and trailing across a bared, sun-bronzed shoulder, flirting with the tip of a lushly full, sweetly flushed breast. Instead of focusing on the power and fury beneath him, he’d seen those brown eyes darken to shades of midnight and beckon him from an unmade bed. Instead of hearing the eight-second buzzer and seeing himself still on board, he’d heard the rustle of sheets beneath tangled limbs, the whisper of her husky sigh, the breathless quality of her pleasured moans.
Well, he’d lost his taste for arena dirt years ago. He liked the taste of crow even less. And while he loved the scent and the heat and the flavor of a woman, there hadn’t been one born who could come between him and his goal of a national title.
Until tonight.
Disgusted with himself, he headed back to his motel and a hot shower. Nursing a slightly strained shoulder and a badly bruised ego, he decided that he knew what he had to do. He hadn’t worked this hard, hadn’t come this far, just to let one wild rose of a woman throw him off course. This was his year. He meant to have that title or die trying—and he might do just that, if he didn’t get her out of his system and get his concentration back.
Tonight, he told himself as he slipped into clean jeans and slapped on some aftershave, might just as well be the night. And once he got her out of his system, he could go on about his business.
Sloan was not thrilled to be here. It appeared, however, that she was the only one who felt that way. The Dusty Boot, a favorite watering hole for both the locals and the rodeo contestants and crew when they were in town, was rocking.
The music was country and loud. The beer was draft and flowing. And Janey Reno, the pretty little blond barrel racer who had talked Sloan into stepping out with her for the night, was well into a party hearty mood.
Sloan had been on the circuit a little more than two weeks and already she’d come to realize that these cowboys—in Janey’s case, cowgirls—may be competitors under bright lights in a packed arena, but in between and after hours, there was a strong sense of family. It hadn’t taken long before she’d been accepted into the fold. And being part of the fold meant she couldn’t beg off every time she was invited along to “let her hair down.”
Sloan recognized most of the saddle bronc and bareback riders, a smattering of bull riders, and a healthy contingent of ropers and steer wrestlers who were bellied up to the bar and shuffling across the dance floor. Buckle bunnies—bright-faced women wearing tight jeans and loose smiles who followed the rodeo circuit hoping to snag a prize belt buckle and the cowboy wearing it—had also turned out in force.
For all their opportunities to meet up on the circuit, Sloan had done a pretty good job of avoiding Jesse during the past couple of weeks. She was in the process of trying to convince herself it was relief, not disappointment, that she felt when she didn’t see Jesse among the mix tonight, when Janey’s voice rang out above the music.
“There’s no bigger thrill than riding a fast horse or a lonesome cowboy,” Janey declared loudly and baldly after she’d licked the salt from the vee of her hand, bit into a juicy lime slice, and slammed down a shot of tequila. “I got me a horse who can run like the wind. Now all I need is that cowboy.”
Several of the latter within earshot offered their services on the spot.
Janey, who was more talk than action—especially after five tequila shooters—turned them down with a lusty hoot and a good-natured denig
ration of why a rodeo cowboy was lower than pond scum on her list of candidates.
“I want a real cowboy,” she confided to Sloan with a sloppy but earnest grin. “Not one of these fly-bynighters who’s always chasin’ rainbows and go-round money. I want a man who will stick, ya know?”
Yeah, Sloan thought. She knew. She knew the hard way. Noah’s daddy had been the kind of rodeo nder Janey was talking about. He’d been handsome, heroic, and had set her nineteen-year-old virgin’s heart into a nosedive the first time he’d whispered her name in the dark and told her he loved her. Turned out his definition of love was a little less lasting than hers, though. When she’d broken the news about the pregnancy, she was the one left to deal with it alone. She’d been counting on herself and only herself ever since. And she liked it that way just fine.
“What about you?” Janey asked after shooing away the romantic attentions of a rookie saddle bronc rider who owned more grins than good sense. “What are you looking for in a man?”
Sloan took a sip of the beer she’d been nursing for the past hour. “I’m not looking. Not for a man at any rate. What I’m looking for is a way to make Snowy River a money-making enterprise—and to prove that a woman can play in this arena, too.”
To date, that was the one complaint Sloan felt she could legitimately make about the business. Stock contracting was traditionally a good ole boys club. While she’d been embraced as an equal by the cowboys, she was merely tolerated by her fellow contractors. No Welcome mat had been thrown down to encourage her to join those ranks—even with her father’s reputation to pave the way.
“Somebody say somethin’ about wantin’ to play?”
Randy Johnson, a baby-faced bear of a steer wrestler from Lubbock, pulled a chair up to their table and grinned playfully into Sloan’s eyes. “I’ll play. I’ll play any game you name. Hell, I’ll even bring some spurs and let you decide how to use ’em.”
His invitation was delivered with such good-natured foolishness, Sloan could only shake her head and grin.
“Can’t you see we’re talkin’ girl talk here, Randy?” Janey dressed him down with a friendly smile. “Now go away.”
“Yeah, Randy. Go away.”
The deep voice that echoed Janey’s sentiments sent a tight little tremor of tension scuttling through Sloan’s tummy. She didn’t have to look up to ID the source, or to figure out that her luck at dodging the bullet that was Jesse James had run out. She remembered, too well, the husky pitch of his gruffly velvet drawl. Over the past two weeks she’d pictured, too vividly and too often, the smoldering blue eyes that went with the package—eyes that she instinctively sensed were trained on her like lasers.
Oblivious to the undercurrents of sexual tension humming on the air and far from intimidated by Jesse’s towering stance and mild scowl, Randy spun a chair around in an invitation to join them.
“Hey, Jess,” he said with a welcoming grin. “Have a seat. Rest a spell. Lord knows, you didn’t get a chance to sit on old Exorcist more than a second or two tonight,” he added with a chuckle.
“You mind your manners, Randy,” Janey scolded, “or I’ll have to remind you about last year at Laramie.”
“Ouch.” Randy winced and tugged his hat brim a little lower on his forehead at the memory of that disastrous competition. “You sure know how to humble a man, Janey Lynn.”
“Looks like they want to be alone,” Jesse stated for no reason Sloan could comprehend. “Let’s dance.”
She told herself she would have said no—if he’d given her the chance. He wasn’t into options. The look on his face when he captured her hand in his, pulled her to her feet and led her to the dance floor, assured her he wouldn’t have accepted no for an answer even if she’d voiced it. There was something dangerous about his mood tonight, something restless about his eyes.
Even if his grip on her hand hadn’t been as tight as the fit of his jeans, though, she was afraid she couldn’t have done much more than follow where he led her anyway. And she understood intuitively that he was leading her straight toward an edge that would set her up for a long, reckless fall.
When Garth Brooks broke into a slow, steamy ballad, and Jesse wrapped himself around her like danger on a dark night, she understood something else, too. She was going to have to watch herself closer than she’d thought around this cowboy.
No matter how determined she was to keep her distance, she would have to guard against the disturbing temptation to snuggle up to all that sinewy strength and sensual heat. She would have to steel herself against the silent invitation in his eyes and the heavy pulse that beat at her throat and warned of her body’s desire to answer it. And she would definitely have to stop indulging in the fit and the feel of their bodies moving together as if they’d been made with another kind of dance m mind.
At a solid five-ten, she rarely looked up into a man’s eyes. She’d always considered it a bit of an advantage—there was no advantage tonight. It only took a slight raise of her lashes to find herself looking straight into Jesse’s eyes. When she did, and found him watching her with a quiet, self-assured expectancy, another fissure of awareness spiked by anticipation raced down her spine.
Her breasts brushed against his chest, a tender friction, a tingling abrasion. The length of his thigh insinuated itself between hers as they moved to the music, provocatively nestling, deliciously solid, subtly demanding.
He had yet to say a word, suggest a thing, but she understood exactly what he had on his agenda. A slow, hot seduction—and then a short, fast goodbye, she reminded herself when the sudden temptation to give in to his promises of pleasure weakened her knees and her resolve.
“Rough night?” Fighting the beat of the music and the heat in his gaze that joined forces to draw her deeper into his spell, she broke the silence with a cool observation.
“So far,” he murmured and, lowering his head, pressed his cheek to hers. “Don’t figure it has to end that way, though.”
His cheek was warm and smooth, recently shaved; his scent was of woods and leather and something innately male, subtly provocative. Like his voice. It stroked like a caress, a practiced seduction that fed the fire the heat of his body had kindled.
Resisting the lure, she pulled back and met his eyes with a promise she told herself she had no intention of keeping. “Need a little company tonight, do you, Jess?”
His answering smile was as slow as sundown, as smoldering as the lazy glide of his hands as he slid them down, past her waist, over her hips, and tucked his fingers into the back pockets of her jeans.
“She’s not only beautiful, she’s psychic,” he murmured, and lowered his head again, this time to nuzzle that ultrasensitive spot behind her ear as he moved with the music and tugged her snug against him. “Any other surprises I need to know about?”
She closed her eyes, let herself relish, for just a moment, the intimate press of his arousal against her belly, the possessive breadth of his hands cupping her hips, the warmth of his breath that sent her senses reeling.
“Only one,” she breathed, regaining a slippery grip on her resolve. She pressed her mouth to his ear. “I’m going back to my motel now.” Lightly, she nipped the soft flesh of his lobe and was rewarded with a deep, rumbling groan, the sense of an instant, coiling tension gripping his big body.
Slowly, she pulled away. Slower still, she lifted her lashes, met the hunger in his eyes and whispered the one word he didn’t expect to hear. “Alone.
“Don’t bother following me, cowboy,” she added as his smoky gaze narrowed then transitioned to grim understanding. “Because you’re not getting into my room.”
With a quick goodbye and a get-lost smile, she turned and left him on the dance floor, as hot as a jalapeño, as bothered as a bull seeing red.
Jesse glared at the door, then at D.U., who had sidled up beside him.
“Kinda got a nice way about her,” D.U. said, watching Sloan’s exit with an expression that reeked of admiration, “turnin’ a guy down
so sweet and all like that.”
Relieving D.U. of his beer, Jesse took a long, deep pull. “You’re developing some real irritating habits, ole buddy.” His scowl was fixed on the door again as it swung shut behind Sloan. “One of which is the art of ticking me off.”
D.U. grunted. “Just callin’ it like I see it.” “Yeah. That little trick is inching toward the top of the list, too.”
With a final glare, Jesse gave a what-the-hell shrug and headed toward the bar. “I need a beer.”
D.U. looked down at the empty longneck Jesse had shoved into his hand. “You just had mine.”
“Well, now I need one of my own. Come on. You’re buyin’.”
“Sort of figured it’d come down to that,” D.U. muttered on a heavy sigh, and reached for his wallet.
Three
The diner was classic Americana, vintage truck stop decor with its horseshoe-shaped counter and faded gray vinyl booths. A not entirely unpleasant aroma of bacon grease and stale cigarette smoke hung heavily on the air. Even this early in the morning, the hum of an overtaxed air conditioner underscored the soft murmur of a dozen different conversations and the rumble of diesel trucks filtering in from outside.
Sloan scoped out the traffic flow and spotted a secluded corner booth where the sun slanted in through the plate-glass window. Since she wasn’t up for breakfast company or conversation, she headed in that direction.
The waitress, who was staring sixty hard in the face, and a little thick around the middle, was as cheerful and perky as a cheerleader. She took Sloan’s order for the special with a smile, filled her cup with strong, hot coffee, then moved off across the coffee shop to the sound of squeaking crepe soles and the soft shush of support hose.
Fifteen minutes later Sloan was halfway into her scrambled eggs and the business section of the newspaper when a shadow fell across the page. A little frisson of awareness scuttled up her spine even before she looked up to see Jesse James, in all his arrogance, standing beside the booth.