B00DVWSNZ8 EBOK (17 page)

"Shit," Brady mumbled, then looked down at her, frowning and pulling his lower lip through his teeth. As impossible as it seemed, an invisible barrier sprang up between them. "Did you tell him your name?"

"I said Judy Strong. From Abilene." She pulled away from him and sank to the porch, unconcerned about the chill of the wrought
-iron against her bottom. "I swear to God, if I ever get back to Lockett, I will never tell another lie."

When he didn't say anything, she turned her head and looked up at him. He was gazing out toward the horizon and a clear blue summer sky, not revealing so much as a hint of his thoughts
. She realized again that she truly did not know him. She had no idea what might be going on inside his head. She needed reassurance of some kind from him. She waited for him to sit down beside her and put his arm around her, yearned to hear him say everything was okay.

But he didn't. A long silence passed. Then he said, "I'm gonna get the bedroom cleaned out." His eyes met hers. "Lying's never a good plan." He turned and walked back into the mobile.

Back in the trailer, Brady began to strip the sheets off the bed.
Shit.
In the almost two years he had worked for Jack, the man hadn't visited this remote trailer half a dozen times. They usually talked on the phone. When Brady had needed a personal meeting about something, he had usually gone to the Durham ranch house.

What were the odds
the guy would appear this morning and have a face-to-face with Jude on the damn front porch? Or that he would have seen her at a horse sale just a few months back? He had heard Jack say at some point in the past that he was acquainted with the Circle C's horse wrangler, but it was one of those inconsequential facts simply thrown into conversation and Brady hadn't let it take up room in his mind.

Now he wished he had remembered hearing it. No way would he have brought Jude here.

If word of their overnight trip somehow got back to J. D. Strayhorn and the man figured out that his daughter and Brady had spent the night in bed together, for damn sure, Brady would find himself unemployed. And that would set him off on Plan B, a direction he had neither thoroughly thought through nor wanted to go.

Shit. Women.
Just look at the trouble they had caused him. When Jude had come on to him last night, why hadn't he tucked her into bed, said good night and bedded down on the couch? He had been in sticky situations with women before and had usually had wits enough to make the right choices. So where had those wits been last night? He couldn't even blame what had happened on booze because he hadn't drunk that much. His judgment seemed worse now at thirty-four than it had been at twenty-four.

As he gathered the sheets into a ball and stuffed them into a black plastic bag, the
musky smell of sex reached his nose and he couldn't keep from thinking of last night. He had no logical answers for his logical questions, but he sure had some illogical excuses. Last night, he had wanted Jude in a way he hadn't wanted any woman in a long time. When he learned she wanted him, too, his ego had soared and temptation had won out.

Compared to most women he had known, she was practically untouched. Instead of turning him off, that knowledge had been a powerful aphrodisiac. All he had been able to think about was how he wanted her for his own, how he wanted to possess her. And how he didn't want some asshole like Ace pawing her. He hadn't had that attitude about a woman, including the woman who had been his wife, in a long, long time, if ever. Indeed, last night, Brady Fallon had wanted Jude Strayhorn
to be his woman and he had wanted to be her man.

But this was today and reality had ridden the sunrays right into the room, bringing conflict with it.
This charade he was in the middle of had stopped being a game. Jude could fuck up his life beyond description. She was daddy's little girl who had everything she wanted all the time. He knew firsthand just how hard that was to live with. Despite her inexperience with sex, Jude had her choice of men, no doubt. With all she had to offer, she had only to crook a finger and a dozen salivating bird dogs would follow her anywhere. He had to forget about her.

But c
ould he? Last night she had said things to him, things that made him think he meant something to her. Could he believe her? Did he dare?

Even if those questions had answers, and even if he still wanted her, two facts he couldn't ignore: He simply had nothing to offer her and he couldn't afford her.

Chapter 14

I'm gonna get the bedroom cleaned out.... Lying's never a good plan....

That's all he has to say? Jude sat on the porch step in amazement and dismay. He had touched every one of her most intimate places. Parts of him had found parts of her that the two other men she had slept with hadn't found. And he knew that. She had told him.

And that's all he has to say?

She sat a few more minutes. The lump in her throat felt like a burr. A tear sneaked from the corner of one eye, but she quickly swiped it away with the back of her hand. She was a big girl, wasn't she? She spent a lot of time trying to convince everyone that she was. So she had to take responsibility for her own behavior, didn't she?

Involuntarily, her jaw clenched.
To hell with it. If he won't give a damn, neither will I.

Right, Jude. Just get this whole thing over with and get back home, onto familiar ground.

Right.

She entered the mobile and walked into the bedroom. Brady already had the bed stripped and had stuffed the sheets and pillows into a big black plastic sack and was working at emptying drawers. She went to the bathroom and packed the toiletries she had left on the tiny vanity. She then checked the bathroom cabinets and found them empty.

She returned to the bedroom, carrying her duffel. "The bathroom's all clear except for your personal items," she said stiffly.

His attention was on cleaning out a dresser drawer. "Thanks. I'm almost finished here. Then we can get going. We'll get some breakfast up the road."

At a fast-food place.
"That'll be fine."

He looked up at her.
"Since I know you like to sit down, we'll find a place we can go inside. We're already late anyway." He gave her that knee-weakening grin.

This morning,
with reality being far clearer than it had been last night, her knees had a little more strength. She was able to resist his knee-weakening grin. At the thought of lying more when she saw her father again, Brady's timetable seemed less important. "Look, since we're already late, I need a favor."

He smiled and she saw sincerity in his eyes. "Name it."

"I need to go to Fort Worth. I know we're close."

Seeing his mouth open to speak stopped her, but he said nothing, so she went on. "Daddy asked me to check out a watercolor at a museum on Main Street. Since he thinks my girlfriend and I spent the night in downtown Fort Worth, he'll be disappointed if I tell him I didn't go to the museum. I feel I really need to do that. You might not be aware of it, but he's an art collector."

His eyes locked on hers. She sensed words stuck in his throat and she prepared herself to argue if he said there wasn't enough time. Instead, he said, "Okay. If that's what you need to do."

"Great. I think I'm all ready. I'll be waiting outside. If you want, I can feed the horses and hook up the trailer."

He gave her a look.

"
What, you think I don’t know how to feed horses and hook up a trailer?"

She had done both many times.
Before he could comment, she picked up the plastic sack holding the bed linens and started for the pickup. A cardboard box filled with miscellaneous items sat by the door. Among the assortment was the flat black box of condoms. She stared at it for a few beats, then willed away the tightness in her chest and proceeded outside.

By the time he came out, she had fed the horses a few flakes of hay, hooked up the trailer and backed it down to the corral.

"Thanks for doing that," he said.

"No problem. Just trying to beat the clock." She followed him down to the corral and they worked as a team haltering the horses and loading them. Sal didn't make a fuss, just docilely followed the geldings into the trailer. While he secured them inside, Jude took a seat inside the pickup.

Several minutes later, he climbed behind the wheel, filling the whole pickup cab with his presence, and they were on their way toward Stephenville.

"
Is this the way to Fort Worth?" Jude asked.

"
Yep."

"Oh. I'm not familiar with this part of the country. Listen, since we're going to Stephenville, if we could stop somewhere, I could get something for my headache."

He grinned. "Too much tequila?"

She suspected the cause was tension rather than tequila. Her body felt tight as a bowstring and her eyes felt grainy from lack of sleep. But she managed a tense smile. "Probably."

Parking a crew-cab pickup pulling a four-horse trailer loaded with three animals was a challenge anywhere. They found no good place until they reached an isolated convenience store on the outskirts of Stephenville. By then the ache in her head had spread to her neck and shoulders.

"Do you want coffee?" she asked, picking up her purse and opening her door.

"I'll wait for breakfast," he said, and she was glad. She didn't feel like debating who would pay.

When she returned to the pickup, country music filled the cab. They rode toward Fort Worth without talking, the bass from the radio's speakers drumming between her temples. It was just as well the radio overpowered conversation, because the burr in her throat had grown to the size of a tumbleweed.

She couldn't keep from watching him surreptitiously, couldn't keep from admiring his perfect profile, the efficient movement of his capable body, the masculine grace of his hands—hands that had caressed her with indescribable tenderness. She saw again what a skillful driver he was. Fast, alert and competent. She believed that was how he handled everything.

She waited for him to start a conversation, but he didn't. How could they follow last night with behaving like strangers this morning? How could he say all that he had said while they made love, then not even talk today?

Made love? Hah. You had sex, Jude. It isn't the same thing.

She stared out the window.

As he said they would, they stopped for breakfast on the outskirts of Fort Worth. At a Waffle House, they took up eight parking spaces with the pickup and horse trailer. Over coffee, while waiting for the food, Brady scanned the Fort Worth Sunday paper.

Having
no interest in the newspaper, Jude looked around. Everyone in the small diner looked scruffy, as if they had been drinking and partying all night. Just as she and Brady looked, no doubt. Neither of them had showered and shampooed. She wondered if Brady had even combed his thick brown hair. It had even more curl today than she had noticed yesterday. He hadn't shaved. Dark stubble showed on his jaws, making him look sexy and dangerous. She remembered the rasp of whisker stubble on her intimate flesh. A quickening low in her belly startled her, and she was disgusted with herself. They were in Waffle House, for crying out loud.

After a quick breakfast of bacon and eggs, they headed for downtown.
On a quiet Sunday morning, parking the pickup and horse trailer on the deserted streets of downtown Fort Worth presented no problem. They moved through the museum quickly, stopping only occasionally to look longer at a particularly interesting piece, until they reached the museum's latest Boren acquisition.

With the artist being one of her father's favorites, Jude had seen many of his works. Daddy even owned two of his originals. She didn't dislike them, but she didn't have the interest and keen eye of a collector. Brady, on the other hand, appeared to be sincerely interested.

"I'll be damned," he said, bending forward, his fingers stuffed into his back pockets, his elbows cocked. "Just look at that. I've got a pair of boots that look just like that."

She peered closer at the image of a pair of worn boots and spurs. The life-size subjects looked as if they could be plucked from the frame and worn. "I'm sure all working cowboys do," she said.

"That's what I am these days. A working cowboy. But it’s better than being unemployed. Too bad I can't paint pictures. If I could, I might not be where I am now."

She wondered what that meant. An image of him mounting his horse and riding away passed through her mind. All at once, she realized that image had replaced the
one from the poster of him nearly naked. Perhaps because a mere picture of him nearly nude didn't compare to the real thing.

As they left the museum, she picked up a flyer on the new watercolor to take home to Daddy.
Feeling a modicum of relief at seeing the painting, her mood lifted. At least she could say truthfully she had been to the museum and seen it. And the two ibuprophen combined with the food had started to ease her headache.

Back in the pickup, as Brady fired the engine, he said, "Since we're going west and the day's already shot, let's stop by that other museum that's got all the Russells and Remingtons. I haven't been there in a long time."

"The Amon Carter?" She had been to the Amon Carter in January when she and Daddy had come to Fort Worth's annual rodeo.

"Yeah," he said, and started out of downtown Fort Worth on the street that would take them there.

Jude was surprised. Indeed, the Amon Carter Museum had one of the most extensive collections of Russell and Remington art, but Brady Fallon was not a person she would expect to know the names of artists, much less be interested in seeing their work. "What about the horses?" she asked.

"They'll be okay if we don't take too long."

They strolled through the exhibits. She became acutely aware of Brady's hand on her shoulder as he pointed out with his opposite hand that every Russell had a splash of bright red. He slipped his arm around her waist as he discussed the accuracy of the detail in the horses. After observing the paintings, they moved on to the sculptures. At one point, while they stood and studied a large bronze piece, he stood behind her, his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her head.

Before leaving the museum, they perused the life-size mural on the wall in the front room—a group of hatless cowboys standing around a wrapped corpse
beside an open grave. In the background, the artist had painted a sea of longhorn cattle.

"One of those could be my distant grandfather," Jude said. "He drove a hundred head of strays up from South Texas. While his cattle grazed on open range, he lived in a dugout. That was the beginning of the Circle C."

She sensed his eyes on her and looked up. "We need to get going," he said. "I'm sure those horses are getting restless."

When they were on their way again, she had to ask, "How do you know so much about art?"

"I just know what I like. I like the history that Western art represents. I've always wanted to go to Montana. If I ever do, I'm gonna make it a point to go to Russell's hometown."

Jude had never wanted to go to Montana, but she had been there. She had accompanied her father to look at some
cattle. During that trip, even her art collector father hadn't mentioned stopping by Charles Russell's former residence.

Soon they were on the interstate heading west, a long drive ahead of them. The radio played softly. They talked about music and movies. Brady seemed more relaxed and open, like he had been last night. They stopped at a large roadside park and exercised the horses before the last long leg of the trip.

Her braid had become a weight pulling at her neck, so once they were on the road again, she loosened it, dug a brush from her purse and brushed her hair. Brady's attention volleyed between watching her and watching the road. "I like your hair," he said.

"Thanks," she replied, smiling at the memory of his hands buried in it last night.

They stopped for lunch at a Denny's. As they crossed the parking lot, he caught her hand and held it. That same feeling of being cared for and protected that she had experienced in Lupe's Cantina last night came back.

As they started through the Denny's doorway, to her astonishment, Brady dropped her hand as if it were a hot coal and stopped to chat with a man coming out. The stranger discussed the construction business in Fort Worth and even mentioned Brady's divorce and his former father-in-law. She stood back from the conversation, not wanting to be included. Brady made no attempt to introduce her and she was thankful.

Finally, they guy said good-bye and started toward a pickup. “Let’s get inside and eat,” Brady said.

They ordered burgers. Brady remained quiet.
Was he worried again about running into someone who knew him?

“Can I ask you something?”

He grinned. “Is there any point in me saying no?”

She loved his good-natured pretense at being annoyed.
“Who was that guy who knew you?”

“Drywall contractor. I knew him when I was
building houses. But don’t worry. There’s no danger of him knowing J.D.”

Jude wanted to ask him
what had happened to his home construction business, but she was no longer comfortable peppering him with questions so personal.

Then they were driving again, and this time not talking about even innocuous subjects such as movies, as if running into Brady's Fort Worth acquaintance had shoved the mistake they had made—the mistake
she
had made—into their faces again. It loomed larger with every mile closer to Lockett.