Best of Cowboys Bundle

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Barbara White Daille, Judy Christenberry, Christine Wenger, Shirley Rogers, Crystal Green, Nina Bruhns, Candance Schuler, Carole Mortimer

  Rooster thought about it for a second or two. “Naw.” He shook his head. “You’re right. The ladies wouldn’t like it none.”

  “OH. MY. GOD.” Cassie shrieked and hid her face in a fringed throw pillow as the male stripper yanked off his tear-away pants and started gyrating in front of her wearing only a black satin jockstrap, fringed chaps and cowboy boots.

  “Don’t you pay her no mind, darlin’,” LaWanda hollered encouragingly when Cassie refused to take his hand and join him on the floor. “You just swivel them hips right on over here to me. I’ll dance with you.” She grabbed Jo Beth by the hand and pulled her to her feet. “We’ll both dance with you.”

  Jo Beth considered refusing for about two seconds. “Oh, what the hell,” she said, throwing caution to the wind. She’d had just enough alcohol not to be appalled at the up-close-and-personal sight of the bare buttocks of a complete stranger. “Why not?”

  It was, after all, the closest she’d been to a nearly naked male body in some time. Given the way things were going, it might be the closest she’d get for some time to come. She put her hands on his hips, just above the low-slung waistband of his chaps and plastered herself to his back. LaWanda came at him from the front. Thus sandwiched together, they began to bump and grind their way around Cassie’s living room to vintage Hank Williams Jr. belting out “Honky Tonk Women” at full volume.

  It wasn’t long before every woman in the room, including the blushing bride-to-be, had joined the love train.

  “THIS IS DOWNRIGHT PITIFUL. Y’all know that don’t you?” Tom sat with his chair tilted back on two legs. His booted feet, crossed at the ankles, rested on the edge of the game table. A can of beer was balanced on his upraised knee. “Three grown men who can’t think of anything better to do at a bachelor party than sit around drinking beer and watching rodeo on ESPN.”

  His comment brought no response from the other two men. Their attention was focused squarely on the bull-riding action taking place on the big-screen TV.

  “See there?” Clay gestured at the screen with his beer. “See how that Taylor kid uses his spurs on the downswing?”

  “Yep, I see.” Rooster nodded in acknowledgment. “Reminds me of another young bull rider I know once.”

  “It damned well should,” Clay said, trying not to sound as disgruntled as he felt. “The kid told me right out loud that he copied that move by watching slow-motion tapes of me in action.”

  “There ain’t no disgrace in that. You did the same yourself, once upon a time. So’d I. So’d Tom. So’d every professional cowboy out there who’s worth his salt. It’s the best way to learn aside from doin’ it.”

  “Yeah, well.” Clay took a sip of his beer to avoid saying any more. Rooster was right. There was no disgrace in watching and learning from a competitor’s tapes; it was standard practice for professional athletes in every sport. But, hell, there was just something about the young bull rider currently strutting his stuff on the TV screen that rubbed Clay the wrong way. The kid was too cocky by half, for one thing. And he wasn’t near as good as he thought he was—a fact that would be amply illustrated when Clay was healed up enough to return to the circuit.

  “Judgin’ by the way he’s movin’ up in the rankings, he appears to be learnin’ right well,” Rooster said.

  “That’ll slow down some when he gets some real competition.”

  “Meanin’ what?”

  “Meaning the two top contenders for the last four years running aren’t competing this year due to injuries and—”

  “That’d be you and Marty Bates.”

  “That’s right. Me and Marty Bates. Plus Bud Taggart’s been slowed down considerably by his bad back, so his scores aren’t near as high as they should be. It’s probably his last year on the circuit, if his wife doesn’t nag him into quitting before the season’s over.” He could feel the tension ratchet up inside him as he spoke, all out of proportion to the subject at hand, and had to make a concerted effort to keep his tone even. “But Marty will be out of his cast in another couple of weeks, and I’ll be back on the circuit next year. Then we’ll see how fast that Taylor kid moves up the rankings.”

  “I thought the doctors told you not to plan on goin’ back on the circuit,” Rooster said.

  The sudden wave of anger and anxiety that washed over Clay at his friend’s words took him by complete surprise. He had to clamp down hard—physically and emotionally—to keep from showing it.

  “What the hell do doctors know?” he said, waving a hand dismissively. Casually. He had to be casual. “They told me I wouldn’t be back after that wreck in Abilene six years ago when I cracked those two bones in my back, either. Or the time I got kicked in the head and was unconscious for three days. They were wrong then. They’re wrong now.”

  But Rooster wouldn’t let it go. “You were a lot younger then. Broken bones and broken heads heal faster when you’re young.”

  “All that means is it’ll just take me a little longer to heal this time. It doesn’t mean I won’t go back.”

  “It means you shouldn’t, though.”

  “Leave it alone, Rooster.”

  “I’m only just sayin’—”

  “Leave it alone,” Clay said, more sharply than he had intended.

  Tom tsk-tsked loudly. “Just plain downright pitiful.” He shook his head with mock ruefulness. “They ought to just take the three of us out and shoot us.”

  “What the hell are you bellyachin’ about?” Rooster said, turning to the man who had been his first partner on the rodeo circuit, way back before he up and married a blond firecracker named Roxy.

  “It’s your bachelor party. Your last night on earth as a free man. And the three of us are sitting here, watching the TV, like tired old coots in a nursing home.”

  “We could crash the slumber party,” Clay suggested, thankful for the change in conversation. He didn’t want to discuss his return to rodeo with Rooster. He didn’t like how it made him feel, and it wasn’t a subject that was open for discussion, anyway. “Reenact a memorable event from your ill-spent youth.”

  “Well, now, there’s a thought,” Tom said, as if he were actually considering it. “What do you think, Rooster? Care to take a stroll down memory lane? Go tapping on the window glass in the dark of night and give the ladies a thrill?”

  “Lord, no! Them ladies is a lot meaner now than they was back in high school. We’d have all of ’em out on the porch with shotguns this time.”

  “Yeah, but it might be worth it to see the whole bevy of ’em in their pajamas again. Like old times.” Tom grinned. “Besides, none of them can shoot worth a damn anyway, so we wouldn’t be in all that much danger.”

  “You’re forgettin’ about Jo Beth. She could shoot the fleas off a dog without partin’ its fur.” Rooster’s smile was just a tad bit sly. “And she’s a damned sight more likely to take aim at you than she would some flearidden hound.”

  Clay sat up a little straighter in his chair. “What’s Jo Beth got against you?”

  “Nothing,” Tom said quickly. Too quickly. “And it happened years ago, anyway. It’s water under the bridge.”

  “What’s water under the bridge?”

  “Tom here broke his engagement to Jo Beth when he met Roxy,” Rooster said, more than happy to provide the information.

  “I was never engaged to Jo Beth.”

  “Not officially, maybe. But everybody knows you was fixin’ to pop the question at the end of the rodeo season. You would’ve, too, if you hadn’t met up with Roxy in that honky-tonk in Lubbock. You should remember how they met up, Clay. You was there. It was your first season on the circuit.”

  “I remember it very well.” Clay cut a deliberately reproachful glance at Tom. “I didn’t know he was engaged to Jo Beth while he was sparkin’ Roxy, though. I bet she didn’t know it, either. It’s not the kind of thing she’d put up with.”

  “Gawddammit,” Tom said. “I was not engaged to Jo Beth.”

  “Near as ma
kes no difference,” Rooster insisted, gleefully sticking the needle in. “The shame of losin’ you is what soured that little gal on cowboys and turned her into a bitter old maid.”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud. You’re as gossipy as an old maid yourself.” Tom dropped his feet to the floor. “You two can stay up swapping lies all night, if you want, but I’m going to bed.”

  Rooster snickered. “’Pears he’s a mite touchy on the subject.”

  “Appears so,” Clay agreed.

  The last two men left on the field grinned at each other in mutual understanding and perfect harmony. There were few things more satisfying than successfully tweaking a good friend about his past.

  “Is she really a bitter old maid?” Clay asked.

  “Oh, hell, no. I just said that to yank ol’ Tom’s chain.”

  “She soured on cowboys?”

  “Well.” Rooster shrugged. “She ain’t had any truck with one since Tom throwed her over for that firecracker he married. Why? You got interests in that direction?”

  Clay shrugged noncommittally. “She’s a woman, isn’t she?”

  “Well, there’s women and there’s women. And she ain’t like any woman you ever known before.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning she ain’t a buckle bunny out lookin’ for a good time, is what. She’s a rancher. And that means she’s hard-headed and ornery and more prideful than most folks here ’bouts think is becomin’ in a female.”

  “But she’s still a woman.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Rooster conceded and, having reached his quota of conversation for the evening, turned his attention back to the action on the TV screen.

  The next fifteen minutes were filled mostly with companionable silence and the occasional rhetorical comment about some bull rider’s performance, or lack thereof. Finally, when the credits started to roll, Clay stood up.

  “Well, pard, unless you have a hankering to head on over to that girlie bar, after all, it looks like your bachelor party is officially over.”

  “Looks like,” Rooster agreed, and got to his feet as well. “See you in the mornin’.”

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Clay found himself alone in bed, staring up at the moonlight and shadows on the ceiling, with nothing else to do but lie there remembering every delicious detail of Jo Beth Jensen’s wet, naked body—and every nuance of his response to it. It was a long time before he went to sleep.

  THE PARTY WAS STILL GOING strong over at Cassie’s. At eleven o’clock—while Clay was busy with his party of one—the ladies trooped out, en masse, onto the porch to wave the stripper on his merry way, then trooped back inside to play X-rated bachelorette party games with X-rated prizes thoughtfully provided by LaWanda from the inventory of her new at-home sex-toy business.

  At midnight, they discovered that Melissa Meeker was the first to succumb to too much revelry. “Jet lag,” Cassie said kindly, as she draped a knitted afghan over the recumbent form of her sorority sister.

  Barb Kittner went down thirty minutes later. “Come on, honey,” Roxy said to the mother-to-be. “Let’s get you into a bed before you fall asleep on your feet.”

  By one-fifteen, only Jo Beth and Cassie were left awake, with the less stalwart members of the bride’s entourage sleeping all around them.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Jo Beth said, as she attempted to smooth out the lumps in her sleeping bag. “It’s a damned good thing the wedding isn’t until four o’clock tomorrow. Any earlier and some of your bridesmaids would still be too hung over to make it.”

  Cassie yawned hugely and snuggled deeper into her pillow. “It was a great party. Thanks for doing it for me.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetie. But it wasn’t just me, you know.” She slipped her hand under the sleeping bag, intent on finding the source of her discomfort. “Everyone help—Good God, what’s this thing?”

  Cassie peered at the tangled web of straps and buckles dangling from Jo Beth’s fingers through eyes made heavy by too little sleep and too much tequila. “I think LaWanda called that a bondage harness.”

  “What the hell do you do with it? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” She dropped it on the coffee table next to a feathered wand, a jar of edible body paint, a far too realistically shaped purple latex vibrator, and a battery-operated device called Kitten Klamps, which looked like miniature jumper cables and was meant—if she recalled LaWanda’s explanation correctly—to be attached to various delicate areas of a woman’s anatomy. “Do you believe people actually use this stuff?”

  A delicate snore was her only answer.

  The bachelorette party was officially over.

  Jo Beth punched her pillow into a more comfortable position, snuggled down into her sleeping bag, closed her eyes…and dreamed heated dreams involving Clay Madison, body paint, and jumper cables. It was not a restful slumber.

  4

  DESPITE THE FACT that two of the bridesmaids started out the day with massive hangovers, and one of the groomsmen was sporting a doozy of a black eye, the wedding was a joyous affair and went off without a hitch to mar the solemnity and beauty of the festivities. If Jo Beth hadn’t had to share duties that kept her practically joined at the hip with Clay, she would have enjoyed it unreservedly. As it was, her nerves were stretched almost to the limits of her self-control by his unalleviated, unrelenting, unsettling presence.

  He was there when she arrived at the Bowie First Fellowship Church, standing in the wide arched doorway at the top of the stairs in a classic tuxedo and shiny black cowboy boots with all the other identically clad groomsmen who, somehow, seemed to fade into insignificance next to all the effortlessly gorgeous in-your-face masculinity that was Clay Madison. She could feel his eyes on her, watching silently, a slight sly smile curving his lips as she and the other bridesmaids shepherded the flustered and fluttering Cassie out of the limo and up the stairs into the vestibule that had been set aside for the female members of the wedding party. She kept her head averted and her chin lifted, pretending she was too preoccupied with keeping the lavishly embroidered train of the bride’s billowing white dress from dragging on the steps to notice his presence.

  He was there at the pulpit beside Rooster, standing easily, shoulders squared, feet slightly apart, his big hands clasped loosely in front of him as the processional played. That same slight smile hovered around his lips and a knowing, salacious gleam was in his hot-coffee eyes as he watched her precede Cassie down the aisle. She stared past him, hands tight around her bouquet of peach-colored Sunset Celebration tea roses, which matched the silk dresses she and the other bridesmaids wore. Fastening her gaze oh-so-reverently on the stained-glass window that graced the sanctuary’s rear wall, she mentally counted her steps and hoped to hell she didn’t stumble in her strappy dyed-to-match high-heeled sandals.

  He was there at the ceremony’s end, hovering with what felt like considerably more than appropriate attentiveness, his elbow crooked to receive her hand for the recessional when it came time to make their way back down the aisle behind the beaming bride and groom. She accepted his arm with a vague smile meant to convey to him just how inconsequential he was to her except as an officially sanctioned escort, and pretended not to notice the rock-hard firmness of the muscles beneath the smooth black fabric under her palm.

  He was there, squished between LaWanda Brewster and Melissa Meeker—who, she noted sourly, made absolutely no attempt to give him any breathing room—in the back of one of the two white stretch limousines hired to transport the wedding party to the Second Chance Ranch for the reception. She ignored the fact that they were sitting practically knee to knee in the crowded interior and focused all of her considerable attention on making Tiny O’Leary believe his animated account of the barroom brawl he’d been in at a honky-tonk out on Highway 81 the night before was utterly fascinating.

  He was there during the interminable picture-taking with the official wedding photographer before the reception began, flirt
ing with the bridesmaids, keeping the groomsmen loose, and making Cassie—and Rooster—blush for the camera. She smiled on cue and ignored him as if he were invisible, refusing to be taken by his good-natured, good-ol’-boy act.

  He was there, standing next to her in the receiving line at the official start of the reception, greeting Cassie and Rooster’s guests with a mixture of easygoing charm and effortless efficiency that made them feel welcome without inviting them to linger and hold up the line. She assured everyone of her pleasure in seeing them, and ignored the heat that sizzled up her arm every time she and Clay inadvertently bumped elbows.

  He was there, sitting next to her at the linen-covered head table while the wedding supper was served and eaten. She chatted vivaciously with Hector Menendez, who sat on her other side and Bill Evers who sat across from her, and pretended to ignore the outrageous way Clay flirted with every bridesmaid except her.

  And he was there when the bride and groom invited the wedding party out onto the dance floor to join them at the conclusion of their first dance as husband and wife. Rising to his feet beside her, he held out his hand—his big, calloused hand, with the rope burn across the palm—and practically dared her not to take it.

  “I believe this is our dance, Miz Jensen,” he said politely, leaving her no option but to stand up with him or have everyone in town gossiping for the next two months about how the maid of honor at Cassie and Rooster’s wedding had been so rude as to refuse to dance with the best man.

  She’d been the focus of quite enough gossip in her life concerning her relationships—or lack thereof—with cowboys. She didn’t want to be at the center of any more.

  Without a word, she put her hand in his and let him lead her onto the floor. As he swung her into a lively country two-step, Jo Beth discovered it was impossible to ignore him any longer.

  The man she’d been fantasizing about for the last week was holding her in his arms as they revolved around the dance floor. The hard, muscled chest she had imagined pressed against her bare breasts was less than a foot away, covered only by the fine pin-tuck pleating on the front of his white cotton dress shirt. The hands she’d envisioned stroking her naked, needy body were warm against her all-too-receptive flesh, touching her lightly at shoulder and palm. The sculpted lips she had pictured ravishing hers were within kissing distance, curved upward at the corners in the slight, sly smile that made her want to sink her teeth into his lush bottom lip. He radiated strength and heat and sheer masculine sex appeal. And he danced—there was no other word for it—divinely, with a strong, sure lead and a lazy swaying rhythm that had the fluttering handkerchief hem of her peach silk bridesmaid’s dress brushing against the black gabardine fabric of his tuxedo trousers with every supple turn and twist of their bodies. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d exhibit the same control and rhythm in bed.