Bucking the Rules (3 page)

He didn't see anything like that now.

“Does that bother you?”

“Bother me?” She turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in confusion. “How so?”

“That he needs space from you. I mean, you love the guy. Does it bug you that he needs to get away?”

“Hell, no.” She winced and stroked Seth's head. “Sorry. That's still hard to curb.”

“I'm calling ‘hell' a free pass. It's a location as much as a curse, so it's a freebie.”

“Good. But no, it doesn't bother me. I love him, he loves me. I don't think he's going to run out and find the first available woman to lie on her back and roll in the hay. He needs some space. It's natural. And frankly, if he is getting space, so am I.” She grinned at him. “Between you and me, I wouldn't mind a night off from the girlfriend routine either. I get to do whatever I want while he's gone for the evening, like play with my favorite nephew. And tomorrow, back to being the sexy gir—uh, great speller.” She jiggled Seth a little and he smiled back at her. “So. Help a gal out?”

Trace searched his mind for plot holes. “I don't want you to babysit.”

“You didn't hear me, did you? This is movie night for us. Not babysitting. We're bonding. Now, go change into something a little less icky, and let my man take you out for a drink.”

“That sounded so wrong.”

“Go be wrong elsewhere. I've got a DVD to watch.”

“It better be PG.”

 

Red opened the door and motioned for Trace to step through first.

“Jesus. First Peyton tells me to let you take me out for a drink. Now you're opening the door for me like I'm a chick.”

“And you look extra purdy in your finest shirt, darlin'.” Red grinned when Trace elbowed him in the stomach. “Relax. It's just a guys' night out. No harm.”

“Last guys' night we had, someone ended up trying to break into the big house.” He regretted the words immediately when Red winced. Since the guy breaking in had been in cahoots with Red's father, he wasn't a fan of the memory. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, let's not repeat that, shall we?” Red headed to a table near the pool tables and positioned himself to watch a poker game on one of the TV screens.

Trace sat down and debated asking. But then he decided, if the guy was going to deck him, he'd at least wait until they got back to M-Star to do it. Red was classy like that. “Are you getting ready to break up with my sister? Or maybe quit the ranch?”

Red set the drink menu back down on the table slowly and looked over at him. “What?”

“Because if you are, you know it's going to kill her.” Shouldn't have said that part. “I mean, you know, because of all the crap she had to deal with to get over dating her trainer. You know, mentally . . .” Shit. Hole was halfway to China now, might as well keep shoveling. “I'm just saying—”

Red held up a hand. “Don't ‘just say.' I appreciate the big brother routine, which is why I'm not telling you we're going to draw blood in the parking lot. But Jesus, dude, you know I'm crazy about her. Why would you think that?”

Trace shrugged. “Forget it.”

“Hard to, when you toss a conversation starter like that at a guy.” Red smiled as the waitress, a cute redhead, strolled up. “Bud, bottle.”

“Same,” Trace said, and waited until she sauntered off. Because it would have been unnatural not to, he took a second glance at her butt. Not bad. Cute, good butt, nice smile. And yet, his self-imposed celibacy continued.

“If it's about Peyton shoving me out of the house for the night—”

“Peyton? She said you were dying to get out of the house.”

Red smiled. “Uh-huh. Of course, she did.”

Trace had the distinct feeling of being on the losing end of a fight he didn't even know he was in. “So, you didn't tell her you wanted to go get drinks.”

“Nope.” He smiled again as the redhead delivered the drinks, and took a sip. “Not that I don't appreciate a good beer and some time out watching poker. Maybe shoot a little pool in a bit.”

“But it wasn't your idea.”

Red shrugged. “I'd be just as happy at home with your sister. Happier, probably. No offense meant,” he added easily.

“Playing Scrabble,” Trace muttered. Red shot him a confused look, but he shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Fact is, variety is the spice of life. Not variety in women,” he added, as if he realized Trace wasn't entirely following. “But variety in experiences. I got so used to following my dad around the country, from one barn to the next, that I just fell into doing the same thing myself as an adult. One ranch after another, whichever one wanted to hire me next, there I went. But now that I'm static, and happy to be so, I can always use something new to do with my days to throw off the normal a little. No harm.”

“Yeah.” Trace sipped his own beer, wondering why it always seemed to taste a little better when it came from a bar rather than the fridge at home. “I got it. So overall, this whole plot was to get me out of the house.”

Red lifted a brow. “Mind me asking why you think that?”

“Peyton's been up my ass about getting a social life for months. I'm happy at home. Is that a crime?”

“Not at all. But there's also nothing wrong with taking some time to get out. Nobody back home minds watching Seth. Except maybe Bea . . . It's not a big deal. It's not,” he added when Trace started to protest. “I know you want to do it all, and you hate imposing. You're just like Peyton that way. You feel it's bad enough Emma takes him on during the day. But she got a raise out of it, didn't she? And did Peyton look like she was suffering, keeping him for the night?”

“No.”

“Exactly. We all love that little guy. And we mostly tolerate your ass, too. So in the end, it all works out. Now, enjoy your beer and shake off your mad, because if you ruin my own night out, I'll kick your ass when we get home.”

Trace grinned, despite himself, and saluted Red with his bottle. “Yes, sir.”

“N
ow there's a real man.”

Amanda nudged Jo and nodded toward a back table.

Jo looked up from the pint she was pouring and tried to focus. “The entire back of the bar is full of guys.”

“Guys, sure. But a real man? Come on, Jo. Don't tell me you can't see him.” Amanda took the glass from Jo's hand and switched places. “See him now? Red shirt, brown hair, sitting in the back with Red Callahan? That's Trace Muldoon.”

Jo struggled to remember who Red Callahan was. The name was familiar, but no mental picture was springing up. Despite her years and years as a bartender, server, manager, and sometimes bouncer, she'd never quite picked up the habit of being great with names and faces. “Still batting zero, here.”

“Oh, my God. You are hopeless.” Amanda slid the beer three seats down into waiting hands. She finally squared Jo's shoulders and pointed straight ahead. “See?”

Jo squinted, and finally saw what Amanda wanted her to. A good-looking man. Two of them, in fact. Though Jo struggled to remember which one was the guy she supposedly knew. “And Callahan would be . . . ?”

“The other one. The unavailable one. He's with Peyton Muldoon now.”

“Oh, Peyton. Right.” Peyton, Jo knew. She always appreciated another female making it in a man's world, doing the unexpected. Though they were opposites in many ways, Jo enjoyed Peyton's company on the infrequent times she stopped in. “Muldoon. So is he Peyton's brother? Cousin? Other random relation?”

“Brother.” Amanda snorted. “Seriously, how do you live in this town and not know everything? This place runs on red meat and gossip. It's been a year. Get with the program.”

“I live where I work, and I hate listening to gossip.” Jo hauled a bus tub full of empties and kicked the kitchen door open. “Full tub!”

The dishwasher of the evening came and grabbed the tub from her.

“Thank you.” She let the door swing back closed and headed to wash her hands.

“I thought you loved gossip.”

“Right, well, you hear enough. . . .” Her mother loved to gossip, about everyone. Since Jo moved, that was the only thing their conversations seemed to consist of. Months of gossip-heavy phone calls with her mother had sort of killed any love of that particular form of conversation.

“So, what do you think?”

“Well, I'm a dozen yards away from the guy, and I still don't even know if I'm looking at the right one. But overall, I'd say he's obviously cute, or else he wouldn't have gotten your attention.”

Amanda smiled. “He's cute, all right. He used to compete on the pro rodeo circuit; then he came home when their mama died. He was always a cutie in school, but he's really filled out. Of course, there's always the matter of his—”

“Amanda.”

“Yeah?”

Jo picked up another drink ticket from the printer and started finding the bottles listed. “You know I adore you. And you're my best server.”

“Yup.”

“But if you don't get your cute little ass from behind my bar and out serving drinks and stop filling my head with gossip I didn't ask for, I will seriously consider docking your pay.”

Amanda just smiled at the empty threat and filled a tray with the bottles from the order. “Well, don't mind me. I'm going to go scout out the playing field, see if there are any other contenders.”

“Have fun,” Jo said with a laugh.

Twenty minutes later, a new face settled down in front of her at the bar.

Or, rather, a surprising face. New? Not so much. Not since Amanda made a big-ass deal over him.

“Changing scenery?” Jo leaned over the bar, as much as she could at her height, and smiled.

Trace Muldoon smiled easily. “Change the scenery, change the experience.”

“And exactly what kind of experience are you looking for?”

He shrugged, as if he hadn't intentionally gotten up and moved to come sit at the bar. “Right now, just a bottle of Bud and some PBR on the screen.” He looked to his left, then his right, and leaned in close as if imparting a secret. “I can't take watching poker on TV. Boring as hell.”

“Only thing more boring is watching golf,” Jo agreed, pleased when he laughed. Flirting was a part of the job. She'd learned that one early. Flirt, be agreeable and pleasant, and appear attainable, and your tips will soar. Give the
Fuck Off
vibe and eat ramen. Of course, that didn't mean flirting ever had to lead anywhere. Not unless she wanted it to. But her friend had already pinned all her hopes on this one, so he was off limits.

And suddenly, it clicked. He'd been in here once before, hitting on her. He'd come in with Red last time as well. Hit on her—an abysmal strikeout, despite the serious attraction. It had been like he'd been out of practice or something. The moves were right, but they hadn't felt natural. Tonight seemed to be a much different story.

“Where'd your friend go?” She twisted the top off with her bar towel and set the bottle in front of him. “Did he abandon you?”

“Oh, Red. He caught a ride home with one of our guys he saw here. Running home to the little woman.” He winked. “If the little woman weren't my sister, I'd say more about that. But she could kick my ass if she caught me by surprise, so I'll just leave it there.”

“A wise man. I like that. I like your sister, too. Peyton.” He nodded. “I admire her.” She propped a hip against the cooler under the bar and watched him a moment. “You used to do the cowboy thing, right?”

“Used to?” He looked mortally offended and placed a hand over his heart. “Sweetheart, ‘cowboy' is a state of being. Not just a profession.”

“Is that right?”

“Cowboy born,” he said solemnly, as if repeating something serious. “Cowboy bred. I'll be a cowboy still as I'm buried dead.”

“Ha. Cute. Let's try that again. You did the whole
professional rodeo
thing, right?” This time she used air quotes.

“That a city thing?”

“What?”

He mimicked her air quotes. Only on him, they looked ridiculous. Was that how it looked when she did it?

“It's just a . . . I don't know. Never mind, just answer the question.” She swatted at him with her towel and grabbed the next drink ticket.

“I did the rodeo circuit for a while.”

“Bustin' those broncs?”

He tilted his head back and laughed. “Worst accent ever. Never try to pass for a native. Nobody is ever going to buy it.”

“No problem there.”

“And no, I didn't often bust the broncs, as you so cutely put it. But that's in the past anyway. Now I'm at the ranch.”

She wanted to ask another question—completely violating her MYOB policy—but three tickets came in together, followed by a steady stream of orders and issues to handle at once. At one point, she glanced back to see if he was waiting for her to return and finish the conversation, but he seemed intent on the TV screen above the bar. Just as well, since she didn't have the time to stand around chatting with an off-limits man.

An hour later, things slowed down. But when she returned, she found only money in Trace's spot, well more than would cover the bill. She passed the tip off to Lori, since he'd started at her table, and worked on autopilot, prepping the bar for shutdown. But stupidly, she kept looking over her shoulder to see if he was around the bar somewhere. He wasn't. He'd left without saying good-bye. And why should he? She was just the bartender, and he was just a customer. Besides that, Amanda had her eyes on him, and Amanda was a friend, as well as an employee. She had no business looking for the man in a crowd.

Didn't mean, when she pulled on her pajamas that night, he didn't float through her mind. The faceless fantasy cowboy had features now, and they were too close to Trace Muldoon's for comfort.

 

“Oh, good, you're in here already,” Red said as he walked up beside Trace.

Trace stood beside his equipment, staring at it. “Something's off with my stuff.”

Red glanced toward the tack. “Looks fine to me.”

“Yeah, but I don't put it away in this order. Has someone been messing with my stuff?”

Red shrugged, unconcerned. That annoyed the hell out of Trace, since he knew Red would be the first to boil over if he thought someone had been jacking around with his tack. “Nobody should be using my stuff but me.”

“Well, I didn't use it. I've got my own stuff, and you know it. If you're so sure someone did, feel free to question the hands. But don't say I didn't warn you if it turns out you were a paranoid bastard.”

He started to reply, then just shook his head. No point. Red hadn't used it, that much he was sure of. And he'd look like an idiot questioning people about using his stuff, when none was missing or damaged. He'd just keep an eye on it. “What'd you want?”

“I need you up on Lad. We've got two weeks before you head out again and we could really use some good PR at the next event.”

Trace grinned and grabbed his stirrups. “And when have I ever given bad PR?”

Red opened his mouth, then shut it again. After rolling his eyes, he pointed to the tack. “Just get your ‘messed with' stuff and saddle up. And get your head in the game. I'm not putting up with a shitty practice.”

Trace waited until Red walked away, then kicked dust after him, just on principle. He liked the guy, tolerated him with his sister, and knew he was good for the ranch. But still . . . he cast one more glance at his tack. Someone had definitely touched his stuff. He gave everything an extra look over before using it, just in case. But as he'd thought, it was all in perfect working order. Almost as if someone had merely knocked it over and put it back in the wrong order. Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe he really was a paranoid bastard.

On the road, when he'd traveled solo for years, barely making enough to feed both him and his horse, he'd learned keeping his tack safe was a matter of whether they both got to eat that night or just the horse. Some cowboys were as petty and vindictive as a bunch of sore losers backstage at a beauty pageant. Loosened buckles, ripped nylon, weakened straps, they would stop at nothing to give themselves the upper hand. His tack never left his side if he could help it, and if he couldn't, it was locked up in his truck. End of story.

He didn't want to go back to that place, where he felt so alone, like he was fending for himself constantly. His son didn't deserve that existence.

So he'd brush it off. As he walked over to where Steve had Lad waiting to be saddled, he told himself, time to move on. He had a permanent place at the family ranch as long as he wanted it. And he did, for his son's sake.

“You have fun at Jo's the other night?” Steve rubbed a hand over Lad's neck while Trace adjusted the saddle blanket. “I saw you at the bar before I left.”

“Not bad.” His mind wandered to Jo and their conversation. One he'd had to walk away from before he wanted to. “Nights out always have a way of ending early now. Must mean I'm getting old.”

“No doubt. Monday always comes too soon.” Steve waited until Trace was up in the saddle before stepping back. “Need anything else?”

“We're good. Thanks.”

“In that case, I'm gonna, uh, take my lunch.” He glanced around quickly, then nodded. “Yeah. I'll be back after lunch.”

Trace shrugged as Steve hurried off. Barely ten in the morning and the man was all gung ho for a break. He led Lad over to the practice arena, where Red had set up an obstacle course in the middle.

Red waved him over to the side where he was sitting on the top of the metal gate, his boot heels hooked into the second bar. “Finally. Get done playing detective?”

“Fuck off,” Trace said good-naturedly. He had a horse under him and he was getting paid to ride. Nothing could kill his mood now.

More serious, Red asked, “You checked the tack out, right?”

“Yeah. It's fine.” He gave Red a long look. “I'm not crazy.”

“Didn't say you were. Least, not this time. Take a few laps outside, then we'll get to work. And don't make me yell—I'm not in the mood.”

Trace flipped him the bird, but a smile curved his mouth as he and Lad started their warm-up lap. The guy could be a Grade A dick sometimes, but he knew his horses like nobody else in the business.

Lad was in a spirited mood, no shocker there, and Trace had his hands full keeping the horse on task. But that was the beauty of his chosen mount. When called on to stand perfectly still, those in the arena would recognize both the training and the talent. Keeping a docile mare who walked into the ring half asleep in a hold was no big feat. But a gelding with energy to kill and a desire to run free? The ability to harness that power and attention into the task at hand was what people had paid Red big bucks for in the past.

And if Peyton had her way, they'd pay the M-Star handsomely for the privilege to work with Red now. Or to buy a horse trained by the M-Star staff, overseen by Redford Callahan.

Brilliant.

“You're slacking, Muldoon! He's about to—”

Red's words were drowned out by the buzz in his ears as Lad bucked and sent him flying. He forced himself to relax a moment before his body hit the ground; the impact was jarring but not bone-breaking. A novice would try to gulp in air, gasping harder and harder when he couldn't catch his breath until he passed out from the effort. Trace knew better. He stared at a pinpoint in the sky and waited quietly for the roaring of his blood to stop and his nerves to return to normal before taking a slow, steady breath.