Nothing Sweeter (Sweet on a Cowboy)

by Drake, Laura

  “Max?” Wyatt’s voice echoed from the end of the aisle. “Where’s the—oh. Sorry.”

  Max growled.

  Bree patted him on the butt, relishing feeling sexy and desired. She whispered, “Later, cowboy,” in his ear and slipped out of his arms.

  A half hour later, Bree leaned an elbow on the top slat of the corral fence, studying the new Stetson in her hands. Max had presented it to her at breakfast, saying that he wasn’t going in partners with a city girl who didn’t even own a decent hat. She fingered the band, loving the contrast between the creamy white and the narrow woven hatband of bright turquoise and purple. When she’d wondered aloud how he got the size right, Max had flushed and admitted to measuring her baseball cap.

  She smiled down at the hat. Maybe she’d managed to work her way around the thick wall of gruff that Max used to keep people away. Or maybe his abrasiveness no longer intimidated her. In any case, she was looking forward to exploring this softer side of Max Jameson.

  “Oh, quit your mooning.” Wyatt sidled up with a knowing smile.

  She put the hat on, ducking her head to cover her blush, wishing her face didn’t read like a freeway billboard.

  “Okay, we’re about ready!” Armando yelled as he entered the opposite side of the corral astride Smooth. Bree had argued that she should work as the safety roper, but the cowboys overruled her, saying the job was too dangerous. She’d grumbled, but knowing it was an argument she wouldn’t win, settled for cheering from the sidelines. Armando had chosen Smooth for the job, to see if a Tennessee Walker could work cattle.

  “Who’s up first?” Wyatt asked.

  Bree glanced at the roster she’d printed out. “Pedro. I think he was afraid if he watched everyone else ride first, he’d be too scared to try it himself.” She had doubts about letting the youngest hand on a bull. “If he gets hurt, I’m not going to forgive myself.”

  Wyatt snorted. “You don’t understand cowboys. I guarantee you Pedro would rather have a bull stomp his guts than to chicken out.”

  She shook her head. “What is wrong with you men?”

  He put up his hands. “Hey, you won’t see this butt anywhere near a bull.” He shuddered. “Juan would pass out.”

  Max yelled from atop the bucking chute. “I declare the First Annual Total Bull Bucking Event officially begun!”

  The squeeze chute used to confine Heather stock for vet exams was pressed into duty as a bucking chute. The bull inside it looked even larger with little Pedro perched on top, one hand in the air, the other in a death grip on the rope, his hat jammed so far down that his ears stuck out sideways.

  The gate swung open into the arena. Bree squinted in case she had to close her eyes quickly to block out the wreck. Nothing happened. Max leaned over and swatted the bull on the rear with his hat, and it exploded out of the chute. Running, it sped to the exit gate, crow-hopped a couple of times, and then stood, waiting to be let out.

  Armando trotted over and grabbed Pedro by the collar. Smooth backed up, pulling him to safety. He dropped the teen at the bucking chute, where the cowboys atop the fence yelled and hooted.

  “Whooeee! Guess you showed him what for, Pedro!”

  “That one’s a Big Mac for sure, boss.”

  “We’ll run a better ’un under you next time, pequeño vaquero.”

  Pedro, flushed and smiling, climbed the fence. “Not his fault. I just scared him.” The cowboys roared and pounded his shoulders.

  “Well, that one was a bust.” Bree crossed the bull’s number off her sheet.

  The sun beat down as the event progressed through five more bulls. None bucked well enough to be considered for training. Bree was hot, dusty, and discouraged.

  “You knew the odds of finding a good bucker in our stock were slim, Bree.” Wyatt took off his hat and wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. “It’d be like winning the Kentucky Derby with a cart horse.”

  “I know, but I’d hoped.” She put the clipboard down to climb to the top rail. “Fire Ant’s up next. Those four-legged wannabes will get a lesson on what a buckin’ bull is supposed to do.”

  “Who’s the rider?” Wyatt’s eyes widened. “Tell me it’s not Max.”

  “No way.” She chuckled. “This is a job for somebody young enough to think he’s invincible.”

  Wyatt put a hand to his chest. “Oh, thank God. His rodeo days are ancient history, and I was afraid he was going to pull some hairy caveman routine to try to impress you. I’ve only begun to get my brother back, and it wouldn’t do for him to get killed just yet.”

  “Miguel is giving it a try. His was on his high school rodeo team, so he’s got some experience.”

  “Miguel? Isn’t he a bit… large for Fire Ant?”

  She knew he turned his head to hide a smile. “Dammit, why do you all make fun of my bull?” She crossed her arms. “You’ll see.”

  Across the arena, she watched Miguel lower himself onto the bull’s back. Fire Ant stood calm in the chute, looking bored, his head turned to look through the slats.

  Bree cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “You go, Fire Ant. Kick butt, baby!”

  The cowboys laughed.

  “If you get in trouble, Miguel, just stand up. He’ll run right out from under you!”

  “Cross your spurs under his belly, amigo!”

  Miguel nodded. The gateman pulled the chute door wide. Fire Ant went ballistic. He burst out of the gate and bounced straight up, all four feet off the ground. He landed stiff-legged with a bone-jarring thump, and started bucking and spinning. Miguel’s weight shifted to his back pockets in the first leap, and the bull spun faster with every revolution. Miguel tried to adjust to the centrifugal force pulling him to the outside, but slid farther and farther off his rope, until he lost his grip entirely. He was slung off the bull and hit the corral fence with a crack, landing in a heap in the dirt.

  Armando trotted in on Smooth, herding the bull to the open exit gate. The men vaulted off the fence, running to Miguel, who lay flailing like a turtle on its back.

  Wyatt grabbed Bree’s arm to keep her from jumping into the arena. “Stay here.”

  “But he’s hurt.”

  Max was the first to kneel by the fallen cowboy. He talked to him calmly, then stood. The cowboys surrounding Miguel helped him up.

  Max looked to where Bree wriggled, held back by Wyatt’s restraining arm. “He’s okay,” he shouted. “Just had the wind knocked out of ’im.”

  Bree climbed down outside of the fence and stood on mushy knees. “I’ve been so involved with the business that I forgot how dangerous this sport is. I don’t know if I can take it.”

  Max jogged up. “Hell, Bree, Miguel gets hurt worse than that squatting with his spurs on.”

  Glancing across the arena, she could see the cowboy moving under his own power, dusting himself off. When Pedro handed Miguel his hat, he jammed it on his head and swaggered to the gate.

  Bree and Wyatt trotted the outside perimeter to stand behind the cowhands.

  Max said, “Okay, men, we’re down to the cows. Who’s first?”

  Silence.

  “Oh, come on. You guys were rarin’ to go a few minutes ago.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The cowboys found important things to catch their attention. Everywhere else.

  He made a disgusted sound. “I guess it’s gonna be me, then.” Bree reached for his arm, but then let her hand drop. She might not know everything about cowboy law, but she did know it would belittle Max in front of the men if she tried to stop him.

  He settled his hat a bit tighter on his head. “Remember one thing.” He hesitated until, one by one, he held the men’s attention. “If it gets back to town that I rode a cow, somebody’s gonna be stringing fence for a month.”

  “You go, Maxie,” Wyatt said under his breath.

  Max glared at them all, then stomped to the chute, spurs jingling.

  Bree swallowed audibly. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

&
nbsp; Wyatt laughed and threw his arm around her shoulder. “He’s gonna be fine, Bree. Didn’t you know Max rode the Colorado circuit back in the day? Used to piss my dad off, too. He said the only reason Max rode bulls was to meet pretty nurses.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe so, but that was many moons ago, Tonto.”

  “True, but Max’s head is too hard to get hurt. You, of all people, know that.”

  Yeah, but there are parts of that body I’d like to become fond of.

  The men had brought the three- and four-year-old cows from the mountain pastures, and they were wild. When Max lowered himself onto a black cow with wicked long horns, she reared, trying to climb out of the tight box. Max backed up in a hurry. Pedro strung a rope through the slats over the cow’s neck to keep her from rearing again. Armando pulled the bucking rope taut as Max lowered himself again. He shoved his hand into the loop in the rigging, took the tight rope, and wrapped it around his hand, locking his fingers over it with a pound of his fist.

  Wyatt leaned on the fence, a twitching muscle in his jaw belying his assurances. Bree sat, elbows on knees, hands covering her eyes, peeking through her fingers. She swallowed again, her queasy stomach churning like a washing machine.

  Max nodded. The gate swung.

  The cow burst from the chute, grunting and bucking. Saliva flew from the animal’s mouth as it spun in a frenzied attempt to rid itself of the weight. Max caught the rhythmic pace perfectly, rocking forward and back to negate the animal’s power.

  Time slowed for Bree as the image burned in her mind: Max in a red shirt and leather chaps, balanced like a gymnast on the straining animal, his face a mask of concentration. Churned dust shimmered in the air as the hands yelled, cheering their boss on.

  Tonio blew a shrill whistle when the eight seconds were up. Nobody explained it to the cow, though; she spun, getting stronger with every rotation. Max wrestled, trying to get his hand out of the rope. As Armando trotted up, Max finally freed himself and was launched. He landed on his feet, but the forward momentum made him stumble. He ran a few steps and fell forward, flat on his face, raising a cloud of dust.

  Armando and Smooth cut the cow toward the gate. The minute the animal cleared the corral, Bree and Wyatt were off the fence, running across the arena. The cowboys were faster.

  Bree broke into the circle of shouting men to see Max, sitting in the dirt, grinning like a little kid, a smear of green cow poop spread from his hat brim to his waist.

  Wyatt burst out laughing and slapped his brother on the back. “That one’s a keeper.”

  Max looked at the men around him, a swagger in his voice. “Okay, you pussies, who’s next?”

  Bree slapped her hand over her mouth and ran, barely making it out of the corral before upchucking her breakfast in the dirt. Sides heaving, she leaned her hands on her knees and tried to catch her breath.

  Max’s arm came around her waist. “Bree? What’s wrong?” He pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket and held it out to her.

  She wiped her mouth, then whirled to face him. “You idiot! You could have been killed! I don’t care about your stupid cowboy code. I’m never watching you do that again.”

  His cocky grin pissed her off even more. “Darlin’, a bull is like a dancing partner—you have to let him lead.”

  Her stomach lurched. She pushed him away, being careful where she put her hands.

  “Come on. Let me help you.”

  She sagged against the fence, head between her knees, pictures of what could have happened to him whirling in her mind. She waved her hands at him. “Do me a favor and stand downwind, will you?”

  Max smoothed his hands over his hair, squeezing out the last of the water. Turning off the shower, he stepped out and grabbed a towel from the rack.

  Bree was irked with him. Nothing new there. Although, looking back, he had to admit he’d been a bit rough around the edges when she first met him. Between Jo’s quitting him, his father’s death, and the ranch’s problems, he’d been on a six-month streak of foul mood. He now regretted the bad impression he’d made. He’d been touched by her misguided worry this afternoon. And then there was that smoking kiss in the barn.

  So what’re you gonna do about it?

  If she were a country girl, he’d know what to do. He’d take her to the Double Z for a beer and some slow country songs to snuggle up and dance to. But Bree wasn’t a country girl. He remembered her, perfectly coiffed, discussing wine with Wyatt at dinner while Max sat there like a clueless hick.

  He pulled on his jeans and jerked open the door. “Wyatt!” He padded down the hall in his bare feet. “Where the heck are you?”

  Wyatt’s bedroom door opened and he stuck his head out. “Is the house on fire?”

  “No. I need your help.”

  Wyatt stepped aside and waved him into the room that Max hadn’t been in since his brother arrived. A huge computer monitor with two towers on either side took up most of the desk space, wires snaking everywhere. Max noticed a framed photo centered on the nightstand. Wyatt grinned into the camera, his arm around a shorter brown-skinned man. Max’s face heated, and he averted his eyes, feeling like he’d just seen his brother naked.

  “What wouldn’t wait until you fastened your jeans, Max?”

  He looked down. “Oh.” He buttoned his Wranglers. “I need the name of a good wine.”

  Wyatt looked over his reading glasses. “That’s what you’re in an all-fired hurry about?”

  “I want to make up to Bree for scaring her this afternoon. I know she likes wine, and I thought I’d take her a bottle.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re asking me for dating advice?”

  Max felt the tips of his ears heat. “You’re right. Bad idea.”

  Wyatt grabbed his arm as he tried to brush by. “Hold on, now. What did you have in mind?”

  Max looked at his still wet feet. “I don’t know. I thought I’d buy a bottle and give it to her.”

  “Oh, that’s smooth, Max.” Wyatt rolled his eyes. “Sit down. This may take a while.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  Max hesitated outside Bree’s closed door, a handful of wildflowers wilting in his sweaty hand. Come on, Jameson. You’re not in junior high, for chrissake. He forced himself to knock.

  “Hang on.” Her muffled voice came through the door.

  He heard the chain drop and the door opened. She looked great in a business suit, but this was his Bree: smiling, no makeup, hair barely restrained in a ponytail. Her creamy skin glowed smooth and perfect. Well, except for the scar. She wore nothing but a sports bra and a tiny pair of spandex shorts, her feet bare. A pink crystal in her belly button winked in the light. He swallowed. Audibly.

  She smiled. “Come on in, Max.”

  He thrust the flowers at her. “These are for you.”

  Looking down at the ragged bouquet, her face flushed. Then she beamed up at him, as if he’d given her a winning lottery ticket. “Thank you.” Sniffing the air, she cocked her head. “Max Jameson. Are you wearing cologne?”

  “I wanted to make a better impression on your nose than I did this afternoon.” Not knowing what to do with his hands, he slipped them into his pockets, hopefully disguising the tent between them. He’d never understood body piercings, but he was starting to warm to the idea. He leaned against the doorframe. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Yoga. It relaxes me.”

  Funny, it’s having the opposite effect on me.

  She poured water from a pitcher into a glass on the desk and settled the flowers in it before picking up an oversized denim shirt from the bed and shrugging it on.

  What a shame to cover all that pretty skin.

  “Aside from the finale, I think today went pretty well. I’d have liked to discover a bucker in your bull stock, but we did find quite a few good cows.”

  He grinned. “The women on Heather tend to be feisty.”

  “Good thing for you that they are.” She dropped onto the bed. �
�That solves half the equation. I’m going to use the last of my savings to send off for some semen straws, but we’re going to have to decide which PBR bulls we want to sire our string.”

  He crossed the room to take her hand. “I didn’t come here to talk business, Bree.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Come with me.” He led her to the door.

  She tugged at his hand. “If we’re going somewhere, I need to put some clothes on.”

  “You meet the dress code just like that.” He took his time, his glance wandering over her body. “Okay, maybe some shoes.”

  He waited while she reached under the cot. When she straightened, she had loafers in one hand and what looked like a prescription bottle in the other. Before he could ask, she dropped it in the trash can and dusted her hands. She stepped into the shoes. “I’m ready.”

  Offering his arm, he led her around the rear of the stable to a grassy area between the building and the pasture fence. It was full dark and the damp grass released a cool, fresh scent. Hundreds of crickets chirped backup to a single locust’s solo. He heard her breath catch when she saw his surprise: a round café table for two, covered in white linen, and a vase full of wildflowers. All illuminated in the flickering light of half a dozen votive candles.

  He escorted her to a chair and settled her in before pouring the wine.

  No, decanting. That’s what Wyatt called it. He sank into his chair.

  Her smile was luminous, as if he’d poured her the moonlight. “This is some surprise, Max.” She sighed and reclined, tilting her head back. “I’d never seen stars like they are here. I go outside nights just to stare at them.”

  Max pulled his focus from her lean abs and tilted his head back to share the view. “I go to nature to be soothed and healed and to have my senses put in order.” He dropped his gaze to find her studying him. “John Burroughs.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly right.”

  He raised his glass. “May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.”

  The crystal rang as she touched her glass to his. “Amen to that.”