Cowboy Player: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 3 (9 page)

God, he was beautiful. As beautiful as he was kind.

Through the haze of her own madness for him, she realized something she’d suspected from the very first time they’d kissed.

She loved him.

Anguish sliced through her like a hot knife.

Eight years—that’s what she’d thrown away on a man who wouldn’t commit. She promised herself she’d never again date a player. Never again try to shape a man into what she thought he should be. That was a recipe for heartbreak. Right here in her kitchen, she was mixing up a big old pot of it right now.

Clark embraced her as he caught his breath. He pressed tender kisses to her neck, stroked her back and whispered to her how beautiful she was, how lovely, how sexy.

When he withdrew at last, an overwhelming sadness hit her. They’d both broken their promise.

He went to the bathroom to clean up. When he returned, she was dressed and sitting at the kitchen table, too shaken up to know how to behave. He sat next to her, reached out and put his hand on hers.

“We can handle this, Mel.”

“I feel like everything is upside down.” She was quiet for a long time. “Through this whole thing with my mother and my sister and my ex, you’ve been so amazing. So strong and caring. Coming back to Oleander has been difficult. But you made the days bearable. Not just bearable—wonderful. I missed being around you.” She looked at him and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Tension was rising in her temples. “God, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“Don’t be afraid. Tell me anything,” he said.

She looked him in the eye. “I need you to know. I’m incapable of having a boyfriend. I can’t do it again.”

“Okay,” he said slowly.

“I don’t want a friend that I sleep with sometimes. When there’s nothing better to do. You mean more to me than that.”

He nodded.

“But I don’t want to avoid you. Those two weeks without you—they were torturous. I was so lonely.”

“So what do you want?”

“I want things to go back the way they were. Back when we were friends. Nothing more complicated than that.”

“We tried. We both know we can’t go back that way either.” His eyes were bright with lust. “I swear to God, I think about you all the time. Hell, we just made love and I’m thinking about it again.”

“I know the cure for that,” she said before she could lose her nerve. She’d been thinking about this solution for days. “Go out with other women.”

He sat up. “What?”

“I’m serious. It’s the only way.”

“Mel, I haven’t been with anyone else since we first slept together. I’m not interested in anyone else. Just you.”

“That feeling will pass,” she said. “When you dive back into the game, you’ll be your old self again. Don’t worry.”

“I know you’re saying this to protect yourself.” He looked at her with a gaze that seared her with its heat. “But don’t tell me how I feel. I know what I want.”

Her old boyfriend had said all the same things to her. She had to stay clearheaded. She was a mess. How could she protect him from the poison and mistrust she knew swirled inside her, just waiting to come out? “You only think you know what you want, Clark. But you’ll get bored. You’ll want to go out with other women. You’ll begin to resent me as your girlfriend. And then we’ll break up. If we get together, we’ll lose our best chance at staying friends. So there’s only one logical thing to do. You need to go out with other women.”

“What kind of dumbass logic is that?” He stood up and kissed her hard. Her logical mind knew he was just trying to make a point, but her toes still curled against the linoleum. When he pulled away, her heart was beating hard again. He was a damn fine lover. She wished to God he could be hers forever, but she knew the universe never granted wishes like that.

“So let me get this straight—you don’t trust me to be faithful.” He paused. “What can I say to convince you?”

She shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know, Clark. Words are just words.” She looked down at his lips, so soft and tempting. But he wasn’t hers and she wasn’t his and that was that. “There was a time when I thought the adventure came with a fairytale ending. Prince Charming. The kiss that broke the spell. But it was never a fairytale. It wasn’t even a story. It was a game. I played it for eight years, and I lost.” She sighed and glanced up at the clock. “I’m going to be late for my shift. You have to go.”

Melody was about to stand up when Clark grabbed both her hands and pinned her wrists to the table. His dark eyes blazed, and the potency of his words cut through her sadness. “I don’t know what that fucker did to you to make you think this way. But you and me, Mel? This isn’t a game. It was never a game.”

Without saying anything else, he got up, grabbed his hat by the door and left. The screen door shut with a bang.

* * * * *

After dinner, Clark accompanied his eldest brother Dean out to the stables. A couple of their father’s cattle dogs followed at their heels, panting and wagging in the warm August night.

“So you’re taking Mr. Singh out tomorrow morning? Has he gone riding before?” Clark asked. He turned on the lights.

“Once or twice, he said.” Dean led out D.B. Cooper, a big buckskin quarter horse that was ten years old and bombproof. Nothing spooked him. “I think old boy here will do just fine for
Papa ji,
won’tcha, D.B.?”

Clark smiled. His brother had more to say to livestock than he ever had to say to people. “You want to ride mine?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Clark got Joker’s halter on and led him out of his stall. A four-year-old bay roan gelding, Joker was one of the best working horses Clark had ever owned.

They set to work, using rubber currycombs and dandy brushes to remove all the dirt and dust from the horses’ coats. While Clark took a hoof pick to their feet, Dean finished their coats with a thorough brushing and ran a soft brush over their faces. Dean and Clark had been doing this since they were boys. It was easy to fall into a rhythm as they worked.

“So, how are things going with Monica’s family?” Clark asked. He couldn’t face his own worries right now. It was easier to focus on Dean’s. “Have you won them over yet?”

Dean snorted. “Me? I’m scratching the surface yet. Her mom seems to like me. Her dad, eh.” Dean waved his palm back and forth. “Her brother wants to see my head on a pike.”

Clark knew his stubborn big brother was wildly in love with a woman whose family didn’t approve of him. So Dean did what he did best—he took the bull by the horns and didn’t back down. He’d taken it upon himself to woo them all, come hell or high water. And Clark was certain that the crazy bastard could do it.

“I have to tell you something,” Clark said, “and you can’t tell anyone else about it.”

“Aw, hell, what now?”

“Promise.”

“What are we, seven?” When Clark frowned at him, Dean said, “All right, for Chrissakes. I promise.”

Clark took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “So, um. Melody and me…we’ve been fooling around.”

Dean stopped brushing Joker’s face. “Did I hear you right? Did you just say
Melody
?”

The MacKinnon boys had grown up with the Santos girls. Clark’s confession was on par with admitting incest. “I know, I know,” Clark said quickly. “It’s a less-than-ideal situation.”

“Dad’s gonna gut you, you know that, right?” Dean’s words were scary and probably true, but he was smiling. “Damn, Clark. That’s a doozy.”

“Tell me about it. But here’s the thing, Dean. She’s not just another girl. Not to me.”

Clark told the whole story, soup to nuts. Of course, he left out how good Melody was in bed. On balcony. In kitchen.

“I don’t know what to do next.” Clark led Joker back into the stall and gave him some oats. “She’s spooked, but I don’t want us to stay here, in limbo. She deserves more—much more.”

Dean gathered up all their tools and put up D.B. for the night. “So, let me get this straight. You can’t just be friends.”

“Right.”

“You can’t be boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Right.”

“You can’t be each other’s booty call.”

Clark nodded. “You’ve got the measure of it.”

“Hmm.” Dean sat down on an upturned bucket and petted the dogs. He said nothing for a long time. Joker nickered in the quiet, enjoying his oats. Clark looked out into the dark farmyard, the corrals, and the pastures beyond. Across those hills and down the highway was Melody’s house. He wondered if she was thinking of him.

“Do you love her?” Dean’s voice startled him out of his daydreaming.

The answer was so easy, it surprised him. “Yeah. I do.” Clark turned around. “I don’t want to lose her.”

One of the dogs rested his head on Dean’s knee. “I could tell you what I’d do,” Dean said, “but you might not have the stomach for it.”

Clark snorted. “You’re a professional bullfighter. You referee bucking bulls in rodeo arenas. Nobody has your stomach.”

“Maybe so.” Dean scratched the scruff of the dog’s neck. “But the truth is, the best thing you can do with something that scares you is face it. Head-on.”

“How do I do that?”

Dean looked up and grinned. “Let’s go see if Mom’s still awake.”

* * * * *

Jerome’s bright-orange lunch truck sparkled in the Santa Monica sunshine. The words
Cowboy Burgers
were emblazoned on the side of the truck in white letters alongside a logo: a cowboy on a bucking bronco, a big hamburger in his free hand. The truck was camera ready. The bustling farmers’ market served as a colorful backdrop. Its stands were crammed with a rainbow of summer produce—tomatoes, corn, kale, blueberries, peaches. A small crowd of curious onlookers and market regulars gathered around the truck.

Clark had brought Jerome one of his cowboy hats to wear for the TV segment. It was black, not surprisingly. Jerome wore his black chef’s jacket, black jeans and black sneakers.

“Hey, Johnny Cash. You ready for your close-up?” Clark asked.

“You know it, bro!” Jerome said with a smile, tipping his hat.

Melody thought it was odd that Clark had made such an effort to dress nicely himself. Clean-shaven, he was wearing new jeans and a freshly pressed blue plaid shirt that he’d kept hung up in the van during the drive. With his white Resistol straw hat and polished belt buckle, he looked every bit the hot cowboy Hollywood dreams were made of.

Melody stood by the truck as the camera crew set up. Feeling like an extra on the set, Melody wore a cobalt-blue sundress her sister had left in the closet. She’d polished her cowboy boots and did her best to make her hair and makeup look halfway decent.

“Nice duds, Clark!”

Melody’s old friend the yoga goddess stalked up to Clark. In sweatpants, a bikini top and aviator sunglasses, the blonde looked like an ad for coconut water in a surfing magazine. She and Clark chatted quietly out of Melody’s earshot as Melody stared blankly at the sodas and bottled water lined up like soldiers in the lunch truck’s cooler.

Don’t be angry. He can talk to anyone he wants
, she told herself in silence.
You told him to see other women, remember?

Melody gritted her teeth, unable to stand the taste of her own bad medicine.

When she looked up, the yoga goddess was gone. Jerome and Clark were talking to the TV reporter, a chubby gentleman in a shirt and tie. The sound guy and the cameraman gave the thumbs-up and it was time to begin.

Melody stood up straight and tried to relax her shoulders so she wouldn’t look like a spazz on camera. It was a live segment. Back home, the entire town was watching. Tom Shelton told her that he would put the show on in the bar.

Clark leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You look so fucking beautiful.”

She didn’t have time to respond.

Three, two, one. Showtime.

The reporter gave a quick rundown of Jerome’s impressive career then asked him questions about his inspiration and his menu for the food truck. Jerome, in his element, was chatty and cheerful. One of his cooks handed hot food out of the window of the truck and the reporter taste-tested everything with glowing praise.

“Now, I see that you have a couple of friends here with you. The name of your truck is Cowboy Burgers. How did you arrive at that name?” asked the reporter.

“Some people think California is all about surfers and movie stars,” said Jerome. “But I would come every Wednesday to this market and I met this guy right here. He’s a real California cowboy. He’s the inspiration for my truck.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Clark MacKinnon, sir. This is Melody Santos. We’re from MacKinnon Ranch, a family-owned and -operated cattle ranch located in Oleander, California. We produce 100 percent pasture-raised grass-fed beef, no hormones.”

Like a pro, Clark went into all of the benefits of grass-fed beef, including better taste and better nutrition. “We’re a small operation, not a factory farm. Our animals wander the pastures, get lots of exercise and fresh air. They’ve never seen a feedlot. In truth, my parents, my brothers and I—we’re in the business of raising good grass. If you do that, the cows will do the rest.”

Jerome chimed in. “By the way, I know what your audience is thinking. He doesn’t mean that kind of grass, okay, guys?”

Melody covered her smile. Clark’s eyes darted to hers before he turned back to the reporter. “With Jerome’s help, we’re hoping to spread the word about our operation and our products. God willing, my family will be able to do this work for years to come.” He cleared his throat. A bright red flush crept up his neck. “Actually, Stan, I was hoping Melody could help me with something important with regards to that.”

The reporter looked fazed for a moment. “Uh, sure. What do you have in mind?”

Melody’s eyes widened. She kept the smile plastered on her face despite every alarm going off in her head. Live television! Thousands of people watching! What was this crazy cowboy up to?

With a nod at Jerome, Clark took off his hat and pulled something from his shirt pocket.

When he got down on one knee, the crowd gasped. A couple of women suppressed squeals.

Melody froze.

Sweet. Baby. Jesus.