by Vicki Tharp
“You got this from Pearl because…?”
The excitement started to build again. In his hand, he could be holding the answer to our…their…problems. Then I explained to him how Pearl had heard about the three horses dying from one of the people on the list. “So I was thinking that the only person who could have known three horses had died would have been someone who’d been there or talked to someone who had.”
He pursed his lips and scraped a hand back and forth over his jaw as he considered what I’d said. “So what’s your plan?”
“What makes you think I have one?”
“Let’s just say if I’d seen that sparkle in your eye any other time, I’d think you were up to no good.”
A smile split my face. I knew the sparkle he was talking about. It had gotten me in trouble many times growing up. Maybe a not too healthy number of times as an adult. “I figured the rodeo seems like a big deal. Maybe some of the people on that list might be here. Maybe we can talk to them. See if anyone knows something. Any of those names familiar?”
He nodded. “All of them.”
“Pearl said the Talbot boys were rat bastards. Do you think they could be behind it?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged and sawed his jaw back and forth, thoughtful, but not one of those Holy smokes, Batman! epiphanies I’d been hoping for. “Those boys are a few corn cobs shy of a full bushel. I don’t see them planning something like this. Honestly, they’d be the first on my list of suspects, not because they might have anything against Dale, but because they are plain ornery that way. Then again, anyone who knows this area would know that about the brothers and would have to be stupid to hire any of that bunch to pull it off. And I’m sure they were the first four people on Sheriff Tate’s list to question.”
My enthusiasm deflated. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Hank popped his door open and I leaned forward as I prepared to slide over the seat after him, but he hadn’t moved yet because he’d leaned toward me to slide the list into his hip pocket and suddenly my face was closer to his than was prudent. I stilled, waiting for him to pull away. He didn’t.
Then I made the mistake of glancing down at those lips, with the perfect, heart-thumping bow on top and full pad on the bottom. I wanted to feel them on mine. I wanted to nibble the bottom one and tease it until his lips opened up to me. Should I go for it? It was just a kiss. It wasn’t like we hadn’t kissed before. It wasn’t like it had to mean anything. It didn’t have to go any further. I should take what I want.
Before I could do that, Hank lifted his hat from my head and tossed it onto the dash. Then he snaked a hand behind my neck, his fingers brushing lightly at the base of my skull, and all the hair on my arms stood at attention and a whole platoon of goose bumps paraded on by, though I was far from cold.
In fact, the temperature in the truck was heating up as if someone had turned on a rocket’s afterburners. Then he pulled me to him and his lips rubbed lightly against mine. His cologne had a woodsy undertone that made me think of high mountain spruce, but beneath it, I caught the scent of his soap, and beneath that, a deliciousness that was all his own, all honest work and clean air.
As I’d wanted, I nabbed that luscious bottom lip of his between my teeth, nibbled, and tugged gently. He inhaled deeply through his nose and angled my head for better access before pulling his lip free. Instead of retreating as I’d expected, he dove in for more. He opened my mouth with his, exploring my teeth and my tongue with an excruciating slowness as if he was detailing and memorizing every tooth, every taste bud. As sensual kisses went, it was top rank—a four-star general—but right now I wanted down and dirty. I wanted the foot soldier, all blood and guts, and mud and sweat, and unleashed passion.
Chapter 10
Growling at the back of my throat, I dove in, thrusting my tongue into his mouth, invading, taking. Hank closed the truck door and a chuckle of surprise shook his chest, but I gave him credit for his ability to adapt under pressure.
Then the axis of power shifted and I was no longer the one in control. Not only of the kiss but also of coherent thought beyond the want and burning need gnawing in my belly. Heat pooled, and when I shifted, I felt the dampness in my panties, smelled the soft musk as my body readied for him. As much as I loved the sucking and thrusting of his tongue deep in my mouth, I fantasized about how that mouth, that tongue, would feel against another part of my anatomy.
While his lips and teeth and tongue wreaked havoc on my lips, my chin, and that sensitive soft spot beneath my ear, Hank’s free hand landed on my outer thigh and hastily found skin. I sucked in a ragged breath that burned on its way down and I shifted in the seat. With a firm grip, he hitched my thigh over his leg and I desperately searched for bare skin to touch. He nibbled on my neck as his fingers seared a trail up my leg to the top of my thigh, stopping at my panty-line. Then he grabbed my hips in a move meant to lift me onto his lap.
Honk, honk!
Yeah, that would be my ass on the horn. I wasn’t a waif of a woman and Hank was a large man. Even if the steering wheel had tilted and the seat could have gone back further, I’m still not convinced it would have worked.
For those people that had missed the spectacle of Hank and I mauling each other in the truck, the horn would undoubtedly alert the rest. Laughter bubbled up from deep inside, bursting out as I settled back into the center seat. My chest heaved and my sides ached as I tried to regain my air. Hank laughed beside me, his expression an interesting mix of humor and unfettered lust with a hint of chagrin swirled in.
I glanced around through the windows. Couples and families with small children filed through the line of parked vehicles, their attention on the rodeo arena now that the honking was over. When I believed we were in the clear, a hand knocked on Hank’s window and I jumped in my seat.
With a self-deprecating smile, Hank cranked down his window and angled his head out. “Something I can do for you, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Tate braced his hands on the doorframe—his fingernails all trimmed short and squared off—and though his face bore a mild expression when he bent down to see inside the truck, the tips of his fingers blanched white as if he were fighting his self-control. What’s up with that? “Everything okay in here?”
“Fine.” Hank didn’t offer an explanation as he darted a look in my direction. He shifted his gaze to my legs and it was then that I felt the ruffle of the fresh mountain air as it blew across my skin. I tried to smooth my dress down inconspicuously. But really, one glance at us, with Hank’s hair mussed from my fingers, one of his large hands over his lap disguising the bulge behind his fly, my dress up near my waist, and the flush of heat burned on my cheeks, someone would have to be blind to not know what had been going on mere moments before.
The sheriff shifted uncomfortably. “Come to watch Jenna ride tonight?” he asked, grasping at a conversational straw. When Hank nodded, the man added, “You bunch sure know how to keep my department darting from one investigation to the next like a bunch of chimpanzees with ADD.” When Hank merely grunted, he continued, “Anyway, I wanted to let you know I left a deputy with Dale and Lottie at the ranch tonight. I don’t expect any trouble when people are around, but it’s for the best for now. At least, until we hear back from the arson investigation.”
“Appreciate it,” Hank drawled, though the words came out more like a dismissal. The sheriff must have heard it too because he nodded once and stood to leave.
“Oh, Sheriff—” I started, but a terse shake of Hank’s head had me biting back my words. I don’t know how Hank knew I was going to mention the list, or how I knew that’s what that gesture meant. Maybe it was the tension around his eyes as if he were attempting a whole conversation with one look. Why doesn’t he want me to tell the sheriff about the list? When the sheriff dipped his head back down to peer in the window, I pasted on an innocent expression and said, “Have a nice evening.”
He glanced between the two of us for a few moments. “Evenin’.”
The wait for Hank to crank the window back up seemed interminable, but I’m sure mere seconds had passed before it was up and our conversation would not be overheard. “What was that all about?”
“He was on the list.”
I nodded. I didn’t really know anything about him, so I’d defer to Hank on that score. “You really think he could be involved?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Doubt it. Maybe it’s just my frustration with the department’s lack of any real leads over the rustling. I expected to be farther along on that than we are. Then they pretty much blew off Dink’s run-in with the trap. Not that I really would have expected them to find anything there.”
“So what do you want to do?”
He paused and ran his heated gaze down to my lips, to my breasts. My nipples puckered and I was thankful for the shirred fabric covering them. He closed his eyes as if doing a mental reset then said, “Let’s take tonight and do our own poking around. It’s not like we can’t give him the list in a day or so if nothing pans out.”
“Lead the way,” I said as I tilted my chin toward his door.
He grabbed my hand and leaned in a fraction. When he spoke, his voice barely broke a whisper. “Just so we’re clear, we’re not finished here.” By the heat in his eyes, I knew the direction his mind had traveled. “Not by a long shot.”
* * * *
I know now what it must feel like to be a rock star or, at least, part of their entourage. From the minute Hank paid our ticket into the rodeo and we passed through the head-high chain-link fence, people called out to him, they shook his hand, they slapped him on the back, and they walked out of their way to greet him. A few of the women—Grrr!—rose up on their tiptoes and kissed him. I couldn’t help but wonder how many, if any, he’d slept with. Get a grip! I shook my head trying to dislodge the jealousy. It wasn’t any of my business.
With our hands clasped together, I cruised behind him, walking in his wake, and the farther we went, the more the crowds seemed to circle and close around me. The da, da, da, dum, da, da, da, dum, of an eminent feeding frenzy played in my mind. The hair stood up on the back of my neck and if Hank hadn’t had a Herculean grip on my hand, I might have high-tailed it back to his truck.
I so did not do crowds.
I hadn’t been a fan before I deployed, something to endure if need be, but since returning stateside, they’d terrified me. Strange that the rapport and recoil of a gun did not. Maybe it was the low-level hum of voices vibrating in my chest that made it nearly impossible to hear my surroundings that bothered me or maybe it was the inability to lock onto a potential threat or the staccato bursts of hoots, hollers, and laughter that abraded my every last nerve.
We threaded our way to the concession stands, then with hands full, climbed the stairs toward the seats. On the landing, I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I could almost hear the drip, drip, drip as my adrenal glands squeezed out the adrenaline.
Rodeo fans packed the stands hip to jowl around the entire outdoor arena, and that didn’t include the crowd still milling around the warm-up arenas and the concessions stands. No doubt, Dale, Lottie, and the deputy were likely the only people within a hundred-mile radius who were not on the fairgrounds tonight.
Hank stopped beside me, his beer in one hand, and a couple hot dogs in the other. He leaned in and the edge of his hat shielded my face as he placed his mouth near my ear so I could hear him over the din. His breath was warm on my skin, the tangy scent of hops lingered. “We don’t have to be here.”
I liked the way he said it. A statement I could take or leave. No coddling, no cajoling, no attempt to shield me from the world. Most importantly, he meant it. If I asked him to take me home, he would. Even though this was his first night out in weeks.
Even though his daughter was competing.
So, yeah. He needed to be here.
And I had to suck it up.
“I’m good.” My smile must have been a tad off because he narrowed those baby blues at me before taking me at my word. At least, he believed I was a big enough girl I’d say something if I changed my mind. Then from the stands above, someone called out his name. A man near the aisle about halfway up stood and waved his straw cowboy hat at Hank.
“Do you mind?” he asked. I shook my head. Even though I know he knew I was uncomfortable, I still didn’t want him to see me as weak so I waited for him to precede me before squaring my shoulders and pushing past the encroaching claustrophobia. Hank made the introductions as the man slid over to make room for us. I was so focused on keeping my fight-or-flight instincts precariously balanced on that knife edge so I wouldn’t do either that I was embarrassed to say I had forgotten his name before the handshake was over.
Hank slid in ahead of me and let me take the aisle seat. Being on the end helped me not feel so hemmed in, and I was grateful for the consideration. I gulped a few slugs of my beer, set my cup in the holder on the back of the seat in front of me, and dug into the first of my two hot dogs. Starving. Again. I bit off large chunks and half chewed before swallowing. Within a minute, I slid my second dog out of the thin foil wrap. Most of the ketchup came off with it. I raised the meat and bun to my lips and caught Hank watching me.
“What?” I had said before I went in for a bite.
“You eat like a man. All hungry bites. No finesse.”
Was he kidding me? How do you eat a hot dog with finesse? I masticated a couple times until I could get the bite small enough to tuck into the pouch of my cheek like a hamster. “Is that a problem?”
He contemplated my question, his eyes focused on my mouth. Then he tipped his hat and held it there in front of us like a shield and the crowd vanished and it was like we were in a world all our own. Then he reached over with his other hand and thumbed off a dollop of ketchup from my upper lip. He licked his digit clean and I tried extremely hard not to think about what that tongue would feel like as he licked his way down my torso.
“Actually, I find it refreshing,” he admitted with a wink.
I tried to swallow, but my saliva had evaporated and I coughed and had to chase the hot dog with a swig of my beer. I gave myself a mental eye roll. Smooth, Parish. Real smooth.
Hank sat back and replaced his hat on his head. The arena came into view as a woman rode in on a palomino horse, all-white chaps and red sequined shirt, an American flag in her hand as she galloped the perimeter of the arena to the whistles, cheers, and the stand-rattling stomping of the spectators. She slid her horse to a stop in the center of the arena, the steed’s sides blowing and heaving from the effort.
Then the voice of the announcer in the center of the arena boomed over the PA system, welcoming everyone to the second rodeo in a three-part buckle series. A kid around ten years old ran across the arena to him and whispered in his ear. When they were finished, the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it has been brought to our attention that we have a special guest at the rodeo tonight. Would everybody please give it up for last year’s Pro Bull Riding Champion, Hank Nash!”
My jaw dropped and my ears rang as the crowd erupted in a spontaneous cacophony of screams, hollers, claps, and stomps. The stands shook and I’m sure the nearest seismic office witnessed a hefty spike on their charts about now. Bull riding champion? I mean, I knew he rode, but a champion? Why hadn’t he said anything?
I guess that kinda explains the truck he’d won and of course…the buckle bunnies.
He ducked his head and gave it a mild shake, as a flush of embarrassment infused his cheeks. His friend beside him cuffed him on the shoulder and as the crowd roared louder, it became apparent they were not stopping until he stood up. He sent me an apologetic smile, stood, and waved his hat over his head.
The applause exploded. The concussion of it beat against my eardrums and there was this sudden silence in my head like the
re is in the aftermath of an explosion. I could see mouths moving and hands clapping, but my ears were stunned. Then the announcer raised his hand, and the crowd quieted and sat down.
“It would be our honor,” the announcer continued, “if you’d give the benediction tonight, Mr. Nash.”
When the crowd wouldn’t take no for an answer, Hank stood and I slid out of my seat to let him through. He stepped down then turned and took my hand. With him a step lower, we were almost eye-to-eye. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, the few sips of beer he’d taken wafted in my direction. “Come with me.”
Oh, hell no. I’d rather face a firing squad or beam up to the nearest UFO for full body experimentation. When I opened my mouth to say so, he mouthed the word please. Well, he might have said please aloud, but even as close as he was, there was little chance I’d hear anything below a yell.
The crowd had actually started to chant. Chant! Like they do at the baseball games when the kiss-cam focuses on a couple and the guy is like oh, yeah! and the girl pushes him away. It felt an awful lot like that, only this wasn’t the least bit fun or exciting. In fact, I found it a little terrifying. Did I mention I don’t do crowds? Perhaps that was the PTSD talking.
When I was about to turn him down and tug my hand free, he gave my hand a couple of squeezes as if saying, “Come on”. That wouldn’t have persuaded me, except when I met his eyes, those impossibly blue, impossibly sincere, impossibly hard-to-say-no-to-eyes, I found myself nodding.
The crowd roared and I would’ve stumbled down the first step if Hank hadn’t had a firm grip on my hand. To make things even better—and by better, I mean like wearing white pants when you start your period better—the quickest, most expedient way to get to the center arena was by climbing down over the three-rung railing and dropping about four feet down onto the dirt.