Cowboy Tough (20 page)

Mack scanned the crowd, searching for Cat's willowy form among the dancers. Her pale grace should stand out like a heron in a hen coop, but he couldn't spot her. He could feel his world starting to spin again, and he needed a touchstone—something that grounded him.

She stepped out of the darkness and into the circle of light around the barn like the answer to a wish. “Hey. Where are you going?”

He scanned her face as she took his arm. She had so many smiles—the languid, sexy tilting of the lips, the wry, ironic twist, and this one—teasing, lighthearted, and filled with promise. That was just the smile he needed right now.

“I just wanted to take a break.”

“Want company?”

He took her hand. “If the company's you, I do.”

They didn't speak as they strolled through the barn doors into the warm, hay-scented darkness. He pulled her close and felt the world steady under his feet. He breathed in the scent of her hair, violets and roses, and let his hands skim over her hips.

He needed to take the next step with this woman, and that meant finding a way to tell her how he felt. But with his luck, somebody would come into the barn and overhear them.

“I know a place where nobody can find us,” he said.

“Show me.”

There was no pretending now, no false flirtation. She simply let him lead her to the back of the barn to the tack and feed room. Racks jutting from one wall held an assortment of saddles, while hooks draped with halters and bridles lined another. A row of metal bins below the hooks held grain and sweet feed, with various horse blankets neatly folded on top. Bales of yellow straw and bright green alfalfa hay were stacked against the other two walls.

The room smelled of clean leather and new straw—Mack's favorite scents other than the flowery fragrance of Cat herself. He could hear the high notes of the fiddle and the dull thud of bass coming through the walls. The only light came from a high window—a combination of cool moonlight and the warm glow of the fire. All he could see of Cat in the dimness was the sheen of her eyes and the light catching the colored stones she wore on a gold chain. Baubles and beads, gauze and lace—she was decked out like the queen. He loved the way she dressed, but he couldn't wait to get all those trappings off her and be with the real, unadorned Cat.

The scrape of the fiddle was interrupted by the whine of electric guitars. If he weren't here with Cat, he'd be out there with the rest of the revelers, standing just outside the circle, as he always had. He'd been an outsider all his life, looking for his own heart and never quite finding it here at the ranch, or out on the road. He'd never minded the loneliness of the road or the risks of the rodeo, because he'd had nothing to lose. He'd thought that made him free, but he was wrong. It only made him poor.

Not for long, though. His outsider status was about to change. He was going to stop looking for something vague and undefined and start making the most of what he had. Hopefully, the woman beside him would be part of that change.

He had four days to make that happen.

He grabbed a pair of clippers that hung by the hay bales and snipped the twine on one, then another, then another. As the bales broke open, he swept the loose hay to the floor. Grabbing two of the clean horse blankets, he spread them over the bed of straw.

“Hm,” she said. “I think I'm about to have another Wild West experience.”

***

Cat reached across the blanket and took Mack's hand. All her life, she'd settled for something—for a job in advertising instead of art; for an apartment instead of a home; for her lukewarm relationship with Ames instead of love. Once, just once, she was going to have the real thing.

They met in the middle of the blanket. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him to the ground until they were both sprawled on the clean blanket in the single square of light that slanted from the window.

She reached up and stroked that teasingly unkempt shock of hair that fell over his forehead, then swept her hand down the side of his face, tracing the shard of light that glossed his cheekbone, drifting down to the rough stubble of his cheek and stroking the line of his jaw. Closing her eyes, she did it again. She wanted to trace every curve and angle, memorize him so she'd know him in the dark—and so she wouldn't forget him when she was gone.

Because of course she was going. There was no question of that. They had four more days here at the ranch—four days to enjoy this surprising, surreal attraction of opposites. She ignored the pang of loss that shot through her at the thought of leaving him. It was ridiculous to even think about staying.

But staying in touch—that wasn't impossible, was it? She could come back sometime. Visit. She didn't have to say good-bye forever.

His next kiss was deeper and less playful. There was real feeling behind it—she knew that now. This wasn't a game or a rehearsal for the real thing; he'd let her into his life and trusted her with his heart.

She wanted to be worthy of that trust, which meant she couldn't hold back anymore. His hand brushed her breast and she twisted to press herself into his palm. Hooking one leg around his thigh, she pulled her hips to his and felt the hard evidence of his arousal. She closed her eyes and felt sparks flying from his touch. His fingers danced along her skin and the sparks grew to flames.

He pulled away and she squirmed, wanting more, as he pulled off her shirt and worked at her belt. He stripped her with the single-minded determination he brought to everything he did, and then applied the same commendable work ethic to his own clothes.

Laying a palm on his bare chest, she locked her elbow, holding him off for a second so she could look at him. She loved the way his muscles flowed and swelled, the practical economy of his movements. He was a working man, one who actually used his body, and every part of him served a purpose. The city boys she knew were nothing like him; they were just shells for their sophisticated brains and pretentious egos.

She was suddenly self-conscious. Her own body was hardly flabby, but she didn't use her muscles much. Her hips had a little spare padding, and her tummy had a slight roundness to it that suddenly seemed superfluous. She closed her eyes, feeling shy, and he pulled his hand away from her breast to cup her chin. When he didn't move, she opened her eyes to find him gazing intently into her own.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” She tried for a careless smile, but it trembled at the edges. She pulsed her hips against him, hoping she could dodge the question and move on.

“No. Wait.” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You need to know some things.”

“I already know.” She smiled again. “The birds, the bees—it's okay, I get it.”

“This isn't about that,” he said. “It's about who you are.” His eyes flicked over her body, taking in every slightly padded curve, and she felt heat rise to her face. “You have a beautiful body, Cat. It's what got me here. But what's keeping me is inside.”

She bit her lip. He wasn't going to tell her that he loved her, was he? Because she wasn't ready for that. She didn't know what she was feeling, but she didn't want to define it; she just wanted to set it free.

He seemed to sense her discomfort, because he looked away, releasing his hold. “It's you,” he said simply.

And then he was moving again, and she was moving with him, their bodies joining like two flames from the same fire. They caught and flared, ebbed to a quiet glow, then flickered to life again and the flames leaped and danced, reaching into the sky and lighting the whole world on fire.

Lying with him later, she remembered the way the embers in the fire pit glowed in the cool night. She felt that same soft heat in her own heart, and wondered if she was falling for him too.

It didn't matter. She'd just enjoy it while it lasted. He pulled her closer and she rested her head on his chest. They listened to the music, a slow song sung by the band's raspy tenor.

I'm crazy.

Crazy
for
feeling
so
lonely…

“Crazy,” he muttered, echoing the song. His voice rumbled in her ear and that was all she wanted—just to hear him talk. She was learning that cowboys didn't have much to say, so she plumbed her mind for a question to get him going.

“Which is better—rodeo or ranching?” she asked.

Moving his hand in lazy circles on her back, he thought a moment and then the rumble started up again.

“Rodeo's a blast,” he said. “Every ride's different. And you win or lose—it's one way or the other. You've got your answer in eight seconds, and it's not that hard to win. You just have to figure out which way the horse is going to buck. Long as you know what you're dealing with, you can ride it out. Ranching's a lot harder because there are so many ways to lose.”

He paused and she knew he was thinking about his conversation with Ollie—and the fact that he might have lost without even getting a chance to try.

When he continued, she wasn't sure if he was talking to her or just thinking things through. “But you can always win somehow. There are always setbacks—droughts and heat waves, hard winters, money troubles—but the Boyds have always managed to hold on.”

She let herself relax, breathing slow and deep with the rhythm of his heart. In spite of all the turmoil he'd had today, it still pounded with a slow, steady beat. She had a feeling his heart was as unchangeable as the land he lived on, and she wondered what would happen when she was gone.

She'd just be one of those setbacks. He'd struggle a while, but he'd find a way to win. And life on the ranch would go on.

She pictured herself months from now, sitting in her tiny apartment studio, staring at the brick wall outside her back window, listening to the chaotic sounds of the city. It would be a comfort to know that he was still here, his heart still beating steady.

She wasn't staying. Her life wasn't here. But lying there beside him, breathing in the comforting scents of leather and hay, she understood what it must be like to have a home like this and lose it. What had Ollie said back there in the firelight?
This
place
is
done. It'll take a miracle to save it.

Maybe she could be a part of that miracle.

Mack lay in his dark bedroom, wishing he was back in the barn with Cat. The party had wound down, and they'd risen reluctantly. Cat needed to check on Dora, and he didn't want Viv sleeping in the house without him there. He'd watched Trevor Maines drive away, but you never knew what a guy like that would do. Sure, his mother was in the house, but she had a lot going on.

So did he. The depth of his feelings for Cat had surprised him, and Ollie's warning had been a sharp and sudden blow. He needed to spend some time in the office tomorrow, go over the books. Find out just how bad things were.

The good news was that all this trouble put his priorities in perspective. He'd find a way to save the ranch, and he'd find a way to make Cat stay. Those were the two things that mattered, and he wasn't about to lose either one. He might have wasted his life on the backs of a hundred bucking broncs, but he'd learned one thing from rodeo: He was good at hanging on.

Closing his eyes, he ran through a half-dozen possible solutions in his head. He was pretty sure he had enough in his rodeo account to stave off the bank for a month or two and keep the cows in feed and veterinary care over the winter. Meanwhile, he'd study the books and find a way to make that side of the operation pay. And he'd encourage his mother to work at the dude ranch side of the business. That was the key.

Job one, though, was still to take care of the bird in the hand, and that was Cat and her students. If their experience worked out, he'd have some success to build on—and maybe he'd have Cat, too.

He was probably crazy to think she'd stay. She was a city girl who needed coffee shop lattes and art galleries. He couldn't offer her any of that. He couldn't offer her much of anything, given the ranch's precarious financial status. But he'd give her everything he had. Surely that counted for something.

He drifted off into a half sleep, thoughts of numbers and ranching plans giving way to memories of Cat lying in the moonlight. He heard the crunch of tires on gravel and figured a late-partying guest must just be leaving.

When a sharp noise snapped him awake, he shot upright. He had no idea what time it was, but the moonlight had dimmed and the crickets had hushed.

A slit of light edged the door. As he watched, it grew wider, and a crouching figure crept into the room.

Cat.
He smiled in the darkness. He hadn't wanted to leave her, and he'd tried to talk her into coming back to the house with him. But she'd insisted that being together in the morning would look bad to her students. In reality, Emma and Abby would probably applaud if the two of them showed up to breakfast hot and disheveled with matching cases of bed-head.

He edged over, making room for her, as the door eased shut with a faint click. In the darkness that followed, he could only sense her presence by sound and scent. He could hear her shuffling cautiously forward, feeling her way. As she drew closer, he expected the sweet smell of violets, but she must have doused herself in some new perfume.

It wasn't good. He almost gagged at the combined assault of spices. It was some artificial scent, blended with something suspiciously like whiskey. He'd have to find a way to tell her this didn't work for him. Tomorrow, not tonight. He was doing his best to prove he could make it twenty-four hours without having to apologize.

He'd keep it positive. Tell her how much he loved her natural, flowery scent, and tell her not to cover it up. That was the way to do it.

He was getting good at this girl stuff.

The side of the bed sagged under her weight and he reached out to caress her. Making love in full dark was kind of a thrill. He didn't know if he'd be touching her breast, her hip, her belly…

His hand landed on something hairy and a low male scream shredded the silence, followed by a series of thumps and crashes as someone floundered across the room, desperate and graceless as a lobster on dry land. The overhead light flashed on.

Mack blinked in the bright light, then wished he hadn't.

Trevor Maines stood by the door with his hand on the switch, gaping at Mack with his mouth half-open. His normally sleek hair was standing up like a cock's comb, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

“What the hell?” Mack scrambled out of the bed, wishing he'd worn something more than boxers.

“Well.” Trevor blinked owlishly a few times, then seemed to find his bearings and drew himself up to his usual erect posture. He always looked a little absurd with his flowing hair and oddly military bearing, but in his current condition the combination was ridiculous. “I shee you didn't washte any time moving into my room.”

“News flash. Not your room.”

Mack grabbed his jeans and sat back down to step into them. He zipped up fast, prepared for a fight. But the man before him looked more pitiful than evil. You couldn't hit a man when he was down, and Trevor had obviously had a rough night.

“I deshided to give you another shance.” Trevor shook his head, as if repositioning his addled brains would help his muddled speech. “Nuther
shlance.
Nuther—nuther
opportunisy
. To redleem yourshelf.”

Obviously, he'd chosen a bar over the police station and drowned his defeat in whiskey. Judging from the smell emanating from his pores, it hadn't been good whiskey, either. Mack wondered how the aristocratic Trevor had stooped low enough to drink Jeremiah Weed.

He stood a moment, swaying.

“Gotta shleep.” He waved Mack away. “Move over.”

“I'll do you one better. I'll move out.” Mack gathered the few items he'd left on the nightstand, shoving them in his pockets while Trevor tipped over, landing with a solid
thunk
that nearly broke the box spring.

It was funny. With his shirt untucked and his hair in disarray, his speech slurred, and his aristocratic demeanor exchanged for a drunken stumble, the guy looked like any other bum off the street.

In fact, his new state fit him a little too well. The Richie Rich pretensions had always rung false to Mack, and he'd suspected the guy was exaggerating his wealth. But now his bullshit-ometer was clanging even more loudly.

He needed to get with Cat in the morning and find out what they really knew about this guy. But right now, he needed to find a place where he could keep an eye on things. Trevor was out cold, and there was nothing to do but let him sleep it off.

Closing the door behind himself, Mack glanced down the hallway. If Dora wasn't staying in the house, he could sleep in the extra bed in Viv's room. He looked over at his mother's door, wondering if he should wake her up and let her know the situation too. You couldn't be too careful.

But her door was wide open, and from his vantage point in the hallway, it was clear the bed was empty and hadn't been slept in. The old-fashioned chenille spread was as smooth and unlined as a newly groomed arena.

He winced. Hopefully Ollie hadn't returned to do whatever “business” he'd intended. Mack found it hard to believe his mother would fall for the guy's lines again, but if she'd done it once, she might do it again. He'd once taken Maddie's good sense for granted, but Ollie had changed all that.

He sighed. He wasn't about to chase after her. He was too afraid of what he might find. He might as well catch a few winks here, where he could still keep an eye on Trevor. If his mother turned up, he'd just get up and start the day early.

Standing at the window, he brushed the curtain aside and checked the parking lot beside the barn. Most of the vehicles were gone, as the guests had all gone home. There were a few scattered pickups remaining—probably guests who had been too drunk to drive.

He didn't see Ollie's Silverado. He'd have been able to spot it, because the light in Hank's tiny apartment above the barn was on, beaming a square of light right where the vehicle had stood. As Mack watched, a shadow moved across the lighted square on the bare ground. He couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, but somebody—or somebodies—was awake in Hank's room.

Maybe his mother wasn't with Ollie. Maybe she and Hank…

He didn't want to think about that. Collapsing onto the bed, he closed his eyes and wished to God he was on the back of a bronc. Then at least there'd be pickup men to haul him to his feet and rodeo docs to dust him off and patch him up. Here at the ranch, he could feel his grip slipping, and there was nobody to catch him if he fell.