Going Cowboy Crazy (4 page)

It wasn’t a big deal. Slate had kissed a lot of girls in his life. Including one whose eyes were the deep blue of the ocean as it waits to wash up on a Mexican shore. Except he hadn’t noticed that about Hope. Hope’s eyes were always just blue. Yet this woman’s eyes caused a horde of descriptive images to parade through his mind. All of them vivid… and sappy as hell.

Luckily, when he placed his lips on hers all the images
disappeared. Unluckily, now all he could do was feel. The startled intake of breath. The hesitant tremble. The sweet pillowy warmth.

“Suck!” someone yelled.

Her lips startled open, and moist heat surrounded him. Shit, he was in trouble. He parted his lips, hoping that once he did, she would pull back and start talking. But that’s not what happened. Instead, she angled her head and opened her mouth wider, then proceeded to kiss him deep enough to suck every last trace of lime from his mouth, along with every thought in his mind. Except for one: how to get inside her conservative beige pants.

Slate pulled his head back. Get in her pants? Get in
whose
pants? He didn’t know who the hell the woman was. And even if he did know, he sure wasn’t going to get in her pants in front of the entire town. He liked to please people, but not that much.

Ignoring the moist lips and desire-filled eyes, Slate dropped his hand from her chin and lifted her down from the bar. When he turned around, the room was filled with knowing grins. He thought about explaining things. But if he’d learned anything over the years he’d lived in Bramble, it was that when small-town folks got something in their heads, it was hard to shake it. Even if it was totally wrong. Which was why he didn’t even make the effort. He just grabbed his hat off the bar as he slipped a hand to the petite woman’s waist and herded her toward the door.

It wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be. Which was just one more reason he knew the woman wasn’t Hope. Hope was too damned controlling to let anyone herd her anywhere. Just one of the things he didn’t particularly miss.

Once they were outside, Slate guided her a little ways from the door before he pulled her around to face him.

“Okay. Just who the hell are you?”

Her gaze flashed up to his just as Cindy Lynn came out the door.

“Hey, Hope. I was wonderin’ if you could come to the homecomin’ decoratin’ committee meetin’ on Monday afternoon. I know decorations aren’t your thing, but everybody would love to hear about Hollywood. Have you met Matthew McConaughey yet? One of my cousins on my father’s side went to college with him in Austin and—”

“Hey, Cindy.” Slate pushed the annoyance down and grinned at the woman who, on more than one occasion, had trouble remembering she was married. “I know you’re probably just busting at the seams to talk with Hope about all them movie stars, but I was wondering if you could do that later, seeing as how me and Hope have got some catching up to do.”

“I’m sure you do.” She smirked as she turned and wiggled back inside.

Realizing Cindy Lynn would be only one of many interruptions, Slate slapped his hat on his head and took the woman’s hand. “Come on. We’re taking a ride.”

She allowed him to pull her along until they reached the truck parked by the door. “This is your truck?”

Slate whirled around and stared at the woman who sounded exactly like Hope—except with a really weird accent. He watched as those blue eyes widened right before her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

The hard evidence of her betrayal caused his temper—that he worked so hard at controlling—to rear its ugly
head, and he dropped her hand and jerked open the door of the truck. “Get in.”

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “I’d rather not.”

“So I guess you’d rather stay here and find out how upset these folks get when I inform them that you’ve been playing them for fools.”

She cast a fearful glance back over her shoulder. “I’m not playing anyone for a fool. I just wanted some answers.”

“Good. Because that’s exactly what I want.” Slate pointed to the long bench seat of the truck. “Get in.”

The sun had slipped close to the horizon, the last rays turning the sky—and the streaks in her hair—a deep red. She looked small standing so close to the large truck. Small and vulnerable. The image did what the Mexican daydreams couldn’t.

He released his breath. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m not going to let you leave without finding out why you’re impersonating a close friend of mine. So you can either tell me, or Sheriff Winslow.”

It was a lame threat. The only thing Sheriff Winslow was any good at was bringing his patrol car to the games and turning on his siren and flashing lights when the Bulldogs scored a touchdown. But this woman didn’t know that. Still, she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to follow his orders, either.

“My car is parked over there,” she said, pointing. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“Not a chance. I wouldn’t trust you as far as little Dusty Ray can spit.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, I’m not going anyplace with a complete stranger.”

“Funny, but that didn’t stop you from almost giving me a tonsillectomy,” he said. A blush darkened her pale skin. The shy behavior was so unlike Hope that he almost smiled. Almost. She still needed to do some explaining. “So since we’ve established that we’re well past the stranger stage, it shouldn’t be a problem for you to take a ride with me.”

“I’m sorry, but I really couldn’t go—”

Kenny charged out the door with the rest of the town hot on his heels.

“Hey.” he held out a purse, if that’s what you could call the huge brown leather bag. “Hope forgot her purse.”

Slate’s gaze ran over the crowd that circled around. “And I guess everyone needed to come with you to give… Hope her purse.”

“We just wanted to see how things were goin’.” Tyler Jones, who owned the gas station, stepped up.

“And say good-bye to Hope,” Miguel, the postmaster, piped in.

There was a chorus of good-byes along with a multitude of invitations to supper.

Then someone finally yelled what everyone else wanted to. “So what are you gonna do with Hope now, Coach?”

What he wanted to do was climb up in the truck and haul ass out of there. To go home and watch game film—or better yet, pop in a Kenny Chesney CD and peruse the Internet for pictures of Mexican hot spots. Anything to forget he’d ever met the woman, or tasted her skin, or kissed her soft lips, or stared into her blue eyes. Blue eyes that turned misty as she looked at the smiling faces surrounding them.

It was that watery, needy look that was the deciding factor.

“Well, I guess I’m going to do what I should’ve done years ago.” He leaned down and hefted her over one shoulder. She squealed and struggled as the crowd swarmed around them. Then he flipped her up in the seat and climbed in after her.

“What’s that?” Ms. Murphy, the librarian, asked as she handed him a red high heel through the open window.

After tossing it to the floor, Slate started the engine. It rumbled so loudly he had to yell to be heard.

“Take her to bed.”

The woman next to him released a gasp while poor Ms. Murphy looked like she was about to pass out. Normally, he would’ve apologized for his bad behavior. But normally he didn’t have a beautiful impostor sitting next to him who made him angrier than losing a football game.

He popped the truck into reverse and backed out, trying his damnedest to pull up mental pictures of waving palm trees, brown-skinned beauties, and strong tequila. But they kept being erased by soft white skin, eyes as blue as a late September sky, and the smell of sun-ripened peaches.

The town of Bramble, Texas, watched as the truck rumbled over the curb and then took off down the street with the Stars and Stripes, the Lone Star flag, and Buster’s ears flapping in the wind.

“Isn’t that the sweetest thang?” Twyla pressed a hand to her chest. “Slate and Hope—high school sweethearts together again.”

“It sure is,” Kenny Gene said. “ ’Course, there’s no tellin’ how long Hope will stay.”

“Yep.” Rye Pickett spit out a long stream of tobacco juice. “That Hollywood sure has brainwashed her. Hell, she couldn’t even remember how to drink.”

“Poor Slate,” Ms. Murphy tsked. “He’ll have his hands full convincing her to stay and settle down.”

There were murmurs of agreement before Harley Sutter, the mayor, spoke up. “ ’Course, we could help him out with that.”

Rossie Owens pushed back his cowboy hat. “Well, we sure could.”

“Just a little help,” Darla piped up. “Just enough to show Hope that all her dreams can be fulfilled right here in Bramble.”

“Just enough to let love prevail,” Sue Ellen agreed.

“Just enough for weddin’ bells to ring,” Twyla sighed.

“Yep.” Harley nodded as he hitched up his pants. “Just enough.”

F
AITH WAS IN THE REDNECK MONSTER TRUCK
. A truck with huge flags fluttering and snapping in the breeze, a dog’s wet nose pressed up against the back window, and the radio blaring out a song about putting a boot in someone’s ass. While the arrogant rebel, who flaunted the size of his privates and had crude flowing through his veins, hung one wrist over the steering wheel, completely unconcerned that the huge tires straddled the double yellow line.

She rechecked her seat belt, then placed both hands back on the dashboard. “Would you stay on your side of the road,” she tried to speak over the music. When Slate shot a glance over at her, she cleared her throat. “Please.”

One hazel eye squinted beneath the brim of the beat-up straw hat before he pulled his gaze away and continued to drive down the middle of the road. She probably should demand that he turn around and take her back to Bootlegger’s, but there was something about the way his muscular body slouched in the seat that stole the breath from her lungs and the words from her mouth. Besides, it
wasn’t like the man was an ax murderer. He was a friend of Hope’s.

Unless Hope wasn’t in Hollywood after all, but buried beneath this man’s double-wide.

Faith glanced behind her, checking for an ax in the bed of the truck. But all she saw were empty beer cans and the dog with his sad eyes.

“I think your Labradoodle is cold.”

Slate’s head snapped around, and his cowboy hat shifted up with his eyebrows. “My what?” He reached over and turned down the radio.

“Your Labradoodle.” Faith pointed at the back window.

His gorgeous eyes popped wide. “Buster’s not a Labra—” He cut off as if he couldn’t bring himself to say the word “doodle.” “He’s a registered bird dog.”

“Are you sure? He looks just like my friend’s dog that is a cross between a Labrador and a poodle.”

“Poodle?” His brows knotted. “He’s no poodle. He’s a purebred hunting dog.”

“Oh. Well, I think he’s cold.”

“Cold?” He snorted. “It has to be at least seventy outside.”

“Then why is he staring at me?”

“Probably because he’s trying to figure out just who the hell the fussy woman is parading around as his Hope.”

“Fussy? I’m not fussy.” Faith’s teeth rattled as Slate turned up a dirt road. The truck dipped and bounced over every rut and rock, jostling the empty fast-food cups and bags that littered the floor.

“Really?” He glanced pointedly at her fingers that were white-knuckling the dash.

Afraid to let go, she only shrugged. “I’m careful, that’s all.”

“Careful. Fussy. Same difference. I bet you haven’t even been four-wheelin’ before.”

“Of course, I have—” The truck bounced down in a hole, jostling her reply right out of her, and she glanced over and caught him staring down at the front of her sweater. The heavy-lidded look he sent her made her heart race and her nipples harden. To hide both, she jerked her hands off the dash and crossed her arms over her chest.

For the next few miles, neither one spoke. It was hard to speak when your insides were being jarred out. Without the dash to stabilize her, Faith felt like she had back in high school gym class when she was paired with a more aggressive teenager on the trampoline… never the bouncer, always the bouncee. She glanced behind her to see how Buster was holding up.

“Ohmygod! Stop!”

Slate slammed on the brakes, and the truck’s tires locked up and skidded a few feet. “What?!”

“Your dog!” She pointed at the empty window. “Your dog fell out!”

After the confusion cleared from his eyes, he shook his head. “Geez Louise.” He gunned the truck, and it took off again, this time in the direction of a copse of trees—a rarity in the barren Texas landscape.

“But your dog?”

“Is fine.” He tapped on the back window with his elbow, and the dog’s head reappeared. “He was just lying down.”

“Oh.” Her face heated up.

He flashed a cocky grin. “City girl, I take it?”

Faith nodded.

“East?”

“Chicago.”

“Ahh, that explains the weird accent.”

Before she could argue over who had the weirdest accent, Slate whipped around a large cottonwood and a cluster of wind-ravaged elms to reveal a breathtaking sunset. Vibrant orange flamed up from the horizon to merge with the deep grays and purples of the wispy clouds while the black silhouettes of fence posts, power lines, and the large duck-headed beasts that pulled oil up from the ground stood against all that color like charcoal drawings on an acrylic painting.