“Nah. Local events are enough, and I couldn’t compete at the pro level anyway.” He smiled, his gaze stroking her face. “Besides, I think I might have found something else that gets my blood up.”
Maggie felt the strength in his hands as he drew her closer, felt the familiar stirring within her as their warm bodies molded to each other and her arms slid around him. It wasn’t the “I love you” she would have liked to hear, but the admission that she had some effect on him was reassuring. “You’ll ride on Saturday anyway, won’t you?” she murmured against his shirt.
“Of course. Trent’s expecting me.”
Yes, Trent was expecting him. Expecting to beat him handily, in fact. Briefly, Maggie wondered how good Ross would be if he put as much time into it as Trent did. The man in her arms was a natural athlete, blessed with balance, grace and stamina; he seemed to excel at every physical activity he tried.
Ross kissed her hair. “You’d better go in. Moe’s probably looking for his shotgun about now.”
Maggie laughed softly. “I’m not worried. His feelings about you have changed since we came back from Clearcut.”
“I hope so. I don’t want to do anything to foul up our friendship again. I’ve made enough mistakes.”
Maggie considered his last statement and realized how much his past still haunted him. “That’s why you wouldn’t make love to me without protection, isn’t it?”
“Neither of us needs the stress of waiting and wondering after our heads clear. I’ll leave the baby-making to Jess.”
“No babies for you?”
“Nope.”
Something squeezed her heart, and Maggie leaned back to meet his eyes. “Not ever? But...you’re so wonderful with Lexi.”
“Not ever,” Ross answered quietly. “I’m nor father or husband material, Maggie. If you want something more, I’m not the guy you should be standing here with.”
He was wrong. He had to be wrong. When Todd had finally admitted that their relationship couldn’t go any further, she’d been disappointed, but she’d accepted it, knowing it was the truth. Family had never been important to Todd.
But Ross—Ross was capable of the deep feelings commitment demanded. And not many men had his remarkable rapport with children.
“What are you so afraid of?” Maggie whispered.
His cheeky grin was back in the blink of an eye. “Me? Tamer of sixteen-hundred-pound bulls? Not a thing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He chuckled. “Okay. I’m afraid of Elvis impersonators and forgetting the words to Alan Jackson’s new song—no relation to your Uncle Moe.”
“Ross, stop it.”
That reckless smile faded by slow degrees while his expression sobered and his eyes held hers. Then his voice dropped to a low, solemn pitch. “All right,” he murmured, “I’m afraid of you.” He drew a ragged breath, then let it out slowly. “Lady, sometimes you scare me to death.”
Chills ran the length of her and Maggie nodded, understanding that kind of fear. “You’ll get over it,” she whispered. “I did.”
But would he? she wondered in the next instant. What if his apprehension over their growing closeness didn’t fade?
Needing to show him that he had nothing to fear from her, Maggie touched his jaw and kissed him tenderly, without the crazy tongue thrusts and grinding body contact they’d lavished on each other earlier.
But the kiss became so wholly giving that Ross’s anxiety seemed to increase, and Maggie knew she’d made things worse.
Breaking away, he took a few backward steps. “I have to go.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked uncertainly.
Ross stared, not knowing what to say. His heart was a freight train clattering down a fractured track and on its way to derailment. What was he thinking? All he had to do was look in her eyes to know that this woman wanted a long-term relationship. And he could never give her one.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Like I said, we’re cutting hay, so it’ll be later—if I can even get away.”
Though he knew that she tried to hide it, Ross saw a flicker of hurt before she grinned, nodded and climbed the stairs. She stopped short of the door to speak again. “Hey.”
“What?”
“I had a wonderful time tonight.”
“Me, too,” be said. And that was the problem.
Ross watched her go inside, then made for the stables where his truck was parked. He shouldn’t have let tonight happen. He should have let her walk away from the hot spring hurt and angry, because now she had... expectations.
He had to end this. That was all there was to it. Something told him that she hadn’t been convinced when he’d said marriage and kids weren’t for him. And it wasn’t fair to let her go on thinking that something permanent could happen between them—when it couldn’t.
Ross climbed into his truck, but instead of starting it, he turned the key and coasted it fifty yards down the sloping driveway. Then, when he knew the roar of the motor wouldn’t disturb the Jacksons, he popped the clutch, opened it up full throttle, and flew for home. While the mind—bending fragrance of Maggie’s perfume tried its damnedest to coax him right back into her arms.
Ross couldn’t keep his vow to end things. Less than twenty-four hours later, dog-tired from the sunup to sundown haying—and damning his own weakness—he picked up the phone in the den at the homestead and punched in the number for the Lazy J. She answered on the first ring, sounding anxious, expectant.
“Hi,” he said. “It’s me.”
“Hi.” Her voice turned warm and rich, and against Ross’s will, it curled into his ear and slid straight to his heart. “Did you finish the cutting?”
“No, we still have another field to go, then the baling in a day or two when it dries. I just... Well, I had a minute before I climbed in the shower, and thought I’d call to see how your day went.”
“Actually, it was a little strange. But we can talk about that another time.” She paused. “Can’t we?”
“Friday?” he asked, startling himself, then wincing because he’d sounded so eager. Why was it so hard to stay away from her? What kind of hold did this woman have over him? “My water’s hooked up at the house now, and some of my furniture’s coming tomorrow. If you want, you could meet me there Friday after supper, and see how things are shaping up.”
“I’d like that. What time’s good for you?”
“Any time after—”
Jess wandered into the den, grinned knowingly, then walked back out again. Scowling, Ross turned away from the doorway, curving himself around the receiver for some privacy. “I need to go over to Lang’s for a while, but I plan on being back by eight. Is that okay?”
“Eight’s fine,” she said, a touch of relief in her voice. “I’ll see you at the house.”
“Great. See you then.”
Ross hung up, raining insults all over himself, and at the same time feeling his exhaustion slip away. Friday. He’d see her Friday. Two more days.
On Friday night, he’d just finished showering away the smell from Roy Lang’s butt-bruising bulls when he heard Maggie pull into the driveway. She was a good fifteen minutes early. Ross dove into his jeans, grabbed a clean shirt, and started down the varnished wood stairs, tucking and buttoning on his way. Then he walked barefooted onto the porch where the splashy pinks and purples of sunset streaked the sky and cast a glow on his pine logs...and the exciting woman coming up the steps.
“Hi,” he said, catching her fingers loosely in his.
“Hi.”
She wasn’t dressed any differently from a hundred other women in the county—jeans and a white cotton tank top. But there was something gut-clenchingly sexy in the way Maggie’s clothing fit. His eyes took in her firm breasts and narrow rib cage...her tiny waist...the trim curve of her hips. Fragrant hair tumbled black and silky over her shoulders, and long, feathery bangs skimmed her brows and played up her brown eyes. Above toned arms and lightly tanned skin, a hint of
sunburn touched her nose. To Ross’s conflicting pleasure and chagrin, he was instantly aroused. He read the same eagerness in her eyes.
“Okay,” Maggie murmured, “let’s see the furniture.”
Since the only pieces to evaluate in the great room were his brown leather sofa, two sturdy end tables and a pair of heavy hurricane lamps, they weren’t downstairs for more than five minutes.
The furniture showing in the loft, with its massive, handcrafted, log-and-twig bed lasted until the sun was gone and the steady songs of the peeper frogs shrilled from deep in the cottonwoods.
Eventually, their uneven breathing and gentle sighs ceased, sheets stopped rustling, and low conversation began again. Ross clicked the rustic lamp beside the bed onto its lowest setting. He spoke groggily as they snuggled in each other’s arms. “So what was the strange thing that happened on Wednesday at the office? You said you’d tell me about it.”
She liked to hear his voice like that: kind of husky, faintly sleepy—a boneless baritone that made her smile. “Ben Campion came in, and he and Cy got into another argument about the re-election rally. Ben backed down to Farrell again.”
“What rally? And why would Ben back down to Farrell? Cy’s only in the sheriff’s office because he has Campion’s support.”
Maggie frowned, her fingers stroking his chest distractedly as she lay against his shoulder. “I’m not sure why. But about the rally? A couple of weeks ago, I overheard Ben and Cy arguing in Cy’s office. Cy was trying to sell Ben on the idea of a political fund-raiser, and wanted Ben to foot the bill. When Ben refused to pay for it, Cy ended up saying that if there was no rally, Trent wouldn’t be going to the legislature. What do you make of that?”
“Blackmail.”
“I think so, too. When Ben came out of the office, he was still furious, but he said something to Cy like, ‘Send me the figures, and I’ll take another look at them.’ A second later, he looked really startled to see me at my desk. That’s when he...” Maggie’s voice trailed away as the filmstrip in her mind played back a part of the incident that hadn’t really registered before.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “it didn’t occur to me that day, but Ben was crushing a report or something in his hand when he came out of Cy’s office. And it couldn’t have been the figures for the rally because he asked Cy to send him another copy. The moment he realized I was watching, he folded the papers and shoved them into the pocket of his trousers. Which makes me wonder...”
“Wonder what?”
Maggie scrambled to a sitting position to look down at him. The sheet slid to her waist. “I wonder if those papers could have been the reason he reconsidered Cy’s demands? If Cy was blackmailing him—and Ben was resisting—Cy might have shown Ben something to pull him back in line again. Well, not the something, but maybe a copy of something—”
“Or,” Ross countered, pleasantly distracted as he eased up on an elbow to nuzzle her softness, “Ben could have had the papers with him when he arrived, and they could’ve had absolutely nothing to do with the argument.”
“True,” Maggie allowed, trying hard to concentrate as his warm mouth and talented lips continued their slow exploration of her breasts. “But there was something almost—Ross, stop that, I’m trying to think—almost paranoid about the way he tucked the papers away. As though he didn’t want me to know—” his wet mouth fastened on a nipple and he sucked gently, as Maggie drew a soft breath “—what they were.”
Closing her eyes, she slid her fingers through his tousled hair and brought him closer, that airy fluttering low in her belly again. My, my...what this man did to her.
“Thought you wanted to think,” he teased huskily a few moments later.
Maggie slid down onto the bed again, snuggling close and lacing her legs through his. “I think I’ll think later,” she smiled, and parted her lips for his kiss.
The fairgrounds were festively decorated with banners and the carnival atmosphere was enhanced by blaring country music, and the wafting aromas of hamburgers, French fries, and cotton candy. There were a few craft displays and leather outfitters selling tack, but most of the craft booths were set up on Frontier Street where the faux kerosene lamps and restored buildings gave more meaning to Founder’s Day. Later, covered wagons and buckboards full of “early settlers” and “trappers” would parade down Prairie Street to pioneer tunes by area high school bands. But not here.
This was rodeo.
The barrel racing and calf roping had finished up around noon, and—according to the program Maggie read—after a short intermission, the bronc and bull riding would begin. She climbed the steel risers of the grandstand, feeling the anticipation clear down to her toes. The $1,000 purse would hardly pay off Ross’s mortgage, but since he still needed furniture, it would certainly come in handy.
Just as she chose a row and took a seat near the middle, someone called her name over the music and the chatter of converging spectators. She looked around, caught Bessie Holsopple’s eye, and waved. But the voice she’d heard had been male. She saw Cy Farrell deep in conversation with Ben Campion...kept her eyes moving...
“Maggie! Down here!”
Maggie glanced down to see Trent wave as he picked his way through the crowd to join her. She waved back. When he was a little closer, she called, “Hi. Nice day.”
“Yes, it is.” Slickly handsome as ever, he wore a red, white and blue plaid shirt again with his jeans and boots. Maggie decided that she’d been right about his choice of colors at the Fourth of July celebration almost two weeks ago. Trent‘s—or his father’s—political goals were never very far from his mind. Which made her think again of Cy Farrell’s threat to keep Trent out of the legislature. Something else flashed briefly through her mind, too—a conversation she’d overheard the last time she’d seen Trent at a rodeo. It was gone before she was able to pin down its significance.
“You’re early,” he said with a pleased smile as he dropped down beside her. “I don’t ride for another hour or so.”
Maggie fought a disbelieving smile. No ego there. “I know, but I thought as long as I paid my five dollars to park, I’d take in everything. Did you draw a good bull?”
“Hope so,” he chuckled, sliding closer. “It’s hard to win on a bad one.”
The heavy smell of his aftershave stung Maggie’s nostrils, and she eased back a bit.
“Do you know how the judges score the rides?”
“Actually, no,” she admitted, trying to pay attention to Trent and—at the same time—scan the arena for Ross. He was supposed to meet her right before the bronc riding, but so far she hadn’t seen him.
“No?” Trent grinned, obviously volunteering for the task. “Then someone should definitely tell you.”
A deep, calm voice came from directly behind them. “Someone plans to.”
Maggie and Trent both turned as Ross stepped down two rows to sit on a seat above them. Delighted, Maggie’s eyes met his, and her heart swelled at the warm glow of connection between them.
His black vest hung open over his green-plaid shirt and faded jeans, and his hat rode low on collar-grazing sandy hair, framing his rugged face to perfection. Two days of haying had deepened his tan, making his eyes seem bluer.
Breaking into the moment, the announcer’s voice echoed through the arena, and Maggie suddenly remembered that they weren’t alone. She turned back to Trent. “Well, looks like the bronc riding’s about to begin. You’re welcome to stay and watch with us if you like.”
Trent’s cold green eyes shifted between Maggie and Ross. “Us? No thanks, I have things to do.” His icy gaze fixed on Ross. “I hear you drew Cowboy’s Lament.”
“And you’ve got Stampede. He’s a good bull.”
“No,” Trent said coldly. “He’s the best.”
“We’ll see.” Ross stood then, and Trent was forced to give up his seat.
With a brusque nod to Maggie, Trent shuffled past the other people in the row and stiffly descended the grand
stand. His departure left her faintly unsettled. She’d never intended to hurt Trent or make him angry, but he had to understand that friendship was all she would ever be able to give him. She loved Ross, body and soul.
Then Ross settled in beside her, and Maggie’s mind was filled only with him.
The bronc riding was nervewracking for Maggie, even though no one she knew was participating. The jarring, bucking, back-snapping horses made her glad Ross wasn’t riding in that event, too. That faint joy didn’t last. Too soon, he was leaving, and she was listening to the folksy drawl of the announcer in the booth introducing the bull-riding competition. Contestants would ride twice, and the five cowboys with the top combined scores would compete in the finals.
The first bull and rider out of the chute didn’t make the eight-second horn. The second made it and received a fair score. At least it was a fair score according to Jess, Casey and Ruby, who’d left Lexi with a sitter and arrived late to squeeze in beside Maggie.
Then Ross was up. Maggie’s heart pounded until the horn sounded, he landed safely in the dust, and painted rodeo clowns waved the quivering black bull away from him. After the first round, Ross and Trent were the clear-cut leaders, with Ross edging out Trent by two points.
Nothing changed in the second round, except the bulls: they got bigger and meaner. Ross turned in another magnificent ride. Trent matched it, but still remained in second place.
By the time the finals began, Maggie’s muscles ached from clenching them, and adrenaline was threatening to burn her up. She looked nervously to the far side of the arena. The ripe smells of sunbaked dust and rank animals rode the still afternoon air.
Pulling on his glove, Ross took his place on the metal rails above the chute as an enormous yellow bull was herded, stamping and blowing, into it. Maggie cringed as it banged off the sides of the chute and attendants tried to settle it down long enough to get Ross aboard. “Dear God,” she breathed.
“Relax,” Jess said, obviously trying to hide the tension in his own voice. “He’s ridden Brimstone before, and he knows his twists and turns—this bull always spins left, never right. He’ll be okay.”
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