How to Kiss a Cowboy (2 page)

Brady watched the light from the festive bulbs that lined the eaves of the beer tent dance across Suze's face as she talked. She wasn't the prettiest girl in rodeo, but something about her had always drawn him.

Maybe it was the way she rode, fast and reckless, always balanced on the knife-edge of disaster. Maybe it was her independence, her loner mentality. Most women needed a man around, and the single ones traveled in packs. But Suze seemed perfectly happy on her own.

Well, not happy. She never seemed happy, and no wonder. She'd lost her mother, and her father—well, he was a strange one. He'd lived through his wife's accomplishments, supporting her while she rocketed to rodeo stardom, but now that she was gone, he seemed to have lost interest in her talented daughter, and in life itself.

“You drive yourself so hard,” he said. “You don't always have to
be
the best. Isn't it enough just to try? To
do
your best?”

She shook her head. “Maybe if you're in kindergarten. Then everybody gets a trophy, right? But in the real world, another world championship would get me more endorsements. And I need endorsements. That's where the real money is.”

He walked beside her in silence for a while, wondering what was wrong with him tonight. Normally he'd have bailed on this conversation as soon as it started. He wasn't big on the serious stuff, but here they were, talking about riding and living, winning and losing.

Brady's goals were simple: buckles, broncs, babes, and beer. By that measure, he was definitely a champion. It had never been hard for him to stick to the back of a bronc, and once he won the buckles, the beer was free and the babes came easy. The cowboy life, footloose and careless, suited him down to the bone.

Well, almost. Sometimes it bothered him that nobody took him seriously. His brothers claimed everything was a game to him, even sex. They said he took love about as seriously as a game of pickup basketball, and maybe they were right.

That's why he needed to stay away from Suze. She took everything seriously, and he knew she liked him. It would be easy enough to seduce her, and he'd always wondered if she made love like she rode—all out, with her heart leading the way.

But she'd expect more of him than he had to offer. He made it a rule to stay away from girls who didn't know how to play the game. He wasn't out to hurt anybody.

The two of them strolled through the rodeo grounds in silence, heading for the area where the contestants kept their trailers. The crowds were mostly gone, and the place looked melancholy in the moonlight. The brightly lit stands that sold funnel cakes, fried Twinkies, and turkey legs were shuttered and dark, and the empty parking lot beyond was scattered with discarded day sheets and cigarette butts.

Suze was staring down at her feet as she walked, lost in thought. She seemed to have forgotten he was there.

He wasn't used to that. Women generally paid him close attention.

“How do you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Focus the way you do? Everyone says I'd ride better if I'd apply myself. I apply my butt to the saddle, but apparently that's not what they mean.”

She flashed him a smile, and her step took on a little bounce as she counted off points on her fingers.

“You have to live and breathe your sport, every minute of every day. You need to watch videos, of yourself and of the winning riders. You analyze what you do right and what you do wrong. You ask questions. You make sure everything you do is dedicated to succeeding. You eat right, you sleep right—everything goes toward the goal.”

She finished the speech with a little hop step, as if she was so excited, she could hardly contain herself. Now he was the one watching his boot tips as they walked.

“Doesn't sound like much fun.”

She spun around and walked backwards in front of him. He'd evidently hit on her favorite subject. Talking about rodeo lit her up. She looked different. Animated.

“It's not
about
fun.”

“So it's all about winning?”

“No.” She turned and walked beside him again, the animation gone, her tone flat. “It's all about making a living.”

“Shoot,” Brady said. “That would take all the fun out of it.”

He knew he'd been lucky when old Bill Decker plucked him and two other boys from a group home for foster kids and gave them a home on his ranch, teaching them to rope and ride. Now that Bill was gone, they all lived on the ranch, except for Brady's oldest brother, who ran a spread up north of Wynott. They shared expenses, so they didn't have much to worry about.

He and Suze slowed their steps as they crossed the parking lot and left the noise of the beer tent behind them. They were alone, and it was getting dark. Brady stopped and took her hand, and their eyes met.

“You must get tired, trying so hard all the time,” he said. “Don't you ever want something more? Something better?”

She looked at him for a long time, the yearning in her face so strong it made him want to smooth her hair, to comfort her somehow. To kiss her.

“Don't I.” She said it in a whisper so soft and sad it made his heart ache. “Don't I ever.”

* * *

Suze was surprised to feel the sting of rising tears in response to Brady's question. She loved her life. Granted, she had problems and pressures, but everybody did.

She didn't want anything more than what she had—two national barrel-racing championships and a successful season building toward a three-peat. She had a great horse, the skill to ride him right, and a stable to keep him in. What else did a girl need?

Brady
Caine.

No. He was the last thing she needed. He was a distraction.

“I don't
need
anything else. I love what I do.” She said it fiercely, so he'd know she meant it. “I love racing like nothing else. When Speedo's prancing in the alleyway and we're waiting for the start, I can hardly hold him back. All that power under the saddle, you know? I can feel the tension in him, how much he wants to run. And then I nudge his flanks, and
bang
.” She clapped her hands, pointing one up toward the sky as if she was tracing the course of a rocket. “It's like being shot from a gun.”

“But you must have to think about strategy and technique, right? Once you hit the barrels, you have to think through your turns.”

“Not really.” She felt like she was bragging, but hey, he'd asked. “It's muscle memory at this point.”

“I guess it would be. How many times have you ridden that pattern?”

“Too many to count.”

No wonder Brady got any woman he wanted. Forget the dimples and the soulful brown eyes, the hard, sinewy cowboy muscles, and the wild bronc-riding courage. He listened—really
listened
—to what she had to say.

“What are you thinking about when you're out there?” he asked.

“I'm not really sure.” To her relief, her thoughts about Brady shut down once she was focused on racing again. “Once we cross the line, Speedo and I are like water running, smooth and fast.” She spread her hand and made it tilt and turn. “The path between the barrels is a riverbed, and we're just flowing.”

He smiled. “Sometimes I get a bronc like that. The crowd sees a fight, but if you ride 'em right, it's more like a dance.” He laughed. “The bronc definitely leads, though. It's up to me to just counter his moves, move with him. Most times it ends up being sloppy and messed up, even when I make it to the buzzer, but once in a while, it's like you said. Water flowing.”

She glanced at him, surprised he understood so well. Brady never seemed to take anything seriously, and she had to admit he was right—a lot of his rides were a little on the sloppy side. He had courage to burn, but his technique could use some improvement.

“Your mom raced too, right?”

“Sure did.” Suze was surprised he had to ask. Not only had her mother had been a National Finals champion, she'd also been one of the most beautiful and charismatic cowgirls in rodeo. Everybody knew who Ellen Carlyle was. “She won Frontier Days twice,” Suze continued. “And Pendleton, and the Calgary Stampede. Plus she was a national champion.”

“Impressive. You were a champion too. And you won Fort Worth twice, and Amarillo. And how many times did you win Prescott?”

She smiled. “Three times. But I never won Frontier Days.”

He was looking at her curiously, and she realized she might have revealed too much.

“You know exactly which rodeos she won that you didn't? That seems like a weird way to think about things.”

“Yeah, well, tell my dad that.”

“He does that? Compares you to her?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “She was a tough act to follow.”

She tossed her hair like it didn't matter. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that her braid lashed out and smacked him on the cheek like a bullwhip.

He laughed, and she would have gladly given money to hold on to that picture forever. The way he tossed his head back, the way his eyes lit up and his dimples flickered to life—there was something wild about him. Something joyous.

Dang it, she had it bad. Brady just seemed so—
real
. The guy might be a player, but at least he didn't pretend to be anything else. He probably couldn't. He was honest to the core, even if that core was pretty badly flawed in some ways.

Deep down, Brady was a good guy.

That loud, annoying alarm bell was blaring in her mind again.

Stupid
thought
alert. Warning. Warning.

Good guys didn't make it with a different woman every night, and walk away the next morning with a wave and a smile. Good guys didn't break hearts from Fort Worth to Pendleton. Good guys weren't players, honest or not. Brady might think he was just having fun, but a lot of the women he bedded were hurt by his casual rejection.

They'd left the parking lot behind and were traipsing through a miniature model of a frontier town where various vendors hawked their wares during the rodeo. The little shacks representing saloons and general stores had closed up hours ago, and the wooden boardwalk sounded hollow under their boots. The silence and shadows surrounding them made her feel like they were walking through a ghost town.

“I always wondered why barrel racing wasn't more popular,” Brady mused. “It's exciting, it's easy to understand, and honestly, it's amazing how pretty all you girls are. There's nothing sexier than a woman on horseback, you know, with her hair flying and all. And for some weird reason, it's like all the top contenders in your sport happen to be gorgeous.”

She felt her face warming with embarrassment. She knew she was no great beauty—nothing like her mother or the other girls on the circuit. She never seemed to fit in with them, partly because she didn't care about clothes or makeup. Unless they were talking about racing, she was always left out.

Brady cast her a sidelong glance. “You don't know it, do you?”

She must have missed something. “Know what?”

“You're just as pretty as they are. Prettier,” he said. “You look just like your mom.”

Suze hated it when people said that. She knew it wasn't true, because she had the world's greatest expert on Ellen Carlyle right at home—her father. He was always ready to point out how Suze came up short in comparison to her mother.

“My nose is bigger,” she said. “And my mouth is…never mind.”

She flushed. Why was she talking to Brady about this stuff? Or any man, for that matter? He flashed her a puzzled look and, to her relief, let the subject drop.

They'd finally come to the Cowboy Corral, where contestants parked their rigs during the rodeo. Living quarters ranged from deluxe fifth wheels hauled by huge diesel pickups, to battered ranch trucks with a few cowboy bedrolls laid out in back. Suze had a Dodge Ram Super Cab and a Featherlite trailer that combined deluxe living quarters with a tack room, plus stalls for two horses. It was a gift from a sponsor, and sported a larger-than-life photo of her and Speedo circling a barrel, with dirt flying up from Speedo's hooves.

As usual, she'd pulled out the frame that supported a little awning to create a front porch, but instead of unrolling the canvas, she'd strung chili pepper lights along the edge. They were glowing red, welcoming her home.

Most of her temporary neighbors were back from the rodeo. Light spilled from trailer doorways, and cowboys sat on tailgates drinking beer, re-riding the day's broncs and re-roping the calves that got away. The faint hum of conversation blended with the usual insect chorus to create a backdrop of sound that was as familiar as her own backyard.

Stepping onto the lowest of the metal steps that led to her front door, she turned to say good-bye to Brady and thank him for walking her home. But her words stuck in her throat when those brown eyes met hers. The step had brought her face to his level, and he was close enough to kiss.

He rested one hand on the siding. The screen door at her back opened outward, and the frame of the awning blocked any other escape route. She was trapped.

Not that she wanted to go anywhere. Those brown eyes did something to her. She felt
seen
, just as she'd felt heard when they talked. If Brady focused as hard on his sport as he was focused on her right now, he'd ride every bronc to a standstill.

“You're every bit as beautiful as your mother. Only stronger. Like an Amazon.” He touched her temple again, but this time he let his fingers trail down the side of her face. “Your nose makes your face look stronger. And your mouth…” He traced a fingertip along the seam of her mouth, and she resisted the urge to flick her tongue out and taste. “Trust me, there's nothing wrong with your mouth. Your lips…”

The chili pepper lights warmed his skin and made his eyes shine. It took her a minute to realize he was going to kiss her. She leaned toward him, mesmerized and so ready, so
very
ready for that kiss.