Wild West Weekend

by C. R. Moss

  In his own defense, what could he say? He would always be that eighteen-year old boy in Dakota’s eyes. Sometimes Damon performed the actions prior to digesting what the reactions would be. He knew he was impulsive, but he was trying to change.

  He shrugged his shoulders, considered his walk down memory lane. Must be a flaw of being the youngest.

  Once he’d secured the last dark brown colored bottle on the top of the wooden fence post, he turned and faced the shooter. Amazed at her dissection of his gun, he watched in steady fascination. Bristol intently surveyed the rifle, touching parts she shouldn’t. His gaze remained glued to the safety—just in case she made a mistake and aimed to shoot his nuts off. After the riding episode, his willingness to hand her a gun surprised him.

  “You ready, darlin’? It’s not rocket science.”

  She nodded with what appeared to be best described as an anxious look, her black curls swaying around her lower back. He stared at the uneasiness of her body language, was she anxious as in excited or skeptical? Damn, in the same moment though, she was stubborn, sexy, and making him downright horny as shit. He should shut his mouth or else the stage woman might use him for target practice.

  Easing her suede skirt behind her, she moved into a shooting stance. “I’m going to try for the last bottle on the left and move to the right. Hitting each bottle on my way toward the final target.”

  As long as it’s not me we’re kosher cowgirl.

  Pointing to the first bottle, she lunged deeper into the stance.

  He tilted his black Stetson low over his eyes, hooked both thumbs in his front pockets. And waited. Waited some more. Release the safety, Bristol.

  “Anytime now, darlin’.”

  Her shoulders squared at his words. She sighed. Heavily.

  Biting back the chuckle, he swallowed the noise into his throat and coughed under the pressure. There she was with her ridiculous fringed outfit dancing around her body, still struggling against the contours of the thick rifle. I’d like you to struggle, baby, but not against that rifle.

  Mouthing what Damon was sure weren’t terms of endearment toward him, she continued her babbling until he couldn’t hold back the laughter and stepped up to assist. “I really don’t mind helping you.”

  She snapped her head to the right, glared at him in aggravation, obviously daring him to speak another word.

  With both palms in the air, he surrendered to the actress. “I know… you’re a professional stage shooter. And stubborn. But, darlin’, I do help maintain this working ranch… and we learned to use guns the moment we took our first steps.”

  “Oh, fine,” she grumbled. She twirled then pushed the gun against his chest.

  “No, no, sweet thing. I’m going to shadow you. Put you into my arms and cradle your body as you shoot. Think you can handle being close to me again?”

  “Fine.” Her reply snapped out of her mouth, but her attention never left the bottles. “What?” She turned her beautiful blue-eyed gaze into his face. “I can most certainly handle you, Damon Dougan. Question is, can you handle me?”

  He was sure his smile looked devious. “Oh, darlin’, is that an open challenge? Be careful what you ask. You should know by now, I never back-down from a challenge.”

  Her bossy attitude turned to one of contemplativeness, easily recognizable by the way her full lips turned into a slight smile and her brow arched. Instantly, his dick jumped. Great. It was only late afternoon and his erection strained against his jeans. He turned into a wild animal in her presence. Damn, he wouldn’t mind riding her bare back.

  Taking the rifle in his right hand, he pulled her back against his chest securing her in place, then caged her with the left hand. He breathed in, tightened the embrace. She smelled like flowers. The wildflowers he grew to love growing up on the ranch.

  Bristol leaned her head slightly to the side. Her white fringed Stetson clipped the rim of his. “Sorry.” Her voice softened, contrasting her earlier aggravated tone.

  A wave of desire lit up his body like fireworks on the Fourth of July. He wanted to throw the gun to the ground, pull her into his arms, and disappear through the woods. He’d take his good ole’ time exploring every nook and cranny of her exquisite physique. A certain place fragmented his thoughts, a boulder where he could strip her bare resting her body against the cool, smooth surface of Lover’s Rock at Shimmer Pond.

  Instead, he took her hand into his, crooked the rifle gently between her arm pit and breast, placing his arm snug against hers. “Now, pay attention, Bristol. Look at the target.”

  Without warning her body trembled under his touch. “You’re trembling, darlin’. No need, I want this, too. I really want this. I believe I’m going to collect on your open challenge sooner than later,” he whispered, then sucked her earlobe into his mouth. He couldn’t help himself.

  She tried to turn toward him even with the awkwardness of the gun, his clue to take total control of the weapon. He held it steady in his hand. All he needed was the gun firing, maiming both of them. He’d never live that incident down with the Dougan men. Yeah, the family would probably accuse him of trying to shoot her.

  Now that he had control of one weapon, he needed to harness some control on the other one straining against his zipper. Easy boy.

  As she turned, she stepped in closer and placed her beautiful, sexy lips on his. He slid his hand against the small of her back, the suede fabric warm against his open palm. What a fit.

  She licked his lips, and the thought of her wanting him sent blood pumping through his veins in record speed. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought spontaneous combustion believable.

  * * * *

  Bristol moaned against his warm inviting mouth. The last thing she wanted to do was shoot the target. Instead, she wanted to hold and caress the man in her arms. She’d laid down the challenge and he’d accepted, at least that’s what he’d admitted. Lacing her fingers in the tousled strands of hair at the nape of his neck, she nibbled his top lip.

  He spoke against her mouth. “I need to set the gun down, darlin’. I’d hate to drop it, or even worse, shoot both of us.”

  “Sorry.” Catching her breath, she apologized for kissing him when in reality she’d like to have stripped him bare, throw him to the ground, and place her hands all over his body. But, she should show him she really did know how to shoot with the best of them.

  “Don’t be. I’d rather explore your body all afternoon, then play target practice.”

  Her eyebrows creased in concentration. “But, I wanted to show you how good I am.”

  “And I’m looking forward to learning just how good you—”

  Placing her hands on her hips, she cleared her throat. “I mean my shooting skills.”

  Her words seemed to press his curiosity button, because he kept his hands around her waist, but took one step backward. “Exactly what kind of guns do they shoot in Annie Get Your Gun?”

  Tilting her head, she fingered the rim of her Stetson. “Prop guns. But they are designed just like the real ones. During training, we were told there isn’t much of a difference between the two.” She hesitated, flipped the curls resting on her chest over her shoulder. “Except death.”

  Biting down on his lip, he gave her an all knowing smile. “Right. That’s what I figured.”

  “Exactly what are you insinuating?”

  “Nothing, darlin’. I know prop guns. They’re light weight, smaller scaled, and shoot blanks. Hence the no death factor.”

  “So, are you saying I can’t shoot? Speak plainly, Mr. Dougan.”

  “Ah, so, now we’re on a formal name basis? I best get my shit together.” In a sweeping gesture he bowed to her, then gazed up, and the pleased gleam in his eyes was breathtaking. “I’m sorry my fair lady, please show me your skills. Shooting ones of course.”

  Pure sexual fire, laced with the stubborn streak she was known for, spit through her body, and she knew, without a doubt her face was beet red. Just because she
was an actress didn’t mean she was any less of a cowgirl. She beat out hundreds for the role of Annie Oakley. Shooting the prop rifle was part of the process. Perhaps shooting a real gun was a little different, but seriously how hard could it be? Plus, she never backed down from anyone or anything. Ever.

  “I’ll show you, Damon Dougan. I will shoot every one of these bottles. Right now.”

  She recognized the humor then frenzy on his face as she bent down and snatched the gun. I can do this. Safety underneath. She touched her thumb to the small button. Crooking the gun under her arm, she glared at Damon as he bolted like a frightened gazelle across the clearing.

  “I’m sure you’re going to do fine, darlin’,” he yelled as he scurried from view.

  Pansy.

  The trouble all happened in a puff of smoke. She released the button, aimed the gun, and pulled the trigger. The power of the gun pushed her backward just as the butt dislodged from her armpit and smashed her cheek. Knocking her on her derrière. Once again.

  Within seconds, Damon stood above her. His expression contorted from shocked to slightly bothered in a split second. Concerned or mad, she wasn’t quite sure how to read him, he fell to his knees touching his hand to her cheek.

  “Damn it woman. You practically gave me a stroke. Are you hurt? Is anything broken?” He did a quick once over inspection. “What is wrong with you? Are all actresses as stubborn as you are?”

  “My butt hurts.”

  “Enough of this nonsense, Bristol. You’re lucky you didn’t crack a cheek bone or break your nose.” Pulling her up into his arms, he mumbled under his breath.

  She was sure he muttered cuss words. Cowboy cuss words. And they were very sexy, even if in anger.

  “You are by far the best stage cowgirl I’ve ever seen. You definitely know how to invoke emotion in your audience. And, you’re by far the most stubborn woman of the century.”

  “I know. I’m the best at what I do. I do have a Tony to prove it.”

  His gaze darted across her face. He shook his head. “Sugar, I’m puttin’ my foot down. No more crazy ass stunts like this again.” Seriousness laced his expression. “For God sake you could’ve been seriously hurt.”

  On the inside, she praised the Lord, but outside she pasted a pretend frown. “But, I was looking forward to roping the horses.”

  “The only person roping today will be me. Roping you to my side you crazy woman.” He winked sending her heart palpitating against her ribcage. “Correction, roping you to my sleeping bag.”

  Both laughed as he pulled her up off her feet and carried her toward the truck.

  He shifted his legs against the pressure of his latest erection as he placed her on her feet near the vehicle. “Are you horny, Bristol?”

  She nodded, her dark curls falling against her shoulders. “For you, Damon, yes. I’m horny for you. Do you think you can help me with my problem?”

  She didn’t need to ask him twice. Leaning in close to her face, he pulled her into an embrace. “Let’s go, time’s a wastin’. It’s time for you to show me how much you want me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Her amused expression stopped him in his tracks. “To my secret place on a private trail.”

  A cute, defiant twitch morphed across her face. “I’m not going to your love shack.”

  With a chuckle, he lifted her into his arms. “Yes, you are. The childhood Dougan playhouse awaits you, and yes, we did try to make it a love shack. Me, my brother and our friends, going through puberty, you can probably imagine the stories we can share.” He shook his head. “You’ll be my first female guest in over fourteen years granted entrance. Not to mention, the first person…” His voice drifted and stopped. He cocked an eyebrow. “Hopefully, the first person that I’ll get to home-plate with in there.”

  “I’m going to the Dougan make-out site. To run the bases. Wow, I feel so privileged.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The secret cabin, past playhouse, teenage love shack, was a cave. Literally, a cave.

  They climbed a short wooden ladder to the entrance of the hole in the side of the mountain, Bristol holding Damon’s belt loop the entire ascent. A cool breeze wafted out at them as they moved into the opening. She chose to quit looking down past the trail where the ridge fell away to a cliff. Vertigo.

  Twenty steps in, they reached a plywood door that read, Boys Only in big black letters.

  Bristol slid up against his back, wrapped her arms around him, hoping that if there were any big, bad animals or nasty slithering creatures he’d protect her. Damon placed his hand over the hand she clutched against his stomach in a massive death grip, then pushed open the makeshift door with his other one. Next, he reached around with the same free hand and pulled her around him, forcing her to her knees in the small square room.

  “Don’t move, darlin’. I’ll be back in a flash.” He disappeared into the darkness. After a few choice cuss words, illumination brought into focus the large matchbox space built into the cave. Plaid sleeping bags spread close together on the floor. On one of the bags sat, a loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter, one knife, and an iced down bottle of champagne with two paper cups. “I have to admit, I gave our cook, Miguel, a call and asked him to set this up for me on the off chance we made it here.”

  The sweetness of the scene laid in front of her practically stopped her beating heart for a second. And then she looked at him, really looked at him. The light from the kerosene lantern played against his deep set features. The blue in his eyes sparkled against the light and shadows. The look on his face mirrored her own deep-set desire, contentment, and possibly something more.

  “So?” He swung a hand out in front of him. “What do you think? Do you like how I had Miguel set the place up?”

  His little boy expression, the hope for approval in his face touched her in a place she wasn’t sure still existed. “What is this place? I mean tell me how it came to be, Damon.” She glanced around the makeshift room. She hoped the walls would be strong enough against any roving beasts. But at least there are non-cave walls. Her gaze roved over the area. Memories of childhood dreams covered every corner of the tattered wood that reached up to almost touch the low rock ceiling. So many memories…

  He plopped down into the center of one of the sleeping bags, and she followed suit. Carefully, he pulled the champagne from the bucket, uncorked it and filled the Dixie cups with the bubbly liquid, handing her a glass. He took a healthy swig, then turned his attention back to her once again. “This is the Dougan men’s tree house. Our grandfather built the first version for his son, then redid it for us the moment he found out my mother was pregnant with his first grandson, Dakota.” Sullenness embraced his expression. “Granddad was a good man. Said every boy needs a place to escape to, to call his own. He was right. Growing up, this was the one place my brother and I could come to get away from the world. Crazy girlfriends, bossy parents, chores from hell, you name it.” He tipped back the cup and took another drink. “I spent a lot of time here. When my fiancé married my best friend.”

  His words stopped her in her tracks. Say what?

  In absolute shock she tilted her head to better study his face, she couldn’t help but wonder what could have possibly went wrong. “Damon, I’m so sorry. That’s really awful. How long were you two broken up when that happened?”

  His gaze held an insidious glint. “We weren’t broken up. We were planning to marry on a Saturday night at one of the strip hotels. You know, in one of those themed chapels. She married my best friend, our best man, that afternoon.”

  Incredulous, Bristol’s mouth dropped open. She tried hard to show little surprise on her face, but her mouth fell anyway. Carefully, she repeated his comment just in case she heard it wrong. “Your fiancé married your best friend, the best man, on your wedding day?”

  “Yes.”

  Maybe her sad story wasn’t the saddest after all. Mmm… yes, it was. “I bet I can do you one better.”

 
; Curiosity softened his resigned expression. “How so?”

  She swallowed back against the urge to puke. Bristol was about to share the vivid details of the secret that she mentioned earlier to Damon, who would surely be out of her life by Monday night. But need took the place of fear. She willed self-control. “Like I said, my ex-husband liked men. I found him in bed with my leading man. But, there is more to the story.”

  “I’d say we’re probably tied for pain then when it comes to our exes.”

  Bristol snorted. “Not quite. You don’t understand. They were in the middle of going at it. My husband bent over the foot board. Tony pumping into him and—”

  Damon shot both hands, palms up in front of him. “Stop the monologue, darlin’. No more details needed here. I got it.”

  She tried to hold back the lone tear. It escaped. But after the first one the waterworks flowed, holding back for no one. “I’m sure you can imagine. It was tragic on so many levels.”

  Soft hands cupped her cheeks. The warmth of his skin mixed with the wetness on hers, coating her face. He lowered his head to nuzzle her cheek. His lips brushed against her earlobe, and he placed a gentle kiss on the skin. “Let me love you, Bristol Ashcombe. Tonight is about us. Tonight we say goodbye to remnants of pain we’ve endured in our lives. Let yourself go with me, darlin’. Belong to me tonight.”

  Taking the champagne from her hand, he placed it on the floor next to him, then carefully straddled her, easing them both down onto the king-sized, two-person sleeping bag. Tenderly, he kissed her cheek as she slid her arms around his neck. The hardness of his cock felt like heaven against her pelvis. It had been too long since she felt that blatant sexual need from a man.

  “Let’s get into the sleeping bag.” His voice held a ragged whisper.

  Bristol’s breath caught on a surge of yearning so abrupt and intense it felt like pain. She proceeded to find the edge of the bag to open it.