Bucking the Rules (10 page)

The animal shelter? “We've got an animal shelter?”

“Morgan started the ball rolling on that little venture about four years ago. Runs mostly on donations. Whenever we've got blankets too worn for the horses, we pass them on. They cut them down to puppy-appropriate sizes.” She frowned and keyed a few more figures into her spreadsheet of doom. “And a few other things they ask for from time to time.”

“Got it.” Easy enough. And just like Morgan to see a need and go filling it. He'd guess the place never lacked for donations. People loved the Brownings, and they adored Morgan. Always had. Now that he was a respected vet, and likely worked for every family in the surrounding area, he must have a whole host of donors.

He was still reading the list as he slipped his boots back on. Otherwise, he would have seen the danger he stepped into.

“Trace!”

Bea hustled up the front steps, her heels clattering noisily over the old wood. “You heading into town? I'm dying to get out of here for a while.”

Aw, shit. “I've just got two quick errands and that's it. It's not a shopping trip.”

“Where are you going?”

“Animal shelter.” That'd shut her up.

Instead, to his shock, her eyes lit with excitement. “Oh, puppies!” She grabbed a bag hanging from the nearby hook and shooed him. “Go. Let's go. The dogs await.”

“I thought you hated animals.”

“Puppies are not animals,” she said, staring at him like he was an idiot. “Puppies are adorable little balls of fluff that melt into you. Plus, it can't hurt to play with them for a while, can it? They're all caged up in there like fuzzy puppy jail. And now I have that awful, sad Sarah McLachlan song stuck in my head.”

His own head was starting to hurt. “I'm just dropping off a donation, Bea.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't mind some help, would you?”

He watched as she struggled over the dirt path in her heels. The white of her capri pants was already turning dusty. “It's old blankets and junk. You wanna carry an old blanket?”

“The puppies need blankets? I'll carry a blanket.”

He shoved open the large sliding metal door leading to the storage. “You asked for it.”

 

Jo's heart added an extra beat into its rhythm when the door opened and Trace walked in. She wasn't used to seeing him in the daylight, but the sight added another memory to her store. His jaw was freshly shaven, and his dangerously good looks were . . . not downgraded exactly. He was still sinfully handsome. But the edge of illicitness was gone. More boy next door, less dangerous to make out in a dark corner.

She smiled, doing her best to mask the jolt she felt at the sight of him. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey back.” He settled down at the bar and looked her over. “You look good.”

“Ditto.” She tossed a coaster in front of him. “Drink, lunch or both?”

“Water, and I'll be ordering lunch in a second. I'm just waiting for . . .” He trailed off and glanced at the door as it opened again. “That.”

Jo remembered Bea Muldoon—Trace and Peyton's youngest sister—as she glided through the door. There was no other word for it. Some women wore heels like they were born to wear them, and Bea was one of them. Jo watched, amused, as several male heads turned and followed her every move, the gentle sway of Bea's hips as she walked up to join her brother at the bar. Normally, Jo would call it practiced, and respect the dedication to the art. But Bea made it look as natural as breathing.

Bea patted her brother's shoulder, then looked horrified at herself. “I need to go wash my hands, repeatedly. Jo, sweetie, do you have any lye soap, or maybe a sand blaster back there?”

That's one of the things Jo loved about Bea. She immediately treated you like her best friend. As someone who moved around often, she'd been grateful to meet people like Bea. “Sorry, just regular soap and paper towels, though they might be rough enough to qualify as low-grade sandpaper.”

Bea sighed and headed in that direction. “It'll have to do.” She didn't look around to notice if others were staring as she walked to the bathroom. But they were.

Trace laughed. “She's just pissy because she had to get a little dirty. All for a good cause, though. And I did warn her. Not my fault she didn't take me seriously.”

Jo set the glass of water down on the coaster. “What in the world did you drag her into?”

“Drag? Hell, she jumped at the chance. I think she's bored at home.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “She probably needs to get out more, see a few friends. But she claims nobody around here gets her.”

Jo sympathized. “Years away from home will do that to you sometimes.”

“Didn't happen to me,” Trace rationalized. Then his face brightened. “Hey. Two city girls, you might get along. You should hang out.”

“Thanks, but I can get my own date.” She winked at him and started pouring Bea a Diet Coke when she saw the woman walk their way. “I assumed . . .”

“Thank you, God.” Bea gulped down half of it in one very un-Bea-like slurp. “I think I had five pounds of dust coating my tongue.”

“Jesus, Bea, we were in there for less than an hour. And frankly, I had to drag you out.”

“Where'd you go?” Jo couldn't handle the curiosity any longer.

“The animal shelter,” Trace said. “Went to drop off some donations from the ranch, and Miss Priss here”—he cocked his head toward Bea—“begged to come along.”

“It turned out for the best, didn't it?” she shot back.

“Not if you keep complaining and whining like a girl.”

“Hey,” both Jo and Bea said simultaneously. Then they laughed.

It felt good, laughing with another woman. She appreciated Amanda's friendship, but the employer-employee relationship added a complicated line she didn't want to cross. It held them back from being closer, forming a more permanent bond.

Okay, so maybe Trace was on to something.

“Ready to order, or should I lock the cage door and toss in a rare steak to see who wins?”

“Salad.” Bea scanned the menu quickly. “You can do that, right? Something that doesn't come with a side of buffalo or cow?”

“Yes, smartass.” Jo grabbed the menu and tossed it on a pile behind her. “You want yours with bacon and three cups of cheese, right?”

Bea stuck her tongue out, but smiled. “If you have a raspberry vinaigrette . . .”

“You get Italian dressing.”

Bea turned to Trace. “The service here is lovely. I can see why you suggested it.”

So it had been Trace who'd brought the siblings to the bar. Jo bit back a smile at that. “You want haute cuisine? Meet up with the other foodies in New York.”

Bea's eyes fluttered closed and one hand paused dramatically over her heart. “If only.”

Trace handed Jo the menu. “Burger, rare as you can make it. Fries.”

“I like the easy ones.” She punched in the order on the screen and then did her best to keep her distance. Not just out of principle, but because she didn't want to intrude on the sibling bonding.

Yeah, they bickered like kids squabbling over a toy, but she could tell they loved each other. And they still had some work to do in order to catch up. So she'd give them their space. Besides, she had other customers at the bar, and more than one of them wanted to chat about Gimmie's closing.

Her standard “It's too bad, a strong local economy is good for everyone” line was received well enough, with nods and smiles. But inside, every time, she couldn't help but do a little mental shimmy in response. It wasn't her fault the bar was closing; it wasn't as if she'd run the owner out of town. He'd been looking to sell, he didn't have a buyer, and he wanted to move closer to his brother. No guilt involved.

She glanced up as Bea answered her cell phone. Her rushed tones told her something was up.

Trace gave her a smile and shook his head. “Probably her agent.” Jo took that to mean nothing was really wrong, just Bea being Bea.

A few minutes later, Trace waved her over. “We need to cash out. We've got to head back to the animal shelter.”

Moving on autopilot, she printed their ticket. “Don't tip,” she said as she handed it to him. When he raised a brow, she shrugged. “I'm the owner. Technically, you aren't supposed to tip the owner.”

“Learn something new.” He handed the trifold back with cash. “Just the same, you did the work so you'll have to accept the gratuity. Do whatever you want with it.” Before she could argue, he winked and followed Bea out the door.

Just as the door closed behind them, Bea popped her head back in. “Hey, Jo!”

“Yes?”

“We're going to hang out sometime, okay?”

Jo couldn't answer before the door closed again.

Pushy bunch, those Muldoons.

Jo found herself looking forward to the next time she ran into either of them.

P
eyton was on the front porch with Red when Trace and Bea pulled up. She hopped off the rail and onto the first step, then froze in shock as the dog Trace had stashed in the bed of the pickup hopped down and raced at her.

Her freeze was melted when the dog leapt up on her legs and started licking her hand. “Hey, buddy, where'd you come from?”

Trace jumped down from the cab and shut the door. “Oh, wow, a stowaway.”

Peyton's hands sank into the fur around the dog's pudgy body. “I assume we have a new work dog?”

“More a pet than a work dog.” Feeling stupid now, he called the dog to him. The dog ignored the summons. “I was thinking Seth might like a pet.”

“Seth has a barn full of horses, a loft full of cats, and two ranch dogs.” Red squatted down next to Peyton and gave the dog some attention.

“Those are working animals though.” Yeah, he was an idiot. “This is more like . . . a pet. He'll stay out in the barn with the rest of the dogs. Emma would skin me for bringing a dog in the house. But I just thought he might be some fun for Seth. Watch them grow up together.”

“By the looks of these paws, this one's got some growing to do.” Peyton spread out one paw. “Boy, you'll have to grow into these saucers.”

“Breed?” Red asked.

“Mix. Collie, shepherd, Lab . . . they did their best to identify him, but he's just an all-around mutt.”

“Luckily we love mutts.” Peyton gave him one last belly rub and stood. “Name?”

“Still working on that. Frank!” The dog ignored him. “Rover! Jim Bob? Lucky!”

Nothing.

Well, they'd work on it.

The passenger door finally opened behind him, and he sighed. “Just for the record? I had nothing to do with this.”

“Do with what?” Peyton asked slowly; then her eyes widened as she saw what Trace knew she was going to freak out about. “What the hell is that?”

Red's lips twitched and he settled back down to watch the fun.

Bea came up beside Trace. “He's a dog.”

“That is not a dog.” Peyton pointed down to the mutt squirming between their legs, begging for more attention. “This is a dog.”

“It's a Boston terrier. He's a purebred,” Bea argued. The black-and-white creature—which Trace was still not convinced wasn't a large rat—shook slightly in her arms. “And you're scaring him.”

“Too bad. Take it back.”

“He needs a home just as badly as that puppy did. Maybe more so, since he's older.” Bea snuggled the rat-dog-thing to her, cradling him on his back like an infant. “Older dogs have a harder time being adopted, they said. And he was just so sad in there, Peyton. Those big eyes and his little ribs sticking out, and he was shaking because all the big dogs scared him. And they can't keep all the dogs forever, and what if they had to put this sweet boy down? Could you handle that on your conscience, Peyton?”

The dog's bug-eyes stared straight at their sister in a silent, upside-down plea, his scrawny chest heaving in the canine version of a sigh, as if gearing up for a large disappointment. Bea's own baby blues welled convincingly.

“Look, even his ears are sad. They're all floppy because he was anemic from starvation.” Bea used the tip of one finger to gently flick the dog's ear, which folded back over.

Peyton stared for a minute at their baby sister and her new acquisition. “You have to tell Emma. That thing isn't a farm dog. And she's going to skin you alive when she hears you're bringing a dog into the house.”

“Done,” Bea said quickly. “Besides, he'll be at my place mostly.”

“You're over here more than you're over there,” Red pointed out logically.

“Don't worry, he won't be a problem at all.”

“That's what Daddy said when he and Mama brought you home from the hospital,” Peyton said dryly, then spun on her heel and headed into the house.

“Good one,” Trace muttered under his breath. How long had she been saving that up?

Bea held out the dog, nose to nose, and spoke directly to him. “You're going to live in my apartment. And I'm going to get you sweaters, because it gets cold here. And maybe some booties, because your little feet will be so chilly in the winter. . . .” Walking up the stairs, she tucked the animal under her arm. “And in the summer . . .” She disappeared into the house, voice trailing behind her.

“Are we sure that really was a dog?” Red asked.

“I asked at the shelter. They confirmed.” Trace ran a hand over his head, then bent down to scratch the pup currently gnawing at the hem of his jeans. “I warned her this would happen. But she just wanted to get him out to play with him. And that led to taking him on a quick walk around the building. And that led to signing adoption papers and asking where the nearest pet store was so she could buy him a cute collar.”

“There's no pet store around here.” Red tipped his hat back. “And who cares if the collar is cute? It's a dog.”

Trace shrugged. “That's Bea.” He slapped his thigh once and No Name followed easily. “Let's go meet your new friends, boy.”

 

She should call him.

No, that was stupid. She wouldn't call. This wasn't a relationship. And who cared if she hadn't heard from him in three days? He had a life, and so did she.

But Jo found her hand reaching for her back pocket where she kept her cell phone anyway, before she forced herself to pull back.

“Something wrong?”

She looked up and smiled at Jeff, who had become something of a regular at her bar. “No, just having a mental debate with myself.”

“Who's winning?”

“Not me. Which is a problem, isn't it?” Jo poured him some water after he finished his beer; it had become habit now. “You're in here often enough. Shouldn't you be out running around, enjoying the last moments of freedom before you go back to school?”

“I get enough running around as it is. I like the relaxation. Plus, if I'm not there, my mom can't send me on more errands.” He grinned, a cute boyish gesture.

“Well, we're closing up in ten, so drink your water.” He was one of only two people left, and her closing server's last table was cashing out.

“I could hang around a bit.” He didn't look at her as he suggested it. “If you're the last one to close up, just to make sure you get back to your place okay.”

Warning bells rang in the distance, but she ignored them. This wasn't some slick guy trying to make a pass. She was in cowboy country now. Chivalry came free with every pair of boots. Plus, he was like a little brother. “Thanks, but I make it home okay every other night on my own.” She waved a hand. “I'm just around the corner, anyway. No trouble at all to walk the twenty steps. That's the benefit of living where you work.” She checked her watch. “Besides, after you're gone, I've only got about ten minutes of cleanup time. Then I'll be in my apartment stretching out.”

He hesitated, then nodded, a smile spreading. “I got ya.” He finished his water and set some cash down, heading out behind the last tabletop as they walked toward the door. “See you later.”

She waved and started to clear his area. “See ya!”

Once the table was cleared, Jo cut her server loose. No point in making her stay when she could easily clean the last of the place herself. A quick mop job around the few tables they'd missed as things started dwindling and a last-minute double-check with the registers, and she was ready to roll. She patted her back pocket to make sure her phone was there, grabbed her keys, and then headed out the front door, locking up behind her.

She'd taken two steps when a movement to her left had her swallowing a shriek. She turned and flattened against the wall, then nearly sank to the ground as Jeff stepped back out into the light from the shadows.

“Jesus, Jeff.” With one hand over her racing heart, Jo concentrated on steadying her breathing. “You almost made me scream like a girl.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I didn't think that one through, did I?”

She bent over and took a few quick huffs of breath, then straightened again. Jeff was there, hand on her back.

“Geez, sorry. I didn't mean to catch you so off guard.”

“I'm fine. Just recovering.” Another moment and she almost felt back to normal. “Did you forget something at the bar? I can go unlock and—”

He was on her before she could finish the sentence. Flattened against the wall, his body laid out over hers, he kissed her with more enthusiasm than skill.

Aw, shit. This was so not how she wanted things to go with him. Now she'd have to let him down and he'd be embarrassed—because guys always were when they got shot down—and it'd end the nice friendship they'd been starting. Damn.
Damn, damn, damn.

She waited, unresponsive, for him to pick up the cue there was only one participant in the kiss. When he didn't seem to notice, she tried pushing gently on his shoulders. He merely rolled a little, squishing her harder into the brick of the wall behind her. Her elbow scraped on a particularly rough brick, stinging a little.

Okay. Fuck being gentle.

“Sto—”

But Jeff's tongue swept in before she could finish the word. It was like being French kissed by a puppy. Good Christ, the kid was bad. She made one final attempt to shove at his shoulders, but when he didn't budge, she started to raise a knee to hit his groin.

But the weight, the oppressive strain against her, was gone before she had the chance to nail the death blow. She took one deep, fresh gulp of air before opening her eyes a crack.

Jeff stood a few feet away, hands balled into fists at his sides, weight on his toes, looking like he was ready to go a few rounds. And Trace Muldoon stood, hip-shot, relaxed, with what Jo determined was a deceptively easygoing smile on his face.

“Hey, Jo.”

“Hey, Trace.” She refrained from wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. She still liked Jeff, even if the kid couldn't take a hint or kiss for shit. This wasn't going to end well regardless—no need to embarrass him more. “Wasn't expecting you.”

“Do you mind?” Jeff shot at him.

“I think the point is Jo minds.” Trace looked to her for confirmation, though it was unnecessary. She nodded slightly but held up a hand when he would have said more.

“Jeff . . .”
Don't be cliché, don't say you're flattered.
“It's just not like that for me. Sorry.”

He stared at her a moment, then at Trace. “It's like that for him. Right?”

Trace watched him carefully, not moving an inch as he spoke. “That would fall under the category of none of your damn business.”

It was the stillness that alerted her to an impending problem. “Trace,” Jo warned. More softly, she added, “I'm sorry, Jeff.”

He recovered quickly, and she was relieved. With more bravado than truth, he held up his hands and said, “Whatever.” But if he felt like he saved face, that's what mattered.

She waited until Jeff headed toward his car. But neither of them spoke until the car was nothing but dual pinpricks of light in the distance.

“Dick,” Trace muttered.

Jo frowned. “No, that's not right. He was just confused. And by the way, how did you know I wasn't totally into that?”

“Because you're the one who said no others. You're not the type to go back on your word.”

She liked that. That he took her word at face value and didn't assume she was playing games. “That wasn't fun.”

“Never is, breaking a man's heart. Right?” He smiled and held out a hand. “Or were you a big man-killer back in all those cities you lived in before?”

She laughed and took it. “Oh, yeah. Can't you just picture it? Me wearing an all-leather dominatrix getup, waiting for men to walk into my black widow's web of seduction.” She chuckled again, and almost stumbled on the third step after looking at his face. “I was kidding.”

“So, you don't own a leather dominatrix outfit?” His tone was morose.

Time for some fun. “No. I gave it away before I moved.” She waited until they stepped up to the landing in front of her front door, then trailed a hand over his chest on the way into the apartment. “I kept the whip though. Just a memento . . .”

She wasn't even completely through the door before he swept her up from behind and slammed it shut. Jo clung to his neck and waited for the dizziness to pass when he put her down somewhere unexpected . . . the kitchen table.

With a quick spin, she was bent over the cool laminated top. His long fingers found the button of her jeans and flicked it open with no help, zipper sliding down easily. She wasn't shocked, but she appreciated the originality.

The lack of foreplay definitely was a surprise. He searched her out with two fingers, testing quickly. Yeah, she was already wet. Just walking up the stairs with Trace, knowing what they would get into, was enough to get her going. But rather than taking his time, he unzipped behind her, reached in his own wallet for a condom—clearly a replacement from the other night—and was in her before she could say the magic words.

Her hips pushed against the edge of the table, which bit into her skin. Her cheeks flushed, a contrast to the smooth cool tabletop. And her hands clawed at the edges, trying to find a grip as he took her from behind. Her arms were too short to reach the other end and she scrambled until she realized there was no hold. Instead, she flattened her palms and pushed back against him the best she could, given her position.