Going Cowboy Crazy (36 page)

“D
AMMIT,
A
USTIN
,” Slate mumbled under his breath as he walked down the sidelines, following the path of the ball that his quarterback had just thrown. The bright lights reflected off the brown leather as it floated down in the outstretched hands of his wide receiver, who then tucked it in the cradle of his arm and ran it over the goal line. The touchdown should’ve eased his temper.

It didn’t.

With his anger boiling, Slate stood with the toes of his running shoes just on the edge of the sideline and tried to breathe as he waited for an elated Austin to finish bumping chests with his wide-out and jog off the field.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The clear plastic mouth guard slipped out of Austin’s mouth as he unsnapped his chinstrap. “Winning a football game.” His calm voice really grated on Slate’s nerves.

“Don’t pull that cocky crap with me.” Slate’s hand tightened around the clipboard. “I gave you a play call, and you completely ignored it.”

“Because it wouldn’t have worked. The defense was
lined up for a blitz, which left VJ wide open. I took the opportunity that was handed to me.”

“I don’t give a damn what kind of opportunity is handed to you. If I call for a running play, I expect to get one.”

The crowd roared as the extra point went through the uprights.

Austin jerked off his helmet. “Well, I expect to get a coach who doesn’t have his head up his butt because he’s too chickenshit to go after what he wants.”

“What I want? I’ll tell you what I want! I want a damned quarterback who knows how to take directions.” He whirled around and yelled at Travis. “Get Jared’s ass over here! He’s finishing the game.”

“That’s bullshit!” Austin threw down his helmet and stepped closer to Slate.

Slate stared the kid down, even though he was a good two inches taller. “Bullshit or not, if you don’t pick up that helmet and go sit down, you’ll never set foot on this field again.”

Austin might’ve argued if two of the offensive linemen hadn’t jumped between them.

“Chill, Big Oz.”

“Yeah, man, you want to ruin our chances for state?”

With a few choice cusswords, Austin jerked up his helmet and pushed his way over to the bench. Slate turned back to the game. But his temper didn’t cool. He tried to calm down by thinking of clear blue waves rolling up smooth sparkling sand, but since Faith had left, the serenity of Mexican beaches was well out of reach. Especially when, not more than fifteen minutes later, Jared fumbled the ball and the other team ran it in for a touchdown.

Luckily, they were still up by ten points and only had three minutes left in the game. Still, it only took ninety seconds of that time for Jared to throw an interception. But the defense held, and they walked into the visitor’s locker room winners. Funny, but Slate didn’t feel like a winner. He felt worse than when his mother had brought him to Bramble, then sneaked off early the next morning before he’d even gotten out of bed.

Women leaving him seemed to be the bane of his existence. But at least Hope had enough guts to say good-bye. Which made her a hell of a lot better than the other two women he’d loved.

Loved.

Damn, he hated the word.

The bus ride home was quiet for a win. Slate sat in the front with the rest of the coaches and talked about strategies for the first play-off game. When they got back to the school, the boys trudged into the showers while Slate went to his office and changed into his boots and western shirt. It was more out of habit than anything else. He didn’t feel like going to Bootlegger’s to celebrate, nor did he feel like going back to Bubba’s, where memories were as thick as flies and twice as annoying.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?” Austin stood in the doorway with the straw hat pulled over his wet, slicked-back hair.

“Come in and close the door,” Slate directed.

Austin strutted in, closing the door behind him. “What? You don’t want witnesses when you kick me off the team?” He flopped down on the couch and stretched his legs along the cushions. On his feet were shiny new lizard-skin boots with pointy toes. He couldn’t bring himself to tell the kid
that pointy toes were out. Of course, he glanced at the misshapen straw Resistol on the kid’s head and realized that he didn’t exactly follow fashion himself.

“Nice boots.”

Austin cocked his head as he examined them. “It figures you’d like them.”

“Are you telling me you bought boots you didn’t like?”

He shrugged. “When in Rome.”

If Slate hadn’t felt so depressed, he might’ve laughed. Instead, he got up from his chair and moved around the desk. He leaned back on it, his hands clasping the edge. “You deserve to be kicked off the team, you know.”

Austin glanced up at him. “For winning a football game or for calling you chickenshit?”

“How about for not running the plays I give you.”

A good minute passed before Austin spoke. “Fine. I’ll run your plays, even if they suck.”

“Good.” Coming up from the desk, Slate reached down and grabbed the front of Austin’s hooded sweatshirt and jerked him to his feet, Slate’s forehead brushing the brim of the cowboy hat he’d given him. “Now about you calling me chickenshit.” His fist twisted in the thick cotton, pulling it taut around Austin’s chest. “It might be wise if you didn’t do that again. Especially since I haven’t been in the best of moods.”

Slate had to give it to the kid; his fear only lasted a second. “And the reason you’ve been in such a lousy mood is because you’re too chick—pigheaded to go get her and bring her back.”

Slate released his sweatshirt and stepped away. “Austin, I’m not going to discuss my personal life with you.” He moved back around the desk and sat down.

“Then that’s it?” When Slate refused to answer him, Austin threw up his hands. “Fine! Then you might as well throw me off the team, because as far as I’m concerned you
are
a chickenshit—just like my dad!”

After the door slammed, Slate fell back in his chair. The kid was probably right. He was a chickenshit. But he wasn’t about to go chasing Faith down so he could grovel at her feet. He’d never groveled in his life. If people didn’t want to stay, they didn’t have to. It was their choice. And he couldn’t change that. What he could change was how he dealt with it. Instead of sitting there feeling sorry for himself, he had a play-off game to win. Which meant he needed to go home and watch some game film.

It didn’t take him long to finish locking up and then head out to the parking lot. The night was cold, cold enough for him to slip on his lightweight team jacket.

“Slate?”

At the softly spoken word, he looked up so fast he hurt his neck. A figure separated from the shadowy side of the locker room—the same spot Faith had stood in a week earlier. Except the woman who came toward him didn’t walk with Faith’s feminine glide; this was more of a boyish strut.

Hope.

“Hi, Hog.” He tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. “What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for you.” Her voice sounded nasally and a little hesitant.

His eyes narrowed as he tried to make out her features in the shadow cast by the brim of her black Stetson, but all he could see was her stubborn little chin. If it wasn’t for the two long braids, he might’ve doubted who he was
talking to. Especially since she didn’t sound like Hope. Or Faith, for that matter.

“You got a cold?”

“Yes—” She cleared her throat. “I mean, what’s it to you?”

Hope was sure acting weird, and had been acting weird since Sutter Springs. He didn’t know what had happened in Hollywood, but it couldn’t have been good. And he felt bad that he had been so wrapped up with football that he hadn’t stopped by to see her in the last week. She might’ve pissed him off with her inopportune timing and stubborn nature, but she was still a good friend, and he couldn’t stay mad at her.

“Listen.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by Jenna and Burl’s. It’s been a hell of a week.” Instead of commenting, she shivered, and he shrugged out of his jacket. “Here.” He hooked it around her shoulders, snapping the top snap. “You should be home in bed instead of wandering around without a coat.”

“Thank you,” she said in a way that had him bending down to look beneath the brim of the hat again. But before he could see more than the tip of a cute little nose, she ducked her head and quickly added, “And stop bossin’ me around, cowboy.”

“Well, someone needs to.” He turned and headed for his Yukon. When he reached it, he looked back to find her still standing where he’d left her. “So do you need a ride or what?”

She hesitated for only a second before she hurried over, braids swinging. She hadn’t worn braids since middle school, nor had she ever let him open doors for her. As she brushed past him to climb into the SUV, a scent
filled his nostrils. A sweet, subtle scent that caused his gut to tighten. Peaches. Ripe, juicy peaches. Which was just crazy. He didn’t know what Hope smelled like, but he was sure it had never been peaches.

After closing the door behind her, he took a deep, cleansing breath of cool night air. And by the time he slipped beneath the steering wheel, he was convinced the scent had been his imagination.

“How come you’re not driving Bubba’s truck?” Hope asked as he started the engine.

“I only drive it when I need to haul things out to the house,” he lied. Hauling wasn’t the only reason he drove Bubba’s truck. He had liked driving it. Liked sitting up so high that he could see most of Bramble. Liked the flags of his state and country flapping and fluttering in the breeze behind him. Liked Buster having an entire truck bed to roam around in. But mostly, he had liked the long bench seat where a woman could stretch out or cuddle so close he didn’t know where he ended and she began. A week ago, he’d been considering buying the truck off Bubba. But not now. Now, he hated the thing. Hated it with a passion.

“So what did you think of the game?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

“Uhhh, it was good.”

Since “good” wasn’t a word an avid football fan like Hope would use for a win, his gaze shot over to her. But the hat obscured most of her features. Except for those damned sexy lips.

Startled by the thought, he returned his gaze to the highway and cleared his throat. “Good? After a couple teams in our division lost tonight, it looks like we’re in the play-offs. I’d say that was more than good, Hog.”

“I meant great,” she mumbled as she looked around. “So where are you taking me, Calhoun?”

He eased his foot off the accelerator. “I thought you’d want to go home. Did you want me to drop you at Boot’s?”

“I was thinking—I mean, I want to go to Sutter Springs.”

Sutter Springs was not a good idea—not after their conversation last Friday night. But mostly because the place held too many memories of Faith.

“I’m pretty tired, Hope.”

It was the truth. Since Faith had left, he’d gotten very little sleep. Coaching his team had helped keep his mind off her during the day, but at night, in the small dark room of Bubba’s trailer, there was only him and a whole lot of hours filled with nothing but thoughts of Faith.

She shot a glance over at him. “I thought you might want to talk about Faith.”

“Why the hell would I want to do that?” Slate took off his hat and tossed it to the dashboard. “And why would you want to? I thought you were pissed at her for stealing your life.”

“I—she didn’t steal my life.”

“You’re right. She stole mine,” he muttered under his breath. Unfortunately, not low enough.

“Yours? What do you mean?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, it doesn’t matter. What happened between me and her is history. But I’m glad you don’t hate her.”

“You hate her?” The way she said it sounded so much like Faith, he glanced over at her. Damn, his mind was really starting to play tricks on him. Cuddled against the door, she even looked like Faith.

“What difference does it make what I feel about her? I’ll probably never see her again.” He nodded at Bootlegger’s as they passed. “You sure you don’t want me to drop you off? It looks like your folks are there.”

She ignored the question. “Do you want to see Faith again?”

He snorted. “Are you kidding? Not in this lifetime… or the next.”

The answer seemed to shut Hope up, and she remained silent the rest of the way through town.

When they got to the corner of Jenna and Burl’s street, he finally spoke. “Look, Hog, I didn’t mean to get you all upset. I’m glad you’ve forgiven Faith. She really wasn’t trying to steal your identity. All she wanted to do was meet her sister.”

He just wished that he hadn’t gotten in the way.

“Where’s your truck?” he asked as he pulled into the driveway.

“I left it at Shirlene’s.” Her voice was much more nasally. And a lot more quavery.

The quavery part scared the hell out of him, and he quickly parked and turned to her. “Shirlene’s? Well, why didn’t you have me drop you off there?”

“I-It doesn’t m-matter.” She blindly reached for the door handle.