Bucking the Rules (14 page)

She dressed quickly, not bothering with makeup. An old sweatshirt, a pair of jeans from the floor, and her long hair in its customary ponytail and she was ready to rock. She grabbed her keys from the table and locked the door behind her. She'd only get a few bags and walk rather than drive the three blocks. It was the beauty of living above the bar. Everything was handy.

She was nearly down the stairs when she spotted the truck sitting at the curb. Her heart did a traitorous little dive into her gut before she realized it wasn't Trace's.

Jeff stepped out and she groaned. Her first thought was
why me
? The second was . . . how long had he sat in the truck waiting for her? How long had he already been there?

Jeff stood by the side of the truck and waited for her to hit the bottom step. She debated walking on and making him chase her if he wanted something, but that seemed petty. He wasn't worth even a petty gesture.

“I came over to apologize. I'm sorry.”

The words softened her. A little. But not much. The kid looked like hell, though, and that softened her more. “You should be.”

He raised his hands, as if not sure what to do with them, then stuck them in the pockets of his jeans. One sneaker kicked at the dirt, and the entire performance reminded her of a sullen little boy. “I misunderstood the situation.”

Misunderstood, her ass. Maybe he'd misunderstood if she was interested, at first, but there was no mistake after she'd started pushing him.

When she didn't reply, he went on. “I got lonely and freaked out about school and I just sort of lost my head a little. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.”

It wasn't an excuse, but she understood. A young kid made mistakes. She'd made more than a few, and was lucky enough none of them had been permanent. She made a split-second decision—some of her best decisions were in the heat of the moment, after all—and ran with it. “Just remember that for the next time. Otherwise, you might get your ass handed to you.”

He grinned, quick as lightning. “You woulda laid me out, wouldn't you?”

She shrugged, then smiled a little. “If I felt it necessary.”

He stepped forward, then back again, hands still in his pockets. “Can I still come by before I head out?” When she watched him, he clarified, “The bar, I mean. Like for lunch.”

“Sure. I know you're good for the tab.” The joke made him smile again, and she waved and walked off to the grocery store, feeling a little lighter.

He wasn't a bad kid. Just a moment of stupidity. Hell, they all had them. Like her, the night before.

What had honestly possessed her to think a relationship with anyone—least of all someone rooted in this community—was a good idea? She was a business owner in a tenuous position. The outsider still trying to prove herself. A woman in a man's business, trying not to get kicked in the teeth with ass-backward cowboys. And she had to go and add
feelings
to the mix.

Brilliant. How the hell had Trace talked her into that?

Her body tightened at the reminder of exactly how he'd primed her for that one. In a parking lot, no less, like a couple of teenagers. Christ.

She paused and made a big show of window shopping in the closest store. Somehow, she didn't think anyone would believe she was deeply considering buying a muumuu in size triple XL with puppies frolicking on the front. But she needed a minute to calm the flush or she'd really embarrass herself.

Nothing like the word
muumuu
to stifle a sexual heat wave.

As she reached the grocery store, she grabbed a basket, then debated and put it back in favor of a cart. She needed to stock up. If she was going to have Trace over more often, she'd have to feed him meals. A man like him ate, and ate well. She smiled at that, and considered the various ways of serving meat and potatoes without being tedious.

“Jo.”

She turned at that, recognizing Bea's voice. “Hey. What's up?”

Bea practically sprinted at her and hooked one arm around Jo's elbow. “You're just the person I needed. I'm looking at this pitiful selection of dog toys they carry and I'm not sure which one to choose.”

“Shouldn't you go to the feed store for that?” Jo looked back toward the produce she was being dragged away from. “I need food, Bea.”

“You're in a grocery store. You'll get it. But this is important. Look.” She halted at an end cap and held up two toys. “The blue one? Or the pink one?”

“He's a boy, right?” When Bea raised a brow, Jo shrugged. “Just checking. The blue.”

“But this is the twenty-first century. Why can't men have pink?”

“The pink, then.” A headache loomed like a black cloud over a picnic. “I need to go get something other than instant soup for my kitchen.”

“Oh, great. I love veggies.” Bea swung her arm around Jo's shoulders and tossed the pink toy in Jo's cart. “Let's talk cucumber.”

“Do we have to?” Jo eyed her warily. “What's going on with you?”

“Me?” Bea's eyes widened. “Why?”

Jo picked up a head of lettuce and ignored Bea's feigned innocence.

“Not that one.” Bea handed her another head and grabbed the first to put back.

Jo rolled her eyes and stuck the bundle of leaves in her cart, moving on to the tomatoes. When she picked up a four-pack of prepackaged ones, Bea moaned quietly.

“Oh, my God. What is wrong with you?”

“Those are so bad for you. The prepackaged ones are always hot house tomatoes, which are tasteless and devoid of any real nutrients.”

“Not what I meant,” Jo muttered, but put down the plastic with caution and picked out a few from the bin individually.

Bea hovered, but kept her mouth closed, which suited Jo just fine. And when Bea nudged one tomato over toward the sack with her index finger, Jo figured the silent gesture was better than listening to a lecture, so she gracefully accepted the tomato and moved on.

“Where are we going next?” Bea bounced next to her.

“Frozen foods.”

“No!” Bea grabbed the cart and swung it around, nearly knocking Jo into a display of Oreos.

“What the he—Bea!” Jo regained control and avoided a collision with a mom and two toddlers by inches. “Jesus, what's your problem?”

Bea ran a hand through her hair until little blond tufts stuck out awkwardly. “Frozen food is awful for you. All those preservatives and nitrates and . . . stuff. You know. Let's revisit the fresh vegetables. So much better.”

“I happen to like preservatives and nitrates.” Jo yanked the cart back in the direction she'd originally intended. “And it's easy to pop in the oven when I've had a long day. Which I almost always do.”

“Okay, but first . . .” Bea glanced around and pointed. “I need your opinion.”

Jo sighed. “My opinion is you're being a pain in the ass.”

“I'm not—hold on.” Bea held up a finger and reached in her bag for her phone, currently belting out the theme song to
Legally Blonde
. Oh, for the love of God. “Let me just . . . oh, damn.”

“What?”

“My agent. We've been playing phone tag for a while. Stay right there.” Bea shot her a dirty look. “Don't you dare move.”

“Okay.” Jo shrugged and watched Bea answer the call and wander off, one hand over her free ear to block out noise. After she'd taken a few steps and looked suitably busy, Jo swung the cart and headed for the frozen food section.

Yeah. She'd lied. Oh, well. All's fair in love and frozen pizza snack bites.

She turned a corner and smiled when she recognized Trace. Or rather, his back. She should have known Bea wouldn't come to the grocery store alone. Or at all.

God, he looked good. Even just from the back. The way he stood there, weight on one leg so his hip cocked out, one hand in his back pocket, stretching the aging denim quite nicely over his adorable ass. She could barely see a piece of paper over his shoulder, and she could imagine, thanks to the way he stood frozen, he was reading an entire list of things he had no clue about. Men sent grocery shopping . . . not always a good idea. Well, she would just have to save him.

Slowly, Jo crept up behind him, then reached around and covered his eyes with her hands.

“Cut it out, Bea.”

Jo pressed her breasts into his back and whispered, “Not Bea.”

“Jo?” She thought she heard him mutter, “Jesus,” but she couldn't be sure, and then he turned around. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

Why was everyone asking her that? “A girl's gotta eat. Listen, I was thinking about picking up some steaks for tonight. Do you want to . . .” She trailed off, her eyes catching something to the left of Trace's sleeve. “What's that?”

“What?” He looked behind him, and froze again. But not in that cute
I'm so confused, what's the difference between virgin and extra virgin olive oil?
sort of way. More like in the
oh, shit, I'm caught
sort of way. Which really had her heart racing. “It's a baby.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” The fact of its existence made her want to take two steps back for sheer preservation. “Why is it in your cart? Are you cart sitting?”

“Cart sitting?”

“Yeah, you know . . .” Her mind raced as she stretched for a plausible reason why a baby would be in Trace's cart. One that wouldn't ruin the very thin, tenuous thread of happiness they'd started to build on. “Someone needed to pop into the other aisle so you, you know, offered to watch the cart in case some weird baby snatcher came by. Cart sitting.”

“Are there a lot of baby snatchers running around the Piggly Wiggly?” He looked a little horrified and started surveying the aisle, as if some masked robber was going to pop out from behind a freezer and yell “Gotcha!”

“Not the point.” Okay. Starting to sound a little hysterical. Breathe. Breathe. “Whose kid is this?”

Trace reached back and rubbed one hand gently over the kid's head. “He's mine.”

F
or a moment, Trace wondered if he'd have to catch Jo. She paled, faster than he'd ever seen anyone go pale, and he really thought he had a fainter on his hands. But she recovered and took another step back. Why did she keep doing that?

“You have a kid.”

It was a question, though she'd stated it as fact. He nodded. Seth grabbed his hand and squeezed, working his fingers around and playing.

“You've, uh, always had a kid?”

“Long as he's been alive.”

She stared at Seth, like he might be a cross between a rabid dog and a charging bull. “And he lives with you.”

Another question in a statement. “Yeah. He stays out at the ranch.”

“Oh, my God.” She breathed it, and he almost didn't catch the words. “How stupid am I?”

“You're not stupid. Jo, I—”

“No. No, it's okay.” She held up a hand to halt his progress. “It's totally okay. It's just a reminder, that's all.”

A reminder of what? By the way she took another step back, he was pretty sure her “okay” wasn't code for “I love babies and this is the best surprise ever!” Damn it, he was going to lose her. “Jo, we need to talk about this.”

“Yes.” Her eyes went a little glassy and she nodded. “Yes, we do.” But she said nothing else, just watched as Seth tugged on the rolled-up sleeve of Trace's shirt, silently begging for attention.

Someone rolled by them, slowing down enough to grab a frozen pizza from the freezer across from them. The older woman shot them both a confused, slightly annoyed look that said
stop loitering, hooligans
and went on. But it was enough to break whatever trance Jo had slipped into. She turned around and started back down the way she'd come, squeaky cart bumping over cracked tile like she was running from the devil.

That wasn't talking. That was the opposite of talking. But he couldn't very well give chase with Seth in the cart.

She couldn't hide from him. He knew where she lived and worked. They'd talk. And though he'd meant to get to this a little sooner, he'd say everything he needed to. It'd be fine. There was no way he was letting this ruin what they'd started.

Bea skidded around the corner in her heels, looking frazzled and a little lost. “Where's Jo? Did you see her? Did she see you?” Her eyes went round. “Did she see Seth?”

“Yes, times three. And I don't know where she is. Checking out, I assume.” Or fleeing the country. “Where'd you go?”

She held a hand to her chest and bent over like she'd run a marathon. “Trying to find her before she caught sight of you two. I was distracting her in the produce section and then I got a call from my agent and . . . it doesn't matter. I was trying to be helpful.”

“Why would you distract her?”

“Because she doesn't know about Seth. Right?” She winced. “Or at least, she didn't. I was hoping to prod you enough to get you to tell her soon, before she found out some other way.”

“Too late for that,” he murmured, reaching in the diaper bag and finding a toy to distract Seth from gnawing on his own fingers. He located Sophie the giraffe and handed the toy over. “Here, buddy. Try this on for size.” With Seth content, he focused back on his sister. “And why would you think it mattered if Jo knew? We weren't exactly public with our . . . thing.”

“Your sister isn't public.” She smiled smugly. “I have my ways. But that's not the point. The point is, you need to go after her and explain.”

“No, I need to finish shopping and take the groceries, and you two, home. Then I can give her time to cool off and get over the shock, and try to explain.”

Bea rolled her eyes. “Sure, if you want to be logical about it. I swear, sometimes you're too much like Peyton for your own good.”

He bent and kissed her forehead. “I'll take that as a compliment. But thanks, for trying to help.” In her own messed up sort of way. It was a good thing, Bea trying to be helpful. It meant she was investing in the family again.

They eased the cart around and headed for the checkout. “I thought you were getting something for your dog.”

“Casualty of the moment. It was in Jo's cart. She probably put it back.” Bea shrugged. “Another time.” As they stood in line, Bea perused a magazine with the latest
American Idol
winner on the front cover, then added another magazine with what appeared to be TV soap stars.

“That's not food.”

“It's food for my soul. Calm down.” She flipped through a few more pages, then without looking, asked, “Are you going to fix things with her?”

“If it kills me,” he answered immediately. When he wanted something, he got it. Period. He wanted Seth, he got Seth. He wanted to make things work at home, they were working. And now, he wanted Jo. The trouble was making her want him—all of him, now, which included his son—back. The whole “ease her in” thing was not going to happen. So back to square one.

“Flowers are nice,” she said absently.

“Flowers?” He debated running to the floral department, then shook his head. “Not going to work.” At least, not for a big apology.

“Hmm. Giving her clothing is too weird. Lingerie is always nice, but sends the wrong sort of message for the situation. More of a let's have wild rutting animal sex vibe.”

“Bea,” he muttered, holding his hands over Seth's ears. That's just what he needed, for his son's first sentence to be about wild animal sex. The matron who had given him and Jo a dirty look turned around and shot Bea a nasty glare.

Bea ignored it. “The whole rutting, primal animal sex thing is nice,” she added, almost wistfully. “If you can get it, I mean.”

“God. Why don't I have two sets of hands so I can cover my own ears?” he moaned. When the scandalized woman in front of them paid for her purchases and hauled ass to the parking lot—likely cursing the Piggly Wiggly for allowing such people to shop there—he gratefully started loading the conveyor belt with their items and ignoring Bea.

“But you need something that says,
I get you. I get you, and you're important.
And you can't do that with lingerie or flowers. So think harder.”

He paused in the act of setting a bag of beans on the belt. “Is that it? That's your big help?
Think harder
.”

Bea patted his arm. “You're on your own from here.” She weaved around him and cooed at Seth, pushing the cart out of the lane. “Let's go to the car and get you all hooked up in your car seat. Does that sound like fun? Yes, it does!”

Trace shook his head and reached into the cart for the last item before they pulled away. He came back with the soap magazine. Naturally, Bea would expect him to pay for it and not put it back. He sighed, debated, and then tossed it on the belt.

Why not? He might have a hell of a lot more free time on his hands now. Maybe he could watch reruns.

 

“He's got a kid.” Jo slammed her palms down on the bar, making Amanda jump. “Why didn't anyone tell me?”

Amanda looked up from the server notepad she was doodling in. “Probably because most people assumed you knew?”

“Why would I know that? I'm still ‘new' here.” New in the Bumfuck Nowhere sense, which meant you were the new person until you'd lived there at least a decade.

“People talk.” Amanda shrugged. “But regardless, you hate gossip. You shut it out the moment you catch a whiff of it.”

“You could have made me listen,” she muttered.

“You weren't exactly public with your relationship.”

Relationship
. There was that dirty word again. “Apparently you knew.” Jo walked around the bar and sank into a chair next to Amanda. “What, did everyone know?”

“Nope,” her star server chirped. “But I was here late more than once, and I saw his truck hovering by your side of the building. Plus, you've been in a way better mood lately. I put two and two together and figured you two were playing Ride 'Em, Cowgirl at night.”

“Awful. That was awful.”

“Thanks. I liked it.” She ripped out the sheet of doodles and wadded it up, closing the pad and stuffing it in her server apron with the other hand. “It's not the end of the world, right? You're just doing the nasty nasty. He's not exactly bringing his kid with him on adults-only dates. So what's the big deal?”

The big deal was they'd recently made the joint decision to start something more than just the nasty nasty. And she, despite her bitching, had been looking forward to it with nervous anticipation. Now it was shot to hell.

She let her head fall to the table with a dull thud. “Why is being an adult so hard?”

“Because we had it too easy as kids? Something about our grandparents walking uphill both ways in the snow . . . I don't know. I usually blank out after Gramps gets going.” Amanda rubbed her back soothingly.

“It's going to be okay. You're you, and you'll get through it. You'll get what you want out of the bargain, because that's what you do. You wanted the bar, you got it. You wanted to be top dog, it's coming to you. You wanted a hot man in your bed, and he was. Now you can keep him there, and pretend he's not a daddy on the side, or you can find another strapping cowboy to fill in. There's no shortage of them in this area, if you didn't notice.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but closed it again. Might as well let Amanda think that. But the fact was, she didn't
want
another cowboy in her bed. She wanted her cowboy. The one she already had.

But a kid? What did she look like, June Cleaver? She didn't do kids. She really didn't even do relationships, but she got talked into that one. Hearth and home, for her, weren't on the table. She wasn't stepmother material. She wasn't even sure she was good girlfriend material, but at least if she fucked that up, Trace was adult enough to get out of the way before the shit hit the fan.

God. What the hell was she supposed to do?

Trace ran Lad through another obstacle course, cutting corners a little closer than he normally would. When a client was in the building, it wasn't a bad idea to show off just a little. But rather than riding herd on the horse, he was more concerned about keeping check on his own emotions.

Ruthlessly, coldly, he blocked Jo from his mind. Blocked it all out until it was him and the horse. Lad and Trace moving together. Anticipating the horse's movement, ticks, every breath so they were one fluid creature rather than rider and mount.

He'd already run through the same course with two younger horses, still in training. So seeing it done with his own horse, seeing what the Muldoon training could accomplish with raw talent, was usually an eye-opener for the customer.

And when he finally rode Lad over to Steve, waiting to take the horse to cool off, he saw the look of appreciation in the client's eyes.

“Fine mount, gentlemen.” Flint rubbed his jaw and watched as Lad walked away, his eyes tracking the horse's legs. “Nice show.”

Trace watched as Red all but stepped into his new persona, in full showmanship mode now. This was never Red's favorite part. But it was part of the package.

Red slapped a hand on Flint's shoulder. “Not just a show. Our horses know what they're doing, because we know what they need. It's an equal partnership. . . .” Red winked and Trace almost choked on his laughter. “As long as the horses remember who holds the sugar cubes.”

Flint laughed in big guffaws. “Isn't that the truth?” He rubbed at his jaw again. “I'm not entirely sure. I was over at Three Trees the other day. Tanner said he let you go a year ago.”

Red's eyes twitched, just a little, but his smile was easy and smooth. “Well, that's a matter of opinion, I suppose. My work there was done, and I moved on. But here at the Muldoon spread, we—”

“He warned me about this place. Said y'all were going bankrupt. That it would be foolish to even step foot over here.”

Trace's hands balled into fists. That's how the competition was going at it? Throwing mud?

“Something about unethical practices,” he went on. “I didn't stick around for the details, of course. Not one for gossip myself.” Flint's eyes told a different story.

“Flint, you know me, don't you?” Red began easily.

He nodded. Everyone did. Red's name was synonymous with superior horse training.

“I think I'd like to let my reputation speak for itself. I've always held myself to the highest standards, and I expect the same of those I work with. I've stayed here for as long as I have because I believe this place to be the pinnacle of ethics. And between you and me, it's an up-and-comer for stock. You start business with M-Star now? Men will be calling you brilliant in a year. You'll be ahead of the game.”