by LuAnn McLane
He sat there for a little while longer, reliving the day up until the moment when he had wanted to kiss her one last time but had walked away, knowing full well that a kiss would lead to another and he would likely be in bed with her right now.
God, how he wanted to be. But what silly thing was he truly scared of? The answer was cute, little, could-not-kill-a-spider Dakota Dunn. “Why?” he asked, grinding his teeth together, but he knew the answer. The only thing he had ever truly committed to one hundred percent had been bull riding. He had given his heart, his soul, even his well-being, and he didn’t know if he had the strength left in him to ever give of himself in that total way again. And he also knew that Dakota was an all-or-nothing kind of girl. Her brave I’m-a-big-girl, no-strings-attached speech was a crock, and she had already pretty much admitted it, and she deserved much more.
With another long sigh, Trace pushed up from the chair and went inside. He started to turn toward his bedroom, but instead he walked into his living room and looked out the window over to Dakota’s cabin, wondering like a lovesick fool if she was thinking about him or fast asleep.
Her cabin was dark, making him think she was doing the sensible thing and getting some rest, which is precisely what he should be doing. Playing hooky had its price, and tomorrow he would have a full day’s work ahead of him. When he passed the kitchen on his way to the bathroom, the digital clock read well after midnight. With that in mind, he brushed his teeth, shucked his clothes, and slid beneath the covers.
And thought about Dakota.
With a groan, he punched the pillow so hard that several fluffy feathers escaped, but he didn’t care and punched it again. “Damn!” He closed his eyes and then realized he was squeezing them shut like a little kid. If he wasn’t so frustrated he would have laughed, but instead he punched the pillow again, thinking all the while that Dakota was most likely sleeping like a baby.
Dakota flopped onto her right side for a minute, couldn’t get situated with her pillow, and then rolled to her back, but knew she would never sleep on her back, so she rolled to her left side and blinked into the darkness. Boy, it was dark. She pulled the extra pillow to her body, closed her eyes, but remained completely awake.
“Well, hell’s bells,” she grumbled, borrowing one of Sierra’s many curse-word combinations. She had Trace Coleman on the brain, a man who was probably sawing logs while he had the nerve to keep her awake. While he walked away without so much as “I’ll see ya later” or even a little bitty kiss on the cheek, she had spent the night writing a song inspired by his sorry ass.
His sorry ass. Now there was a country song title. After all, she was supposed to be doing kick-ass, not sappy-ass, songs with happy endings, and if she thought of the word ass one more time, she was going to scream!
She punched the pillow so hard that she felt she might have broken her wrist. She lifted her arm and rotated her hand in a circle. “Ouch!” Well, at least sprained her wrist anyway. She turned over, tossed and turned, pushed the pillow away when it made her too hot, and then felt bare, so she pulled it to her again. But then she was reminded she was in bed alone, hugging a pillow instead of a body, and with a little squeal, she tossed it to the floor.
“I don’t need you!” she growled at the innocent pillow, when of course she was really referring to one Trace Coleman, who she was sure was absolutely not tossing and turning or thinking nonstop about her or reliving the waterfall kiss over and over and over like a crazy person.
The jerk.
Dakota glared down at the pillow, really wanting it back in bed with her, but she’d be damned if she’d give it the satisfaction. “No way,” she said, and then realized she was once again speaking to an inanimate object. She punched the bed this time, totally forgetting about her almost-broken wrist, and let out a very loud yelp, not from pain but from frustration. It wasn’t one of her movie-worthy screams, but it rang out loud and clear in the dead of the night.
Oh, crap.
The windows were open wide, and she just bet Trace heard her. “No way. He’s sleeping like a log.” And even if he did, she had cried wolf so many times that he surely would ignore it anyway, right?
21
Pillow Talk
“What the hell?” Trace frowned into the darkness, wondering if he had just heard Dakota scream. Surely he had imagined it. He lay very still and strained his ears. An owl hooted. A coyote howled. He sighed, thinking he had mistaken an animal for Dakota, and closed his eyes once again.
But what if she had screamed?
Trace opened his eyes. His heart thumped at the prospect that something could have happened to her. The reasonable part of his brain reminded him that it was the middle of the night and not too many disasters could befall someone sleeping in a cozy cabin. But then again, he thought, he was talking about Dakota, who could probably find a way to hurt herself in a padded room.
“I need to be put in a damned padded room,” Trace grumbled as he pushed back the covers and stood up, knowing full well if there was any chance at all for him to get some much-needed sleep he had to know she was safe and snuggled in her bed. But how? Walk over there? Call her? He paced back and forth and finally picked up his phone and decided to send a text message.
He typed: Did you just scream? While shaking his head, he pushed the SEND button and then waited, but not for long. A few seconds later, his phone beeped and his heart lurched when her name appeared on the screen. He opened the message that read: No. Trace, feeling silly, frowned at the phone glowing in the dark. Perhaps he was imagining things after all. With his cell phone still in his hand, he slid back beneath the covers and like an idiot wondered what he could ask simply to keep the contact with her coming. God, I am pathetic.
A moment later it beeped again. He eagerly opened the message and it read: Okay, yes, I did.
Feeling vindicated, Trace quickly typed back: Are you okay?
She sent: Yes. Sorry. Don’t tell Sierra I screamed again.
In spite of his mixed-up feelings, Trace smiled, relieved, and typed back: Why did you scream? A spider?
No.
What then?
There was a pause before she answered: Nothing.
Which, of course, meant something. Although his reasonable brain urged him to type Good night, he persisted: Tell me.
After another pause, she answered: I hurt my wrist a little.
Trace frowned, not liking her response, and sent: Are you sure you are okay?
She answered quickly this time: Yes.
Trace typed back: Okay. He waited, anxious for more contact from her, but the phone remained silent. But just as he was giving up hope, it beeped again and his heart pumped harder when her name popped onto the screen. He opened the message: Don’t worry, and go to sleep. Trace smiled, thinking that it was uncanny how they were beginning to know each other so well in such a short period of time.
And he suddenly wanted her next to him, right now. This minute. He really should go over and check her wrist to make sure that she wasn’t playing it down, even though he knew he was grasping for straws. He typed: I’m coming over to check your wrist. He put his thumb on the SEND button, but then hit DELETE. Instead he typed: Good night. Trace hit SEND but then felt a stab of disappointment. He waited, hoping for the phone to beep again, but when it stayed silent this time, he placed it on the nightstand and then laid his head on the pillow. “You’re acting like a damned girl,” he muttered, and peeked beneath the sheet. “Oh, thank God. My balls are still there.”
Trace tucked an arm behind his head, and for a long time lay there thinking about everything and about nothing, but mostly about Dakota. If anyone had ever told him they thought he would become a loner, almost a recluse, he would have laughed in their face. And he couldn’t imagine a time when a beautiful, sexy woman was a stone’s throw away and had made it clear that she would welcome him with open arms, but he remained alone in his bed. Had anyone even suggested such a notion, he would have laughed even harder.
&
nbsp; And yet here he was. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.
He supposed he had such a difficult time accepting his fate because even though he had worked his ever-living butt off to become a champion, he had never really been challenged by the prospect of failure. Everything from girls to school had come easily, and except for an occasional injury, as an adult he had cruised along without a care. And while he had loved his friends and family in an abstract way, he had never really dedicated himself to anything other than bull riding.
Trace stared up at the ceiling and thought, How sad is that?
After the bull riding injury, he had worked pretty damned hard to destroy his life. And if it hadn’t been for Charley Dunn, he might have succeeded. After that, he had been going through the motions, not really thinking about anything more than getting through the day, but little by little he realized how his attitude had been changing without him even knowing it. He cared not only about the day-to-day production, but the Willow Creek employees as well, especially Grady and Sierra. While there were no guts, no glory, Trace took satisfaction in a job well done. The realization suddenly came to him that he truly was dedicated to running this marina. But it went beyond obligation.
In the quiet darkness, Trace had a lightbulb moment and acknowledged to himself how much he really did enjoy Willow Creek Marina and Fishing Camp. And while watching shadows dancing on the wall, another unexpected thought hit him: For perhaps the first time in his life, he was focused on others rather than himself.
And damn, it felt good.
With a smile, Trace thought about Dakota facing her fear and trying to kill the spider. She couldn’t do it herself, but together they had gotten the task done. Perhaps this whole loner thing he had going on wasn’t the way to go after all. He recalled how Dakota had mentioned that she had felt like a fish out of water in L.A., and he hoped Willow Creek would be her healing place as well. With that thought, his muscles relaxed and his eyelids felt heavy. As he started to drift off, a feeling of peace washed over him and he thought it was about damned time to stop hiding and start living.
As his breathing became deep and even, he could almost hear Dakota’s voice coming to him soft and sweetly. He smiled, sighed, fell fast asleep.
The song Dakota had been writing grabbed hold of her brain and would not let go. The perfect lyrics started coming to her, and she knew from painful past experience that if she didn’t get up and write them down, all would be lost come morning or even a few minutes from now. Even though she was dead-dog tired, with that in mind, she turned on the small bedside lamp and leaned over to pick up her guitar. Anticipating this would happen, Dakota also had her pen and notebook within reach. Rubbing her eyes, she yawned and propped up the pillows behind her back. She started strumming the strings while singing the refrain, frowned, and then made changes.
The music poured from her heart and she sang from her soul, forgetting that it was the middle of the night and that her windows remained wide open. An hour later, she had a Carrie Underwood-worthy country love song that would surely bring tears to the eyes of even the most cynical of listeners. “Forever and ever and always …” Dakota sang, letting the last word trail off softly. Again, not kick-ass as requested, but Dakota loved the lyrics and couldn’t wait to get the chance to record it.
She sighed as she finally put her guitar to rest and then slid back beneath the covers, but her brain was still buzzing too much for sleep to overtake her. She thought about the news from her manager again and felt a shiver of excitement. When she had finally spoken to Ruth Jackson, Dakota had been shocked to learn that not only did the country music division of Sundial Records want new material from her, but also that her old pop music songs apparently had some Taylor Swift elements that they were interested in. They actually wanted her to polish up and turn some of her old tunes into country versions! So, according to her manager, they wanted to go more of the Carrie Underwood route and have her do some sweet songs, tapping into her old image while mixing it up with unexpected sexy songs to get the best bang for their buck.
Vince Marruso, a respected producer at Sundial Records, was interested big time, but wanted her in the studio as soon as she was ready so they could, as he put it, strike while the iron was hot. They had changed the game plan from kick-ass to pretty and perky with a sexy edge, and Vince was convinced that Dakota was a perfect fit. Add that to the fact that her old fans were of the right demographic, and, he said, she had all the qualities to shoot to the top in record time.
Dakota had been floored by the conversation, and it had been like striking a match to her creative flame. She was well aware of being at the right place at the right time and didn’t want to miss the opportunity to resurrect her career. Trace had put a positive spin on Willow Creek finances, but Dakota knew it was always a constant struggle. Breathing life back into her career meant easing the financial strain on the marina, and even though she couldn’t begin to wrap her brain around leaving, she knew what she had to do. Too many people were depending on her. For the next week, she vowed to write like crazy and then head to Nashville for some studio time.
Dakota closed her eyes and felt another shiver of excitement slide down her spine. While she had been out of the loop for a few years, she instinctively knew that the two songs she had just written were good, and she was itching to write more. She did, however, decide to keep the information to herself, not wanting to jinx this golden opportunity by blabbing about it to her friends. She would tell them if an offer was made, but keep it under her hat until then.
With a sigh, Dakota tucked her hand beneath the pillow, and with just a few hours left until sunrise, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
22
Voices Carry
Trace couldn’t stand it any longer. By midafternoon, after not seeing the cute hide nor blond hair of Dakota, he decided to come up with a reason to knock on her cabin door. He figured that taking her a leftover lunch was as good an excuse as any, so he headed over to the kitchen to round something up.
When he opened the screen door, Trace stopped in his tracks and stared. “Wow,” he said while shaking his head.
“Hey there,” Sierra said. She had her arms elbow deep in a huge metal bowl, mixing together what Trace knew would soon be some of her famous meatballs. He sometimes thought that she wasted her culinary talents on this fishing camp. But it was Grady over at the fridge that drew his attention. Was he wearing an apron?
“How many eggs you need?” Grady asked with his back to them.
“Just bring the whole carton over here,” Sierra answered, and gave Trace a wink. “I’ll need the milk too and maybe more breadcrumbs.”
“Gotcha,” Grady said, and turned around.
“What the hell?” Trace shook his head at Grady, who was wearing, along with the apron, a backward ball cap. “You don’t really expect me to kiss you, I hope?”
“Not unless you want an ass whuppin’,” Grady answered. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
Trace shrugged and pointed at Grady’s chest. “Says KISS THE COOK on your cute little outfit,” he answered with a grin.
Grady looked at his chest. “Oh yeah, damned if it doesn’t. I had forgotten. Well, come on over here, big boy, and lay one on me.”
“When pigs fly,” Trace answered. “Sweet, though.”
Grady, who was almost impossible to embarrass, laughed. “Yeah, I kinda like this look,” he answered with a wiggle of his butt, and then turned his attention to Sierra. “How many eggs you want in there?”
“About four or so,” she answered while adding breadcrumbs.
Trace folded his arms across his chest. “Since when did you become sous chef instead of a fishing guide?”
“A who what?” Grady asked.
Sierra grinned and explained, “A sous chef is second in command behind the head chef.”
“Oh. Learned somethin’ new. Guess I’m not a fancy pants like Trace over there.”
“Hey, dude, I’m not the one wea
ring the apron.”
“Um, Grady, he’s got a point,” Sierra teased, and nodded for him to crack another egg and add it to the ground beef mixture. “Shake a little garlic salt in there, will ya?”
“Hey, you know why I put this on,” Grady told her. “And it wasn’t to get a kiss from Trace.”
“I’m hurt,” Trace complained with his hands to his cheeks, getting a laugh from them both. He remembered a time when he was always cracking jokes, and it felt good to bring smiles to the faces of his friends. He vowed to do it more often, until it became second nature again. He remembered when Dakota said she had wanted to make him laugh, and he suddenly understood. Making those he cared about happy felt damned good. “So, why aren’t you out on the water, Grady?”
While shaking the garlic salt into the big bowl, he answered, “The boys were up late playing poker and getting their drunk on. They were pretty hungover and wanted to come in early from fishing, so I came over to help out Sierra here in the kitchen.”
“Didn’t you play with the boys last night?” Trace asked.
Grady reached for another egg and cracked it when Sierra gave him a nod. “No, we went over to my parents’ farm to help get ready for my sister’s God-almighty wedding that has taken on a monster life of its own.”
Trace raised his eyebrows. “We?” When Sierra blushed, he felt a warm rush of happiness for them. “So you two are … do the kids still call it dating these days?”
Sierra glanced at Grady, who answered, “I had to talk her into it, but yeah. She’s coming to the wedding with me. But it’s a big ole secret, so don’t say anything or my ass will be in a sling.”
“It’s a secret that you’re going with Sierra?”
“No, the damned wedding from hell is hush-hush. Mom doesn’t want wedding crashers from all over Tall Rock dropping in, turning Miranda’s fancy affair into a big-ass redneck wedding. Personally, I think it’s inevitable, but I haven’t divulged that little bit of information to them.” He paused and then added, “Hey, you and Dakota oughta come.”