Nothing Sweeter (Sweet on a Cowboy)

by Drake, Laura

  “Have to get your nails done?” Max asked.

  Bree lifted her hand to look at her ragged nails and reddened skin and snorted. “I only have a half day. I need to buy more work clothes.” She’d washed the few shirts she owned once already, and one pair of jeans was not going to make it. She’d forgotten how filthy you could get, working in a barn.

  Max’s slouch belied the look in his eye, like a dog that had picked up a scent—and she was the rabbit. “I’ve got to go to the bank anyway. I’ll take you.”

  Bree forced a smile, heart rate spiking. “Great.” She’d have to watch herself around him, or he’d see past the Bree Tanner persona she was still perfecting. No one here needed to know Aubrey Madison. She winced as a sheet of icy shame splashed through her. No one here would want to know Aubrey Madison.

  Carrying her plate, she pushed the door open to the deserted kitchen. Only the swish-thump of the dishwasher and the smell of spices remained. A fine tremor ran through her fingers as she rinsed her plate, put it in the dishwasher, then looked around for something else to do. The empty counters gleamed. The familiar jitter coursed down her legs, and she stood, gripping the stainless-steel counter, foot tapping.

  How fast could she leave without being obvious? Crowds still made her jumpy. Twelve men in a room without the distraction of food left her to be watched like an odd bug in a jar. The watching made her flesh crawl. But it was the jar part that brought an animal squeal to the back of her throat, and she lived in fear that one night it would burst free. If it ever did, her past would become her present, forcing Aubrey Madison and her secrets to the forefront.

  Fake it till you make it. She took a long breath. Fake it till you make it. She let the air leak out through her mouth, picturing the panic going with it.

  When the palsy in her hands calmed, she wiped her hands on her jeans, checked to be sure the bandana covered her neck, and forced her feet across the floor. She paused, hand on the door, and forced her muscles to relax. A fear-filled face would attract more attention. Just fake it. She pushed through the door.

  Shouts from the cowboys clustered around the TV drew her.

  The youngest hand, Pedro, leaped from the couch at her approach, gesturing for her to take his seat. The last thing she wanted to do was perch on the crowded couch, but she knew that argument would be futile in the face of ingrained old-fashioned manners. This is what a normal person would do. Forcing her knees to unlock, she sat, scrunching herself into the corner, eking an extra inch of personal space.

  The men were watching what appeared to be a rodeo. Bulls were loaded into narrow chutes, and cowboys stood on a catwalk above them. The camera zoomed in. One of the gates opened and a huge brindled bull exploded from it. A cowboy rode perched on its back, with only a rope to hold on to. The bull crow-hopped, then spun in a circle, muscles bunching as it bucked. The cowboy, one gloved hand in the rope, the other waving over his head, sat balanced in the eye of the tornado. But then the animal stopped and changed directions. The rider’s feet flew behind him, his chest flattened on the beast’s shoulder. The bull turned its head to come around for another spin.

  Bree sucked in a breath, anticipating a train wreck. The long horns caught the rider under the vest he wore, and the bull tossed its head, flipping the man off its back, launching him across the arena to land in a heap on the dirt.

  Men dressed in baggy clown-like clothes rushed in, yelling and running in front of the enraged animal. It ignored them and bore down on the stunned rider, who’d managed to struggle to his knees. The bull charged, missing with its horns but trampling the cowboy before racing off after one of the other men.

  The cowboys around her groaned and shouted. Bree put a hand over her eyes, but looked through her fingers to see the bull trot out an open gate. She jumped when one of the older men patted her shoulder.

  “He’s okay. Just got the wind knocked out of him.”

  Several men entered the arena and knelt by the cowboy who was still on his hands and knees. When her lungs protested, Bree blew out the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding.

  “That’ll teach him to keep his heels down,” Armando said.

  The men helped the cowboy stand and the crowd cheered. They handed the loser his hat, and he turned to salute the crowd as he limped from the area. The show cut to a commercial.

  “Dear God.” She glanced at the cowboys around her. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Do you know how much money those guys make?” Armando said from his seat on the raised hearth. “Besides, they’re famous. Ah, to be young and swarmed by fans every weekend. It sounds like a pretty good life to me.”

  The raw brutality of the sport left Bree shaken. “You mean they volunteer for this?”

  Armando shot her an incredulous look. “You’ve never watched the PBR?” At her blank look, he added, “Pro Bull Riders.”

  Max’s deep voice came from behind her. “Don’t you know? Our Bree’s a city girl.”

  She ignored him, her attention pulled back to the television as the next contestant got ready to ride. A cowboy on the catwalk pulled the rope taut and the rider wrapped it around his hand. He pushed his hat down on his head, gritted his teeth, and when he nodded, the gate opened.

  This time, the cowboy managed to stay in the middle of the bull, jump for jump. Like some kind of violent ballet, the man and bull both strained with all they had for opposite outcomes. A buzzer sounded, and the cowboy reached down with his free hand to release the one locked in the rope. He jumped and landed catlike, on his feet. The bull bore down on him, but he ran to the side of the arena and hopped onto the fence, and the animal passed harmlessly beneath him.

  He punched both hands in the air and the crowd went crazy. As pipes on the bucking chutes shot confetti into the air, the scoreboard over the arena flashed “91,” and the crowd cheered again. The camera zoomed in for a close shot of the grinning cowboy.

  That kid can’t be over nineteen years old!

  Pedro turned to Armando. “Potato Masher’s coming up. He’s gonna take it all at the finals in Vegas this year.”

  “Nah. Wait till you see Bullwinkle in the short-go. That dude can bring it!”

  “They’re talking about the bulls.” Max spoke low in her ear. She snapped to her feet and took a quick step away.

  “It’s time I got to bed. I’ll see you all tomorrow at breakfast.” She turned and hustled for the door. She really needed to call her mother; she’d be worried.

  Halfway across the yard, she felt a light touch at the back of her neck. She shot a look over her shoulder to see Max, arms crossed, leaning against the building, studying her.

  Aubrey looked around the prison cell. It wasn’t the one in the twin towers, because it held only one bunk, but the gauged cement walls were the same, as was the toilet with no lid in the corner. Something had woken her. Silence. It was never quiet in prison. Her eyes strained to penetrate the inky blackness. It was also never this dark. Then she heard his breathing. She should have been afraid, but for some reason, she wasn’t.

  His clothes rustled when he moved closer, and the mattress sagged as he sat on the edge. “I’ve come to take you from this place,” he whispered. Her pillow bounced as his forearms came down to rest on either side of her head. “But are you ready to leave it?” His lips hovered over hers, his warm breath bathing her face.

  “I’m ready.” Want fired, hot and fast, roaring through her. She stirred, restless, craving touch. He took her lips, and she opened beneath him. The faceless man’s power surged into her until she was dizzy with it. Somehow she knew she’d be safe in his arms. Saved. His hands moved over her breasts, and she arched her back, wanting more.

  “You’re so beautiful.” Her breath came heavy as his hand slid over her belly, and down.

  She pushed her hips off the mattress to press against him. “Please—” Need surged, hot and thick, like honey in her veins.

  Lights snapped on. She was alone. Lupia stood in the door of the cell,
a knife in her hand. “You wanna leave, puta? I can fix that.”

  She stepped closer.

  Bree came awake with a start.

  Jesus. Where did that come from?

  She rolled over yet again and punched the pillow to move a few of the lumps. The sheets clung to her clammy skin. She shivered, but not from the cold air.

  “Damn it.” She threw the covers back and sat up. Trying to sleep was useless. As her feet touched the cold cement floor, she reached for her sheepskin-lined slippers. Wrapping the Navajo blanket around her shoulders, she switched on the lamp. She scrubbed her face with her hands hard, to pull herself back to her present batch of problems.

  Max didn’t trust her. She understood, having learned that lesson the hard way herself in LA, but she wondered at the brief bee sting of regret, just the same.

  She hated living like a refugee, sifting her words to pull out hints of her past. It went against her nature.

  How do you explain a felony conviction so it sounds like it’s no big deal?

  She moved to the desk and switched on the lamp, shivering when her butt touched the cold steel of the folding chair. Powering up the laptop, she thanked God that Wyatt was a software engineer in his “real” life. He’d had a satellite wireless connection installed so he could work while on sabbatical. She tapped into it.

  She surfed the news. Wall Street was down, the economy sucked, and another politician was discovered accepting lobbyists’ illegal campaign contributions. The usual. Sick of doom and gloom, she cast about for a lighter subject. She thought a moment then typed in P-B-R.

  The link led to a professional website. Results of the night’s event were posted, along with injury updates, licensed PBR gear, even a fantasy league. On a discussion board, she read a spirited argument between two fans talking trash about each other’s favorite bulls.

  Bree clicked on the “How It Works” link and learned that both the rider and bull are scored during a ride, and the scores combined for the overall total. The rider had to stay on eight seconds and not touch himself or the bull with his free hand. She watched a film clip of “Rides and Wrecks,” wincing at the horrific crashes.

  She realized that the bulls were athletes as much as the cowboys. They were varied in breed, size, and disposition. The only thing they had in common were sleek hides, strong muscles, and the burning desire to get a rider off their backs. She clicked to the “Bulls” section and was amused by the clever names: Big Bucks, Hammer, Major Payne, Cheeseburger with an Attitude.

  “Chicken on a Chain? What’s that about?” She chuckled and read on. This looked to be big business.

  A kernel of an idea formed. She grabbed a pad to jot notes, sleep forgotten.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The fickle spring weather had turned; morning sun reflected off every metal surface in the yard. Toothpick in the corner of his mouth, Max leaned against his pickup, tipped his hat brim to shade his eyes, and waited. Wyatt might be satisfied with the new groom’s explanations, but she didn’t fool Max for a minute. If this chick is a groom, I’m a ballerina. Not that he could fault her work. The horses looked better than they had in months, and the boarders seemed to like her. Well, everyone except Janet Pearlman. She didn’t like anybody.

  He must have been nuts not to nix Wyatt’s lady groom idea, but he couldn’t put all the blame on Wyatt. Max hadn’t sent her on her way because something about her attempt to be secretive made him want to know more. Well, there was also that red hair and that body a man would go to war for. Max moved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

  Today he would get some answers. Wyatt had the theory that Bree was running from a batterer, citing her spookiness and the jagged scar as evidence. Max didn’t think so. There was no doubt she’d been in some kind of fracas. But the guilty shadow in those whiskey eyes had him spending more time thinking about her than he wanted to admit. God knows, the ranch’s problems were enough to think about.

  The subject of his conjecture walked out of the barn, saw him, squared her shoulders, and strode over. The knit black turtleneck clung to a lightly bouncing pair of ta-tas. Wranglers were made for that kind of body, slim legs and narrow hips. Damn nice. Pretty as a filly, all long legs and big eyes.

  She took a key from her pocket. “We can take my Jeep.”

  He pulled the toothpick from his mouth. “If you insist, but I’ve got to pick up castings for Tia’s garden.” He surveyed the trendy red Jeep. “I’d hate to get worm poop in your pretty—”

  “Fine. Have it your way.” The words hissed from thinned lips.

  Ducking his head to hide his grin, he tugged the passenger door handle. It didn’t budge. Damn, he’d forgotten. Last week, a bull had mistook the truck for competition and charged it. The dent was just one more in the ranch truck’s collection, but now the passenger door wouldn’t open.

  “You’ll have to slide in from the other side.” She gave him a dubious stare but followed as he walked to the driver’s door and jerked it open. She looked at the truck, then at him. “What?”

  “Where do you propose I sit?”

  He squinted into the shadowed interior and felt his ears heat. Reaching in, he pushed tools, receipts, soda cans, and bits of baling wire to the floorboard with a brush of his arm. “Well, excuse me, princess. I wasn’t expecting royalty or I’d have brought ’round the Bentley.”

  It was her turn to redden, and he enjoyed the view as she flounced into the cab and scooted to the far door. He climbed in, pulled off his hat, and hung it on the shotgun rack in the back window.

  She moved as far away as possible, cranked down the window, and rested her arm on the sill. The engine fired with only a prolonged crank. They rolled down the dirt drive, and when the truck hit the asphalt, she dropped her chin on her arm and closed her eyes.

  The scattered freckles on her cheeks stood out against her translucent skin. The dark circles beneath her eyes attested to the kind of tired that comes from long nights that don’t have much to do with sleep.

  “I’m sorry about your dad.” She sounded sincere.

  His knuckles on the steering wheel whitened. “Thanks.”

  “You must miss him. Were you and he close?”

  “Yep.”

  “What was he like?”

  He spit the toothpick out the window. “He was a Western cattleman. Out here, that means stubborn, hardworking, and an eternal optimist.”

  “Wyatt says you’re a lot like him, but he doesn’t say it like it’s a good thing.”

  Max kept his eyes on the road. “He was a hard man. The gene pool got watered down by the time it got to me.”

  A snort from his right. “Was he a good dad?”

  “To me he was.” Her hair swirled in the wind, bringing him the smell of lemons.

  “Is your dad the reason Wyatt left?”

  He reached in front of her. She started and scrabbled back in the seat. When he tore the duct tape that held the glove box, it flopped open, spilling receipts to swirl onto the floorboard. He jerked out a hank of twine and handed it to her. “How about reining in that mop? Your hair is going to be all over my truck.”

  Bree perused the trash on the floor and raised an eyebrow. “Well. If it’s gonna wreck your truck, by all means…”

  He resisted the urge to watch. “As long as we’re getting cozy in each other’s business, where did you come from?”

  “California.” The tight in her voice drew his eyes from the road.

  Small but perky breasts strained the fabric as she raised her arms to tie hair the color of fresh-cut cedar. He shifted to ease the sudden tightness in his jeans. He’d always been a sucker for red hair. Bree’s was thick and curly, not like Jo’s straight tresses. “Now, that fact does not come as a shock. What did you do for work?”

  “Nothing special.”

  Out the corner of his eye, he saw her fingers trace the angry weal at her neck. “Where’d you get the scar?”

  She cut him a cold glance. “I h
eard from John Wayne movies there was a rule in the West that people don’t ask where you came from.”

  If the edge on her words were real, he’d be bleeding

  “Fair enough.” He held his hands up in surrender, then put one back on the wheel. “Then how about we play a little quid pro quo? You tell me what you’re comfortable with, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “I suppose we could try that,” she said in a careful hostage-negotiator tone.

  “Wyatt and my dad didn’t click almost from the time Wyatt started talking. Wyatt was a good kid and couldn’t understand why Dad shied from him. Not sure my dad did either, at least at first.”

  “Did your dad know that Wyatt was gay?”

  He thought a moment. “Satchmo said, ‘I don’t let my mouth say nothin’ my head can’t stand.’ It was like that. Your turn.”

  She hesitated, seeming to weigh her words. “After I was born, my mom brought me home from the hospital. My dad was gone, with his stuff and anything of hers he could hock. All she had was an empty apartment, an envelope full of bills, and me. Growing up, she told me a watered-down ‘You and me against the world’ story. But now I understand the terror she must have felt.”

  And from the looks of you, you’ve been bunking with that terror for a while now.

  “A retired neighbor lady kept me during the day, and Mom went out and got a job waitressing at The Eighteen Wh—at a local truck stop.”

  “Your momma sounds like a stand-up gal.”

  “She is.”

  They reached the outskirts of town. He’d save the next round of interrogation for later.

  After a quick spree at the Western store, Bree carried her shopping bags to the only other establishment she knew. Max had told her he’d meet her at the trendy bar after lunch.

  “Excuse me, miss. Mind if I share your table?”