Cowboy Tough

by Joanne Kennedy

  She pointed a finger and stroked it slowly down the length of him, making him twitch and throb. He couldn’t help watching her face. She seemed fascinated by his body, transfixed.

  “Yee-haw.” She drew out the last syllable like it tasted good.

  Resting her arms on his thighs, she kept stroking. He looked down at the pale seashell curve of her back, the tumbled curls spilling over her shoulders. He was savoring the little dimples just above her sweet round ass when sensation rippled through him and stole his breath.

  Her mouth. She was using her mouth. That little tongue, those sweet lips. Dreams really did come true, even the sexy ones.

  He leaned back and groaned, gathering her hair in one hand so he could see her face. Her eyes looked up at him, honest but somehow enigmatic, challenging even as she gave him everything he wanted.

  “You have to stop.” He closed his eyes and clamped his jaw. “I’m going to lose it.”

  Her eyes gleamed wickedly as she ran her tongue up the hard ridge on the underside of his shaft. But she only did it once before she scrambled up to straddle his lap. Warmth flooded him as she laced her arms around his neck and snuggled tight against him, her lips nibbling his jaw.

  He set his hands on her hips, letting his fingers stroke the tempting dimples he’d been eyeing earlier. She pushed into him, then rose, her tongue flicking his ear, her soft mound against his hard body. She paused and rested her head on his shoulder, and the world stopped spinning. He hadn’t been listening to the chirp of the crickets, the rustle of the trees that surrounded the cabin, but he missed them now in the hush that formed around them, bound by the circle of golden lamplight.

  She lifted her head as if she caught the change too. When their eyes met, he swore there was a crackle, a jolt of electricity, and the crickets started up again. Expelling a soft sigh, she lowered herself onto him, slowly, deliberately, her eyes on his the whole way.

  He was losing his grip on his sanity, his world, and his hard-won self-control when she rose again. She paused, and he knew by her smile that she’d caught his moment of weakness. This delicate, fragile-looking woman was triumphing over him and enjoying every minute.

  He tightened his grip on her hips and held her there. He liked seeing her this way, but he wanted to see it for more than five minutes.

  “Hold on,” he whispered. “Slow, darlin’. Slow.”

  Her eyes softened, maybe at his tone, maybe at the endearment. He’d figure that out later. But for now, the mood had changed and they weren’t vying for control anymore—they were together, moving in a sweet, slow rhythm, watching each other’s faces to gauge the pace. What had threatened to be a quick, hot gallop turned into a smooth long lope to the finish line. He took time to enjoy the view, caressing her breasts, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her belly, before regretfully rolling her over and pushing her away.

  Her eyes widened, and he felt a quick surge of victory before he cupped his hand between her legs to soothe her.

  “Slow down, honey. There’s more.”

  ***

  Cat was whimpering. Whimpering, and pushing herself into Mack’s hand like some kind of crazed nymphomaniac. And then purring, as he stroked and fondled, teased and touched.

  In the back of her mind, she was struggling to sort things out. He was a cowboy. A simple man, in tune with nature and the land. She’d expected something quick and easy. Satisfying—she’d had no doubt of that—but simple. She’d expected to be ridden, mastered, spun in a few circles and pulled to a sliding, skidding stop.

  Instead he was playing her, drawing out her pleasure like a musician stroking notes from a cello.

  She felt herself rising in a slow crescendo of need. She forgot he was a stranger, forgot she was supposed to hold back, forgot her own name as she cried out and shattered at the last, perfect, sweet high note of the song.

  ***

  Mack closed his eyes and drew in a breath, savoring the sweet honeyed scent of Cat’s hair and the weight of her in his arms. She’d gone limp as her breathing slowed, tensing once or twice as aftershocks rocked her body. Her head rested in the hollow below his shoulder, and her breath teased his chest.

  She blinked awake in minutes, looking slightly bewildered. He smiled and waited for her to catch her balance. The world might have stopped for him, but clearly it had spun for her. She clung to him and he knew he’d better enjoy it while it lasted. She wasn’t the clinging type.

  Sure enough, she was wriggling out of his arms in five breaths, rising to her knees in seven. He knew better than to hold her down. For one thing, she wouldn’t stand for it. For another, he really wanted to know what happened next.

  Hands. Hands happened next, sweeping through his hair, trailing down his face, tracing his lips, and teasing the curve between his neck and shoulder. She caressed his chest and walked her fingers down his ribs. Sweeping her hands back and forth and back again, she caressed, teased, and stroked, smiling all the while with an evil glint in her eye.

  It wasn’t long before he was back where he’d started, hanging onto a thin ledge of sanity with his fingernails scrabbling at the edge of the cliff.

  Roughly, he pulled her on top of him. Her eyes flipped open, the lazy glow turning to a bright light as she eased him inside her and he marveled at the slick glide of wetness and warmth. Setting one hand on his chest, she lifted the other in the air like a bronc rider. She pulsed her hips and he felt his grip on the cliff sliding perilously close to the edge.

  “Now this is more what I expected,” she said.

  With his hands on her hips, he slowed the pace. “What you expected?”

  “From a cowboy,” she said.

  “We’re smarter than we look.” He braced an arm behind her back and rolled her over. “And way more complicated.”

  “I knew that,” she said. “I… know… you…”

  And then she was spinning again, he could tell, lost in the sensation, and he was whirling with her. Together they spun faster and faster until all their colors blended and they were one ecstatic spiral, spinning into space.

  Chapter 23

  The next day’s trip was mercifully short. Even in the wide-open spaces, Cat could feel the tension thrumming between her and Mack. It was a good tension, but the light of day had brought worries with it. She felt like the others could see what had happened just by looking at her. Every time she looked at Mack she blushed.

  The war between wanting him and hanging onto her professionalism kept her from noticing her fatigue until she climbed the few steps to the porch. Suddenly her aches and pains leaped into high definition.

  “Whoosh,” Emma said from behind her. “I feel like that horse dragged me over the trail.”

  “I can’t feel my ass,” Abby moaned, rubbing her backside.

  The sweet yeasty smell of baking bread hit them the moment they walked in the door, and everyone’s step livened up a little. Maddie rose from the table, where she was sitting with a pretty teenaged girl about Dora’s age.

  “Welcome back!” Their hostess gestured toward the dining room, where a long table was set for a crowd. “I thought you might like to go civilized tonight and eat inside. We’re having a ranch hand dinner in the kitchen—something to stick to your ribs and replace all those calories you worked off on horseback. It’ll be ready in half an hour.”

  “Do you need any help?” Cat asked. They’d paid for full amenities, but Mack’s mother was starting to feel like family.

  “Nope.” Madeleine waved toward the girl beside her. “Viv’s here to help out. Viv, honey, this is Cat Crandall. She’s the artist I told you about. The one your dad likes so much.”

  Cat felt hot all over. She wanted nothing more than to flee the room, but the girl was looking at her with an amused half smile. Apparently she didn’t mind her dad kissing strange women.

  “Look out.” She tossed
her dark hair and laughed. “My dad’s a hound dog.”

  Cat barely heard Madeleine introduce the rest of the guests. She was too busy trying to figure out what kind of relationship Mack had with his daughter. The girl had the same wry sense of humor as her dad, but she seemed more gossip girl than cowgirl, with long silky hair and stylish clothes. Mack had said she was turning into a clone of his ex-wife. If that was true, his ex-wife must be gorgeous.

  She felt a stab of jealousy and found herself smoothing her hair. When Mack walked into the room with Ed and Charles, she deliberately messed it up and jerked her hand away. She wasn’t trying to impress him, or even start a relationship. With his daughter here, he probably wasn’t either. Not anymore.

  When he caught sight of Viv, a half-dozen expressions flickered across his face—shock, confusion, startled pleasure, and then a radiant smile—the kind of smile every daughter wants from her father. As usual, his face advertised his emotions like a highway billboard.

  At least Cat didn’t have to worry about him lying to her. And something about that smile tugged at her heart. Her own father had rarely smiled—rarely even looked at her. His expressions had been provoked by Headline News or Bill O’Reilly when they weren’t totally obscured by the local paper, which he complained about with equal vigor. Mack seemed like the kind of father who did things with his daughter, who worried about her. Who loved her.

  Maybe she should listen to his advice when they talked about Dora. Because looking at Viv, watching the two of them embrace, she felt a pang of envy. Maybe she wasn’t a real parent, but Dora needed one. And Cat wanted that closeness, that bond.

  She was going to have to try harder.

  ***

  Dinner that night reminded Mack of a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving. The students lined the table, with Cat at one end and Madeleine at the other. Dishes of chicken and dumplings, potatoes, buttered green beans laced with bacon, and baked beans made the rounds, passing from hand to hand.

  And Viv was there. Mack hadn’t had time to figure out why; he only knew her mother had dropped her off that afternoon and wouldn’t be back for a week. Mack suspected the boyfriend had wanted Alex all to himself, but it didn’t matter to him. What mattered was Viv.

  And he hadn’t just gotten Viv; he’d gotten happy Viv, who’d been a stranger for far too long. Normally his daughter sulked through her stays on the ranch as if she’d been sentenced to some kind of Gulag, but she and Dora had hit it off and that seemed to make all the difference. The two girls chattered nonstop, their heads tilted together like co-conspirators plotting a coup.

  The students kept up a lively conversation too. The only quiet ones at the table were Hank and Trevor. Hank was Hank, working his way through his food, dogged as an old plow horse. He was a hardworking plow horse, so Mack had no complaints. Actually, the man’s taciturn silences let Mack off the hook for his own quiet nature. All he had to do was sit beside the hired man to seem chatty and personable by comparison.

  Trevor’s silence was more unexpected. Normally, he seemed to fancy himself the life of the party, but tonight he was wary, glancing at Mack occasionally as if he expected to be sucker punched at any moment.

  “So what brought you to the ranch?” Mack asked Viv. He toyed with his chicken as he spoke, pretending he wasn’t hanging on every word his daughter said. He’d told Cat to pretend she didn’t care, but he wasn’t much good at following his own advice.

  “Mom brought me. You missed her.”

  He didn’t miss her a bit, but he wasn’t about to tell his daughter that.

  “She and her loser boyfriend dropped me off. They’re on their way to Vegas.”

  “Vegas?”

  Maybe Alex would get married again. He pictured his wife in a cheesy little chapel on the strip, wearing a sequined jumpsuit and saying “I do” in one of those Elvis-themed ceremonies.

  Maybe not. If Alex remarried, she’d never elope. She’d done that the first time and spent half her married life regretting the gown she hadn’t worn, the bouquet she hadn’t thrown, the rehearsal dinner and reception and honeymoon she hadn’t had. Every time they went to a wedding she pouted for weeks. Mack was sure she wouldn’t miss out on all that attention the second time around.

  “Is she still seeing that banker?” he asked.

  “Nope.” Viv stabbed viciously at an innocent dumpling. “It’s Emilio now. I think he’s a mobster.”

  Mack paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. “Why?”

  Vivian took her time chewing the dumpling while she thought about her answer. “He wears a pinkie ring.”

  Mack winced. Jewelry on men never made any sense to him. It was too easy to get stuff caught on a nail or snagged in a horse’s mane. Besides, who would spend money on that stuff? Better to buy land, or at least a good horse. Something with real value.

  “Do you like him?” He kept his expression carefully neutral. He tried not to be judgmental about the men Alex chose. His ex might trash him every chance she got, but he knew it was important for a girl to love her mother. It wasn’t always easy to keep his thoughts to himself, but he did his best.

  “I hate him,” Viv said. She stabbed another dumpling. Hard.

  Bells went off in Mack’s head, but he stayed calm. “How come?”

  Viv shrugged. “He’s a creep.”

  She continued torturing her dumplings, clearly unaware that she’d just upped her dad’s protective instincts to high alert.

  “Did he ever touch you?” Mack asked.

  “No. He’s just a creep.”

  “Does he look at you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, yeah, Dad. He’s around, you know? He has to look at me. I think he’d rather not, though.” She splayed her hands in a “ta-da” gesture. “Hence the trip to Vegas, and my exile to the colonies.”

  He vowed to get in touch with Alex at the first opportunity and find out about this Emilio creep. “It’s not exile. We’ll have fun.”

  “Whatever, Dad.”

  The rest of the meal was spent in small talk, though the issue of Emilio festered in the back of his mind. By the time the meal was over, the guy had grown fangs and a barbed tail in his imagination.

  Maddie cleared the table while the students fetched the day’s paintings and propped them against the wall in the front parlor in preparation for their nightly review. Cat picked up the first painting—Emma Delaney’s rendition of the lake—and glanced around the room.

  “Dora?”

  “Up here!” her niece hollered from upstairs. The two girls had pounded up the stairs like a couple of high-spirited ponies the minute the meal was over, taking the steps two at a time in their haste to get away from the grown-ups.

  “We’re doing the paintings now,” Cat yelled.

  Dora appeared in the doorway, her face flushed. “Viv wants to show me some stuff,” she said. “We’re talking.”

  “But you’re supposed to…” Cat glanced up at Mack, who was slouched in the doorway. He gave a faint shake of his head. She slumped her shoulders. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  The girl didn’t have to be asked twice. A cascade of giggles swept down from Viv’s room almost immediately.

  Mack hardly needed to listen while they rehashed the day’s work. He could hear Cat saying something about color and value and hue. Man, he didn’t even know what she was talking about. It was like they spoke different languages. He must be crazy to think they had anything in common. But last night…

  Last night was over. A memory. And it would have to stay that way, with Viv here.

  He strolled into the kitchen, figuring he’d help his mother with the cleanup. Someone in a frilly apron was at the sink, scrubbing dishes—but that someone wasn’t Maddie.

  It was Hank.

  What the hell? As far as Mack knew, Hank had never said a word to his mom—or any other woman, for th
at matter.

  As he stood dumbfounded in the doorway, his mother strode in from the dining room carrying a teetering stack of dishes.

  “Here you go,” she said. “Don’t put those wine glasses in the dishwasher.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  To Mack’s surprise, Madeleine giggled—giggled!—and smacked Hank on the arm. “Quit it,” she said. “I told you not to call me that. You make me feel about eighty years old.”

  “Well, you’re not old,” Hank said. “Not old at all.”

  The giggle erupted again. Was Mack’s mother flirting? With Hank?

  Mack gripped the side of the door frame, feeling suddenly dizzy. Hank had always been more than a ranch hand; he was family. But judging from Maddie’s shining eyes, he was becoming something more. That would take a lot of getting used to, but it would be a lot easier to deal with than her disastrous marriage to Ollie. In fact, Mack couldn’t help wishing Hank had tied on that frilly apron a lot sooner.

  He slipped out the back door. Standing on the top step, he looked out over the fire pit, past the Heifer House to the acres of land rolling beyond it and the low hills marking the horizon.

  He’d spent most of his life leaving this place behind, watching it fade in a cloud of dust in the rearview mirror as he headed for some rodeo. But all along, the land had been the base that held him steady, the one thing he could depend on. Only after the disaster with Ollie had it occurred to him that there might be a day when the ranch wouldn’t be there to catch him if he fell.

  But they’d held onto it so far, despite the financial ruin brought on by Ollie’s shenanigans. If this business with Art Treks worked out, and they could get a few more clients and sell some cow/calf pairs in the spring, the ranch might still be here for Viv someday.

  Viv. He really ought to check on her. He stepped back into the house and shut the door quietly behind him. The low hum of voices came from the kitchen, but his attention was on the upstairs rooms, where his daughter was.

  He wasn’t sure Dora, with her bad attitude and deep-set scars, would have been his first choice as a friend for Viv. His daughter had reached a delicate détente with both him and Alex, but Dora, with her sarcastic attitude and scorn for authority, might tilt the balance back toward war.