Last of the Red-Hot Cowboys (31 page)

“What did you think about Trace tonight?”

“I thought, my love, that your plan has succeeded admirably. I almost felt sorry for him.”

She scowled. “I didn't. He is the most chickenhearted man in the world. Sending Ava off instead of doing the job himself.”

Steel sat next to her on the sofa, pulled her into his lap. He always made her feel like she was the size of a tiny doll, petite and feminine. She snuggled against his broad chest, melting into him.

“I've never seen a more suffering individual,” Steel said, chuckling. “He's a human pretzel he's so twisted up.”

“But he cost me a rider,” Judy complained. “I worked hard to put that team together!”

“You always knew Trace wouldn't go down easy. It's out of your hands now.” Steel ran a hand down her back, making her shiver. “Ava will either return to Hell or she won't. But no one knows what will happen, not even Trace. And I've got a funny feeling that after tonight, he's going to wish he hadn't been such a hero.”

Judy smiled. “He wouldn't like you calling him that. But that's exactly what he is.”

She turned her lips up to Steel, and he kissed her, softly and sweetly, the way he always had.

“So, Saturday night a few days early?” Steel asked.

“Actually, this week you're in for a bonus.” She pulled his lips back down to hers.

“I was afraid you'd be so upset about Trace taking Ava off that you wouldn't want—”

“Never,” she said, kissing him, “I always have my eyes on the prize.”

* * *

A week later, Trace knew he'd made one hell of a mistake. He worked, he slept, he ate dinner every night at Redfeathers, telling himself he was keeping an eye on the town and its inhabitants, but really he was just trying to stave off the desperate loneliness he'd felt ever since he'd driven Ava to Colorado.

He went to Dr. Ann, and she removed the stitches.

“I really didn't believe you'd let a professional handle this,” she said, crisply going to work. “Where's my assistant?”

He looked at her. “Oh. You mean Ava.”

“The little brunette who was wearing her heart on her sleeve for you.”

Trace laughed. “That's not Ava at all.”

“Sounds like a man in denial, which you have to admit is your usual zone.”

He looked at Dr. Ann. “Are you a doctor or a shrink?”

She smiled, not offended at all. Put her stethoscope on his chest. “Just as I
suspected.”

“What?”

“A little bit of a cranky heart.” She went back to removing stitches.

“My heart's not cranky.”

“It's sounding a bit windy. Like it's got a hole in it.”

He didn't mind the teasing. In fact, he knew he was in for an epic round of it in town. At some point, the denizens of Hell had decided that they knew what was best for him, and that was Ava.

But in time, the teasing would subside, and he'd go back to being just Trace, the retired SEAL, part owner of the Hell's Outlaws Training Center.

He'd kept training the Belles, missing Ava. He and Prince took some runs together, then cooled off by floating on the rafts in his pond, and he missed Ava.

But it would all go away.

“All done,” Dr. Ann said. “Anything else you need today?”

“Is that a trick question?”

She laughed. “Get out of my office. You're taking up my time, when I have people in here who care to hear my advice.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He kissed her cheek, left her a hundred-dollar bill, his arm healed, his heart broken.

No, not broken. Just a little bruised.

Sure. That's what it was. Bruised.

He trundled over to the Rolling Thunder, deciding he needed a cookie for him and for Prince, a sweet pick-me-up to shift him out of this stupid mood. Judge Rory Nunez was in there, and waved him over to his yellow booth.

“Hello, Judge.”

“I want to talk to you about my chickens,” Rory said. “I know what happened to them.”

“You do?” Trace was all ears for this.

Rory nodded. “Some dumb-ass who wanted to enter his prize black chickens in the State Fair did the deed.”

“How'd you find out?”

“His wife ratted him out. Apparently the fellow talks in his sleep. She was more than happy to pay for the chickens in return for me not pressing any charges, plus she made a donation to Hell, which I've turned over to Judy for the Belles.”

Trace blinked. “The lady had a helluva guilty conscience, huh?”

Rory shook his head. “Nope. She's used to it. Her husband's a bit of a cheater, but as she says, this is how he cheats. He's a studious contest entrant, can't stop competing, works all year at it. Jams, pies, chickens, and even a hog or two. Can't stand getting beat. She says he doesn't win much, so every year something like this happens. Since he confesses in his sleep, it all works out. But every year, she has to make restitution to someone. And she sure was sorry about my chickens. Said he'd never done in anyone's livestock before, just maybe slipped them something that would give them the trots, keep them out of competition.” Rory sighed heavily. “She's going to keep a close eye on him next year. Competition should be fun, not a battle.”

“I don't know if I'd be so forgiving.” Trace shook his head. “At least we don't have a real sicko on our hands.”

Rory nodded, his gaze floating over to Hattie for a second, then returning to Trace. “In the end, that's why I let it go. Life's too short, and it's really her heartache to deal with, poor woman.”

Trace shook his head. Life
was
too short. “I'm just glad it wasn't Eli.”

“Oh, no. Eli wouldn't hurt a flea.” Rory shook his head. “He's confused, and he's living in the past. He'll always have the mind of a sort of broken flower child, but he wouldn't hurt a soul.” Rory stared at him. “So how many times have you called Shorty to find out about Ava's progress?”

Trace looked at the tray of cookies Hattie brought over to tempt them, and Rory said, “Just set the whole damn thing down, Hattie. It's the prettiest thing I've seen in a week.”

She laughed and left the tray. Rory watched her walk away hungrily, and Trace vowed he'd never look like that about any woman.

Dumb promise. He'd already done it about five thousand times thanks to Ava. Those sexy cheeks. The way she'd come into his office without panties, just to leave a final memory seared into his mind.

She'd succeeded wildly.

But there were so many more memories that kept him awake at night, staring into the darkness, wondering if he'd made the right decision. Oh well, time was the great healer. It would heal him.

It was just taking its sweet damn time.

“Why don't you ever ask Hattie out, Judge?”

“She's not interested. Not really. A man can tell when a woman's interested, you know.”

Trace looked at him. “Does she know how you feel?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Trace smiled, knowing exactly how the judge felt.

“Anyway, we were talking about you.”

Trace picked up a pink cookie with a touch of pink frosting in the center that reminded him of Ava and that pink skirt and white zipper top she'd worn. Actually, the sweet cream center—

No, no, no
. “Ah, I call Shorty occasionally. Once or twice. Ava's fine.”

Rory laughed. “I hate to bust you, old son, but Shorty told me you call him every single day. Like an old Dr Pepper bottle: ten, two, and four.”

Trace let the sugary cookie melt in his mouth before he answered. “Shorty says she's tough. He had to get her in shape, but once he did, she made a mission of keeping up with the men.” He couldn't imagine Ava needing to be in any better shape—but he wasn't at all surprised she'd sunk her teeth into the work and was determined to succeed.

It did mean she wasn't giving up, wasn't missing him so much that she'd throw in the towel, decide to stay in Hell. With him.

She wouldn't have done that, and he respected the hell out of her for it.

“It'll take a while to get over it,” Rory said, his gaze following Hattie as she walked from booth to booth, greeting customers. “Then again, sometimes you don't get over it at all.”

Trace didn't say anything. He picked up a double chocolate cookie, dark and crunchy with nuts, and told himself he'd done the right thing.

He knew Ava had a dream. There were reasons for her dream, and if anyone
understood how a dream could save you from a really dark place, it was him.

* * *

The man who walked into the Rolling Thunder didn't wear a Western hat, didn't necessarily look like a man who spent a lot of time around horses or livestock. He wasn't a dime-store cowboy for sure, and as Trace eyed the man's straight posture and military bearing, he knew he was looking at an entirely different animal.

Not Navy. Most likely Marine.

A newcomer landing in Hell didn't usually happen by accident, and he had a feeling he knew what this arrival might mean. “Welcome,” Trace said.

“Hi.” The man looked him over, asked Stephen for a quiet booth.

“Your car break down?” Trace asked. Short dark hair, close-cropped. Big shoulders, broad chest. Boots. Green eyes that didn't miss much. Like Ava's.

“No. When it does, I'll let you know. Are you the local mechanic?”

Trace smiled. “No. Welcome to Hell.”

“Thanks. Excuse me.”

Attitude. Not altogether worried about getting along. Independent.

He followed the newcomer to his table.

“Are you always this nosy?” the man asked.

“You're looking for Ava Buchanan, aren't you?”

That got his attention. “Are you a mind reader now?”

Trace smiled. “You look remarkably like her. She talked about you.” He stuck out his hand. “Trace Carter.”

The man ignored Trace's hand. He stood, plowed a good hard right into Trace's jaw.

“My name's Callum Buchanan. I'm Ava's big brother. And I'm here to send you to a different kind of Hell.”

Trace rubbed his jaw, stood. “That's okay. I've seen a few different descriptions of Hell, and I always survive. Why are you here?”

Callum waved for him to take the other side of the booth and sat down himself,
clearly satisfied now that he'd delivered the message he had come here to. “Ava sent me to pick up her horse and trailer, take it back home to Virginia.”

Trace was astonished at this news. He stared at Callum. “Why in hell would you do that?”

Callum shrugged, placed an order with Hattie, who glared, for some reason, at Trace. The other diners had stopped staring and gone back to their blue-plate specials, now that the preliminary introductions had been managed. “She sent me.”

This made no sense, and sounded ominous. “Can I ask why?”

“Not that it's any of your business. She said you'd be a real buttinski.”

Trace ignored that, his heart sitting uncomfortably in his chest. “From what I hear, everything's been going real well in Colorado.”

Callum nodded. “Yeah. She's happy with her training.”

“Then why did you try to shatter my face?”

“Because,” Callum said, looking pleased at the monstrous omelet Hattie put in front of him, “you broke my sister's heart, you weasel. Aren't you going to order anything?”

“Not hungry.” Trace leaned back in the sunny yellow booth, his whole world whirling. “I didn't break Ava's heart.”
If anything, she broke mine
.

Callum shrugged. “Water over the dam now, I'd say.”

Callum wolfed his late-morning meal, clearly a man who enjoyed his food. It gave Trace a chance to think. Not that he was coming up with any good news for himself. This was bad. Very, very bad.

If Ava was pulling out of Hell, she was quitting the team. He wondered if Judy knew.

Of course Judy knew, and probably Steel, too. They'd probably known Callum was on his way. Ava talked to Judy.

And when did Judy not know everything anyway? She'd let him get blindsided. He'd be sporting a chin bruise for a week.

He didn't understand why she wouldn't tell
him
. As Callum had agreed, Ava was
happy with her training now, and Shorty had told him that she was really coming along, was talented as hell, and had gut, something he really hadn't anticipated from such a small, delicate woman.

Yet she'd had no intention of telling him. And Callum was pissed enough to whale him one.

Which meant that Ava was never coming back to him. His spirit sunk, cratered.

Callum started on his hash browns, glanced up at him curiously. “What's on your mind, Slick?”

“I'm not slick.” Hell, no, not a bit, not if he'd taken Ava to Colorado to give her what she wanted—the very best training there was for what she wanted to do—and she'd nonetheless sent her brother to retrieve her belongings.

No, he wasn't slick. What he was, for the first time in a long, long time, was heartbroken.

Those sassy short skirts and pouty lips were a thing of his past. She wasn't going to smile at him again, wasn't going to drive him insane with her kisses.

“You may not be slick, but you sure as hell are boring company.” Callum sipped his coffee. “I guess I can tell you didn't know.”

“I didn't.”

“What did you expect?” Callum asked. “She said you didn't want a relationship.”

That's true. He'd stayed away from Ava for a dozen reasons, until he could stay away no longer—and then he'd gotten lost in her. So lost he might not find himself again.

“Jesus.” Trace didn't know what to think, what to do. “I guess you'll need to come out to my place to get her horse and her trailer. Are you heading back today, or are you planning to stay around?”