The Cowboy

by Joan Johnston

  “Eli doesn’t normally fly off the handle like that,” she shot back in defense of her son. “He was provoked. Blackjack shouldn’t—”

  “I don’t blame him for jumping into the fray. In fact, the kid reminded me of myself once upon a time.”

  Callie was terrified Trace would make a physical comparison and blurted the first thing that came into her head. “You mean knobby-kneed and skinny as a sapling?”

  His lips curved in a wry smile. “I was thinking full of fire and brimstone, ready to fight the world. With his teeth bared like that, and his eyes …” He waited until she looked at him and said, “He has your eyes, Callie.”

  Callie’s throat tightened with emotion. And your nose and cheeks and chin. Oh, Trace, I wish…She tore her gaze away and stared down at her hands, which were twisting the rolled-up sales brochure into a tighter spiral. Callie cursed herself for a fool. She couldn’t afford sentiment. She couldn’t afford to wish and dream about what might have been.

  “I suppose the boy must be missing his father,” Trace said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Callie.”

  Her hands stilled. Callie swallowed painfully over the knot in her throat. She didn’t want Trace’s sympathy. She didn’t want him being kind. She met his gaze and said, “Eli loved Nolan. And so did I.”

  She wanted Trace to know she’d gotten over him. She wanted him to know she’d gone on with her life. She wanted him to know that she’d even loved again. That she’d borne another man’s children. She wanted to hurt him with the knowledge of all he’d missed by leaving her behind.

  She looked into his cold blue eyes, searching for the pain she wanted him to feel. And saw a flicker of something that might have been anguish.

  “Callie … I—”

  She jerked away when his fingertips grazed her cheek. “Don’t!” She struggled against the hand he had clamped on her arm to keep her from bolting. “Let go of me, Trace.”

  A two-year-old filly whinnied with fear. Callie’s eyes were drawn by the terrified sound. She saw the whites of me animal’s eyes and then the number 6 painted on its hip. She froze in place.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered, fumbling to unroll the curled-up brochure. “That’s one of the horses I’m supposed to bid on.”

  She and her father had evaluated all the animals before the auction, and she’d written $40,000 in red Flair pen as the amount above which it was no longer profitable for her to bid on the number six animal.

  In the cutting horse business, the price of an animal was tied not only to how well the horse for sale had performed, but equally, or even more importantly, to how well the previous two generations had performed as cutters, how much money they had won, and how much their progeny had won.

  The number six horse, Hickory Angel, was by Doc’s Hickory, AQHA High Point Cutting Stallion, NCHA Futurity semifinalist, and Equistate #5 All-Time Leading Cutting Sire, siring the earners of nearly twelve million dollars, and out of Osages Little Angel, sired by Peppy San Badger, NCHA Open Futurity and Derby Champion, NCHA Open Reserve World Champion, and #1 All-Time Leading Cutting Sire.

  Trace said, “She looks a little long in the back to me.”

  “A little,” Callie agreed, eyeing the horse critically. “But her hocks are nice and short. I saw her working earlier this morning. She can turn on a button and never scratch it.” She bit her lip, suddenly realizing that she was sharing information Trace might use against her, if he decided to bid on the animal himself.

  The filly jumped when the auctioneer’s microphoned voice began its patter, and the handler turned her in a circle to show her off and calm her down. “What am I bid for this two-year-old filly? This little lady has the very best bloodlines.”

  Callie caught Trace staring at her. “What are you looking at?” she asked irritably.

  He eyed the frayed ends of her collar. “If you’d been my wife, I’d have taken better care of you than Nolan Monroe apparently did.”

  “In all the ways that mattered, Nolan took excellent care of me,” she replied scornfully.

  He gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Was he good in bed, Callie?”

  A quiver of sensual need rolled through her. “I won’t dignify that with an answer.”

  Their eyes remained locked in a battle of wills, Trace demanding a carnal response from her, and Callie refusing to give him one. Abruptly she turned away, focusing her gaze on the ring, where the bidding was underway. “I have work to do,” she said curtly.

  “Callie—”

  “No, Trace.”

  She heard the desperation in her voice as she answered the question Trace had not been given the chance to ask. There wasn’t going to be a resumption of their love affair. Not when all that remained between them was lust.

  “I like the looks of that filly,” he said.

  She glanced at him warily. “She’s going to cost a pretty penny,” she said neutrally.

  “I can afford it.”

  Callie braced her shoulders, as though for a blow. Surely he wasn’t going to bid on Hickory Angel just to keep her from getting the animal. “Why would you want to buy this horse?” she asked. “She’s been bred for competitive cutting.”

  “I’ve decided to start my own breeding operation at Bitter Creek,” Trace said.

  She stared at him in dismay. He couldn’t be planning to go into business in competition with her. “There must be a million other investments that would give you a better return on your money. Why cutting horses?”

  “Riding a really good cutter is about the biggest rush there is,” he said. “Almost as good as sex,” he added with a provocative smile. “I got a hankering for it when I competed on the cutting circuit as a teenager. Guess you never outgrow it.”

  “And you Blackthornes are rich enough to gratify your every whim,” she said contemptuously.

  “Yes,” he said. “We are.”

  The bidding on Hickory Angel had slowed until there were only two other bidders. Callie raised her index and middle finger to bid $35,000.

  “Now thirty-five,” the auctioneer said. “Do I hear thirty-five-five? Now thirty-five-five-do-I-hear-thirty-six? Now thirty-six-now-thirty-six-five.”

  The rancher from Dallas dropped out. Callie was now bidding against a well-known California cutter.

  “Now thirty-seven. Now-thirty-seven-five-thirty-seven-five.”

  The California cutter dropped out. Callie had the high bid at $37,500.

  “This little lady is a beauty. Don’t let her get away. Now thirty-seven-five.”

  Trace touched the brim of his hat.

  “Now thirty-eight,” the auctioneer said.

  Callie’s eyes went wide with alarm. She lifted a finger and the auctioneer said, “Now thirty-eight-five-thirty-eight-five.”

  “Forty,” Trace said, jumping the bid to the limit Callie knew he must have seen written in her brochure. She met his gaze. His eyes were cold and hard and uncaring.

  “I need that filly, Trace.”

  “So do I.”

  “Looks like the gent wants this little lady,” the auctioneer said. “Now forty-now-forty-now-forty.”

  Callie turned away, lifted her finger, and bid $40,500. Trace must know as well as she did the value of the filly. She could hedge a little, maybe pay another thousand or so more, but beyond that, they wouldn’t make the profit they’d need to justify feeding and training the animal for a year.

  “Forty-five,” Trace said.

  Callie hissed in a breath. Well. Now she knew. It wasn’t over between them, even if she wanted it to be. He wanted to hurt her every bit as much as she had wanted to hurt him. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only one who would suffer from Trace’s vengeance. If she wasn’t careful, her family could lose Three Oaks.

  “Why are you punishing me like this?” she whispered.

  “This isn’t personal, Callie. It’s business.”

  “Well, folks. I have forty-five thousand. Do I have another bid?”

  Callie felt
a shiver of fear crawl up her spine. Should she test his resolve? Should she bid more, to see if he would go higher? Callie sighed inwardly. She couldn’t take the risk that Trace would allow her to win the bid at a price that would cost her family money.

  It was crystal clear now, if it hadn’t been before, that what had once been a deep and abiding love between them had become something else entirely, something dangerous.

  “Now forty-five-forty-five-forty-five. Do I have another bid? Forty-five once. Forty-five twice. Sold to the gentleman in the black hat for forty-five thousand.”

  “Hey, Trace,” Dusty said, tipping his Stetson. “That filly will be a great addition to your stable.”

  “Price went a little high,” Trace said, eyeing Callie.

  Dusty winked at Callie. “You’re welcome to drive up the prices all you want. See you later, Trace. Don’t forget. Number twenty-three.”

  Callie paged through the auction materials. “Number twenty-three is Smart Little Doc,” she said. “Isn’t he the stud Dusty was training when he had his accident?”

  “He’s got him signed up for the Futurity,” Trace confirmed.

  “Good bloodlines,” Callie observed.

  Trace stared over her shoulder and read the statistics on Smart Little Doc. Championship cutters on both sides. Millions in competition earnings.

  Callie looked up at him and said, “Who are you going to get to train and ride him at this late date?”

  “I haven’t thought too much about it.”

  Trace knew as well as she did that competitive cutting was the one sport where the animal was the real athlete. The rider had to loosen the reins once the cow was cut from the herd. It was then up to the horse to use its “cow sense” to stay one step ahead of the cow. Winning horses often crouched down like a cat and stayed nose to nose with a steer to keep it cut from the herd.

  But Trace would have no hope of winning the Futurity without a top-notch rider. The rider had to be good enough to stay in the saddle through some awesomely abrupt turns and smart enough to let the horse do its job.

  “How about you?” Trace said. “You’ve trained and ridden winners—both at the Stakes and the Derby. Want the job?”

  “No.”

  “Just no? No explanation why not?”

  “I don’t have to give you a reason.”

  “I mean to win the Futurity, Callie.”

  “You and a thousand other cutters who’ve signed up to compete,” she said. “Including me.”

  “You’ve got a horse entered in the Futurity?”

  Callie’s chin came up in response to the frown on Trace’s face. “I’ve got a mare that’s been performing well, Sugar Pep. I think she can win the Open.”

  “I guess that puts us in competition.”

  “If you can find a rider,” Callie said.

  “Oh, I’ll find a rider,” Trace replied. “Even if I have to compete against you myself.”

  Callie rose abruptly.

  Trace caught her wrist. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Without buying the stock you need to replace what was lost?”

  She felt the eyes of their neighbors focused on them, but stubbornly remained standing. “I can’t afford to outbid you, Trace.”

  She noticed he didn’t contradict her or bother to suggest they might be bidding on different horses. She was certain he would have picked out the best horses to buy, just as she and her father had. And she was equally certain he would outbid her just for spite.

  The sooner she took herself out of his way, the better. There were other auctions she could attend where Trace Blackthorne would not be there to remind her of how easily his family’s money could be used to punish her. She would have to be especially careful to keep Eli out of his way. If he was this determined to hurt her just for marrying Nolan, imagine what he would do if he ever discovered Eli was his son!

  “How will you get home?” he asked.

  Callie had completely forgotten that her parents had left her stranded when they’d departed in such a rush. “I’ll call Daddy and have him send someone for me,” she said. “Let go of me, Trace.”

  “Will you be coming back for the barn dance tonight?”

  “I won’t dance with you, Trace.”

  “Then you’ll be there?”

  Too late, Callie realized her mistake. She had promised Lou Ann she would keep an eye on the punch bowl to make sure some cowboy didn’t spike it. She could beg off. But she refused to give Trace the satisfaction of seeing her routed.

  She stared at his hand, where it manacled her wrist, but didn’t repeat her request to be set free.

  “I’ll see you tonight, Callie,” he said as he let her go. “Save a dance for me.”

  Chapter 4

  CALLIE STOOD BEHIND THE REFRESHMENT TAble along the east wall of Dusty Simpson’s barn with a knot in her stomach and a headache throbbing at the base of her skull, waiting for Trace to appear and claim his dance. As the hours passed, the crowd from the auction thinned until only a few locals were left two-stepping to the sad wail of a violin, an emphatic drummer, and a very loud electric guitar.

  She had spent the entire evening imagining every possible way of refusing Trace and his resulting chagrin, embarrassment, and fury. All her planning had been for naught, because with only fifteen minutes left before the band quit for the night, it seemed the sonofabitch wasn’t even going to show. Callie was chagrined, embarrassed, and furious at how much time she’d spent worrying over nothing.

  “Hey, Callie, wake up!”

  Callie tore her gaze from the barn entrance and focused it on her brother Luke, who was waving both hands in front of her face. Her father had agreed to send Luke to pick her up, but only after insisting that she stay for the rest of the auction—and bid on the horses they’d decided they wanted. It had been a very long, very frustrating day, and Callie was glad it was almost over.

  “What do you want, Luke?” she asked.

  “Are you ready to leave yet?”

  Callie glanced at her watch. “I promised Lou Ann I’d stay until midnight. Can you wait fifteen more minutes?”

  Luke made a face. “I need to get outta here. That Coburn girl has been dogging my footsteps all night.”

  Callie followed his glance to the very tall, very redheaded girl standing like an exotic wallflower near the exit. “Why don’t you ask her to dance?”

  “She’ll think I like her,” Luke protested.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “She’s a freak.”

  Callie glanced at the girl. “In what way?”

  “She’s the giant and Jack’s beanstalk all rolled into one.”

  Callie felt a pang of sorrow for the Coburn girl. Her father Johnny Ray, and her older brother “Bad” Billy, both of whom were known troublemakers, worked part-time for Blackjack when they weren’t taking care of their own run-down ranch. Emma Coburn couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, but she was easily six feet tall and as skinny as a bed slat.

  “It isn’t Emma’s fault she’s taller than you,” Callie said. “She’s probably very nice. Have you spoken to her?”

  Luke rolled his eyes. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  Callie watched her brother stalk past Emma Coburn as though she were a cedar fence post. The girl hesitated a moment, then followed him. Callie looked around the barn in agitation. Where was Lou Ann? She’d left Callie at the punch bowl over an hour ago and promised she’d be right back.

  Callie didn’t want to leave Luke alone with the Coburn girl, who’d apparently gone after him, because she didn’t trust her brother not to hurt the girl’s feelings. She considered abandoning the punch bowl. This late in the evening, it probably wouldn’t matter if some cowboy spiked the punch.

  “I believe this is my dance.”

  Callie froze, then turned to find Trace standing close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. Memories assaulted her. How it felt to ru
n her hands over ridged muscle and bone. The softness of his hair against her breasts and belly. The sleek thrust of his tongue in her mouth. She felt her body clench with desire and forced herself to see the man who stood before her, not the memory.

  He wore a white, Western-cut shirt, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to bare sinewy forearms. His jeans looked old and butter soft and molded his body. His hat was pulled low on his forehead, leaving his eyes in shadow, revealing a strong chin stubbled with beard.

  If she were meeting him for the first time, she might have been a little frightened. He looked dark and dangerous. But this man was no stranger. She knew his body as well as she knew her own. And she wasn’t going to be intimidated into dancing with him.

  She cocked her head and said, “You’re a little late, aren’t you, cowboy?”

  “Did you think I wasn’t coming?” Trace replied, his lips curving in a winsome smile.

  She refused to be charmed. “The dance is over.”

  “Not quite,” Trace said, as the band began playing “Crazy,” a slow, sentimental Patsy Cline tune.

  “I have to watch the punch bowl.” Callie was appalled to realize that she was breathless and that her pulse was racing.

  “I’m here, Callie,” Lou Ann said with a smile, as she stepped up beside Callie. “Trace and Dusty and I were going over some figures in the house. Sorry I’m so late getting back to relieve you. Trace told me you’d promised him a dance.”

  Callie stared at Trace’s outstretched hand, looked up to catch the gleam in his eye and the arrogant arch of his brow, and realized how neatly she’d been trapped.

  It’s only a dance. One dance can’t matter.

  Callie set her hand in the one Trace held outstretched to her. It was warm and strong, the fingertips rough and callused. She shivered as the flat of his hand palmed the small of her back. She rested her hand on his shoulder, feeling the hard, too-familiar play of muscle and bone beneath her fingertips.

  This isn’t the same man you once loved, she reminded herself. She looked for changes and found them.

  His nose had a bump on the bridge that hadn’t been there in college, and he had a new scar running through his left eyebrow. She realized she had no idea what he’d been doing during the long years he’d been gone from Texas, or even where he’d been. Except, whatever he’d been doing had kept him outside, because the sun and the wind had etched lines around his eyes and mouth. And his work had required physical labor, because his shoulders seemed broader and his body looked even leaner and harder than it had when he was a younger man.