Last of the Red-Hot Cowboys (18 page)

Steel shook his head. “I don't know. As you know, Judy's a bit miffed with me at the moment.”

“No Saturday night last weekend?”

Steel sighed. “First one we haven't shared in years. You gotta get this team problem of yours straightened out so my sex life and my love life can get back to their normal happy place.” He left the booth, and Trace let out a deep, heartfelt sigh.

The women Judy had brought to Hell were definitely turning everything on its collective ear. Ava started another song, his ear tuned to the angelic sound of her voice. It went into his ears and tunneled into his brain, and he tried to tell himself that it didn't matter one bit that she was dug into his heart. She hadn't dug deeply—there was still time
to get her back out.

He didn't want her in his heart. She was too dangerously gentle and adorable—and it was all the better that she had a hot temper and a sassy mouth.

She was pretty much the whole package. She made him laugh, she made him smile, she made his blood boil.

She made him hornier than hell.

The perfect woman.

He had no need for the perfect woman in his life. His partners were right: Ava and he were bad medicine. She'd twist him in knots and generally treat him the way Judy treated Steel, trying to wrap him around her little finger. Ava was Judy's creation—she'd be made in Judy's mold, he told himself.

Unfortunately, his heart wasn't listening.

* * *

Trace vowed he was done mooning after Ava for the day. He had a full stomach, and he was in control of his emotions now. Ava was clearly staying in Hell, so eventually they'd get around to speaking, and he could apologize for the way in which he'd told her the truth. Nobody needed to tell him that he could be a little rough, and he hadn't meant to be a hard-ass, but there was nothing dainty about bullfighting. It was a serious business. Men's lives and bodies were on the line, and he couldn't afford to sugarcoat the situation.

Secretly, he was glad she was staying in Hell.

It was quite the boost to his professional ego. No doubt Judy had told Ava that if she stayed in Hell, eventually she'd win him over to her way of thinking, and agree to train Ava.

Wasn't gonna happen.

Not without him wanting to make love to her again, and that line couldn't be crossed again. So the standoff had to continue—no matter how much it was killing him.

Around four in the afternoon, he drove out to Judge Rory Nunez's. He checked the chicken runs first, seeing no cuts to the barbed wire, no damage to the coops. A lot of boot prints, as Steel had noted.

Someone had gotten in here and done a number on Rory's chickens. Not for food and not for gain, just to make a dent in a man's livelihood.

Or to satisfy the need to kill something.

Trace pushed that uncomfortable thought away. Hell had its share of weirdos, but the joy-killing of animals would be weirdness on a whole other level. He didn't even want to think about it.

Maybe it was a one-off. Someone could be pissed at the judge for a ruling that had gone against them. Trace thought that was the simplest explanation. Still, it bore watching.

No one would know if Hell had a problem until and unless the killer struck again.

* * *

Ava watched Saint carefully as he stood in the ring at Rory Nunez's. “Now, as you know, the bull loads in the chute here. When he does, the bull knows he's about to get to party all over a cowboy.”

Ava nodded. “Understood.”

Saint pushed himself to a sitting position on the chute. “Now, it's important that we understand a few things up front. I believe in Judy's idea, as I told you when I called. Which is why I'm agreeing to train you.”

Saint's call had surprised her—but then again, she was learning not to be surprised by anything that happened in this small town. “Why do you and Declan believe in Judy's idea, but Trace doesn't?”

Saint pushed his hat back. “The thing about Trace that made him an excellent leader in the military is one of the things that makes him believe that a woman bullfighter isn't a good idea. Trace is a calculator of risks. We always knew he wasn't going to let us get into deep shit. If we got into deep shit, it wasn't because Trace hadn't thought through every perceived and unperceived risk and calculated the success of the mission. He's a freak that way. Just between me and you, the brass had their eye on Trace. They would have loved to see him stay in and move up.” Saint shrugged. “When Trace no longer believed in the mission, he left bennies on the table and came home to do what his heart
told him was the right thing. And he's had peace ever since.”

Ava looked at Saint. “He's going to find out you're training me eventually.”

Saint sighed. “You let me handle that. I understand Trace better than most people. The difference between me and Trace is that he's an only child. His parents are here in Hell, and he checks on them all the time. He's a Boy Scout that way, the responsible kid who had a lot of love but tough circumstances growing up. He learned to fend for himself. He can figure out what works and what doesn't faster than most folks take a breath. So he thinks way too much. Like I said, Trace is constantly calculating risk.” Saint pondered that for a minute. “You see that hound that's with Trace all the time?”

She nodded. The “hound” was a fairly nondescript, and some might even say looks-challenged dog with a straight short gold coat and a black muzzle, and soulful brown eyes that adored Trace. “I've seen Prince. He's a darling dog.”

“Yup. That puppy made its way to Trace in Afghanistan. It was starving and had been beaten. Trace kept the dog with him everywhere he went back then, slowly nursed it to health. I say slowly because the dog was terrified of everything, but it needed Trace as much as he needed it. So when it was time for Trace to come stateside, he asked a rescue organization for help bringing Prince home with him. He would've stayed there if he hadn't gotten help for the dog.” Saint took a deep breath. “Trace will never turn his back on something that needs his help, and the most fragile beings in life interest him the most.” He looked at Ava. “He believes he's protecting you by not allowing you to bullfight.”

Ava was stunned. “Are you saying that Trace considers me too fragile and delicate to be a bullfighter?”

“Yep. That's the whole story right there.”

“It's none of his business!”

Saint shrugged. “It doesn't matter. He's a protector. He is not going to see you stomped.”

Part of her was outraged—but yes, part of her felt a little happiness stirring that Trace thought he should protect her. He'd even taken care of her in bed, so gently and so sweetly she couldn't stop remembering how wonderful he'd made her feel.

She pushed that thought away in a hurry. “I can take care of myself. I have my
own reasons for doing this.”

“I know. So I'm training you. Like I said, Trace and I are different. I have four sisters. I know too well that females are tougher than men in a lot of cases.” Saint laughed out loud. “Besides, my sisters told me that if I didn't train you, they'd make me regret it. I'm the middle kid. When your sisters tell you they're going to short-sheet your bed and put your best chaps in a blender until you say you'll do something, you fold pretty fast.”

Ava shook her head. “I appreciate their support. But that doesn't explain Declan getting in on this with you.”

He shrugged. “Declan is one of four brothers. Three of them are hell-raisers. You've met Fallon. Declan is the softie of the group.”

She hadn't seen that much “soft” about Declan. He'd struck her as being tough, maybe too tough for pretty Harper and her young son. “You're training me because you want to get close to Cameron.”

He smiled. “Do I look like I need help getting close to a woman?”

“What I mean is, you know that the Horsemen have their eyes on Cameron and Harper. If you train me, you'll probably get to train them, too. Plus you may even be able to get them on your good side.”

“I'm not too worried about good sides.” He laughed, every bit a rogue. “And Declan likes all the ladies, so he doesn't even think about it. As for the Horsemen, Trace fixed them up good. The girls won't even look that way again, after what happened at the creek.”

She silently agreed that was true. Cameron and Harper wanted nothing to do with the Horsemen after they'd almost drowned Declan. “I know Trace went out to see them after what happened at the creek.”

Saint pushed himself off the chute. “No need for us to talk about that. That falls under the heading of Trace calculating risks and sorting out the enemy. We don't much bother with Trace when he decides he wants to level things out around here. And don't feel sorry for the Horsemen—they knew what was going to happen to them. To be fair, I think their little prank went horribly wrong—but Trace doesn't give second chances.”

Ava's skin chilled a little and she felt goose pimples rising along her arms. “Okay.
I appreciate what you're trying to do for me, and you can tell your sisters your chaps are safe. I'd love to treat them to lunch one day at the Rolling Thunder.”

Saint grinned. “Be careful what you wish for. Now let's get back to work.”

* * *

Trace had been thinking about the judge's chickens and why someone would want to kill them when he suddenly realized Ava was riding Rory's training bull. Her arm was in the air, and she was wildly rocking on the undulating, turning bull at a pretty high speed, the kind of speed cowboys trained at—and if he hadn't been so mad he might have admired her seat and her tenacity.

“What the hell is going on?” he said to Saint.

“Ava's training,” Saint replied. He laughed at Trace's expression. “What the hell does it look like she's doing?”

He was so stunned that his good friend and Ava were alone together in the barn, not to mention that Ava was gyrating like a real rodeo cowboy on that stupid mechanical bull, that he was momentarily speechless.

But not for long. “Turn it off.”

“Why?” Saint asked. “She's doing great.”

“Turn the damn thing off!”

Shrugging, Saint turned it off. Ava slid down, looking exhilarated.

“That was awesome!” she said, beaming with pride—until she saw Trace.

Her gaze met his, and she raised her chin defiantly.

“That's probably enough for today,” Saint said. “I'll see you tomorrow, Ava.”

Ava started to walk out, then headed over to the men. “You're just cutting my practice short because Mr. Stubborn showed up.”

“Practice?” Trace said. “Practicing what?”

“Nothing,” Saint quickly said. “Don't get your dander up.”

He glared at both of them. “Too late. What the hell is going on?”

Ava glared back. “It's none of your business, so butt out.”

“You heard the lady,” Saint said, smiling. “It's none of your business. And I
believe she has a point.”

Ava had a point, but he didn't like it. “Does Rory know you're here?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't he? It was his idea.”

“I told you these women were going to split the seams of Hell.”

“Maybe the seams needed a good splitting,” Ava said, “and it's still none of your business.”

She flounced off in a huff reminiscent of some of the huffs Judy could throw. Trace stared after her, noting that the delicate heart-shaped ass was still heart-shaped and tempting as ever in her tight blue jeans. Attitude and spunk were still written all over her, packed into that tiny, fragile frame.

She had him tied in knots. He couldn't tell a soul. Not even his best buddies.

Tight, tight knots.

Saint laughed. “When are you just going to admit that you've got it bad for that sexy doll?”

Trace took his annoyance to the only place he knew where a man could lose his troubles besides a fishing hole. He went to Redfeathers, secure in the knowledge that here he wouldn't have to hear Ava sing, see Ava ride a mechanical bull, or make a general ass out of himself over Ava.

Ah. Felt great to relax in his man cave.

Until Ava was sitting across from him, looking at him with those doe eyes that did guilt so well.

“You ass,” Ava said. “Don't you ever sneak up on me and pull that kind of stunt again.”

He sighed, wished he could kiss that sassy mouth instead of hearing those lips tell him what a dope he was. She was, after all, not telling him anything he didn't know about himself. “I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not, actually.”

“I'm not looking for an apology,” Ava said, “I'm looking for you to quit following me around like a shadow. I live here, too.”

That was the rub. She wasn't going anywhere, and he was so damn happy about it he didn't know what to do. “Not my problem,” he said, a bit more surly tough guy than he'd intended. “Anyway, this is my booth.”

“It doesn't have your name on it in big gold letters, so not so much. And besides, if you sit behind a potted plant and spy on me while I sing, and if you ruin my lessons with Saint, then I can sit in your booth and destroy your pity party.”

“I'm not having a pity party.” He was having a big-ass pity party, but admitting it wasn't going to happen. It was all right to give yourself a pity party as long as you didn't invite anyone else to share your misery.

“Saint and Declan say you're having the mother of all pity parties.” She glared at him. “Your friends say you do this when you feel like you're losing control. And you definitely don't have control of our team.”

“Truce, beautiful,” he said. “I won't stand in the way of you getting yourself
killed, and you get out of my booth.”

She nodded, exiting his booth faster than a genie from a bottle.