How to Kiss a Cowboy (11 page)

Suze thought about pushing Brady a little harder, risking a little more just to prove herself, and decided it was a bad idea—not so much for her as for Speedo.

“I'd just as soon not do any hard stops,” she admitted. “Speedo's getting older, and it's hard on his legs.”

“I've got it!” Stan's eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers. “How 'bout a shot of you roping each other?”

“What do you mean?” Suze asked.

“You ride toward each other, just like you were.” Stan came out from behind his equipment and walked to the center of the arena. The dirt was stirred up into humps and ridges, but he managed to scrape a recognizable X into it with the heel of his shoe. Then he stepped to the side about three feet and made another X.

“You ride toward each other, and when you hit these X's, you rope each other. Just throw a loop up and let it drop over the other person's head.”

“Are you crazy?” Brady asked.

“Like a fox,” he said. “It'll be a million-dollar shot.”

“Do you know how challenging that is? Most riders I know couldn't do that. And even if we could, it's too dangerous.”

“I can do it,” Suze said. She couldn't stop smiling. The trick was dangerous, but not if you timed it right. All you had to do was drop the rope as soon as the loop settled and nobody would get hurt.

Best of all, since she had the more dependable mount and had actually done it before, she was likely to succeed in roping Brady, while the chance he'd rope her was slim to none. She could see it now: a photo in a nationally distributed magazine of Suze Carlyle roping fabled bad boy Brady Caine.

“I think you're chicken,” she said.

Brady fixed his eyes on hers. “You really want to do this?”

She grinned and nodded, feeling reckless and strong and happy. This was almost as good as sex. The photo would be great, she'd get more modeling endorsements, and the money would pour in. She'd get up-to-date on the mortgage and add enough money to her barrel horse fund to get a really spectacular partner worthy of traveling in Speedo's hoofprints.

“Come on, let's go.” She gave Brady her best pleading, sweet-thing face. “Please? I need this ad to be really great, Brady.”

When he didn't respond, she made a very slight flapping motion with her elbows and clucked softly. “Chicken,” she whispered.

Brady looked down at his boots, kicked up a little cloud of dust, and sighed.

“All right.”

With no further discussion, he climbed on Booger's back. Booger seemed to be calming down, but as he and Brady crossed the arena, the horse suddenly let loose with a quick bout of crow hopping and a couple of high equine screams.

“What was that?” Suze asked.

Brady shrugged. “I think he saw an ant.”

* * *

Brady knew he was being an idiot. The trick was too dangerous. He really should stop it, but nobody called him chicken.

That was what his brothers had called him, back when they'd been three teenaged foster kids thrown together into a loosely stitched family by location, circumstance, and the dedication of an old rancher named Bill Decker.

At the time of their adoption, Brady had been barely fifteen. His soon-to-be brothers, Ridge Cooper and Shane Lockhart, were sixteen, and they never let him forget they were the older brothers. The three of them had learned to get along, even to love each other. But as the youngest, Brady had been the brunt of every imaginable practical joke, the loser in every game, and the last to learn the daring stunts his new brothers dreamed up.

He'd also been the most timid of the three, though no one would guess that now. He hadn't been kidding when he'd told Suze he was sensible.

And if there was one word that reverberated from his childhood, one word he never wanted to hear again, it was
chicken
. He'd heard it from his brothers over and over, when his caution had overruled his bravado, his prudence had won over his flair for drama, and his sensible side vanquished his desire to impress them. They'd teased him with the same act Suze had, flapping their arms like wings and clucking.

Chicken.

Suze might as well have pushed a green button that said “go.”

The stunt was stupid. The stunt was dangerous. But the stunt was going to happen.

He loped Booger around and around the ring. He'd have liked to practice his roping a little, maybe catch a few fence posts. Actually, what he'd really like to do was to catch Stan in a few loops. Around the neck. Rope him, throw him, and truss him up.

Then he'd serve him up to Suze and see how she liked that for chicken.

But that was fantasy. Reality was a crazy horse, an equally crazy woman, and a photo shoot gone nuts. Sighing, Brady headed for his side of the arena, coiled his rope loosely in one hand, and nodded his head to signal that he was ready.

Suze nodded too, and then the two of them were off, galloping toward each other at top speed, ropes twirling in the air as they got closer, closer, closer…

The ropes were thrown. The loops floated, floated, dropped, dropped, dropped…

…and missed.

Both landed far off the mark, and the two riders sheepishly reeled them in without looking at each other.

“Try it again,” Stan said.

They did.

They thundered across the arena, getting closer, closer, closer…

Brady threw too soon. His rope lashed out and smacked Suze in the face before she even had a chance to build a loop.

He tensed up, horrified. Fortunately, Suze was laughing, unhurt. In fact, her eyes were glistening, her face shining. This was all good fun to her. It hadn't even occurred to her that the stunt could go wrong.

Maybe that's why she was a world champion while Brady was still short of that mark. Maybe her reckless courage was the difference, rather than focus or dedication.

This time, he'd go for it. No hesitation, no caution—just ready, aim, throw.

They started toward each other again, and this time Brady knew he'd succeed. His vision narrowed until all he could see was that blond head of hair flying toward him. He barely heard the thudding of Booger's hooves, or the yell Suze whooped out when Speedo's muscular hindquarters threw him into a full-on run. All he could see was Suze, coming toward him, closer, closer—as his rope twirled, spun, then dropped, dropped…

Got
her
.

As the rope settled around her shoulders, he did what he always did when he scored. He threw back his head and let out a holler that was part rebel yell, part cowboy yodel, and part shout of triumph.

That's when Booger blew up for real.

As long as Suze lived—which might not be long, judging from how she felt—she'd remember the
clang
that reverberated through the entire arena when the back of her head hit the top rail of the bucking chute. It sounded like the bell for a boxing match.

But did the bell mean the match was starting or ending? As she stared up into the cloudless sky, she felt like it was very important to know that. Because while she knew for sure that everything in her world had changed with that bell, she'd really like to know if it meant her old life was ending or if something new was beginning.

She didn't want a new life. She liked her old one—or at least she did now.

“Stay with us, hon, stay with us.”

Who
was
that? Brady?
She squinted at the face that loomed over her.
Nope. Not Brady.

The edges of her vision dimmed. Maybe she was dying. She didn't want to, but then again, she might get to see her mother if she did.

And why should she stick around? Her father was a mean old bastard who couldn't see his daughter past the shadow of his late wife. They were so deep in debt they were drowning, and he expected her to save them somehow. And she had a ridiculous, unrequited crush on a cowboy who had probably just killed her—and had celebrated with the wild rebel yell of victory she'd heard just before that bell went off.

Lying on the soft dirt of the arena, staring up into that blue Wyoming sky, those problems didn't matter, because all she could think about was waking up every morning to see gray dawn steal over the prairie, reflecting light from an invisible sun that tinted the horizon silver, peach, and gold. She thought about the rattle of feed buckets and the answering nicker of her horses, the rustle of hay flakes, and the soft, rhythmic munching of the animals. She thought of all the little things she loved: the mingled scents of leather, horse, and hay; dust motes dancing a tiny cosmic hoedown in a slant of light; and the way the barn's rafters rose like the bones of some enormous animal or the roof of a great cathedral. She realized how much it meant to be whole and healthy, to be able to ride tight circles around a bunch of rusty old barrels faster than any girl in the world. And she thought of Speedo—her best friend, her partner, her horse.

She lifted her head, struggling to see something other than sky. The sunbaked arena shifted in and out of focus, as if she were on some kind of drug. Lights flickered at the edge of her vision, and her head felt hot. Too hot. Then the light faded and she couldn't see anything but shadows. Everybody seemed to be mumbling. Why were they mumbling?

She asked them if Speedo was okay and they wouldn't answer. She asked them again, but they just ignored her while they worked on her leg or her arm or some other body part.

They kept hurting her, but that didn't matter. She needed to know if Speedo was okay, and they wouldn't tell her, so she started screaming his name, over and over. Her voice rose into the serene blue of the sky, harsh and hoarse and desperate, and still nobody answered.

It wasn't long before she wore out, and the screams turned to whimpers. Maybe they gave her something, a sedative. She didn't know.

Didn't know anything…

* * *

Brady would give anything, everything, for a do-over.

He'd had that feeling before after making the wrong move on a bronc, or saying something clumsy and hurtful to a woman. But this time it was stronger. He would honestly give his own life to change one second of the past: the second when he'd thrown that rope.

Or better yet, the second he'd held on to it. That single ill-advised second had let the rope go taut and pull Suze off her speeding horse, and it had flung her into the chute gate.

A do-over.

There had to be a way to make that bargain. Didn't people sell their souls to the devil? He'd gladly burn in hell for what he'd done to Suze. In fact, he deserved to.

So where the hell was Old Scratch when you needed him?

The incident ran through his head over and over, like a video on an endless loop. Booger had acted up the second things went sideways. He'd bucked, crow hopped, and danced a terrified tarantella while Brady's rope pinned Suze's arms to her side. Everything would have been fine if Brady had just let go of the rope, but he'd been so focused on the frightened horse that he'd forgotten to drop it.

At that point, the video in his mind dropped into slow motion. The rope jerked Suze off her horse and launched her toward the chute gate. His palm bore a stinging memento of the rope burning through his grip.

He didn't know if Suze had screamed. She must have, but the sound got mixed up in his own idiot yelp of—of what? Victory? Triumph? Terror?

How about sheer, unadulterated stupidity?

He knew one thing for sure: the sound of a healthy body striking unyielding steel would reverberate through his mind for the rest of his life. That sound was the end of one life and the beginning of another—for Suze and for him, because whatever happened, however she felt about him, he owed her.

If she was even alive.

Someone—Stan—was patting his shoulder and muttering incoherent words of comfort.

“Not your fault…just an accident…could have happened to anyone…it was the horse, it was the wind, it was nobody's fault…”

“Stop it.” Brady glanced over toward the EMTs. If it weren't for the frantic way they hovered over Suze's prone body, Brady would think the worst. “It was my fault.”

“It was my idea,” Stan said. “And Suze wanted to do it.”

The fog in Brady's mind suddenly disappeared. He could feel himself coming out of what must have been a state of shock. His face heated, and with that heat came anger.

He smacked Stan's hand off his shoulder and spun to face him. “Don't you dare say one more word that even comes close to blaming Suze for this. Not now, not ever.”

“Of course not. It wasn't anybody's fault. But I heard you, man. You tried to talk her out of it.”

Brady clenched his fists and took a step back—not to create a safe distance between himself and Stan, but to give himself room to throw a really effective punch. He'd just started to raise his fist when he heard Suze moan. It was a soft sound, so low he almost missed it, but it was something.

He spun away from Stan and headed for the spot where Suze lay, dropping to his knees and skidding toward her in the soft arena dirt.

“Suze? Hey, Suze?” He looked at one EMT, then the other. “Did you hear that? She said something. I heard her.”

“We heard her. Don't crowd us, okay?”

Brady half stood and backed away.

“Why is she on that board? Why did you put that thing around her head?”

“It's just a precaution. With head injuries, you have to stabilize the patient.”

Brady wanted to scream that this wasn't “the patient”; this was Suze, Suze Carlyle, a woman who'd been barreling toward him just moments before, her rope twirling over her head. She'd been so alive in that moment. Surely that life would sustain her in spite of what had happened.

Surely it would.

The EMTs lifted the gurney and legs unfolded from beneath it. They rolled it through the alleyway between the bleachers to the ambulance. Brady followed, with Stan trotting behind him.

“Is she going to be okay?” Brady asked.

The tech shrugged.

Just then, Suze's eyes flipped open, like the eyes of a doll. Her pupils were tiny, her expression frantic as she tried to turn her head and look around.

“I'm here, Suze,” Brady said. “I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.”

Her gaze darted around, searching for something. And that's when she started to scream.

“
Speedo! Speedo!
”

“He's fine,” Brady said. “Speedo's fine. I'll take care of him, okay?”

But by then the gurney had slid into the ambulance, and he knew she couldn't hear him anymore.

“Can I ride along in the ambulance? I'm a…friend, and I—I'm really concerned.”

He'd almost told the techs that he'd caused the accident. Stan had put his hand on his shoulder just in time. He felt bad about slapping it away earlier. He'd apologize. He would. He just had more important things to do right now. He could still hear Suze calling Speedo's name.

“I need to tell her, her horse is okay. Somebody tell her that, okay?”

He shoved through the crowd of EMTs as the doors closed, muffling Suze's cries.

“Can I ride along?” he repeated.

The tech turned. “Are you Brady Caine?”

Brady nodded. “Did she ask for me?”

The tech looked at him as if he was just another pile of horse leavings in the dust of the rodeo arena.

“Tell you what,” he said, “she's only been conscious for thirty seconds or so. Normally, during that time, people say stuff like
tell
my
mother
I
love
her
,
make
sure
my
kids
are
okay
, stuff like that.”

Brady didn't bother to tell the guy Suze didn't have a mother or kids. The man was clearly making another point.

“She didn't say any of that stuff. She said, and I quote, ‘Keep Brady Caine the hell away from me.' So, no, you can't ride along.”