How to Kiss a Cowboy (21 page)

Suze hadn't taken any painkillers at all, let alone a double dose. Looking at the staircase behind her, she wished she had, but the pills were in her room at the top of the steps. She was going to have to make it up there without pharmaceutical assistance, and her ankle was starting to throb again.

Oddly, it had stopped while Brady was kissing her. But trying to get over her pain by kissing Brady was like swallowing broken glass to help a sore throat. If she loved him and then lost him, the heartache would be a life sentence.

She'd seen it happen to her father, and she wasn't about to let it happen to her. Of course, her mother had died, while Brady would only move on. But imagine if her mother had lived and left her father. Imagine if he'd had to see her happy, in love with someone else. That would be even worse, wouldn't it?

“Can I help you up the stairs?” he asked.

“No. I'll be okay.”

He stared down at the floor. She had the impression he was thinking hard, struggling to find a solution to her problems. Well, he could think till smoke poured out his ears. There wasn't a solution.

Finally, he looked up, and to her surprise, he looked pleased with himself, as if he'd thought of a solution.

“You just wait,” he said. “People don't even know what happened yet. Once everybody finds out what happened, you'll have help. You just wait.”

She could see where this was going, and she didn't like it.

“Don't you
dare
go telling people how pathetic I am,” she said. The last thing she needed was Brady going around, talking folks into helping her like she was some kind of charity case. She wanted friends who would help her out of love—not strangers who would help out of duty.

“You have more friends than you think,” he said.

She sighed and set her foot on the first step. “I hate to admit it, but this is one thing I kind of like about you, Brady.”

“What?” He put an arm around her, and suddenly she was swept up into his strong arms, cast and all.

She put her arms around his neck instinctively and rested her head against his shoulder. Time seemed to slow down as he turned sideways and carried her slowly, carefully up the stairs, as if she was some precious thing.

She closed her eyes and let herself believe, for a moment, that the warmth glowing in her heart was real, that Brady was carrying her up the stairs to a bed they shared, a double bed in some other house, some other time. Looking up at his face, she saw the delicate tracery of crow's-feet starting at the corner of his eyes, and pictured his brown hair tipped with just a touch of gray. He'd be as handsome in twenty years as he was now.

That sweet, pretty thing was one lucky girl.

He opened her bedroom door, backing and sidling like a horse at a ranch gate, then edged her in feetfirst. He was breathing hard, and Suze couldn't help laughing. “I'm no delicate flower, Brady.”

“It's all that muscle.” He grinned and pretended to drop her on the bed, but in reality he set her down gently, and again she felt precious. Oh, she was jealous of whoever ended up with this man! He might be an idiot—an idiot she was mad at, she reminded herself—but he was kind, he was gentle, and he set her heart racing like a jackrabbit over open country every time he came close.

And he was close right now. When he'd put her down, he'd practically fallen on top of her. Now he was just an arm's length away, his hands resting by her shoulders.

“You are not pathetic,” he whispered, lifting one hand to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You are the strongest woman I know.”

She shook her head, but she didn't have the energy to argue. It seemed like all her energy was being absorbed by looking into his eyes—his amazing, gold-flecked, brown eyes. She was mesmerized by the shards of brightness, like flakes of gold, that surrounded his pupils.

“You can't do this alone, Suze. I know you're mad at me, but let me help you.”

It was a good thing
he
knew she was mad at him, because she'd completely forgotten.

He stroked her hair again and smiled. “No, scratch that.
Make
me help you. Take up all my time. Be demanding and mean and ungrateful and difficult.”

She grinned. “I'm already all those things.”

“No you're not.” He shook his head. “You're faking it. I want you to abuse me for real.”

“I'll bet you do.” She gave him a sexy sideways smile.

“I'm serious.”

“Okay, but I warn you, I'm starting now.”

“Okay.” He grinned and sat up, folding his hands in his lap like a schoolkid waiting for instructions from the teacher.

She felt a sharp stab of loss, and wondered what would happen if she pulled him back down.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She looked away, biting her lip, and he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to face him. “You're thinking the same thing I am.”

He didn't stop for confirmation. He just acted, bending low and kissing her again, but this time the kiss was hard and deep and hungry. His hands were fisted in the sheets, and his breaths were short and ragged, as if she'd torn away his ability to breathe.

There went her jackrabbit heart again, leaping and bounding, racing straight toward trouble. She wondered if he could feel it.

She wished he would.

As if he was reading her mind, he moved one hand up her shirt, skimming straight to her breast to squeeze and run his rough thumb over her nipple. She squirmed, letting out a mew of frustration. She couldn't get close enough.

She remembered this part. Brady Caine was a runaway train once you got him going. She'd never been with a man who lost himself so completely in a woman. He was helpless to stop once he'd started. It had made her feel powerful and sexy and strong the first time she'd slept with him, and it was having the same effect now.

Until he stopped.

Apparently, he wasn't so helpless after all.

* * *

Brady looked down at Suze, sprawled on her bed beneath him, and groaned aloud. He shouldn't do this. He couldn't. Hard as it was—and it was very, very hard—he had to stop.

Would Suze sleep with him if she knew Speedo was missing? While he'd been sitting in the waiting room, chatting up old ladies on their deathbeds and insisting on seeing Suze when she didn't even want him around, someone had gone to the rodeo grounds and stolen her horse.

At this very moment, they might be abusing him, starving him, selling him, or hiding him in a dark stall somewhere. Until Brady either found the horse or confessed his mistake to Suze, he couldn't make love to her. How had he even managed to look her in the eye?

He groaned again.

“Brady, what's wrong?”

Shoot, he was doing it again. Last time he'd walked out on her she'd been angry, but now she looked so wounded that he wanted to take her in her arms and kiss away the pain—but that was exactly what he couldn't do. Kissing would lead to touching, and touching would lead to making love.

“Believe me, I want this,” he said fiercely. “I want this more than anything in the world. But you're right, Suze. I hurt you. I'm responsible for this.” He gestured toward her cast. “And when you come to your senses, you're going to be glad you didn't sleep with me.”

“No,” she said. “I'll be sorry if I don't.”

He thought of Speedo again. The image of the horse, and of Suze's certain grief if anything happened to him, was the only thing that could pull him away from her.

“Trust me.” He gave her the best smile he could under the circumstances. It wasn't much of a smile, because who was he to ask for trust? He was a liar and a fraud, the last person she should depend on. “You'd regret it.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if some divine being floated there who would give him inspiration.

The divine being must have been Suze's guardian angel, because a lightbulb went off in Brady's head. There was a way to say no—a way to say no without hurting her.

He made a long face, which wasn't too hard considering how miserable he felt. The thought of Speedo had killed his desire, so he didn't have that kind of misery to deal with, but he knew, no matter how things turned out, Suze was bound to hate him someday soon. Even if he found Speedo, she'd probably find out her horse had been missing. He'd asked too many people for help.

That's why it just about killed him that she was lying there with a come-hither glint in her eyes, believing in him. Believing he was the man he appeared to be.

“It's that double dose of painkillers,” he said. “Remember? That's how this all started. I'd be taking advantage of you. Seriously, Suze. It's not the right time.”

“Oh, yeah. Tha's right.” Suddenly, she was slurring her words. Funny, she wasn't doing that before. Must be a delayed reaction. She actually seemed a little loopy as she lay down and rested her head on her folded hands like a little girl. “C'n I get a rain sheck?”

“Sure,” he said. “If you still want to, call it in when you get better. I'll definitely honor a rain check.”

He pulled the covers over her. Her eyes were closed as if she was already asleep, but a faint smile and the flutter of an eyelid told him she was faking it.

That was okay with him. He wanted her awake, so she'd feel him settle down beside her, so she'd feel him stroke her hair and feel safe and loved until she fell asleep for real. So he could make her happy, during this brief time before she found out what kind of man he really was.

And so he could touch that golden hair, admire that fine, strong face, and memorize the feeling of being close to her while he still had the chance.

Suze slept the sleep of the blessed that night, but she woke early to the sound of thumping and scraping, bumping and dragging. It had to be Brady. What the hell was he up to now?

She glanced at the clock. Five thirty a.m.

Didn't he have a life of his own? Didn't he have chores to do at Decker Ranch?

The thought made her smile. Both of Brady's brothers were talented horse trainers, and they'd helped her erase some problem behaviors in Bucket and even in Speedo. Whenever she was at the ranch, the brothers had razzed each other about everything from their riding ability to their girlfriends or lack thereof, but the most common theme was Brady's ability to foist off his chores onto Ridge or Shane. Apparently he'd made an art of being a cowboy of leisure.

Which was one of many reasons she was glad he'd put a stop to her foolishness last night. She'd wanted him so much she could still feel the ache, but despite the undeniable attraction between them, they were just too different. The workaholic would be annoyed by the carefree cowboy in no time.

But he was certainly working hard right now. He was also making much more of a racket than he needed to, and it was early. Plus he was apparently tackling something inside the house, which wasn't likely to sit well with her dad, who wanted the place left just as it had been when Ellen was alive.

Suze wished her dad would relax his worship of her mother's memory, just a little. She wondered if Ellen Carlyle had demanded this much attention from her husband when she was alive. Suze remembered her mother as warm and kind, but Suze probably hadn't been a very skilled judge of character at the age of ten. And though she remembered her mother fondly, she also remembered the fights her parents had, fights she didn't understand that left the house simmering with tension.

A loud scrape and a muffled grunt drifted up the stairs. Whatever Brady was doing, she should probably stop him.

Flinging back the covers, she hobbled into the bathroom and gave her hair a few licks with a brush, then rubbed her eyes and rinsed her mouth. That was enough beautifying for now. Brady had already seen her at her worst. She didn't need to put on a face for him—which was kind of nice.

Stop
it.
He was entirely driven by guilt. She had to keep reminding herself of that fact, because it was easy to believe that he really…
cared
. But what had happened last night was about sex, not caring.

But
he
made
you
stop. And he stroked your hair…

She stood at the top of the stairs, which seemed steeper and more perilous every time she faced them. Sighing, she sat down and laid her crutches beside her. The crutches slid quickly to the bottom of the stairs as usual, while she began to bump her way down on her butt.

Whatever Brady was doing must be riveting work if it kept him from hearing her crutches clatter down the stairs. Part of her was glad he wasn't seeing her humiliating descent, but another part wished he'd come up and help her already. Maybe sweep her up in his arms again…

Vivid fantasies swirled through her mind and she hardly noticed the pain as she worked her way downstairs. When she reached the fifth step down, she peeked through the banister to see what was going on in the front hall.

No wonder Brady hadn't come to her rescue; it was her father who was making all the scrapes and thumps. He had her mother's rocker-recliner, the one that matched his own, and he was evidently taking it out onto the sun porch.

Or trying, anyway.

The chair wasn't small, and its spinning base wasn't helping any. He had it stuck in the doorway, half-in and half-out of the porch. But she could see past it, and what she saw was a miracle.

He'd cleaned the porch. Really cleaned it. Somehow, he'd made all the old doors, windows, scrap lumber, and abandoned projects disappear, and then he'd washed the windows and wiped down the walls. The room looked sunny and inviting; a fine place to spend a long afternoon enjoying the long, sage-strewn view of the plains and the pale blue mountains beyond.

For as long as Suze could remember, the porch had been an embarrassment. Every visitor to the house had to wend his way through her father's junk. She'd always hated it, but it was just too big a job to take on by herself, and she'd thought her father would never help her clean it.

But now he'd gone and done it. And he was hauling the sacred chair—Ellen's chair—out there. There could only be one reason he was doing that. He was making a place for Suze.

She felt her eyes tear up. He was making a place for her—a place where she could put her feet up and recover from her injuries, a place where she could sit and watch her horses in the pasture, a place where she could still be a part of the household instead of being banished to her little room upstairs. But most important, by moving that chair, he'd made a place for her in his life, giving up a piece of his obsession with his late wife for her comfort.

She couldn't believe it. No one ever sat in that chair—at least not when her dad was around. A few weeks after her mother's death, it had occurred to Suze that maybe it was forbidden because her mother's ghost sat there. For months, Suze had sat in the chair whenever her dad was away, trying to feel her mother's presence. But all she'd felt was itchy from the chair's ancient upholstery.

But now, the chair was hers. She couldn't hold back any longer

“Dad!”

She nearly tumbled down the stairs in her eagerness to reach him. It was frustrating to be so hobbled when what she wanted to do was run downstairs and throw her arms around her father.

“Dad, I can't believe it! It's beautiful. I'm just…” She wiped a tear from her eye and shook her head. “I'm just floored. This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me. And it's you that did it. That makes it—oh!”

Overcome with emotion, she hobbled toward him, nearly falling in her eagerness. She'd never known how much she'd needed her father's love until this moment, when it was finally won.

But when he turned to face her, he didn't look like a man who had shrugged off the burden of impossible grief and made a place for his daughter in his life. He looked like a man in a rage.

Suze could understand that. Her dad wasn't a patient man at the best of times, and he was apparently frustrated beyond endurance by the chair, which was jammed in the doorway and evidently wouldn't budge.

Suze had wished herself well a million times since the accident, but none of those fervent prayers matched her current desperation. If only she could walk and lift and do all the things she used to do! Together, they could move that chair in no time, and then the two of them could enjoy the newly redecorated sun porch. It needed a little paint, and maybe an area rug, but it was full of light. And love.

She swallowed a sob.

“Why don't you take a break, Dad?” Her father's face was fixed in a scowl so fierce it was almost cartoonish. “Brady'll probably be over soon, and he can help you move the chair.”

“Brady,” her father spat. “What makes you think your precious Brady's going to fix it? He's the one that made this mess. He's nothing but a meddler.” He pointed a finger at Suze—a finger that shook with rage. “You tell that boy he's not a part of this family and never will be.” Turning, he tugged futilely at the trapped chair.

Suze felt a little of her elation fade away. She should have known her father hadn't done this whole project by himself.

It was probably Brady's idea too, not her father's.

The shine was wearing off this new gift awfully fast. But still, her father was letting her have the chair.

“I'm sorry, Dad. He has some awfully big ideas about improving the place, but this was a good one.”

Suze listened to herself and wondered when she'd stopped resenting Brady for his interference. At first she'd been steaming mad over the way he'd butted into her life after the accident. Now she was defending him, and it felt absolutely right.

She edged a little closer, braving her father's anger to peer past the chair to the porch.

“This is going to be great, Dad. I'll be able to see the horses from here, and I'll be on the first floor.”

She started to say she'd be able to get food easier and wouldn't starve to death up in her bedroom, like she had the day before.

But that would be complaining, and she wasn't going to complain today. Her father might not have cleaned the porch himself, but after the long, dark years of grief, he was finally seeing the light. She wasn't about to harp on past troubles. Not today.

“I'll be closer to the kitchen,” she said instead. “Maybe I can make us some nice meals.”

When her father didn't respond, she rushed to fill the silence.

“You have to admit, it's nice of Brady to help us,” she said. “I mean, I know some of this is his fault, but…”

Her father took a step toward her. “Some of this? Some of it?” He was almost shaking with anger. “It's
all
his fault. He took your mother's chair, and he moved it from where it belongs. He
moved
it, from the spot where
she
sat, and put it out on the
porch.
” He shook a finger in her face. “If that meddling bastard shows up, tell him he'd better put it back where he found it.
Right
where he found it.”

Suze backed away as he spoke, backing farther and farther until her heel caught on the bottom step of the staircase and she sat down, hard.

Her father hadn't done this for her. He hadn't even helped Brady do it. In fact, he hated Brady for trying to make a comfortable place for Suze to sit.

Her mother's ratty recliner was faded by sunlight and dusty with age. It was upholstered in a fabric that couldn't be described as green or gray or brown, but only as a muddy mess of all three. It was old, it was ugly, and a broken spring caused it to list dangerously to one side. But that chair, ugly, broken, and old, was more important to Earl Carlyle than his own daughter.

Suze doubted her mother had cared a bit about the chair. It didn't seem like the kind of thing dashing Ellen Carlyle would even want. So why was her father so dead set on preserving it?

It was depression, brought on by the grief he couldn't seem to shake. She stood, clinging to the newel post, and smiled as brightly as she could.

“Dad?” she said. “Why don't you go watch your shows? I'll wait here for Brady, and I'll make sure he puts the recliner back.”

He gave her a baleful look, and she braced herself for another onslaught of harsh words, but he seemed to have exhausted himself. Slowly lowering the pointing finger, he hunched his shoulders and walked away. But instead of heading for the television, he ducked under the immovable chair and stomped outside.

Just when she thought she was in the clear, he turned. “Tell him to stay out of our kitchen too. I don't need him washing dishes and prettifying everything the way he did. We can do for ourselves.”

She stared at him, working the words over in her head to make sure she understood as her father stomped off toward the barn. It was an empty house she spoke to when she finally figured things out.

“So it was Brady, not Dad,” she said to no one. “Brady cleaned the downstairs.” The stab of disappointment in her father was overwhelmed by the realization of how hard Brady had worked. “Brady did everything.”

The clean dishes, the freshly washed curtains, the polished floors—she'd taken them all as signs of her father's love. But it was Brady all along.

She'd been thinking her father was helping, that the two of them could work together as a team until she got better. But her father had never been on her team.

She needed Brady even more than she thought. She'd better clean up her act and start treating him better. He was probably wondering why she hadn't thanked him for all the work he'd done.

She pictured him at the sink, washing dishes; at the window, hanging curtains. She remembered him stroking her hair as she drifted off to sleep. What made a man do that?

Guilt, that was what. She needed to get a grip.