How to Kiss a Cowboy (8 page)

Suze watched Stan Peterson dither over the positions she and Brady should take for the photo shoot and wondered what the heck was wrong with the guy. Lariat might be peddling clothes for women now, but their big bucks came from menswear. They'd managed to convince Easterners who had a romantic image of the West that real cowboys actually tolerated shirts with fringe and all kinds of frippery. In reality, fringe could get caught in buckles and straps, and besides, all that fancy stuff looked plain ridiculous.

She knew when she'd signed on with Lariat that she'd be required to shed most of her dignity and half her clothes for the shoot. But what mattered was the money. She needed to keep that in mind, because this was the tough part—the part where she knelt at the feet of the male model who shared the shoot. And in this case, the model was the man she'd been avoiding ever since they'd burned up the bedsheets just months before.

That time, she'd lost most of her dignity and
all
of her clothes.

“Okay. Suze, I need you to stand over there.” Stan gestured to a point just in front of a particularly rustic part of the bucking chutes, with their weathered wooden frames and rusting metal gates. “Brady, you go stand beside her. Not a hardship, right?”

Brady flashed Suze one of his blinding smiles. “Never a hardship.”

It was a hardship for Suze. The truth was, she'd sooner stand beside a riled-up rattlesnake than get anywhere near Brady Caine.

But she needed the money, she needed the money, she needed the money. She chanted the words in her head like a mantra. Barrel racing was an expensive sport. You needed a great horse, who needed great feed and a nice stable and pasture. You needed a good-sized arena for practicing too. All these things made it essential to hang on to the Carlyle family ranch, and lately that had become a challenge. Her dad had mortgaged the place to pay off her mother's medical bills after her long fight with cancer, and now he had medical bills of his own. Suze couldn't go out and get a regular job to pay the bills, because her dad needed her to do the chores at home. Besides, she had to practice, and she was out rodeoing every weekend.

She won often, and brought home substantial sums, but it never seemed to be enough. That was the reason—the
only
reason—she was standing beside Brady Caine with her arms folded over her chest and her jaw clamped so tightly it hurt. She might have to stand beside him, but she didn't have to look at him.

Not yet, anyway.

“Okay.” Stan looked a little worried. “What we need to do is soften up your look a little bit, Suze. Just—maybe unbutton your shirt a little.”

She unbuttoned the top button of her shirt. “Like this?”

“Well…”

She unbuttoned another. “This?”

He gave her a charming smile and she unbuttoned a third, exposing a generous swath of her embarrassingly generous cleavage. Men liked big breasts, but Suze would have traded hers for a smaller set in a heartbeat. Normally, she wore maximum-strength sports bras to keep everything pressed in tight. But today the girls were on full display, and Suze was sure Brady was enjoying the view. She stood stiffly, chin high, jaw clenched.

“Do you two not get along, or something?” Stan grimaced and raked his fingers through his hair, making a matched set of cowlicks stand up like owl's ears. “We're looking for a little spark here.”

Suze waited for Brady to say something teasing about how well they got along. She was sure he'd allude to their night together sooner or later, making sure Stan knew what a stud he was. But to her surprise, he just gave her an honest cowboy grin with no leering undertones.

“Sure,” he said. “We get along fine, don't we?”

“Oh, yeah. Fine.” She tried to smile back at Brady, but her mouth wouldn't cooperate. It felt stiff in the middle and shaky at the edges. She hated to think how it would look on film.

“Right. Well, we need to get this done,” Stan said. “Brady, just do what you always do.”

“Okay, but…”

“The pose. This is the introductory ad for our cowgirl line, so we're doing a modified version of the standby. So pose.”

The photographer might've looked meek as a kid's pet hamster, but he was in charge of this shoot and Brady knew it. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stood tall, shoulders back, chin raised. Suze had seen the pose in a half-dozen Lariat ads, so she knew what came next.

“Now, Suze, if you could just kneel beside him…”

In the eyes of Lariat Western Wear—and in the minds of most of the men she knew—men were men, and women were born to adore them. Gingerly, she rested one knee in the dirt and knelt sideways so the other leg bracketed Brady.

Brady glanced down. Instead of looking admiring, like he had when she'd first strolled into the arena, he looked horrified.

She braced herself for the joke, the sarcastic comment, the jab.

Instead, he reached down and grabbed her elbow, hauling her roughly to her feet.

“Hell no, Stan,” he said. “We're not doing this. Not with
her
. No way.”

* * *

Brady watched Suze stomp across the arena, her hands clenched at her sides, her blond hair bouncing with every stormy step. He'd obviously ticked her off.

It figured. Every time he tried to do the right thing, he made her mad.

He'd just been trying to protect her. Frankly, he'd expected her to protect herself, and he'd been looking forward to the fireworks when she told Stan that she wouldn't kneel at Brady Caine's feet if you gave her a million dollars. He'd have bet his last gold buckle on her refusal. Ever since that night in her trailer, Suze's every glance told him she thought he was lower than the prairie dogs that dug up her pasture—and for a rancher, nothing was lower than a prairie dog.

She must've really needed the money from this contract, and she was willing to do whatever was required to keep it. That was her choice, and he ought to have let her make it.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't. He knew how proud she was, and watching her kneel down like that—it was unbearable. He'd had to stop her. But instead of thanking him, she'd stormed off.

“What just happened?” he said to Stan. “I was trying to help.”

“Who exactly were you
helping
?”

“Her. You too. If I'd known who you'd chosen, I could've told you she wouldn't kneel at my feet like those other girls. I mean, Suze Carlyle? She's got no reason to grovel.”

“She was fine with it,” Stan said. “You're the one with the problem.”

Brady took his hat off and raked his fingers through his hair. “It's just that it's disrespectful,” he said. “Especially with her. I mean rodeo queens, they don't mind. They know darn well they're part of the West's grand tradition of objectifying women. But Suze is an athlete. She deserves respect.”

“Listen to you,” Stan said. “The cowboy feminist, all up in arms about objectifying women. I didn't even know you knew words that big.”

Brady flushed. “I must have heard it somewhere. Half the time I don't know what I'm saying.” Brady gave him his aw-shucks grin. Who was he to mess with the legends of the West? He did his best to live up to expectations as the dumb cowboy bronc buster.

He sobered. “Bill taught me not to treat women like that, though.” He thumbed over his shoulder toward the trailer that served as Suze's dressing room. “You think she's coming back?”

“I doubt it,” Stan said. “Why would she?”

“So we can work things out. I think we should change the shot,” Brady said. “Why don't you lay me down in the middle of the arena and let her trample me on her horse? Cowgirls would love to see that. Speedo's as famous as she is. Best-known quarter horse in the world.”

“Brady, she doesn't think there's anything to work out. She thinks you just refused to work with her. Hell, that's what I thought too.”

“What?”

“Brady, you said, and I quote, ‘Hell no. We're not doing this with her.'”

“No, I said…” Brady ran the words over in his mind. Yep, that's what he'd said.

He took off at a dead run, following Suze's footprints across the arena. When he tripped on a light cord, he caught himself, then spun around to holler at Stan.

“Think of something different to do. We're not doing that dumb shit with the girl at my feet, okay? Not with Suze. Not in a million years.”

He slowed, walking backwards to make sure Stan would hear what he'd really meant to say—and maybe Suze would hear it too.

“If you want,” he said, “
I'll
kneel at
her
feet.”

Marta had returned to the trailer and was fussing around, cleaning the sink and setting her makeup into a carefully organized carryall.

“Back so soon?”

“It didn't work out.” Suze had intended to be brusque and efficient, as if she had somewhere important to go. That way, Marta wouldn't see how upset she was.

“What didn't work out?” Marta ran some water in the sink to wash down a few stray hairs she'd trimmed from Suze's 'do. “You didn't like the cowboy?”

“I can't stand the cowboy.” To Suze's horror, her bold words came out along with a rush of tears. “I can't
stand
him.”

Marta put her arm around Suze's shoulders and led her over to a couch. As they sat down, she smoothed Suze's hair back from her forehead in a motherly gesture so kind it made Suze break down entirely.

“You know this cowboy?”

Suze nodded, unable to speak.

“You have a history?”

“Not really.” Suze huffed out a mirthless laugh. “It was over as soon as it started.”

“So you don't want to pose with him? That is not professional, dear,” Marta said gently. “Is not right.”

Marta was right, and Suze suddenly wished with all her heart that the makeup artist would come back to the ranch with her and be her stepmother. Marta wouldn't have to marry Earl Carlyle. Heck, she and Suze could throw him out. Because here was a woman who barely knew her, and she was offering the kind of wise, motherly advice Suze had longed for most of her life.

A fresh fountain of tears rose up, and Suze reached blindly for a tissue, patting the sofa and end table. “He didn't want to pose with me. He just kicked me aside like a—like a
dog.
I was kneeling at his
feet.
”

Marta calmly rose and crossed the room for some Kleenex. She came back with the box.

“How could he not want to pose with you?” she said. “You are a beautiful cowgirl. And a champion, right?”

Suze nodded, blowing her nose so loudly she could probably be a champion at that too.

“He kicked you?” Marta asked. To her credit, she didn't sound the least bit skeptical.

“Metaphorically.” Suze honked into a tissue one more time and set it aside. It was obvious that English wasn't Marta's mother tongue, so Suze rushed to explain. “That means not really, but sort of. He made me
feel
kicked.” She sniffed, struggling to compose herself. “He might as well have kicked me with those fancy boots of his. I got his message loud and clear.”

Marta patted Suze's arm. Somehow, the kind gesture gave Suze courage and her despair was driven out by a heady, white-hot anger that filled her up and burned like a dozen shots of tequila.

“He probably had a bet going with the photographer over how many buttons they'd get me to unbutton before I said stop.” Suddenly remembering her state of undress, Suze pulled the front of the shirt closed with her fist.

“You know this?” Marta sounded shocked.

“No.” Suze stared down at her boot tips. “It's probably not true.”

Somehow, her rage flew out with the words, and she was left feeling as unsteady and deflated as one of those waving balloon men they put in front of car dealerships. Those things waved their arms around, all riled up, but they flopped down dead if anybody turned the air compressor off. She felt as if her anger was the compressor, and if she gave way to the tears rising behind her eyes, she'd lose all the backbone she'd ever had and flop on the floor, utterly deflated.

“It's not just about today.” She leaned into Marta's warmth. The woman smelled like roses and powder—like a mother. “I fell for him when I was sixteen, but he wasn't interested. And then, just when I started to get over him, he—we—you know.”

“You spent the night together.”

Marta didn't seem the least bit shocked.

“I woke up the next morning and he was still there, sleeping with my dog. I mean, he was cuddling it, you know? It was the sweetest thing. I thought he was going to stay. It surprised me, but I thought he really cared, because he spent the night.”

“Why did that surprise you?” Marta asked. “Of course he cares. He would be lucky to have you.”

“Trust me, I'm not his type. And he proved it by running off the next morning, just as quick as he could.”

Suze thought back to that morning and remembered him standing in the doorway of the bathroom, hanging on to the door frame. What had he said? She couldn't remember. But he'd been gone before she knew what had hit her.

“Why don't you tell him how you feel?” Marta asked. “It could be a misunderstanding. My husband and I, we have learned to talk of hard things.”

Suze wanted to simultaneously giggle at Marta's phrasing and sob at the news she was already married, but she simply shook her head. “It's not a misunderstanding. I just need to get over it.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sat up straighter. “I have to stop wishing and hoping for things I can't have, you know? Like him, and—and my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“She died.” Suze had gotten used to saying that to strangers over the years, but somehow it was hard to say it to Marta. Her throat ached and she felt like she might cry again.

“I'm so sorry,” Marta said. “How old were you?”

“Ten,” Suze said, swallowing the ache and clearing her throat.

“You have a lot of pain,” Marta said. “You're young to carry so much here.” She patted her ample bosom, apparently to indicate her heart. “You love this cowboy?”

“No. Well, sometimes.” Suze stared down at her hands, knotted so tightly in her lap the skin whitened at the knuckles. “It doesn't matter. Any chance of a relationship went belly up that morning in the trailer. He was so anxious to leave…”

“That must have been painful. But can't you let bygones be dead?”

With her limited English, Marta had hit on the problem more precisely than if she'd been a trained psychologist.

“I guess I don't want them to be dead. As long as I stay mad at him, I don't have to face the real reason we're not together.”

“And what is that?”

Suze shrugged. “He just doesn't want me. He likes pretty girls—you know, the ones who dress up and go out to the bars after the rodeo.”

“He likes them now. But a man doesn't marry those girls.” Marta's smile bracketed her mouth in deep wrinkles. “My husband chased the girls too, but we knew each other from childhood. When he went looking for someone to settle down with, he chose me. We understood each other.”

“I don't know. I think I need to get on with my life. The trouble is, he's always there, somewhere in the background.” She smiled, remembering their first meeting. “He has this sort of rebel yell—a cowboy whoop that I swear only he can do. He did it the first time I met him, because I was riding fast.”

“And he thought you were beautiful.”

Suze thought back to that day.

Maybe Marta was right. Maybe Brady
had
thought she was beautiful.

She'd sure thought he was.

* * *

She'd been riding around her home arena that day, practicing lead changes on Sherman, a big, beautiful quarter horse with a heart the size of Wyoming. Unfortunately, Sherman's brain was about the size of Rhode Island, so she was concentrating so hard on her horsemanship that she almost didn't see the three boys climbing the fence on the far end of the arena.

Once she'd noticed them, she'd thought about pulling Sherman to a stop, but then she'd have to talk to them. Back then she never knew what to say to boys. Especially bad boys—boys with reputations, like Shane, Ridge, and Brady.

Pretending not to see them, Suze had urged Sherman into a lope. He was a high-spirited horse who needed to be loped long and often, but that wasn't the real reason she gave him the gas. She'd known even then she was no beauty, but speed would blur her plain features, and with her long, blond braid streaming behind her, she made a pretty picture on horseback.

The first time she'd passed the boys, she'd snuck a look out of the corner of her eye. There was Shane, the tall dark one; Ridge, the quiet, muscular one; and Brady, the handsome, popular one. She had no idea what they were doing at the Carlyle ranch.

Normally she didn't ask Sherman for top speed during practice. She saved her best riding for the weekends, and it was only fair to spare her horse too. But that day, on her second circuit of the arena, she'd waited until just before she passed the boys to bend over the horse's neck and nudge his flanks with her heels, a move she thought of as lighting the afterburners.

The horse had stretched out his neck and lengthened his stride, his hooves digging into the soft dirt of the arena and tossing it behind him. The sheer excitement of speed felt so good, Suze had almost forgotten about the boys. As she passed them, two of them had simply stared, but Brady had let out an appreciative whoop so wild and heartfelt she would have tipped her hat if she could have done anything but ride—ride and try to still her hammering heart.

Her father stepped up to join the boys, along with their neighbor, Mr. Decker. Suze knew her dad wouldn't appreciate the way she was riding. She prayed he wouldn't embarrass her in front of the guys with a lecture on sparing her horse, or, worse yet, call her out for showing off.

“Cool him down,” was all he said.

Contrary to popular lore, horses couldn't be “rode hard and put away wet.” They needed to be walked until their hearts slowed and the blood cooled in their veins, until the tendons stretched and any chance of muscle cramps was gone.

As she walked the horse around the arena, Suze's mind was racing, struggling to come up with something to say to the boys when she finally had to stop.

Hello. Would you like something to drink?

Too formal.

Hi, how are you guys?

Too casual.

Hey. What's it like being the hottest badasses ever to hit Grigsby High?

Totally inappropriate.

She let the reins drop over the horn of her saddle while she worked the problem through in her head. She found social etiquette far more challenging than algebra or trigonometry. Fortunately, Sherman was a good boy, and slow-witted enough to walk himself around the ring for hours if she didn't tell him to stop.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a voice at her knee.

“Hey. What's it like being able to ride like that?”

She nearly fell out of the saddle. Either her horse had gone all Mr. Ed on her and learned to talk, or she was going to have a conversation with a boy.

She dared to look down.

Not just any boy. She was going to have to talk to Brady Caine. The handsome one. The one who'd let out that whoop.

She stared at him a little too long, and then she stared at him some more. Instead of his usual torn jeans and T-shirts, he was dressed top to toe in Western wear, all of it so new the creases were still in it from the store. Most guys looked like fools when they got all duded up, but Brady Caine wore his brand-new cowboy hat and Wranglers like he was born to be a cowboy.

Suze suddenly realized she was staring at him with her mouth hanging open. She looked as dim-witted as Sherman on his worst day, and no wonder. Every word in the English language had fled her brain like horses escaping a burning barn.

She swallowed, blinked, and finally said, “What happened to your clothes?”

Genius.

“I don't know. Irene prob'ly threw 'em away. She's Mr. Decker's wife. My—mother, I guess.” He sounded like he was trying out the word, like he'd never had a mother before.

Maybe he hadn't. Suze knew he was a foster kid, with some kind of troubled past.

“They adopted us,” he said. “The Deckers. Bill and Irene.”

What would it be like to suddenly have a mother after being an orphan? It seemed like it would be wonderful, but this boy seemed to have trouble even saying the word.

Suze wouldn't. She'd be willing to call just about anybody
Mother
. Anyone who would help her navigate the confusing teenage world of relationships, makeup, clothes, and everything else the other girls seemed to understand without thinking.

“So this is my new look.” He stepped away from the horse and spread out his arms. “It's what Mr. Decker says we should wear. What do you think?”

He looked great. Handsome. Manly, even—something none of the other boys in her school managed to pull off. But how could she tell him that? She struggled to find a response that wouldn't make her sound like an idiot. Maybe she should just twitch her heels into Sherman's ribs and pretend the horse was an intractable runaway.

“That bad, huh?”

“No.” She realized she'd been staring at him with that goofball look on her face again. Old Sherman was an honor student compared to her. “No, not at all. You look great. I mean, good. Fine, I guess.”

“Stop talking.” With a good-humored grin, he held up his hands to stop her. “You went from ‘great' to ‘good,' to ‘fine' in three seconds. By the time you get done, I'll be ugly as the ass end of that horse.”

She couldn't help smiling, even though he'd sworn. He was so friendly, so funny, so…
nice.
And when she smiled back and her eyes met his, she could swear there was something there—a little
zing
of a thrill that actually felt mutual.

Ridiculous as it seemed in retrospect, that was all it took. From that time on, she'd been stuck on Brady Caine.

Now that she was older, she realized how foolish it was to think she'd ever mean anything to him. He saw her the way all the other guys saw her—as an athlete, one of the guys; as a girl who could ride, but couldn't dance or flirt. Not a girl you'd take to the movies or the skating rink or the prom.