Bucking the Rules (6 page)

Jo grabbed her shoes and started lacing up. She was running way too late to count, thanks to sleeping late. At least, late in Jo's world, which was really about half an hour early. But was it her fault restless dreams kept her up most of the night?

No, it most certainly was not. The blame there would rest solely on the shoulders of one Trace Muldoon, and whatever it was that had pulled him away the night before.

After both shoes were ready to go, she stood and grabbed her cell phone, shoving it in her back pocket. But as she was grabbing her keys to lock up the apartment and open the bar, her apartment phone rang. She debated for two seconds, then answered.

“Hello?”

“Josephine, how are you?”

Resigned, she sat back down and mentally deleted at least three tasks she normally completed before the lunch crowd came through. “Hey, Mom.”

“Oh, no, no, no. What did we talk about?”

Jo sighed. “Hey, Regina.”

“Ah, that's better. So much more mature, don't you think?”

No. She didn't think. Mature would be a woman of her mother's age realizing it was okay to be called “mom” by her own daughter, rather than wanting to pretend they were sisters and BFFs. But then again, when one was constantly between meal tickets—oh, sorry,
husbands
—one couldn't stand to appear one's real age. “What's up? I've got to open the bar soon.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I just needed to let you know I've moved.”

“Moved, past tense? As in, already happened?” Most kids might be shocked to hear about such a thing after the fact. Jo was just asking for clarification.

“Yes, about a month ago. I met the nicest man from Oklahoma City and . . .”

Jo tuned Regina out. What was the point? Same song and dance. In fact, Jo could probably tell it better than Regina herself. Met a nice guy, who just happened to be rich—how shocking!—and was willing to move her in with him. Or, even better, find her a sweet apartment just around the corner where she could do whatever she wanted. Of course, this meant uprooting her sweet daughter, but that's okay. A new city was a great place to start over. Again. And cities were just full of educational opportunities, weren't they?

“Don't you think?”

“Hmm?”

Regina blew out a harsh breath. “Honestly, Josephine, were you even listening?”

Not really. “Sorry, Mo—Regina. Something distracted me. What were you saying?”

Her mother gave a long-suffering sigh, as if mentally asking
why was I saddled with such an ungrateful child?
“I was simply saying that I think Rich will make a wonderful husband. He's got all the qualifications.”

Actually, Rich was a perfect name for someone her mother would target.

Regina laughed, a well-practiced little trill that sounded something close to a cross between a nightingale singing and angel wings fluttering. Well-practiced, indeed. “After all, fifth time's the charm!”

“Seventh,” Jo muttered, looking for something to throw without damaging property.

“That's not right.”

“I guess if you choose to not count those two annulments, then, hey—your math works.”

“What has gotten into you?” Regina snapped. “Your attitude is horrible.”

“Sorry.” Jo rubbed between her eyes with her thumb. “I didn't get much sleep last night.”

“Oh, dear.” Regina
tsked
. “You need sleep if you want to look your best. No man wants to deal with a woman who has bags under her eyes.”

“Right, well, owning a bar doesn't always lend itself to restful nights.” Nor do lusty dreams about unfulfilled promises from damn sexy cowboys.

“You could just work at a bar. Owning something is so complicated.” Regina's goal in life was to avoid complication.

“I manage, somehow.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Nope,” she lied without a second thought. Lying had become a way of life with her mother. If Regina hated complications, then really, Jo was just giving her mother what she needed. She never felt guilty about it. Regina would just stop contacting her altogether if Jo took a hard line.

“Did I tell you the story about that horrible woman who worked at that bar with us in Dallas?” Regina's disgust was telegraphed loud and clear. “You must remember her. She was the one with all that hair like that snake woman from those stories. Anyway, I heard through the grapevine—”

“Mom?” Jo said loudly. “Regina? Can you hear me?”

“Josephine?” her mother called back. “What in the world—”

“Regina? Reg—damn,” she muttered, as if to herself.

“Must be a poor connection. If you can hear me, I'll let you go now so you can go back and get to your . . .
work
.” Regina said the word “work” the same way some people might say “spiders” or “taxes.”

“Okay then. Let me know if I should be looking for a wedding invitation.” Which she would RSVP a big fat
no
to, but would send a nice gift. Just as she had the last four times.

Oh, sorry. The last two. Apparently two of those four weddings didn't count in Regina math. Funny how those gifts never got returned though. Regina math was very one-sided.

“Will do. Love you, baby!” Regina blew noisy air kisses and hung up without waiting for a response. The only thing Regina was truly interested in was her next season's wardrobe, and whatever adoration she could scrape out of the current cash cow.

Whoops. Husband.

Jo set the phone back down and made her way to the door. No point in dwelling on the Cleaver-esque mother-daughter relationship she would have killed for as a kid. The hand she was dealt would suffice. Besides. She was thirty years old. Did she really need her mommy's approval and unconditional love at this point?

No. But it would have been nice....

Jo walked down the stairs with heavy steps. Sometimes, life was just too complicated to even think about.

No wonder people drank.

 

Trace checked his watch, sighed, then stared out the window behind Peyton's desk. The desk—and the office it graced—had once belonged to their father. Though their father had been less of a businessman and more of a horseman himself, which explained a lot of why the ranch had been in such dire straits when it was passed to the three Muldoon siblings in equal shares. He'd tended the stock, not the books, which gave their mother free rein to run the numbers into the ground.

By the time their father was gone and Sylvia had full control, the debt had been impressive. After she'd had her way, it had become monumental.

But Peyton had definitely put her stamp on the place since. The dark wood would have seemed masculine if not for the touches of Peyton everywhere. More pictures than before. Books on animal husbandry and genomes dotted the shelves next to tomes of business marketing, capped by a few fiction best sellers.

And a pretty little figurine of a young girl with two braids riding a horse sat in a place of honor next to the computer. Trace knew Red had given the silly thing to her for Christmas. A year ago, Peyton would have scoffed at it and hidden it in some dark corner of a bookshelf. Instead, she'd gotten all teary and kissed the guy.

Figured.

“Where's your sister?”

Peyton rolled her eyes. “I thought she was
your
sister this week.”

“Please. I can't keep track of her for five seconds. Why does she have to be mine?”

Peyton kept typing an e-mail, using the time wisely. Trace couldn't say the same for himself, but then again what was he supposed to do? He was a figurehead for the company, not involved in the business end. Nobody wanted him answering e-mails, not if they wanted to sound professional.

“Hello, little people.” Bea breezed in on a swirl of fabric. The skirt she wore was an impractical number—as usual—with strands that looked like silk scarves hanging all over it. Her top was gauzy and almost see-through, though she wore a tank top under it, thank God.

Why couldn't she just dress like a normal person?

“You're late,” he said flatly.

“I am? Oh.” Zero remorse. She sat down and gave Peyton a hurry up look, as if she were the one who'd been kept waiting, rather than the other way around.

Peyton merely kept typing, holding up one finger for a moment to indicate she'd be done in a second.

“Do you know what this meeting is about?” Bea asked in a loud whisper, leaning over toward him.

“I'm assuming it's where Peyton kicks you off the ranch.”

Trace expected her to smile and say that was fine with her, she was done with the place anyway. But Bea's eyes widened for a moment, and he could almost see the wheels turning in her mind as she calculated the possibility of that being a real threat.

Interesting. For a woman who claimed almost daily to miss Hollywood and her soap star friends and the fast life and who couldn't stop ranting about how much Marshall and the state of South Dakota sucked . . . she looked rather frightened to be kicked out.

Something to think of later.

Peyton slammed the laptop closed and shoved it back by the desktop. “Sorry, finishing up an e-mail I started waiting for Tardy Pants here.”

“I resent that.”

“Then stop being late,” Peyton said simply. “The meeting is to discuss the business of the ranch. I know neither of you particularly enjoy that topic, but it's got to be dealt with.”

Bea rolled her eyes and inspected her nails. “As I've said before, you may simply cut me a check for the price of my portion.”

“And as I've told you, currently that's going to be squat. You want a check made out to squat?” Peyton smiled. “Plus, I'd like to remind you we have this nifty thing these days called the mail service. It carries letters all over the world. I could easily slip a check into the mail when it's ready. Nothing is keeping you here.”

Bea simply sighed, her chest heaving with the effort. “I'd hate to think what my leaving would do to this family. The damage it might inflict. Emotional trauma, and all that.”

“Yeah. Heartbroken.” Peyton turned to him, sensing he was the only one bothering to listen. “We've made some serious ground since last year, thanks to both you and Red. But that doesn't even put us back at even. Mama screwed us badly when she ignored the business side of the M-Star.” Her face ticked. “No, actually I wish she had ignored it. That would have been better than her thinking she knew a damn thing about horses and just randomly throwing money all over the place and losing it hand over foot.”

“But we're heading in the right direction.”

“Nowhere to go but up,” Peyton said cheerfully. But he could see the strain in her eyes.

“Peyton,” Trace said, and her smile slipped. “Just give it to us straight.”

B
ea was silent, but from the corner of his eye, he could see she'd dropped her hand in her lap and was watching rather than inspecting her manicure for chips.

“We've still got outstanding bills to pay. People have been generous, and I appreciate it. But that generosity can only go on for so long. People want their money, and I can't blame them. Plus . . .” She looked at the large computer monitor.

“Plus?” Bea asked anxiously.

“Back taxes.”

Ouch. Trace winced. Uncle Sam wasn't known for his generosity on excusing taxes. “Sylvia really was a peach.”

Bea bit her bottom lip, finally looking enough disturbed by the conversation to pay attention. “So now what?”

“We're on a payment schedule. But between the taxes, which I didn't see coming, and the catch-up we're still playing in other areas . . . it's tight.” Peyton laid her hands on the desk. “I'll be honest . . . we need something more. Something new.”

“Something new? Like what, new horses? A new trainer?” Trace's mind spun, trying to follow his sister.

She shook her head. “Those are band-aids. We need to branch out a little more. Find a new clientele.”

“Wasn't that my job, with my old rodeo buddies?” Was he really tanking that badly? Was this his fault?

“You're doing great. Your friends and their word of mouth . . . it's what's keeping us going right now. Without it, we would have handed our keys over to Uncle Sam months ago. But we need to reach even higher.” Peyton tapped one finger on the desk and stared meaningfully at Bea.

She looked blank for a moment, then Bea's head snapped back. “Me? What the hell do you think I'm going to add to this mess?”

More mess, was Trace's guess.

“You have a ton of skills you haven't tapped into yet,” Peyton said, all warmth now. “We just need to think outside the box and use your own personal brand of... individuality to our mutual benefit.”

Wow, clearly Peyton's skills in diplomacy had improved in the last year.

“I'm not a rancher.” Bea crossed her arms over her chest. Trace recognized that stance.

“I didn't ask you to be.” Peyton flattened her hands on the desk and leaned forward.

Yup, he recognized that stance, too. It was from every fight his sisters had as teenagers, all over again. Trace settled back in his chair and prepared to watch the fur fly.

“Then there's nothing I can do.”

“You could start by getting your ass out of bed before ten in the morning,” Peyton snapped.

Trace watched diplomacy take a flying leap right out the window.

“My ass and its time schedule are none of your concern.”

“They are when you're sleeping in my house.”

“I have my own apartment now.”

“Which is actually the trainer's apartment. Which is a part of the ranch.”

Bea smiled smugly. “Which, I'll remind you, I own a third of!”

Oh, Jesus. The death blow. Peyton's face flushed and she slammed one fist down on the desk, standing. “You arrogant little—”

“Who are you calling little, you hobbit!”

“Hobbit this!”

“Ladies?” Trace tried once, quickly, to intervene before Peyton jumped over the desk and mauled their baby sister where she sat. She might have been shorter than Bea, but she had more muscle and endurance.

Though Bea did have those nails . . .

Not his problem.

“This is doing nobody any good,” Trace said. “Can we get back to that whole ‘mutual benefit' thing? I was interested in that.”

Peyton took a few calming breaths, though they didn't do much to improve the flush still covering her face. Some of her hair had escaped her braid and curled crazily around her temple, and her jaw looked clenched hard enough to break ice. Bea, for her part, still looked completely unruffled, as if she went through screaming matches like this daily.

“Fine.” Peyton spoke through the clenched jaw. “Beatrice—”

“Don't you dare.”

“Bea,” she corrected with emphasis. “I know you have friends in higher places. People who own land out there in California. Friends who might be interested in horses trained by the best in the business. People who are willing to shell out six figures for a horse.”

Bea stared at her as if she were speaking Greek. “You're sure I have friends like that?”

Peyton blinked. “I'm hoping.”

“Time to let that hope die, sis. None of my friends ride.”

“But maybe they've thought about it. Or they have friends who might. Don't all movie producers have little ranches just outside the city limits? It's a cliché for a reason, right?”

Bea scoffed. “In case you didn't realize this, we lowly soap stars aren't exactly all that high up the food chain. I was second string, if that. I don't have a list of movie producers I can just call up to chat with.”

Trace cocked his head to the side. Interesting. This was the first time Bea had mentioned her career in anything but glowing terms. She'd led them all to believe she was only in South Dakota to give herself some distance from the life, and reevaluate her direction for the next acting gig.

“Can you make friends? Use connections? Something?” Peyton's eyes started to develop a hint of desperation. “Anything?”

Bea shook her head, and for once Trace believed her remorse in telling Peyton no. “I just don't have the connections you think I do.”

Peyton stared for a moment over their shoulders. He would have turned around to see what she was looking at, but he knew that glazed-over expression. It was the same one he'd had when the woman he'd been sleeping with told him she was pregnant. A look of recalculation, of reconsideration, of rejiggering your entire life to fit around whatever new card you were just dealt.

She nodded once, firmly. “Okay then. Sorry I wasted your time, both of you. I'll just . . . figure something else out. I haven't looked hard enough, I guess. There's another way.”

Trace didn't believe her. But there was no point in talking more. She was beaten, and she wanted them to leave the office so she could privately grieve for the failed plan she'd so obviously hung her hopes on.

He stood and waited for Bea to exit before speaking. “You've done good, Peyton.”

She gave him a sad smile. “I think we both know that's a crock.”

“You can't fix everything. Sylvia did her damnedest to drive this place into the ground before she crashed into that pole. That's not on your shoulders. If you were starting from scratch, there'd be no contest. You'd be unstoppable.”

She stood and walked around the desk, stepping easily into his arms for a hug. Her ear rested against his chest and she sighed. “I wanted to save it for Daddy.”

“How about for yourself, too?”

“Oh, yeah. That was obvious.” He chuckled. “But I just had this image of Daddy watching us, cheering us on like he used to when we'd be out in the arena learning a new trick.”

“Sittin' on a barrel or draped over the top rung of the gate, yelling at us to keep pushing harder, not give up,” he said, the image clear as crystal in his mind. In a few years, he could substitute himself for his father, Seth for a younger Trace. That made him smile.

“It's over, isn't it?” Peyton leaned back and looked at him. “I need someone to tell me the truth.”

“Do you still have the keys to the front door?”

She grinned. “Yeah.”

“Then it's not over.”

 

Trace twisted his back around and moaned when he found the pulled muscle. Something hadn't felt right the entire day, and now he knew why. Damn. He needed a masseuse and a heating pad.

Too bad all he had was lukewarm bottled water and a horse trailer.

Actually, he stood and watched as Steve drove away the M-Star vehicle with the trailer attached. Now all he had was his own pickup.

The thought of a three-hour drive with his back aching so badly was enough to bring a grown man close to tears. After a quick debate, he realized he needed to suck it up and drive. His back would only be worse in the morning; he knew that much from experience.

Damn Lad and his desire to throw him off whenever the animal damn well felt like it. And damn that kid for screaming and scaring the piss out of his horse. Who the hell taught that kid barn etiquette, a pack of wolves?

An hour into the drive, his cell phone rang. He picked it up out of the dusty cup holder and flipped it open, hitting the speaker button at the same time. “Yeah?”

“Well, hey there, Daddy. Someone wanted to say goodnight.”

“Da!” Seth's shrill scream pierced his skull and sent shards of glass rattling through his brain.

Trace gritted his teeth and fought back the rough edges of pain to keep his eyes on the empty road. “Hey, little man. You being a good boy for Peyton and Emma?”

“Da! Bah bah. Da!”

“Sure, uh-huh. Sounds like fun,” he said, wanting to smile. He would have, if it wouldn't have hurt. Man, he missed his son. Two days away and the kid picked up new syllables.

“He's reaching for a ball. I'm pretty sure full words are right around the corner.” Peyton's voice was strong again and it was clear she'd taken the phone back from Seth. “So how'd it go?”

“Not shabby, until the end.”

“Define ‘not shabby' and then what happened at the end?”

“Second overall in my division, and a few guys who are gonna be popping by this week to check the place out. And one guy who was interested in Lad.”

“Huh. Not a bad idea.”

“Lad's my horse, Peyton.”

“Technically, he's an M-Star horse. Besides, I thought you never wanted a horse of your own. Something about responsibilities and how you had too many of them already.”

Yeah, he'd said it. And meant it, too. Trying to travel everywhere with a horse of his own while towing Seth along for the ride had proven too much. And Trace never got in the habit of attaching any sentiment to his animals anyway. They were livestock, end of story.

But the thought of watching some other man drive away with Lad in his trailer, riding Lad on his own land . . .

It left a sour taste in his mouth. Maybe he was changing his tune.

“Forget Lad. The end part was basically something spooked him after we were done with the day and he threw me like a sack of potatoes. I think I pulled a muscle in my back.”

“Are you out of commission?”

“Thank you for your concern, Peyton,” he said dryly. “No, I don't think I need a doctor. Yes, I'll live. Your worry is overwhelming.”

“Can it, big bro. You're talking and you're alive. If it was worse you'd have told me and made me feel all sympathetic. It's how men work. ‘Oh, poor me, I'm near death's door. I have a cold. It's like the plague, but worse.' ”

She had him there.

“Should you be driving if it hurts that badly?”

“Steve took Lad back with him. I'm on my own so I can pull over when I need to stretch it out. But I'm probably not going to get back tonight, just a warning. I'll need to pull over and rest for a while.”

“No problem. Little man here's about to hit the hay and then he's out for the night. I'm not going anywhere, so we're set. Just be careful on the road.”

“Yeah . . .” He thought about it a little and wondered if maybe he should push all the way home. “Just don't expect me tonight.”

“You got it. We'll see you tomorrow, and don't push yourself.”

She hung up without a good-bye. So like Peyton.

Don't push himself. Well, Peyton had ordered. And if Seth was going down for the night . . .

Trace ran some calculations and wondered if he could really make it back to Marshall tonight. Maybe, but it might not feel great.

He'd try. And if he made it, he might see about stopping in and asking a certain bartender to work a kink out in his back.

He could only try.

 

Jo watched the young man pound back his third beer in an hour. If he ordered another, she'd have to call him a cab or refuse service. She always hated playing hardball, so it was time to be a little diplomatic instead. She walked up and leaned over the bar, elbows resting on the polished wood.

“Have you been in here before?”

The younger man—she knew he was twenty-two, as she'd checked his ID herself—predictably let his eyes wander from her face down to the cleavage the polo shirt provided. She couldn't even bring herself to be annoyed about it. The reaction was too expected to rate annoyance. “I've been here. Just hang out in the back, usually.”

“And I'm always up front.” She took his empty away and started to fill a tumbler with ice. “Mind keeping me company while I take a quick breather?”

He nodded, then shook his head. “Sure. I mean, I don't mind.”

He was cute, in an awkward, still finding his feet sort of way. She poured him some water as well, and as she hoped, he took a sip to match her own. Years and years behind the bar provided enough tricks to get a patron to slow down without being blunt. Lucky for her, her new young friend was easily led.

“So you work on one of the ranches around here?” She pulled the hair from her ponytail off her flushed neck and fanned the skin a little.

“Hell, no.” He looked offended. “I'm just home on break. I'm heading to law school next semester in Vermillion.”

“A smarty. I like a guy with brains.” The quick, teasing comment made him flush. Cute. “What's your name again?”