Nothing Sweeter (Sweet on a Cowboy)

by Drake, Laura

  “Bree.” He waited. Her shoulders squared and she lifted her head. “You made mistakes. But the biggest mistake you made was to believe Vic.

  “I know who you are. From the first time I met you, you’ve done nothing but give: your honest labor, your knowledge. Your heart.”

  Her mouth twisted. “Oh yeah, and not whistle-blowing takes so much backbone.”

  “I can relate to denial.” Max looked up at the bare beam rafters, trying to imagine the room empty, save her. “I’ve hunkered down here for years with my hard, silent Dad. I held on tight, trying to keep things from changing.” He looked down at his bloodless fists. “I said I did it for the ranch, for the family legacy.” He opened his fingers and forced his gaze to meet hers. “But that’s a lie. I did it because I was afraid. Afraid to be wrong. Afraid to admit… I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.” He couldn’t seem to stop spilling his guts, but it didn’t matter. Because she still listened.

  “I drove away anybody who tried to get close.” He shot a glance to Wyatt. “I turned away from someone who cared about me, just because he didn’t fit into that black-and-white world.”

  He looked back. Bree’s tight face gave no hints. Only her intent focus let him know she hadn’t made up her mind. “Then you showed up, so full of color that it bled into everything around you, and I realized how boring black and white is.”

  He walked around the table to her side. He took off his hat, and his fingers worried the brim. “Lady, your name doesn’t matter. I know you.”

  A flick of pain crossed her face, and her lips twitched. “Thanks for that, Max.” She raised her chin. “Admit it. We both know I don’t belong here.” She spun on her heel and hustled for the door.

  He stood frozen as the screen door slapped behind her.

  “What the hell are you waiting for?” Wyatt said in a hissed whisper.

  “Yeah, boss. You’re not going to let her get away, are you?” Armando said. The rest of the hands nodded like idiot bobbleheads.

  He jogged to the porch, his own personal peanut gallery shuffling after him.

  She was halfway to the Jeep. He raised his voice. “You don’t have to wear a power suit to be a businesswoman, Bree. And you don’t have to be born here to be a part of the land.”

  She kept walking.

  “Dammit woman, I’m trying to tell you that I love you!” She stopped dead, but didn’t turn.

  His peanut gallery pulled in a collective breath and held it.

  He planted a hand on the rail and vaulted it, jogging over to block her way. He reached and clasped her upper arms, feeling a tremble that ran through them like a live wire. He whispered, “I’ve loved you since I first saw you in those drugstore cowgirl clothes, looking at me like I held the future.

  “But if you don’t know all this about yourself, it doesn’t matter what I think.” He shut his mouth, closed his eyes, and grabbed for all the guts he had.

  He let her go. His hands fell to his sides. It was her choice. In this, he had no control.

  Head down, her curtain of hair covering her face, she brushed by him.

  “Know one thing.” He didn’t turn to see that she stopped, only heard the gravel stop clicking and skittering.

  “I’ll be here. Waiting. For as long as it takes.”As she turned, Max held his breath. Her gaze raked over the peanut gallery, then him.

  Come on, baby, one more step. He willed her forward. Just one more.

  Her face broke into a beatific smile that made her look like an angel come to earth. She ran the steps between them and launched herself into his arms, sobbing and giggling at the same time.

  He bent to catch her lips, tasting her laughter. The kiss turned deadly serious, and he tightened his arms. He told her with his kiss of his relief, his love, his need. He wasn’t letting go. Ever.

  She pulled back before he wanted her to. “I was only going to visit my mom, to give you time to smarten up and miss me.” She smiled up into his eyes. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, cowboy.”

  Their audience burst into applause. Fire Ant, still locked in the trailer, bawled his displeasure.

  “Thank God.” Janet frowned, hand on hip. “Now maybe you two will settle down and I won’t have to run into you making out every time I round a corner.”

  Max set Bree back on her feet but kept his hand on her waist, not trusting to let go. “I wouldn’t count on that anytime soon, Janet. I’d say about twenty years or so.” He threw a stern glare to the peanut gallery. “The entertainment is over. Give us a hand unloading the truck.”

  Home. Bree felt that her feet didn’t quite touch the ground as Max led her to the Jeep, her hand tucked into his huge one. He reached in to retrieve the huge pink bow and then tugged her toward the truck. As they passed the driver’s door, he asked, “You can have new signs made for the truck, right?”

  She felt her cheeks flush. “I have another set. I wasn’t sure if you’d rip the first ones off the minute you laid eyes on them.”

  Max stopped in front of the truck and stooped to fasten the garish bow to the grill with a few twists of the wire. “Just so you don’t get any ideas,” He lifted a pinch of material from the sleeve of his Christmas-red Western shirt. “This is as close as I’m going to get to the company colors.” He straightened and tipped his hat back.

  She tsked, smiling up at him. “Don’t you know, Max? Real men wear pink.”

  “Well, then, I guess I fall into whatever category’s left.”

  Wyatt walked by carrying a cooler, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Welcome to the fringe, bro.”

  Max cuffed the back of his brother’s head, then pulled Bree into his arms.

  About the Author

  Laura Drake grew up in the suburbs outside Detroit, though her stories are set in the west. A tomboy, she’s always loved the outdoors and adventure. In 1980 she and her sister packed everything they owned into Pintos and moved to California. There she met and married a motorcycling, bleed-maroon Texas Aggie and her love affair with the West was born. Laura rides motorcycles: Elvis, a 1985 BMW Mystic, and Sting, a 1999 BMW R1100.

  In Texas, Laura was introduced to her first rodeo, and fell in love. She’s an avid fan of Pro Bull Riding (PBR,) attending any event within driving distance, including two PBR National finals.

  Laura now lives in California with her family. She is hard at work on her next novel.

  For more information on Laura Drake, please visit:

  http://lauradrakebooks.com/

  Twitter: @PBRWriter

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/LauraDrakeBooks

  Also by Laura Drake

  The Sweet Spot

  ACCLAIM FOR The Sweet Spot

  “4½ stars! A sensitive, honest look at a family destroyed by loss… Drake’s characters are so real, so like us, that you will look at your own life and count your treasures.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The busy plot and large cast keep things moving along and lovers of Western settings will enjoy debut author Drake’s detailed descriptions of bull riding and cattle ranching.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Poignant, heart-wrenching, hopeful, and definitely not your typical ‘saving the family ranch’ romance. This realistic contemporary zeroes in on issues of trust, communication, healing, and forgiveness; a cut above the rest.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “A moving tale about love, forgiveness, and finding your way out of the darkness of your grief. I look forward to reading more of Ms. Drake’s books.”

  —SeducedByaBook.com

  Look for the next book in Laura Drake’s

  Sweet on a Cowboy series!

  Please see the next page for a preview of

  Sweet on You.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Another night of blood and adrenaline.

  Katya pulled her shower-wet hair into a bun. The weight of exhaustion tugged at her, but the fine hum of tension running just under
her skin warned her that she wouldn’t sleep.

  Beneath that, resting close to her heart, was a firm pillow of satiety. They’d saved two soldiers’ lives last night.

  Finding herself alone in the small, fake wood–paneled room of the B Hut was a rare occurrence, given that her three roommates were medical personnel. They must be working a shift. The army was so desperate for medics that Katya had been transferred from physical therapy to become a triage medic two years ago.

  She took the few steps to the American flag–draped wall and the small chalkboard underneath it, almost covered in chalk lines. Neat bundles of five, representing men that they’d saved from the enemy. She picked up the chalk to add her night’s conquests, but hesitated. Keeping score against the bad guys only made sense if you were clear that there was a bad guy.

  That’s not right. The enemy they fought in the ER wasn’t the Afghani insurgents.

  It was death.

  She brought the chalk down on the board so hard that it broke. She made two marks, one crossing four others—another neat bundle.

  Beep beep! The bleat of a Jeep through the thin walls got her moving. Shouldering her rifle and pack, she opened the door and slammed into the dry blast of Kandahar heat. By the time she had the door locked, her shower had worn off.

  Murphy grinned from the seat of the Jeep he’d commandeered—best not to ask where. Last night in the ER, when he’d invited her on a trip to town, she couldn’t resist. Most soldiers longed for a taste of home. They cheered when fast-food franchises opened on base. Not Katya. She loved exotic spices and unfamiliar local dishes. She’d even tried the boiled sheep’s head a street vendor once offered, finding the flavor of the facial meat fabulous once she got past the staring white eye and the grinning exposed teeth.

  She tossed her pack in the Jeep and climbed in, cradling the rifle in her lap. “I don’t remember it being this hot last May.” She put her hand to her cloth-covered helmet, shifting it to blot the sweat tickle that made her scalp feel as if it were crawling with bugs.

  Murphy’s cool green eyes watched her with appreciation. “It’s probably just my proximity, ma’am. I have that effect on women.”

  She knew she shouldn’t encourage him, but couldn’t help smiling at the combat medic. He looked like a pencil wearing a helmet—all long bones and knobby joints. His helmet covered buzz-cut red hair, but even if she hadn’t known his surname, the flushed, freckled skin declared him a Celt.

  He gunned the engine but drove at a sedate pace to keep the dust down until they cleared the security check at the entrance of the base.

  She would have loved to be alone for a while, but knew that was impossible. Kandahar was not safe—especially for a solitary female. Even a female second lieutenant.

  The wind swirling behind the windshield cooled as well as a fan in hell. Katya looked out at the receding puddles and rapidly parching grass at the side of the road, thanking God for the road the Corps of Engineers had built last year. Spring rain in the desert was beautiful, but it was hell on goat-track roads that morphed from sliding mud pits to foot-deep cement-like ruts overnight.

  Eyes on the road, Murphy yelled over the wind, “We could swing by the airport on the way back and watch the planes do touch-and-go’s. Not very romantic by normal standards, but it’s the finest that this corner of Afghanistan has to offer.”

  Like everyone, she enjoyed the Nebraskan’s down-home, upbeat sense of humor that had lit up the ER since he’d transferred in a month ago. But comments like these made her wonder if the E-4 had a bit of a crush. “Did you miss the lecture about not fraternizing with officers in boot camp, Corporal?”

  “I think that must’ve been the day that the general’s daughter and I were—uh, indisposed. ma’am.”

  She smiled. Incorrigible.

  He slowed as they rolled into town. The two-story stucco buildings might have been handsome before the bombing. They passed one with a missing front wall, exposing jagged rooms like broken teeth. Between the damage and the dust, the town looked tired, weary of all it had seen. Murphy parked, and they got out. Katya shouldered her pack and rifle, wondering when it had stopped feeling odd to carry armaments on a shopping trip.

  Tourists were an extinct species in a war zone. The shops were shuttered, but people still needed to eat. Intrepid vendors had set up tables in the narrow band between the buildings and the street. Vegetables mostly, sold by men with light, loose clothing and disrespectful eyes. The bright blush of pomegranate skin and green grapes looked incongruous in the sepia scene.

  Dusty muslin awnings extended from the buildings, blocking the sun, but didn’t help much in the torpid air. She and Murphy joined the shoppers, keeping their rifles slung but remaining alert. Instinctively, when Murphy bent to examine something on a table, Katya’s eyes scanned the crowd.

  An hour later, the cloth bag on Katya’s shoulder held her treasure—local figs. She found their dusky sweetness cleared her palate after a mess hall dinner. “I’m ready to head back if you are, Murphy.”

  She glanced at her sweat-slicked companion, looking as if his M16 would overbalance him. He carried a palm-sized, hand-sewn stuffed rabbit.

  “You know, you may want to tuck that under your pillow at night, or your roommates are going to give you hell.”

  He lifted the toy to his lips, kissed it, and dropped it into the pocket of his damp shirt. “It’s for my new niece. I haven’t met her yet, but I’ll show you photos when we get back.”

  They headed for the Jeep. The next block was unpopulated, its bombed-out buildings long abandoned. The light seemed harder here, as if showcasing the damage—throwing it in the onlooker’s face. In contrast, the inky black of the narrow alley on her left made Katya shiver, conjuring pictures of scorpions and snipers. Katya’s skin pricked, but it wasn’t from sweat. She moved quickly past.

  A boy stepped around the corner, a few buildings ahead. He held his forearm, and blood dripped between his fingers into the dust. He was nine or so, wearing a traditional long shirt and loose pants, a round pakol cap on his head. He shuffled toward them, tears streaking his dusty face.

  Kayta’s heart rate shot up, kicking into triage mode. Quickening her pace, scanning the boy for other injuries, she reached into her bag for her ever-present first aid kit.

  Then she hesitated. The boy’s eyes darted, his movements jerky with fear.

  The gun was in her sweaty hands almost before she knew she’d unslung it. Sound ceased. She tried to remember when a vehicle last passed.

  Murphy rushed past her, his still-slung rifle bouncing, as he reached for his first aid kit. Alarm sirens of panic echoed through her head. Something was wrong. She snatched at Murphy’s arm, but missed. “No. Murphy, wait!”

  He reached the boy and leaned over him, blocking her view. Katya took two running steps forward.

  The harsh light exploded in a starburst of yellow and red. A giant fist of percussion punched her, followed by a roaring wall of sound.

  Then blessed blackness.

  Katya listened. The hushed conversation and echo of hurried squeaky shoes sounded familiar. So was the smell—dust, antiseptic, and the metallic undertone of blood. She shifted her arms, her legs. All there, thank God, but her slight movement woke a hot poker stab in her side and a throbbing in the fingers of her right hand.

  She lay still in the dark, afraid to open her eyes. Afraid to assume the responsibility, because she sensed, deep in her mind, something lurked that she did not want to know. Opening her eyes would force her—

  “Welcome back, soldier.” The deep voice was familiar too.

  Katya pulled her eyes open. Major Samuel Thibodaux, her superior officer and lead surgeon at Role 3, leaned over her. She turned her head, disoriented to see her work environs from a reclined angle. Beds in rows, most filled with wounded—white skin, brown skin, no skin.

  The major peeled back her eyelid and flashed a penlight in her eye. The light seared to the back of her brain. She flinched.


  “Headache?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  “Nauseous?”

  A brush of air as the sheet was pulled to her hips. He gently prodded her side.

  She winced and shook her head, frowning. It was coming. A hulking memory lumbered down the pathways of her brain, moving fast.

  “You were downtown. A bomb—”

  The rest was drowned out by the sound of a wailing moan. She realized after a beat that it had come from her. The heat, the sound, the light. “Murphy.” She opened her eyes.

  The major’s jaw tightened, pulling his lips to a thin line.

  She realized she hadn’t stated it as a question. Her stomach muscles pulled taut, to protect her solar plexus from the blow. A memory came forward, burned into her brain. Murphy bringing the toy to his lips to kiss it. “No. Oh no.” Her legs writhed, trying to find an outlet for the pain—the horror.

  The major pressed the plunger on a morphine drip. “We took shrapnel from your side, along with your spleen and a chunk of your liver. You lost the fingernails on your right hand, but you’re going to be okay.”

  A face swam to the surface of her mind. Wispy black hair, huge, dark eyes full of liquid fear. “The boy.” Her voice came out as a thready whisper, fading.

  He shook his head. “Suicide bomber.”

  She rushed to meet the sweet blackness that rose to swallow her.

  Cam Cahill coughed up dust. The sun branded his skin through his shirt. He kicked his borrowed gelding to a canter, chasing down another steer, wild from months on the winter slopes.

  How could it be this hot and dry in Texas in April? He tugged the bandana off his nose, where it was doing nothing to block the dust, and settled it around his neck. It would at least keep sweat from rolling down his back.

  Another billow of dust rolled over him as Len Robertson reined up alongside. The old man’s hair might be gray, his face tanned and creased as a burlap sack, but he sat relaxed in the saddle even after ten hours. “You know what Phil Sheridan said about Texas, don’tcha?”