How to Kiss a Cowboy (22 page)

Brady stood with his hands on his hips, looking from the Carlyle house to the Carlyle barn and back again. He wasn't sure quite what to do. He knew Suze had been hurting, but it surprised him that she'd never even mentioned the clean kitchen, the polished table, or the curtains he'd so painstakingly ironed. She obviously didn't care about the housework.

He should probably go look for Speedo. There was nothing more important on the agenda now that he'd fed Bucket and turned him out.

He'd asked dang near everybody he knew to look out for Speedo and call if they saw him. The rodeo cowboy network ran from Texas to Montana, and all the way from California to New Jersey and beyond. His only hope was that someone had hidden the horse somewhere. He'd continue to check abandoned barns today. He still hadn't covered the southern part of the county.

Once that was done, he'd have to fess up and tell Suze so they could get law enforcement involved. He probably should have done that from the start, but the closest town was Wynott, and their constabulary consisted of one man on a bicycle. Officer Jim couldn't find his own butt with a flashlight, so Brady doubted he'd be much help finding Speedo.

He'd given Bucket a quick grooming session before he turned him out. The poor guy hadn't gotten much attention since the accident, and Brady firmly believed horses needed to be touched every day, if only to remind them of their partnership with their strange two-legged friends.

He wondered if anyone was touching Speedo or if he was hidden in some dark barn, missing the sunshine. Missing Suze.

Bucket had leaned into the brush, enjoying every minute of the massage, but he'd playfully nipped Brady's butt when the cowboy had bent to check his back feet. The whole time, little Dooley had pranced around, seemingly unfazed by the weight and power of the horse's hooves.

Once Bucket was turned out, his stall had to be cleaned. Oddly, Brady had never minded that job. Somebody once told him shoveling horseshit was the closest cowboys ever got to a Zen experience, and he thought that might be true. The repetitive motion felt like a chant, and he let his mind wander. Naturally, it wandered back to the house and up the stairs so it could crawl into bed with Suze.

He pictured her in the early morning, flushed from sleep and satisfied from a night of…

Stop
it.

He really needed to find Speedo, so he could make dreams like that a reality.

He stared at the house, hat in hand, and scratched his head. The windows, open to the summer heat, were silent, the curtains motionless. He didn't even hear the television squawk that would tell him Earl was up and watching his shows.

Maybe something was wrong.

He climbed the stairs and jiggled the handle on the screen door.

“Hey,” somebody said.

It was Suze's voice, and it seemed to come from above. He backed up, craning his neck and holding on to the crown of his hat. His boot heel hit a rock that jutted from the crispy dry grass of the lawn and he fell flat on his back. He looked up to see Suze, framed in her bedroom window like Rapunzel in her tower, her smile screwed down tight to hold in a laugh.

“If it'll make you laugh, I'll fall down again.” He rose and brushed off the seat of his pants.

She shook her head. “Don't go hurting yourself.”

That was promising. “Can I come up?”

She nodded, and he stepped inside the sun porch and was immediately stopped by the rocker/recliner he'd hauled out there for Suze. It was half-in, half-out of the door, suspended in the middle of the opening.

Earl. It had to be Earl. Apparently, Brady had moved his cheese.

Well, he wasn't going to help the old guy take Suze's chair away. Ducking under the stuck chair, he headed up the steps.

Suze was in her rolling office chair, which she'd trundled over to the window. Her crutches leaned against the wall, and she had her bad leg propped on a stack of books. With a rigid cast up to the knee, she looked awfully uncomfortable, especially since she had to stick her leg out at an awkward angle from the hip to sit close to the window.

“Let me set you up downstairs.” To heck with Earl. He'd take the chair back out and she could enjoy the sunshine.

“Um, no thanks.” She looked away, studying the missing shingles on the barn roof. Darn, he hadn't noticed that. He'd have to get up there and fix it.

“Dad's down there most of the time, watching his shows. Trust me, I'm better off up here. If I have to hear Little Joe whining one more time, I'm going to throw something.”

“Where is he now?”

“Out.”

She blinked fast, almost as if she was holding back tears. Something must have happened between her and her dad. He hoped it didn't have anything to do with him, but the chair stuck in the doorway said otherwise.

“Thanks for fixing up the porch,” she said. “Dad wasn't too happy about it, though.”

“Dang it, I didn't mean to make trouble for you. I thought I'd shake Earl up a little, try and make a change.” He scratched his head again. “Guess it backfired.”

He glanced around the small bedroom. A few tattered novels, obviously read and reread, sat on the shelf under her nightstand. The horse magazines he'd brought her in the hospital occupied a basket by the window. Other than that, the room looked exactly like what it was: a place to sleep in between rodeos. It had all the personality of a cheap hotel room.

She'd go crazy in here.

Suze looked away, suddenly shy.

“It's okay,” she said. “I can see Bucket from here when he's out.” She bit her lower lip and gave him that sweet sideways look he could never resist, the look women used to make men their slaves from the time they were about six months old. “Do you think you could bring Speedo back?”

Heaven help him, you could see how much she loved that horse just by looking at her face. She was going to kill him when she found out Speedo was missing, and he'd deserve it. Heck, he'd welcome it at this point. He felt so guilty, he could hardly stand to walk around with himself.

Suze might be sweet right now, but he knew she had a wicked temper. If that temper was a shotgun, it would be aimed his way once she found out the truth.

Actually, he suspected Suze's temper was more like a bazooka or a rocket launcher. And once he told her about Speedo, it would go nuclear.

“I really miss him,” she said. “I thought maybe Ridge wouldn't mind coming out here to work him. I'd pay him.”

Brady cleared his throat, and suddenly found himself choking on nothing. Well, actually, he was choking on words, but they hadn't been spoken yet. They were locked inside, and he couldn't even cough them out.

What words would he use?

Speedo's gone. Somebody stole him.

I
left
him
at
the
rodeo
grounds, and when I went back, he was gone.

He
could
be
anywhere. Somebody might have hurt him or locked him up.

You
might
never
see
him—your best friend, your pardner, the other half of your heart—ever again.

He should tell her somehow. But the words stuck in his throat.

He pounded his chest with a fist, wheezing. He couldn't breathe.

“Are you all right?” Suze asked.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine.” He took a couple deep breaths, preparing himself.

But the words that came out weren't the ones he'd planned to say.

“Did you have breakfast?”

She shook her head.

“Well, you've got to eat. I'll go make you a sandwich. You like peanut butter and jelly, right?”

She sighed. “Sure. Fine.”

She looked so vulnerable. Her world was falling apart around her. She couldn't ride, and riding was her life. How could he tell her Speedo was gone?

“What?” she asked.

He realized he'd been standing in the doorway staring at her for way too long.

“Nothing. You look nice, that's all.”

“I thought you were going to stop looking at me like that,” she said. “Quit going all googly eyed.”

He turned away. He couldn't help looking at her like that, but until Speedo was safe in her barn, he should just stay away.

“Sorry,” he said. “I'll just make the sandwich and go.”

“Wait, Brady,” she called as he jogged down the stairs. “I'm sorry. I…”

“It's okay,” he called back.

He found the peanut butter in a high cabinet, the jelly in the fridge, but the bread wasn't in its usual spot. As he hunted for it, he noticed a stack of mail piled at the end of the counter. There were a couple things in there that looked like catalogs or magazines. They'd give Suze something to look at.

He flipped through the stack, pausing at a copy of
Western
Horseman.
It was the same edition he'd bought for her, so that wouldn't help. He should have known she'd have a subscription.

He pulled a Western clothing catalog out of the middle of the stack and an envelope fell to the floor. It had Suze's name on it, although it was spelled wrong.
Sooze
Carlile.
And it hadn't come through the mail, because there wasn't a stamp on it. Even weirder, her name was spelled out in letters cut from magazines that had been taped to the envelope.

What the heck?

Maybe the letter was a joke or something, but it gave Brady a creepy feeling. It looked like an old-fashioned ransom note, the kind you saw in old movies about—

Wait a minute. Ransom. Maybe Speedo hadn't been stolen; maybe he'd been kidnapped for ransom.

It made sense. The horse was worth a fortune, and anybody who knew anything about rodeo knew about the bond between Suze and her horse. Maybe someone saw the big purses she won and figured she had the money to pay.

Glancing around the kitchen, he grabbed a knife from the block by the stove and slit open the envelope. Opening someone else's mail was a federal crime, but this hadn't come through the mail. And if it was about Speedo, he needed to know.

He glanced around again as he unfolded the letter, then cursed as tiny squares of paper cascaded to the floor like confetti.

Evidently the glue hadn't held.

Something behind Brady gave a loud thump. He gave a guilty start and spun around to see Dooley rushing toward him, the doggie door flapping in his wake.

“No, buddy. Down.”

Dooley danced and hopped as usual, spreading the slips of paper all over the kitchen.

“Stop!” Brady set the letter on the counter and began frantically sweeping up the confetti with his hands. If this was a ransom note—and he was pretty sure it wasn't a get-well card—he needed to save every letter. It would be a puzzle to solve—something he wasn't particularly good at. Missing letters would only make it worse.

He had almost all the letters brushed into a small pile on the floor, except for one that was stuck to Dooley's paw and a few the dog had eaten despite Brady's pleas.

“Okay.” He stood and piled the letters on the counter. “Let's see what's left.”

Unfolding the paper, he was relieved to see that the note was mostly intact.

D__r Lezzy B_tch,

I h_ve your st_pid horse a_d am go_ng to ki_l it if y__ don't put $_00,000 in a b_g and le_ve it at…

After that point, most of the letters were missing.

Great. Brady didn't know how much money the horse-napper wanted or where he was supposed to leave it, or when. For all he knew, the deadline had passed.

He looked down at the pile of letters in front of him and cursed again. It would take him an hour to figure this out.

But Suze could do it. She'd finished every word search and crossword magazine he brought her. She loved word puzzles.

He stared down at the letter, struggling to work up the courage to go upstairs and confess. Just to waste time, he read the letter again, filling in what blanks he could.

Dear
Lezzy
Bitch,

Where had he heard those words? Someone had called Suze that before.

The smug face of Cooter Banks rose in his memory. He remembered the cowboy's face contorted into a sneer, his hands making some kind of obscene gesture Brady didn't even understand as he'd called Suze a “lezzy,” a “stuck-up bitch,” and more. Brady remembered how much he'd wanted to punch the guy.

Now he wanted to kill him.

The letter had to be from Cooter. Cooter had been furious when Red had withdrawn his endorsement from Lariat, and Suze had come on board soon after. No doubt Cooter blamed her for his troubles. The man could never accept responsibility for anything, and he was about as bright as your average sex-crazed rooster, strutting and crowing night and day, foolishly unaware that nobody was watching or listening.

But right now, Brady was grateful for Cooter's idiocy. He'd given himself away by calling Suze names. And if Brady wasn't too late, he'd probably find Suze's best friend cooling his hooves in Cooter's barn.

Grabbing his hat from the front hall, he jammed it on his head and ran for the door, almost slamming into the chair. Ducking underneath it, he ran for his truck.

* * *

Suze listened to Brady's boots thudding down the stairs and wished she'd swallowed her stupid pride and asked for two sandwiches. Or maybe three. She was so hungry she was ready to gnaw on the furniture.

But Brady was acting weird today. When she'd asked him to quit looking at her the way he did, the warmth in his gaze had turned off like she'd flicked a switch.

Be
careful
what
you
wish
for.

She heard him cuss once, and then he was hollering at Dooley. Listening to him was definitely more entertaining than the unchanging view outside the window. She rolled the office chair over to the bed, moving as quietly as she could on the uneven plank floors.

It was then she heard the screen door slam, its spring-loaded wooden frame hitting the door frame with a sound like a gunshot.

Moments later, Brady's truck started, and then she heard the unmistakable crunch of wheels on gravel.

He'd left. Just left. Had she been that rude? What had she done?

She was hungry, she was lonely, and she was starting to realize she was a bitch. She hadn't done a thing to thank him for all the work he'd done. And now, here she was ordering him to go get her horse and haul him out here, so he'd have even more to do.

She sighed. It was just as well. Resisting him day after day hurt almost as much as her ankle. If he stuck around, she was likely to end up in bed with him again, and then she'd end up hurting even more.

She should let him go find that sweet thing, a nice girl who would love him and make him happy.

She carefully eased herself from the chair and headed downstairs, using one crutch and the stair railing to support her bad ankle. She didn't know what had set Brady off, but apparently she'd be making her own sandwiches from now on.

* * *

Earl Carlyle slouched in his rocker-recliner in the front room, watching
Pale
Rider
for probably the twentieth time. The danged cowboy that hung around his daughter wasn't there when he'd gotten home, and Suze herself was taking a nap, so he could relax and watch TV. He normally watched
Bonanza
reruns, but the Ponderosa took a powder from two to four, and wasn't running on any of the stations the satellite pulled in.

He'd seen every episode of that show over and over too, but he felt more comfortable at the Ponderosa than he did in his own home. Lorne Greene had lost his wife—lost three of them, as a matter of fact—but he and his boys just went on about their business. It made Earl wonder if he and Ellen should have had more children.

Once he'd sent Mr. Greene a letter, asked him how he did it. He'd gotten back a signed photograph and an invitation to join the
Bonanza
Fan Club. It figured. Lorne Greene was just acting, anyway. He probably didn't know anything about grief. Most people didn't.

They'd never lived through the grief and bitterness he endured. He couldn't tell if it was his arthritis and his injuries that crippled him so, or if his unremitting pain was about Ellen.

His heart hadn't ever really broken; it had shriveled up from lack of nourishment, leaving nothing for Suzanne or even himself. He was a hollow man, holding only anger at the unfairness of it all and the deep, aching pain of loss.

It would be easier if he'd had sons, like on
Bonanza
. For one thing, they could do the work around the place, maybe keep up with things better. For another thing, they wouldn't look so much like your dead wife that you felt like you'd been stabbed in the heart every time they walked into the room.

He turned his attention back to the movie. Clint was riding around in that stupid poncho that made him look like a girl. There was a loud hammering noise, and it took him a minute to realize it wasn't part of the movie. Somebody was at the door.

Probably that Brady character, trying to get at Suzanne again. She'd thrown him out a half-dozen times, but he kept on coming back. Those dumb bronc riders were like that, always getting back on the horse even if it tossed 'em off and stomped 'em near to death. Hell, he'd been like that once.

“Just a minute.” Earl grabbed the edge of the end table with his right hand and the arm of the chair with his left, levering himself up and onto his feet. Pain shot up from his ankles and his knees ached as he straightened them. The kid had better have a good reason for interrupting him this time.

He shuffled over to the door, hating the hunched, bent stance the pain forced on him. Once the blood got flowing, it was a little easier to stand, and he straightened as best he could before he had to stoop again to get past that damned chair.

He opened the door to a woman with a round head set on a body that was a perfect square, with stumpy short legs like porch posts. She had no neck to speak of, and her short, straight gray hair swept across her forehead, almost hiding her lively brown eyes. She wore a shabby black peacoat over white overalls so streaked with paint that it was hard to see the original fabric. The effect was strangely festive.

“Hi,” she said. “I came to see Suzanne.”

Huh. He'd thought he was the only one who called his daughter by her given name. It was always “Suze” this, “Suze” that. He and Ellen had named her Suzanne, dammit.

“You a friend of hers?”

The woman laughed. She might be heavy, but she had a hearty laugh and her eyes flashed and sparkled with good humor. She reminded him of somebody, but damned if he knew who.

“Just her godmother,” she said. “I knew you wouldn't recognize me. I'm a friend of
yours
, dummy.” She spread her hands as if offering herself for inspection. “Guess it's been too many years and too many pints of ice cream.”

He stared a moment. Those eyes…

“Gwen Saunders.” Lord have mercy, he felt a smile spreading across his face. And miracle of miracles, his face didn't crack from the effort. “I knew you looked familiar.”

She gave him a good-natured punch in the stomach. Gwen was always like that, joshing everybody, friendly. It was impossible
not
to smile when she was around. He hadn't seen her since Ellen's funeral, but it was like no time had passed at all. He felt his smile softening, his eyes tearing up a bit. He couldn't help it. He'd always liked Gwennie. Liked her a lot.

He'd heard she was living in Wynott. Became kind of a recluse, apparently, living in a junkyard behind a big, high fence. He'd have gone to check on her sometime, because that didn't sound like the Gwennie he knew. But he knew seeing her would remind him, painfully, of Ellen, and all the mistakes he'd made.

He looked at Gwen and waited for that stab of pain, that flash of memory that hurt so bad it made him want to die and join his wife in the grave.

But there was nothing. He was just glad to see her. Imagine that.

She followed him into the house.

“Don't mind that chair,” he said. “Got stuck.”

She struggled under it, obviously embarrassed by her bulk. But Earl knew he didn't look much better.

“Looks like you lost as much weight as I gained,” she said. “You okay, Earl?”

“Fine,” he said. “Suzanne's upstairs.”

“Really?” Gwen turned and scanned the staircase. “She can get up and down stairs already?”

“No, and she makes me run and fetch everything for her. Drivin' me crazy.”

“I heard she has some handsome cowboy running errands for her.” Her eyes sparkled, as if she thought it was funny that the damned cowboy was hanging around as if his daughter was a cat in heat.

“She can't stand the sight of him,” Earl said.

“Really?” She shook her head, still smiling. “That's not what I heard.”

She looked him up and down, and he shifted, uncomfortable. He knew he'd changed. He saw it every time he looked in the mirror. Somewhere along the way, his features had all drawn together into the center of his face and turned small and mean. His brows arrowed down over eyes that seemed to have grown darker with age. His nose was more hooked, his mouth a short, grim line. If Ellen were still alive, she'd never look at him twice. He was just a mean old man.

Then again, if Ellen were still alive, he'd be a different person. When she was alive, he was tall, dark, and handsome. She'd said so herself once.

“You never got over her, did you?” Gwen asked.

He shook his head.

She nodded, then headed up the stairs to see her goddaughter. He supposed he should be grateful that Gwen had turned up, but he felt ashamed of himself, of the way he'd let everything go to hell.

He felt ashamed of the way he treated Suzanne too—but Gwen was the one person in the world who might understand why. She knew the truth about him and Ellen, and the truth about Suzanne.

He hoped she wasn't up there spilling the beans. He hadn't faced the truth when Ellen was alive, and he didn't want to face it now.