How to Kiss a Cowboy (23 page)

Suze was just finishing her sandwich when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

“He's back, Dooley!” The little dog jumped off the bed and barked, whirling in a circle.

“I'm an idiot,” she said to the dog. “Why did I assume he was gone for good? Brady wouldn't do that. He wouldn't let me go hungry.”

Maybe he hadn't been able to find the peanut butter. Maybe he'd wanted a different kind of jelly, or they needed some more milk. She hobbled to the window, so relieved she wished she could turn a cartwheel.

But it wasn't Brady's Silverado parked in the turnout. It was some old rattletrap truck she'd never seen before.

A heavyset woman eased out of the vehicle. She patted the front fender, as if she was thanking the truck for the ride before she waddled to the front door.

Funny. Suze did that herself sometimes, treating her pickup as if it was a faithful old horse.

Suze heard her father's low voice talking to the visitor and wondered who it could be. Her father sounded almost cordial, and she thought whoever it was must have come to see him, but then footsteps started up the stairs—heavy, lumbering steps, and heavy breathing as well. It sounded like a bear was coming to visit, but the person who appeared in her doorway was a stout little gray-haired woman with laughing brown eyes. She lumbered into the room and sat down on the desk chair without invitation.

The visitor put a fist to her chest, catching her breath, all the while staring at Suze.

“Criminy,” she finally said. “It's like seeing a ghost.”

Suze glanced around the room. She didn't see any phantomlike apparitions, although judging from her visitor's breathing, the woman might cross to the other side at any moment.

“You, I mean.” The woman leaned forward and took a deep breath, then sat up and smiled. “You look so much like your mother, it's scary.”

“Thank you,” Suze said. “I used to hear that a lot, but not so much anymore.”

“People forget.” The woman shifted her weight. “New champions come along, and they forget the old ones.”

“I always feel bad about that,” Suze said. “Sometimes I think it's me that's erasing her memory. When I won my second championship, I beat her record at Thomas & Mack arena. When I found out, I wished I could take it back.” She shook her head, hard and fast. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you all that. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing. I'm here to see what I can do for you. And the first order of business is to tell you not to worry about your mother's memory. It's your turn now.”

“I guess. It just bothers me sometimes.”

“Don't let it. She'd be proud.” The woman eased off the chair and reached for the photo Suze kept by her bed, pausing before she touched it. “May I?”

Suze nodded and the woman picked it up. Her eyes scanned it almost greedily, her smile widening.

“Did you know her?” Suze asked.

“Know her? I was her best friend.”

Suze gasped. “You're Gwennie?”

“Gwen Saunders, in the flesh—and plenty of it.” The woman set the photo down and held out her hand. Suze shook it, then clutched it in both of hers.

“Oh, it's so good to see you! I remember you. You used to bring me little horses. Fetishes, you called them.” She started to rise, wincing as the pain kicked in. “I still have them. Over there, in the top drawer of the desk.”

Gwen opened the drawer and took out a tiny silver pony, then a bronze one, and another carved in stone. They were all tiny, maybe a half-inch long, small enough to fit in a pocket and bring good luck to a girl barrel racer who'd hoped to ride in her mother's hoofprints.

“I still carry one when I ride,” Suze said.

“And you still win.”

“I know.” Suze smiled. “I thought you were a witch.”

“Maybe I am.” Gwen gave her an impish grin.

“You're a good witch, then. I really thought the horses were magic.”

Suze reached over and took the silver pony from Gwen's palm. Turning it over in her fingers, she smiled. “Maybe I need to hold one now.”

“Not that one. Not for right now.” Gwen snatched away the silver pony and handed Suze the stone one. “Stone, for strength.”

Suze clenched it in her palm until the cold stone warmed. “You think it'll help?”

“Sure.”

Suze tucked the pony under her pillow. “I'll keep it with me.”

Gwen nodded. “I hear you're keeping a cowboy with you lately too. What's going on there? Is it serious?”

“You know about Brady?” Suze could feel her face heating and wished she could control herself better.

“People talk,” Gwen said. “Especially in a town the size of Wynott. You and those Decker boys are the pride of the county, so when you get together with one of 'em, it's big news.”

“You live in Wynott?”

Suze couldn't believe Gwen lived that close and she hadn't known.

“I own what they call the junk shop.” Gwen started to bounce one leg, as though that made her nervous. “Although I don't know why they call it a shop, since I don't sell anything.”

“You're the sculptor,” Suze said.

She never would have thought, in a million years, that the mysterious recluse who owned the junk shop in Wynott was Gwen. In fact, most people thought it was a man that lived behind the high fence. The place was guarded by spooky figures, men and ogres made of all manner of machine parts, but there was a rumor that the sculptor was a respected artist who sold welded conglomerations of machine parts to big art galleries.

“Why didn't you ever come over?” Suze asked.

“I was ashamed, I guess. A man broke my heart, and I decided to eat my way to happiness. It didn't work. I just loaded on the pounds, and then—well, I didn't want him to see me.”

“He lives around here?”

“You might say that.” Gwen parked herself on the rolling desk chair.

“I'm sorry.” Suze pictured herself years from now, living in some secluded house, mooning over Brady and living on Oreos. She couldn't see it. She wouldn't be able to ride if she got that big.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Gwen said with mock seriousness. “Don't let that cowboy get away.”

“You really are a witch,” Suze said. “You read my mind. But he already got away, I think, so never mind about that. It's my dad I need help with.”

It felt good to talk to Gwennie. She'd been there after her mother's death, a sympathetic ear for a young girl's troubles. But eventually she'd disappeared.

Kind of like a witch.

“What's the matter with your dad?”

“He can't seem to get over my mom's death.”

“Maybe it's her life he can't get over. Maybe your mother was the wrong woman for your father.”

“No way,” Suze said. “He loved her like—well, like she was his life.”

“He thought she was.” Gwen sighed. “I think your dad needs to face some facts before he can get over your mother. He needs to remember the woman she was, not the woman he wanted her to be.”

Suze smiled. “So she wasn't perfect?”

“No. Is that what he told you?”

“Over and over.” Suze looked down at her lap and shook her head. “I've been trying to live up to her legacy for years. According to my dad, she was the most beautiful, the smartest, the best at everything. And I don't measure up.”

She hated the bitterness she heard in her voice, but it felt good to say it out loud. And Gwen was her godmother. If you couldn't talk to your godmother, who could you talk to?

“Your mother was an amazing woman,” Gwen said. “She was strong, she was driven, and nobody could beat her around those barrels. But she liked to shine, and sometimes that meant making the people around her feel dull and drab. Everything came easy for her, and she didn't know what it felt like to lose or to be hurt.”

“So she made my father feel dull and drab?”

Gwen nodded. “She made him feel like he never measured up. He spent his whole life trying to please her.”

And
he's passed all that on to me.

But that meant Suze wasn't a failure. She wasn't a disappointment. She was just as good as Ellen Carlyle. Better, because she would never put down someone else to make herself look good.

“I wish you'd come sooner,” she said.

“I know. I'm sorry,” Gwen said.

Suze leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. “Tell me about her,” she said. “And don't sugarcoat it. I want to know everything.”

* * *

Gwen didn't know what to think about Suzanne Carlyle.

When she'd walked into the room and seen a clone of her old friend Ellen, she'd expected to find Ellen's spirit too—her crazy, wild spirit. The spirit that knocked flat every obstacle that dared to oppose her. The spirit that was a little selfish, if truth be told, but nobody minded. Ellen's charm had always smoothed the way for her.

Gwen had watched Suzanne ride on TV during the National Finals Rodeo, and smiled to see the girl riding just like her mother had. She'd seen how close to the edge Suze rode, risking everything with every ride.

But while Ellen had raced with a sort of hell-for-leather, dang-everything joy, Suzanne must win through dogged determination. Gwen wondered who she was trying to please—her father or the ghost of her mother.

She wished she'd come sooner. She'd settled in Wynott partly because of its closeness to Suzanne and to Earl—especially to Earl.

But she'd told Suze the truth. As the weight piled on, she hated to go out. People didn't say anything, but she saw how they looked at her. She didn't want Earl looking at her like that.

She shouldn't have worried. Looking at him now, she wondered what she'd ever seen in him. There'd been a time when all she'd wanted was to spend time with Earl, even if it meant tagging along while he mooned over Ellen. Then the mooning led to marriage, and that was that.

Now he was just an old man, and not a very nice one, either. It was kind of a relief.

Her goddaughter needed her help, though, and needed it badly. So like it or not, she was going to have to spend some time with the man Earl Carlyle had become.

She visited with Suzanne a while, telling stories about Ellen. Stories were magic, like the little horses—powerful but only if you believed in them. With stories, she could make Ellen the woman she should have been. The woman her daughter believed she was and needed her to be.

Finally, Gwen said her good-byes and puffed back down the stairs—but not until she'd poked around a little bit. She hadn't heard Earl come up the stairs, so she checked out the bathroom and bedroom to see what kind of house her goddaughter was living in.

Not a very nice one. The downstairs had looked pretty civilized, except for the chair jammed in the doorway. There was probably some explanation for that. But except for Suze's room, the upstairs was a mess—laundry everywhere, and dust, dust, dust. She'd come back as soon as she could and bring a mop.

But she wasn't sure they made a cleaning product that would clean up the mess Earl Carlyle had made of his life.

It wasn't easy to fit all three of the Decker Ranch cowboys into one pickup, especially Brady's Dodge. He hadn't sprung for the extended cab, so the three of them were jammed onto the one bench seat. He hadn't wanted to pay for an automatic transmission either, so he was feeling up his brother Shane every time he shifted gears.

“You want to watch it with that gearshift?” Shane shifted back in his seat. “That's getting a little too close for comfort.”

Ridge glanced back at Brady's empty gun rack. “What kind of posse is this, anyway? We're not even armed. And who brings a horse trailer to a manhunt?”

Brady grinned. His brothers hadn't even asked what they were going to do when he told them he had to get up a posse to take care of some business. That's what being brothers was all about: being there for each other, no matter what.

There'd been a time in his life when he'd only dreamed of having that kind of family, and he treasured his brotherhood with Shane Lockhart and Ridge Cooper—the brotherhood Bill Decker and his wife had pieced together from three lost and broken boys.

“I'd like to use firearms, but it's not an option,” Brady said. “This is a persuasive sort of posse. We're going to talk Cooter Banks into letting us take the horse he stole back to the rightful owner.”

“Cooter has Speedo?”

Brady nodded. “He sent a ransom note to Suze. It was anonymous, but it was pretty obvious who it was from.”

“So Suze knows?” Shane asked.

Brady shook his head. “Um, no.”

“Then how did you explain the ransom note?”

“I didn't.” Brady squirmed under his oldest brother's dark-eyed stare.

“So you opened her mail?”

“I did.” Brady squared his shoulders. He wasn't doing anything terrible. He was just getting the horse back. As long as Speedo was okay, Suze would be happy and Brady would be off the hook.

Shane didn't say anything more, but those eyes stayed on Brady, their expression a mixture of disappointment and surprise.

“I didn't want her to worry,” Brady said. “I can tell her after Speedo's safe and sound.”

“Sure you can,” Shane said. “Sure. She won't notice anything if the horse has been neglected or underfed.”

“Yeah,” Ridge said. “She'll just blame me.”

Brady squirmed. He had no doubt Cooter was guilty on both counts, and he didn't want Ridge's reputation to suffer for his screwup.

Cooter lived in a single-wide trailer that was set against a hillside on a broad stretch of rocky land. A sagging barbed-wire fence marked off a pasture area that was mostly dirt. Two shaggy horses pricked their ears up as Brady drove the pickup up the drive.

After he parked the truck, Shane walked around to the back and opened the horse trailer, dropping the ramp.

“We might be persuasive, but if I lived out here, I'd be armed,” Shane said. “We might have to move fast.”

“Good point,” Brady said.

There were lights on in the trailer, but no one appeared at the window or cracked the door open. Brady was surprised. Living out here, an unexpected guest could mean trouble, and Cooter must have heard them.

“How are we going to do this?” Ridge asked.

“Let's check that shed over there.” Brady pointed toward a structure behind the trailer. “Make sure Speedo's here before we start trouble.”

“We're not starting anything,” Shane said.

Brady bristled. “If he's got that horse—”

“Then
he
started the trouble.” Shane shot an elbow into Brady's ribs. “That's all I'm saying.”

They strode out to the shed, if you could even call it that. The whole thing leaned to one side, and the windward side had slumped nearly to the ground. Boards and shingles lay all around it. It was hardly an appropriate place to keep a sixty-thousand-dollar barrel horse.

Ridge lifted a rusty latch and the plank door creaked open. The interior of the shed was dark, but not dark enough to hide a white heart that seemed to float at eye level.

“Speedo,” Brady breathed. He'd know that heart-shaped blaze anywhere. “Thank God.”

“I'll load him up,” Ridge said. “We need to keep quiet.”

Brady didn't want to be quiet. He'd wanted to punch Cooter ever since that breakfast meeting, and seeing Speedo housed in a dirty old shed made him even madder. His hands clenched and unclenched, his palms literally itching for a fight. But keeping Speedo safe was the priority.

The horse had retreated to the back of the shed. Ridge stepped inside, muttering sweet nothings, but the horse was twitchy, shying away when Ridge reached for his halter.

Brady muttered a few things too, but they were hardly sweet. It was obvious Speedo hadn't been treated well. As Ridge led him out, the fading sunlight revealed his dull, ungroomed coat. He swung his head up and pulled away from Ridge, almost making him lose his grip.

But when he saw the trailer, he calmed.

“It's like he knows he's going home,” Brady said.

“He does.” Ridge read horses better than anyone Brady knew. His quiet strength was a calming influence, and by the time he'd settled Speedo in the trailer, the horse was comfortably munching hay, as if nothing had ever happened.

“It's your call, Brady,” Shane said. “Do we go home, or do we rouse Cooter?”

In response, Brady strode up to the trailer. It was a sorry sight, almost as sorry as the shed where Speedo had been hidden. Siding was peeling off in long strips that flapped in the wind, and there was no skirting to hide the concrete blocks it was mounted on. A swamp cooler on the roof rumbled and coughed.

“Maybe he couldn't hear us over the swamp cooler,” Shane said.

“Maybe.” Brady finally got to use his fist. It felt good, even if it was just pounding on the door.

“Open up, Cooter,” he said. “We know you're in there.”

A light flicked on over the door, but that was the only sign of life.

“Let us in, or we'll call the sheriff,” Brady said. “He'd be mighty interested in that letter you sent. You know horse stealing's a federal offense?”

He had no idea if that was true, but Wyoming took the crime of horse stealing very seriously. The days of frontier justice were over, but there'd been a time when Cooter would have found himself the guest of honor at a necktie party—more commonly known as a hangin'.

Brady started to pound on the door again, but it opened slightly. A very wide eye peered out at them over the safety chain.

It definitely wasn't Cooter. He didn't have eyelashes that long, and he didn't wear eyeliner, as far as Brady knew.

“Who are you guys?” said a breathy feminine voice.

“We're from Decker Ranch,” Brady said. “We've come about the horse.”

“Oh!” The door swung shut and they could hear the woman fumbling with the security chain. A moment later, the door opened wide to reveal a skinny, pale girl with long brown hair that was ragged at the ends. She wore cutoff shorts and a bikini top, and she looked about fifteen.

“You guys wanna come in?” she asked. “Cooter's not here. But I could get you some beer.” She bit her lip and glanced back at the inside of the trailer, as if Cooter might somehow be watching her.

“We don't want to come in,” Brady said.

“Okay,” she said. “You wanna buy the horse, though, right?”

“No. We're taking the horse.”

“You can't do that!” She stepped outside. She was clearly frightened, biting her lower lip so hard Brady was scared it would bleed, and clutching her arms around her middle as if her stomach hurt. But she looked him in the eye, and he could tell she believed what she was saying. “That horse belongs to Cooter. He spent all his money on it, and he's gonna sell it and make us rich. He says it's a real good horse.”

“It is a real good horse,” Brady said. “It's also stolen.”

“No.” She shook her head and backed away as if denying it could make it a lie. “It can't be. He spent all his money on it. That's why we couldn't pay the rent last month.”

“I don't know what he spent his money on, but it wasn't that horse,” Brady said. “He stole it. I can call the sheriff if you don't believe me.”

“No!” Her eyes widened in panic. “Don't call the sheriff!”

Shane stepped forward. “Who are you, anyway?”

She glanced warily from Brady to Shane to Ridge and back to Shane. “I'm Sharlene. Sharlene Banks.”

“You Cooter's sister?” Brady asked.

“I'm his wife,” she said, lifting her chin as if that was something to be proud of.

Brady didn't think he'd ever felt so sorry for someone in his life. Cooter had somehow talked this little thing into marrying him, and installed her in his barely livable trailer to wait for him while he was mowing through buckle bunnies like a reaper through seed corn.

“How old are you?” Shane asked.

“Old enough.” She lifted her chin again. “We are legally married.”

“Okay,” Brady said. “Well, that horse is legally someone else's, so we're going to be going now.”

“You're taking it?”

“You bet,” Brady said.

“You can't do that.” Fragile yet determined, she confronted the three men. “Cooter'll kill me. I'm supposed to take care of it, but it's mean and I'm scared of it. If he comes home and it's gone, he'll kill me.”

Brady looked from Ridge to Shane. “You want to come with us? We'll take you someplace safe.”

“No.” She skittered toward the door, reminding Brady of a frightened mouse. “He won't really kill me. He just gets real mad.”

Shane set a hand on Brady's shoulder. “Let's go.”

They piled into the truck, but Brady didn't start it. Instead, he looked over at the trailer. Sharlene had gone back inside, and the place was silent. “We can't leave her here,” he said.

“I'll send Sierra out tomorrow,” Ridge said. “That kid can't be more than fifteen. Sierra'll know what to do.”

Brady nodded. Sometimes it came in handy to have a social worker for a sister-in-law.

“Wish I could be there when Cooter gets home.” Brady pictured himself landing a hard roundhouse punch, the kind that shouted “POW!” in comic books.

“Me too,” Ridge said calmly. “No horse, no wife, no nothing.”

Shane grinned. “Revenge is sweet.”

“I'd rather hit him,” said Brady.

* * *

Brady showed up at Suze's house the next morning with a freshly groomed Speedo riding in the trailer behind him. The horse seemed none the worse for wear now that he'd been fed and exercised.

He'd gotten away with his lies. He should have felt elated, but he felt lower than prairie dog poop.

Speedo nickered as they pulled up, and Suze appeared at her window.

“Speedo!” she said. “You brought him! Oh,
Brady
!”

Brady gave her a crooked smile. He was Suze's hero for the moment, but he felt his sin of omission burning in his gut. She still thought Speedo had been with Ridge all this time, and there was nothing to tell her different. Her horse was here, and he was fine.

Brady didn't have to tell her what had happened. Not today. And being Brady, he wasn't about to reveal the truth until he absolutely had to.

His anger at Cooter had faded as disgust for his own flaws took over. He was a cheat, taking the easy way out, letting Suze think he'd taken care of Speedo when really, he'd almost lost him.

“But why tell her?” the little devil on his shoulder whispered in his ear. Most people had a little angel on the other shoulder to balance things out, but Brady figured his had gotten disgusted and left.

He led Speedo out of the trailer and put him in the corral where Suze could see him.

“You want to come up?” she asked.

He should. He should go up there and carry her downstairs and take her to see her horse. It was the least he could do.

But then he'd have to look her in the eye.

“I've got some work to do in the barn, and then I gotta go,” he said. “Sorry.”

He heard the window screech shut and knew he'd disappointed her. Hell, he'd disappointed himself.

He was just a disappointing kind of guy.