The Outlaw Jesse James

by Cindy Gerard

  This was not what she needed this early in the morning. He was not what she needed—not any morning. It was a hard fact she’d had to remind herself of too many times since she’d left him scowling on the dance floor at the Dusty Boot last night.

  She shot him what she hoped passed for an indifferent glance.

  “Mornin’ to you, too, sunshine,” he murmured, flashing his trademark outlaw grin and easing onto the seat across from her in her booth.

  Determined to ignore the scent of aftershave and male that he brought with him, she sliced another quick, disinterested glance over the top of the newspaper as he reached for her coffee and with a low sound of pleasure helped himself to a long, deep swallow.

  “You know, they have lots of cups here,” she said dryly. “I bet they’d give you one of your own if you asked nice.”

  “I asked nice last night.” His voice was as intimate as the press of his fingers on her bottom last night when they were dancing. “As I recall, it didn’t do a bit of good.”

  She answered the mischievous glint in his eyes with a quick, chilly smile. “Possibly you asked the wrong woman,” she suggested then refocused on the newspaper.

  He reached across the Formica tabletop, hooked a finger over the page and tugged it back down. “I don’t think so.”

  Before she could set him straight, he turned a fullblown smile on the waitress when she appeared at his side.

  “Mornin’, Mabel. How’s my favorite fox today?”

  “More woman than you could ever handle, sugar babe.”

  He chuckled, then assured Sloan, “She loves me.”

  Sloan raised her eyebrows long enough to catch the wink Mabel tossed her way. “Yeah, I can see she’s overcome with it.”

  Looking as wounded as his dancing eyes would allow, Jesse doffed his hat, set it beside him on the seat, then stretched his long arms across the booth back. “Since I can’t have you, Mabel, why don’t you give me two of what she’s having. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

  “You got it,” Mabel chirped, and squeaked her way back toward the kitchen.

  Alone with Jesse and angry with herself for letting it make her uncomfortable, Sloan feigned intense preoccupation with the newspaper and worked hard to ignore his measuring stare—a tough trick smce he filled up a major portion of her peripheral vision.

  She was determined not to let his presence bother her. Just as she was determined that dancing in his arms last night at the Dusty Boot hadn’t affected her. And that the nip she’d given his earlobe just before she’d left him on the dance floor had been a control move on her part, not an indulgence she hadn’t been able to resist.

  She’d spent a restless night clinging by a thumbnail to that little bit of wishful thinking. But the honest truth was, her body still hummed from the sensual memory of the fit of their bodies. She still felt singed by the blatant heat of his invitation—and the undeniable fact that he’d been offering her a whole lot more than a dance. The real irritant was that for a moment there, she’d actually been tempted to take him up on it.

  She didn’t much like herself for letting him get to her that way. Up until last night she’d taken a measure of solace in thinking she’d shaken off the effect of the kiss he’d stolen in Rapids City.

  That kiss had been unplanned on his part, a live-forthe-moment reaction born on the wings of an adrenaline rush, kicked into gear by impulse. He’d been as surprised as she’d been. Last night, however, the only surprise had been hers. And the only impulse she’d fought had been the one that had tempted her to follow his lead.

  When he’d tugged her to her feet and into his arms, he’d made it clear exactly where he’d wanted to lead her. The brush of his body to hers had been pure, sensual invitation. The heat of his hands on her back had burned through her shirt, rekindled the cooled ashes of a need she’d doused long ago. Yet when he’d dipped his fingers into her hip pockets and pulled her against him—intimately, possessively—she’d darned near melted into a puddle at his feet.

  That not-so-subtle introduction to the proof of his arousal had reacquainted her with something else, too: the rush that kind of power ignited. In that moment she’d had the power. And it had felt wonderful. He’d wanted her. Would have done anything to have her. Even knowing that giving in to the lure would have led her straight into the worst kind of trouble, she’d still wanted to go with it. She’d wanted to see just how far down that road she could lead him, just how far she could bend him to her will.

  She considered herself a strong woman. So it shamed her to admit that it wasn’t willpower that had compelled her to leave him standing in the middle of that crowded dance floor staring after her. It wasn’t even a conscious choice she’d made to say no to the invitation in his deep velvet voice and the want in his midnight-blue eyes.

  The honest truth was, fear had been the catalyst that had sent her scooting out of his arms and back to her motel room. Breath-stealing, heart-stalling, absolute fear had booted her in the behind and kicked her out that door.

  She’d been scared down to her toes of the strength of her body’s reaction. Afraid of the seductive power of his heat, his scent, his lean, rugged body pressed to hers. And she’d been terrified that if she didn’t run, and run fast, she’d have ended up in his bed and halfway in love with the idea of being loved by him—even as he’d left her with that outlaw smile and walked straight out the door.

  Well, she’d played out that scene to its pitiful end before. Different cowboy, but the results, she had no doubt, would be the same. He would love her, then he’d leave her and she’d be left holding together what remained of the pieces of her heart. And she wasn’t about to put herself in that position again.

  It was that resolve that had her bracing and holding her ground again this morning when his softly spoken words nudged into her tangled thoughts.

  “You gonna hide behind that newspaper all morning?”

  Though she didn’t comprehend a word of it, she made herself finish reading a sentence. Then, slowly, she folded the paper and set it beside her plate. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  He leaned forward, propped an elbow on the tabletop, his chin in his palm, and smiled deep into her eyes. “I said, you grew up real fine, Country. Real fine.”

  It was difficult to ignore the quick little tango of her heartbeat as his approving gaze roamed over her face. Difficult, but not impossible, she told herself as she dragged her gaze away from the stunning blue of his. Her appetite gone, she slid toward the side of the booth.

  “Enjoy your breakfast,” she said with every intention of leaving.

  A size twelve, coffee-colored leather boot landed on the edge of her seat, blocking her escape route.

  She looked from his imprisoning foot to his face and graced him with a no-nonsense glare. “Move it or lose it.”

  Twin dimples dug deep grooves in his cheeks. “I remember your daddy as a real friendly sort.” His foot dropped slowly back to the floor. “Skip a generation, did it? Or are you just running away from me again, country girl?”

  She slid out of the booth, rose on rubbery legs, and surprised herself with the steadiness of her voice and the strength of her resolve. “If you want to make time, Jesse, make it with someone who has it to spare. I’ve got a business to run. And right now, I’ve got stock that need tending.”

  She willed her fingers not to shake as she picked up her ticket, then counted out enough money to cover her bill and a tip for Mabel. She begged her legs not to wobble as she walked away, her boot heels clicking like the snap of fingers on the worn tile floor. And she refused, absolutely refused, to look back over her shoulder and into the smug, smiling eyes of that rainbow-riding renegade and let him see what effect he was capable of having on her.

  Jesse sipped his coffee and watched her go, at a loss to understand why this little habit she’d developed of running away from him intrigued him as much as it irritated him.

  “Eat up, cowboy,” Mabel ordered when she set hi
s double order of scrambled eggs, link sausage, and wheat toast in front of him. “Judging by the look on your face when that little gal left you high and hot, you’re going to need all the strength you can muster.”

  “What look?” he sputtered for the second time in as many weeks, and wondered what D.U. and Mabel thought they were seeing that he wasn’t.

  Sloan Gantry wasn’t leading him anywhere. Hell. He was the one setting the course here. And just as soon as he figured out the right buttons to push, that long-legged cowgirl was the one who was going to be needing her strength to keep up the pace he set.

  He tucked into his breakfast with a grin. It was going to be an interesting summer. He knew how to play this game. Had put his own spin on it, perfected it. He knew how to woo, how to win, and most important, he knew how to walk away. But before he walked, he knew how to make it fun for everyone in the process. Just as he knew how to give a woman like Sloan Gantry a reason to indulge in a little mutually satisfying pleasure.

  Time, he figured as he finished his coffee, was on his side. And where that wild rose was concerned, he had nothing but time. Time to play, time to figure her out, time to win her over.

  He loved nothing better than a challenge, and Sloan Gantry was proving to be one sweet, sexy dare. Sooner or later, he’d wear her down. Once he’d accomplished that, he’d make sure they both had a good time, and then he’d get back to the business of getting on with his life.

  Several weeks later Jesse stood on the second rung of the fence, directly behind the bucking chute. Sweat dripped from his brow on this hot August night as he bent low over the rail, one hand gripping the back of D.U.’s flack vest to help support him as the cowboy settled his bony legs over the back of Cowabunga, a Wild Hills Rodeo Company bull.

  D.U. and the ten-year-old bull had met up many times on the circuit over the years. That didn’t stop Jesse from running Cowabunga’s pedigree for him—or from worrying. Though he wasn’t ready for a rocking chair, it was bulls like this one that made Jesse all too aware that D.U. was getting to be an old man in a young man’s sport.

  Somebody ought to tell him that, Jesse thought grimly. Just like someone ought to tell him to be careful. Well, it wasn’t going to be Jesse. You didn’t tell a cowboy, no matter how old or banged up he was, to safety up. Mention those words, you planted the seed. If that seed grew, then you’d just as well not bother to ride. A bull rider couldn’t think about being careful. A bull rider had to think about riding bulls. If they thought about the risk, if they thought about getting injured, then they ended up in the dirt—and they ended up hurt.

  “You know his M.O.,” Jesse said as he snagged D.U.’s bull rope then started taking up the slack for him. “He’ll pull left out of the chute for two hard turns, do a three-sixty on you, then spin until you can’t see straight. He’s a flat spinner, though, and he’ll try to run you right off your rope.”

  D.U.’s frying pan face was set as hard as cast iron as he nodded in response to Jesse’s, “Tighter?” He took the rope from Jesse’s hand when the fit suited him.

  Automatically, Jesse slapped the can of rosin into D.U.’s hand. He watched with a trained eye as D.U. rosined his gloved hand then added a little more to his rope before he began the ritual wrap, weaving the rope over his palm, back behind his knuckles, over the palm again, before clamping his fingers around it and pounding them tight with his free hand. With a final grip of his thumb, D.U. slid up onto his closed fist. Flipping back his chaps, he set his mouthpiece, tucked his head, and gave the quick, go-ahead nod.

  Cowabunga shotgunned into the arena to the ringing sound of an appreciative crowd and the crash of the gate slamming open. Jesse watched each move of both bull rider and bull in tense silence. He leaned with D.U. when the old bull cranked back left and rammed D.U.’s knee into the pipe rail fence, winced with the instinctive recollection of that particular jolt of pain. And when D.U. stuck tight at the buzzer after the old boy had tried his best to teach D.U. how to fly, Jesse broke into a grin. Letting out a breath of relief, he headed toward chute number five to get ready for his own ride.

  Sloan had watched it all. Scowling in thought, she walked toward Jesse as he picked a spot on the alley floor and began the process of stretching out for his ride.

  He’d drawn Yellow Jacket, one of Snowy River’s veteran bulls. Yellow Jacket enjoyed the attention as much as he did the competition, had a great throw ratio at fifty percent, and was a bull the cowboys liked to draw because if they stuck him, they usually scored in the upper eighties. Jesse would need to be in top form if he was going to handle him tonight.

  Sloan knew his chances weren’t good. Everyone on the circuit was aware of the slump he’d been in the past few weeks. As of yesterday, his world ranking had slipped from third to eighth. He couldn’t afford too many more headers into the arena floor if he was going to stay on track for the national finals in Vegas in December.

  While she repeatedly assured herself she had no investment in Jesse personally, she still hated to see any bull rider run a good season into the ground.

  Reaching his side, she feigned surprise when she saw his bull rope lying on the ground by his hip. “You here to ride tonight? And here I thought you’d decided to baby-sit instead.” Her dry smile let him know she figured he should have been preparing for his ride for the past half hour instead of playing nursemaid to a veteran like Tom Stringer.

  Jesse merely grinned up at her. “Just lending a friendly hand.”

  “Well, let me lend some friendly advice. D.U. can handle himself. You’d better start looking out for you, Jess.”

  “Why, darlin’,” he drawled, his teeth flashing white beneath the back lot lights, “I can think of something I’d like from you that’s a whole lot friendlier than advice.”

  His comment didn’t surprise her. True to his reputation, Jesse was a flirting machine stuck in high gear and she’d gotten adept at fielding his come-ons. She’d played mouse to his cat for almost a month now as they met up with each other on the circuit. He’d set the bait. She’d turn up her nose at it. She’d gotten used to the routine.

  What she hadn’t gotten used to—what irritated the living heck out of her—was her physical reaction to Jesse James. Her tummy did a somersault every time he turned those bedroom blues her way. Her heart stumbled and tripped like a schoolgirl’s every time he said something like he’d just said—something with innuendo and invitation singing in each word.

  It was unnerving. And it was not acceptable. She hadn’t let her hormones rule her life since Jace Carson and she had every intention of holding the line against this outrageous flirt who was as free with his pretty words and come-on lines as he was with his grins.

  The tired sigh she orchestrated for his benefit relayed that she didn’t have the time or the patience for his games in her life. “Give it a rest, Jesse. And give what I said some thought, would you? I’d hate to see one of my bulls smash up that pretty face because you didn’t have your head in the game. Think of the hearts that would break.”

  “Careful there, Country.” He rose to his feet in a fluid, athletic move, zipped up his flack vest, then passed the tip of his index finger in a slow glide down her cheek. “I’ll get to thinking you care.”

  His touch took her off guard. For a moment she stood motionless as he lingered there, letting the backs of those long, strong fingers rest in an oddly intimate caress against her jaw. When her instincts finally came to life, she jerked away from him. Feeling like a fool, she stood back, far too aware of the sidelong grin he slanted her as he hooked his bull rope over a peg and rosined it up.

  When the chute boss finally gave the cue, his whole demeanor changed. His face became a mask of concentration as he tugged his riding glove over his heavily taped hand, climbed over the rail, and eased slowly onto Yellow Jacket’s back.

  While she watched him prepare for his ride, his words snuck up on her like a summer storm.

  I’ll get to thinking you care.

  She fo
ught the words, fought the truth of them, then finally let out a deflated breath. Darn, this was hard. Not only was it hard, it was painful, very painful to admit—even more painful to accept—but in spite of all her resistance, she was afraid he was right. Afraid that she had come to care about him over the past few weeks.

  It wasn’t smart. It wasn’t safe. But unfortunately for her, it was true. And the truth of it had just sort of snuck up on her.

  She’d always been an observer, and since they saw so much of each other on the circuit, she’d observed a thing or two worth noting about “The Outlaw Jesse James,” as the press loved to call him. One of the things she’d learned was that except for his fearless and sometimes reckless approach to bull riding, Jesse’s outlaw reputation was pretty much hype and hyperbole perpetuated by the press. They loved the romance of marrying the image to his name; they loved his killer smile and his reputation as a lady’s man.

  He was no outlaw in the eyes of his professional comrades. He was a true team player in an individual and dangerous sport, always pulling something as he’d pulled tonight with D.U. or with some other bull rider. Always sticking his neck out for someone else. His worst injury, she’d learned via a well-informed grapevine led by Janey, had come a couple of years ago when he hadn’t even been riding, but helping out behind the chutes. He’d jumped into the thick of things when a rookie had gotten pinned between a bull and the pen, and he’d dislocated his shoulder helping set him free. The injury had resulted in a surgery that had put him out of commission for the rest of the season and ruined his bid for the national title both that year and the next because of the downtime it had caused him.

  Because of stories like that, and because it was hard to miss the fact that he truly cared about people, she supposed it was forgivable that she’d started caring, too. And maybe it was understandable that placing limits on that caring was giving her a little trouble right now, because underneath all his flirting and pestering, it seemed there was a lot more to the man than he wanted anyone else to see.