Cowboy Tough

by Joanne Kennedy

  She squinted and nodded. Obviously she had no idea what he was talking about. He tilted his head closer to hers so he could see from her point of view and point.

  “Right there.”

  Dang, her hair smelled good. What was that—strawberry shampoo or something? It seemed to cloud his mind. His arm wavered. What was he pointing to again?

  “Hercules?” she prompted.

  “Right. He was a cowboy, you know.”

  “Oh, I get it. The Augean stables.”

  “It’s not just because he cleaned the stables.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s because he did it by redirecting the river. A cowboy always finds the easy way to get the hard work done.”

  “Uh-huh.” She turned her head and he felt her breath on the side of his neck. “Is that what you’re doing now?”

  “Well, if I have to be a tour guide, I might as well do it lying down.” The moment he said it, he felt his face heat. Did that sound as suggestive to her as it did to him? He didn’t dare look at her to find out, so he tried to judge by the feel of her breath on his skin. It was brushing his cheek now, so she was close enough to see that he was blushing.

  He looked. He couldn’t help it.

  And she smiled.

  He’d been right that first day, out in the barn. He was doomed—but dude ranching was the least of his troubles.

  Chapter 16

  Cat couldn’t help smiling. She’d made Mack blush again. The big, tough, muscular cowboy was stumbling over his words like a schoolboy.

  She’d probably stammer herself if she tried to speak. They were lying close together, their two bodies an island of warmth in the cool Wyoming night. Despite the knowledge that her students were sleeping in the bunkhouses just a few feet away, she felt like they were very much alone.

  Anything could happen.

  He made a random stab with his finger toward the east. “That’s Pegasus. Pegasus was a quarter horse; did you know that?”

  “No.” She let herself relax and tilt toward him a little.

  “Strong, agile, flies over the land. And look at his hindquarters. Look at…”

  He paused and she turned to see what was wrong, only to meet his eyes mere inches from her own.

  “Look at you,” he said softly.

  Something in that gentle tone seduced her. Without thinking, she closed her eyes.

  And felt his kiss all the way down to her toes. He tasted faintly of toothpaste and smelled of saddle leather and something woodsy, a combination of pine and smoke. When he brought one hand up to cup the back of her head, he wrapped the other around her waist and she pressed into him. He felt solid as a rock.

  He shifted slightly and she realized he really was hard as a rock, just like that. It should have made her pull away, but instead it sent a plume of warmth from the point of contact, filling her with a reckless hunger. She reached down and cupped his hips in her hands, pulling them toward her and pressing herself against him. God help her, she was actually grinding into this man she barely knew. Anyone could come out here and see them. Dora. Emma. Anybody.

  It seemed to take Mack a while to realize she’d switched from grinding into him to pushing him away. When he let her go, the cool air sobered her like a splash of water to the face.

  “Sorry.” He blew out a short breath and stared off into the night. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. It was—involuntary.”

  “Right. So you got me out here on a blanket under the stars to—what?”

  He stared down at his hands and shook his head. “I have no idea.” He turned and looked into her face. “You do something to me. It’s stupid.”

  She rolled her eyes upward in a swooning gesture. “Oh, Romeo.”

  “Not stupid. I—well, maybe you make me stupid.”

  He reached out and touched the angle of her jaw. Who knew that was an erogenous zone? The touch was so gentle she couldn’t help leaning toward him. “Can we start over?”

  He answered with a kiss—one that was obviously not involuntary. It was a kiss calculated to conquer, and it worked. She felt herself falling, losing her grip on the world, on all her careful strategies and well-thought-out plans. Nothing existed but the sage-scented night, the faint shrill of crickets, and the scent and touch of this man. Light swirled in the darkness behind her lids, spinning in graceful curves and swoops of flame, with little rockets and flares going off when he touched her cheek, her neck, her breast—oh, God, he was touching her breast and she wanted that. More of that. She’d been wanting it for days.

  She pressed into him and took the lead, letting her own hands wander down the muscles of his back, stroking the dip just above the back loop of his jeans. She let her fingertips slip under the rough fabric just enough to make him draw in a quick breath. His hand squeezed her breast, softly at first, then harder, and then they were flailing around like a couple of teenagers, gasping for air between kisses, clawing at each other’s clothes. She slid her hands up under his shirt and dug her fingers into the muscles that ran up either side of his spine, then traced a curving path around his body to his chest. She ran the flat of her palm over his nipples and felt them harden at her touch.

  He pushed her over and then they were grappling on the ground. He was on top again, tugging her shirt up. She felt the cool air hit the swells of her breasts and wished he’d take her bra off too. With his teeth. With his tongue.

  He rolled and she spun on top of him, riding him, feeling his hardness between her legs. She threw her head back and resisted a ridiculous urge to howl at the moon.

  This was crazy. She barely knew this guy. But the urge to pulse her hips against his was so strong she could hardly help herself.

  Until the door of the bunkhouse creaked open.

  Dora.

  Nothing like an audience to quell an urge.

  How could she have forgotten? She was supposed to be a good influence. Set a good example. Instead, she was rolling around on the ground with a man she barely knew.

  She and Mack bounced apart, pawing at their clothes, smoothing their hair. Dora stood on the steps, squinting and blinking like a toddler awakened from a nap.

  “What the hell,” she said. “Are you two screwing or something?”

  “No.” Cat frantically smoothed her hair, struggling to regain her composure. “No. Mack was showing me the constellations and we—we…”

  Dora smirked. “You want me to finish that sentence, since you’re having so much trouble? How about ‘we tore each other’s clothes off and went at it like a couple of hamsters’?”

  “We didn’t. We…”

  “I saw you.” Dora sat down on a corner of the blanket, hugging her knees to her chest and looking happier than she had in a year. “What was that lecture you were giving me about strange men?”

  “I’m not strange,” Mack said. “Well, not really.”

  “Sure you’re not.” Dora’s smirk widened.

  “Well, you shouldn’t be out here in the dark,” Cat blustered. “It’s dangerous. There are bears.”

  Dora gave Mack a sideways grin. “Amazing,” she said. “I never knew bears wore cowboy boots.”

  ***

  Mack raked his fingers through his hair, then realized it was probably making him look like a wild man and stopped. What he needed was a hat. His Stetson would perform the dual purpose of covering his hair and shading his eyes so these women couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  But what was he thinking? He didn’t even know himself.

  “Sorry.” He lurched to his feet and grabbed the stick he’d been using as a poker earlier, holding it out as if to defend himself. He didn’t even know which female he was apologizing to. Maybe he should apologize to the whole species.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for.” Dora giggled and turned to Cat. “Good job. He’s way c
uter than Ames.”

  “I’m not looking for cute.”

  “No, you’re looking for trouble.” Dora lapsed into a schoolyard singsong. “And I think you found it.” She gave Mack a saucy grin and leaped to her feet to execute a shimmying curtsy. It made him feel old to watch her. Vivian had the same effect; the girls were like sparks flying up from a campfire, light as air.

  Cat was watching her niece with a stunned, wide-eyed expression. Mack almost laughed. She’d wanted to make the girl happy, and they’d done it. Maybe he’d finally done something right.

  “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.” Dora spun and tripped back up the steps to the bunkhouse. “I was just worried there was a bear out here. Didn’t realize it was just you two doing the nasty.”

  The door closed behind her, leaving Cat looking shell-shocked and very, very sorry.

  “That can’t happen again,” she said.

  He poked at the flames, stirring them to dancing, flickering life. “Does this mean the rules are back in force?”

  “I think they have to be.”

  She seemed genuinely sorry, which was nice but also meant she was serious. He sorted through the coals to avoid looking at her, fishing out a few shreds of paper that were scattered through the ashes. Since he didn’t want to make eye contact with Cat, he fished them out of harm’s way, flipping one over as if it mattered what it was.

  Hmm. Maybe it did. It was a photograph, printed on plain paper. He flipped over another shred, and another. As he scraped them out of harm’s way, Cat noticed what he was doing. She knelt down and delicately pincered one piece out of the ashes.

  “It’s… that’s weird.” She knelt and pulled out another piece, and another, laying them on one of the flat rocks that surrounded the fire pit. “It’s Dora.” She scowled down at the torn picture. There was just enough left of it to show Dora’s smile, and one of her eyes. Cat glanced back at the bunkhouse. “I thought I heard something. That’s why I came out. Why would she come out here and burn a picture of herself?”

  “That wasn’t you?”

  “No.” She shot him a glare. “Why would I burn pictures of my niece?”

  “I know you wouldn’t. It’s just… I came out because I heard someone at the fire. I figured it was you.”

  She shook her head. “I figured it was you.”

  “It must have been Dora.” Mack poked another piece of the torn photo into place. “Maybe she doesn’t like the way she looks in it. My daughter Viv is worse than a supermodel. You can’t take a snapshot without her going on about which is her best side and whether she’ll look fat.”

  “Dora’s not like that, though.” She looked back at the cabin and he could practically hear gears turning in her head, but she sighed as she rose from the fire and tossed the pieces of the photo back into the flames. “I hope it’s not—it seems like self-hate, doesn’t it? Burning a picture of yourself?” She frowned down at the reassembled photo. It had been taken at an angle that accentuated the sharpness of Dora’s chin and the hollows under her cheekbones. She looked almost grown up in the picture, and looking at it gave Cat a sense of unease.

  She turned and looked at the bunkhouse door.

  “Don’t try to talk to her now,” Mack said. “After what just happened… well, you can hardly start lecturing her about anything.”

  She shot him a reproachful scowl.

  “Hey, it wasn’t my fault,” he said. “I just came out to check the fire.”

  She dismissed him with a wave. “It doesn’t matter, Mack. You’re right.” She laced her hands in front of her and shifted nervously from one foot to another, like a nervous child. “You’re definitely right. Look, you’re great but…” She sighed. “But I need to concentrate on Dora. I mean, obviously…” She waved one hand toward the picture. “She has problems. And I can’t help her if I’m… distracted.”

  She gave him a long look, and he wondered if she was thinking of kissing him good-bye. But her eyes hardened and she gave him a quick nod, as if he’d been dismissed, and slipped into the Heifer House.

  He’d never been so sorry to be right in his life.

  Chapter 17

  They set out the next day for Hidden Lake, which promised wildflowers, water, and a view of distant mountains. They trekked around the butte through a wooded area scattered with large boulders that sloped down to the lake—or so Mack said. There was a reason it was called Hidden Lake; not so much as a glint of water showed in the distance.

  “How much further?” Trevor shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “I thought you said this was a short ride.”

  Dora rolled her eyes. “I figured this trip would be too much for you senior citizens.”

  Trevor glared at her. “I am not a senior citizen,” he said, biting his words off sharply. “I’m a grown-up. There’s a difference.”

  He didn’t sound like a grown-up. Evidently he’d never spent much time around teenagers, because he was rising to Dora’s bait like a trout leaping for a fly. Come to think of it, he was a little like a teenager himself, with his grandiose posturing and “me-me-me” attitude.

  Cat was distracted from her thoughts by a flicker of light through the dark pines. As they rounded a curve, the forest seemed to draw aside like a stage curtain to reveal an aspen grove whose pale green leaves fluttered in polite applause. The trees circled a placid, mirrorlike pool edged with a fringe of multicolored wildflowers.

  One by one, the horses stepped into the sunlit clearing and stopped as if they, too, were struck by the beauty of the scene.

  “All right.” Cat hated to break the spell, but there was work to do. She hopped down from the saddle. “Let’s unpack.”

  Mack worked with silent efficiency, helping the students unload their gear with the help of Ed and the surprisingly industrious Dora. Cat staggered across the soggy ground laden with three heavy pochade boxes, her arms burning with effort.

  Setting the boxes on the ground, she ran a hand through her hair. She felt sticky and hot, and the gesture probably left her looking like a madwoman, but what did it matter? It wasn’t like she was here to seduce anyone. In fact, it might be a good idea to let her appearance go.

  She felt something twitchy under her skin and glanced over at Dora, who was standing on tiptoe to reach a canvas portfolio strapped to the top of the load. Trevor was just a few steps away, watching the girl like a wolf watches sheep.

  “What?” he said when she caught his eye. “She’s okay. I’d help her if she needed it.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Cat said. “But fortunately, she can take care of herself. And you never know when that might come in handy.”

  ***

  Mack watched Cat swing her easel off Rembrandt’s back and extend the legs, spinning the brass screws tight. She looked competent and confident, as comfortable with her equipment as he was with a lasso and roping saddle.

  Once the easels were arranged in a neat semicircle and everyone had their supplies at hand, she gathered the students around her.

  “Nature’s not perfect,” she said. “But for some reason, your mind will try to make it all neat and symmetrical. You’ve got to fool yourself into making something free and organic. To do that, you have to let your paints flow naturally.”

  She tilted the easel until it was almost flat, then dipped a big, soft brush into a clear jar of water she’d clipped to the easel and swept it across the bottom third of her paper. Next she uncovered a plastic palette box and dipped her brush into a puddle of blue paint so dark and intense Mack almost lifted a hand to stop her, afraid she’d ruin the painting. Nothing in nature was that deeply colored. To make matters worse, she dipped the same brush in a dab of dark brown, but as the paint flowed onto the wet paper, it plumed and flowed together in a convincing imitation of the luminous pool of water.

  She lifted the panel from the easel and swung it first left, t
hen right, letting the paint drift and flow. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Mack leaned back against a tree. Every time he’d looked at Cat today he’d sensed her tensing like a deer sighted by a hunter. But when she painted she seemed oblivious to everything around her.

  As her brush darted from palette to paper, the painting transformed into a little world of her own creation. She moved differently when she painted, like a dancer, with no movement wasted.

  “Now the trees,” she said.

  He wasn’t sure if she was talking to her audience or herself as she picked up two spray bottles like a Wild West gunfighter and spritzed blue and yellow paint above the blue pool, letting it speckle and puddle on the paper. The colors flowed together, creating every imaginable shade of green. A miniature forest formed before his eyes.

  “Reflections.” The further her painting progressed, the less aware she seemed of her audience. She pulled an old-fashioned square razor blade from her pocket, slipping off the paper wrapping and then laying it against her painting. As she pulled it down from the water’s edge with a quick squiggling motion, reflections of the trees appeared in the surface of the water.

  “Highlights…”

  Her small, graceful hand darted to the partitions in the pochade box, choosing a Q-tip this time. She dragged it horizontally across the surface of the water.

  “And branches.”

  The pointed wooden end of her brush scraped random tree trunks and fallen logs at the edge of the forest, and the razor blade scratched out a few sunlit limbs.

  “There.” She stepped back. What looked like a pleasant but random design at close quarters resolved itself into a portrait of the lake before them, bordered with a realistic tangle of trees.

  “I’ll add detail once it’s dry—the flowers, and maybe a few more highlights on the water. But this is how you let nature itself define your painting.” She sounded drowsy and satisfied, and her movements were languid as if she’d just risen from bed after, well, after something he shouldn’t be thinking about.