One Fine Cowboy (12 page)

A dim light burned at the door to the bunkhouse when Charlie and Nate reeled in from their shopping trip, but the building’s windows were dark. Doris and Phaedra had evidently turned in early. The only sound was the faint scrape of cicadas and the whisper of a sage-scented breeze that tickled Charlie’s cheek as she stepped out of the truck.

Once they’d lugged the bags inside, Nate pulled a six-pack of beer out and popped the top off two cans, handing one to Charlie. Then he grabbed a gallon of milk and put it in the fridge while she downed a generous glug of Bud Light.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said as he pulled a bottle of balsamic vinegar from another bag. “I’ll put the stuff away. That way I’ll be able to find it when I cook.”

Nate tightened his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to do all the cooking. I could make something once in a while.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like, umm…” His voice trailed off into silence.

“It’s okay. Gotta earn my boots.” She kicked out one booted foot and grinned.

“You already did. Come on, I’ll help. It’ll go faster.”

The guy did his best, but he clearly wasn’t at home in the kitchen. He opened three cupboards before he figured out where the vinegar should go, and then stood in the middle of the room with a jar of thyme in his hand, scanning the cupboards for a likely home.

“The spices probably go somewhere near the stove.”

Charlie reached past him and opened a narrow cabinet to the right of the oven.
Voila
. Spices.

“How do you know this stuff?” Nate grumbled.

“Girl power,” Charlie said. “It’s kind of like Spidey Sense, only better. More practical.”

They worked in silence for a while. Charlie glanced sideways now and then, watching as Nate bent to put the cereal in a low cupboard or stretched to reach a high shelf. Occasionally their eyes met, and she glanced away, embarrassed to be caught looking, wondering if he could tell how that kiss still lingered warm on her lips. The memory of it filled the air, heating up the kitchen like a simmering pot on the stove. She downed the rest of her beer and felt suddenly dizzy, as if she’d downed the whole six-pack.

“’Scuse me.” Nate nudged her hip with his as he reached over her to put away a bottle of cooking wine and she felt a spasm of lust shoot from her hip to her heart, then bounce around until her whole body was on red alert. The cupboard was high up over the microwave and his body pressed into hers as he slid the bottle home, turning the spasm into full-fledged convulsions. She clutched the oven handle, gritting her teeth to keep from backing up, pressing against him, instigating another kiss. Biting her lower lip, she squeezed her eyes shut and threw her head back, willing herself not to respond.

Big mistake. The movement brought her face close to his, made her hair brush his cheek. His breath warmed her neck just below her ear, sending shivers over her skin.

“Charlie,” he whispered. “Hey.”

Who knew her own name could sound so sexy? Or the word “hey.” Right now, she was pretty sure she wanted the word “hey” engraved on her tombstone. It was so… expressive. Sweet, yet sexy, an irresistible invitation distilled into one whispered word.

His hand brushed her hip, then slid across her belly until he held her against him. He bent his head and did something to her ear—kissed it, breathed in it, something—and she sucked in a long, shuddering breath. Before she knew what was happening she’d turned her head, letting her lips meet his. And then the heat between them exploded again. The rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air… it would have given Francis Scott Key an orgasm. She turned, plastering her body against his, and he pressed her hard against the front of the stove and delivered a kiss so demanding and yet so pleading that she was stunned by his eloquence. Who knew passion like that could come from a laconic cowboy who could barely meet her eyes most of the time?

He pulled her hips to his, hoisting her off the floor. She wanted to protest, to pull away, but her body betrayed her, her lips too eager to taste his, her center craving the heat of him rocking hard against her. His hands started wandering, gliding over her body, savoring her breasts, her hips, all the usual places, but also the tender skin below her ear, the soft spot on the inside of her arm, the secret spot near her hip that sent ripples of pleasure pulsing like sonar to the parts of her that wanted him most.

She pulled her lips from his and buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing hard. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his own breathing shaky and shallow. She breathed in his scent and felt strangely comforted. Warm.

Safe.

She hadn’t felt safe in so long.

More
,
please
, she thought.

He kissed her again, and the two of them staggered across the kitchen and through the bedroom door. “The candles,” she said, dropping onto the bed and kicking her shoes off. “Light the candles.
Hurry
.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of matches. His hands shook so badly he stroked the match three times before it sparked into flame. He touched it to the candles, one after another, and the room leapt to life with wavering shadows and golden light.

***

Nate lit the last candle and glanced in the mirror. Charlie was sitting on the side of the bed, her green eyes glinting with golden reflections of the candle flames. He crossed the room in a single step and eased her down onto the mattress, holding her prisoner beneath him as he searched her eyes. She answered his look with her usual challenging gaze, but there was something behind it—something that lured him, taunted him, dared and double-dared him to brave her barriers and uncover the truth of her. His lips found hers and the dance began again, but with a few half-remembered steps from that first illicit tango in the bunkhouse. His hands dipped under her T-shirt, stroking her, soothing her, making her writhe and shiver as he swept a hand over her breast.

“Remember,” he muttered against her lips. “I am
so
not your type.”

“Good thing,” she said. “Imagine what this would be like if you
were.
”

He started to laugh, but he realized just in time she was serious. She hadn’t expected this any more than he had.

They kissed and rolled and wrestled and the need in him rose to a frantic crescendo, a steady, burning desperation. Burying his hands in that crazy, spiky hair, he straddled her hips and tugged her shirt up and off, then fumbled with her belt while she tore at the buttons on his shirt, unbuttoning one, then another, then growling in frustration and giving the fabric a tug that sent the rest of the buttons shooting across the room.

He shrugged the shirt off and she turned her attention to her own clothes, unbuckling her belt and wriggling off her jeans to reveal another pair of those long-imagined panties. Actually, you could hardly call them panties. She was wearing a scrap of black lace with a white panel in front. A small red bow just beneath her belly button topped a row of tiny black buttons. It looked like a little tuxedo. In all his wild imaginings about her mysterious panties, he hadn’t come up with anything quite that interesting.

Or quite that small. There was nothing to it, really. Just a film of lace, a little bit of nothing between his skin and hers.

There wasn’t much to the matching bra, either. It was see-through lace, with a matching red bow in the center. He stroked a finger along the edge, savoring the swell and dipping into the valley of her cleavage, then cupped his hands under her breasts and ran his thumbs over the nipples clearly visible through the lace. She arched her back and moaned and suddenly, somehow, the lace was draped over the bedpost and she was naked.

Naked.

She arched her back and gave herself to him, closing her eyes and gasping as he moved his hand between her legs and felt the slick, wet warmth of her waiting for him.

“I need you
now
,” she said, tugging at his belt. He groaned as she ran her hand up the hard length of him and tugged at the button fly on his jeans.

“Now,” she said. “Please. Now.”

She was practically whimpering. Dang. He’d never had a woman want him this much. He closed his eyes, calling up every ounce of self-control he could muster. Taking a deep breath, he scooted down the bed, out of her reach. She made a pleading sound and he reassured her, stroking her thighs before he parted them and bent to taste her, searching out the magic spots that made her shiver and moan. She tensed, closing her eyes, and he marveled as she tossed her head from side to side and buried her fingers in his hair.

Dang. He’d never thought he was any good at this. The last thing he wanted to think about was Sandi, but he couldn’t help remembering how she’d stiffened and endured him, how he’d felt so clumsy, so inept and clueless.

But judging from Charlie’s reaction, he was an expert.

She shivered, thrashing in his grip, and he pushed all those conscious thoughts out of his mind and did what felt right, losing himself in her until she tensed, going suddenly still, and let out a high, keening sound as she arched her back and shattered, her hips pulsing, riding the waves of her orgasm.

He’d never seen anything like it.

As the pulsing slowed, she pulled away, lifting her head to meet his eyes.

“Wow,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Wow.”

Well, he’d never claimed to be much of a conversationalist. Apparently, though, he had other skills that might go a ways toward making up for that. He laid down beside her, stroking a strand of hair out of her face, pulling her close.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Thank
me
?” She laughed. “Oh, no. Thank
you
.”

“I just—I never…” He could feel his face flushing. “You
like
it so much.”

She stared at him and he cursed himself silently. What a stupid thing to say. He was going to mess this up again, he was sure of it. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? Stick to the nonverbal kind of communication?

She propped herself up on one elbow, resting her head on her hand. There. She was pulling away. He’d ruined it.

“Of course I like it,” she said. “You’re—dang, I don’t know how to say it. You’re
good
at this. You make me—well, you know.” She was blushing now. “I think I made it pretty clear.”

He nodded, swallowing. “It’s just that Sandi—ah, shoot. I’m sorry.”

He was really blowing it now. What man was clueless enough to bring up his ex-girlfriend in bed?

“Sandi didn’t like it?”

She didn’t look mad. She looked—interested. He’d kind of forgotten she was a psychology student. He was probably an interesting case study.

“No,” he said. “I could never make her—you know.” He gestured toward her, figuring she’d know what he meant.

“Then maybe you just weren’t meant to be together,” Charlie said. She took his hand in hers and met his eyes. “Because you are the best ever for me. I mean it. Maybe it’s because you don’t talk. It’s like you saved everything up and put it into the way you touch me.” She scooted down on the bed and kissed his hand before releasing it.

“So touch me again,” she said. “Now. Please.”

She wanted him. He was used to being the one who wanted, the one who begged, who risked rejection. But Charlie wanted
him
. She’d looked him in the eyes and said so right out loud. He felt his heart swell with pride—or maybe with something else. Something deeper.

She reached down and stroked him with one finger and the pleasure from her touch was almost painful. He closed his eyes, willing himself to hold on, to make it last as she touched and teased and finally tasted. Teetering at the brink, he managed to drag himself away from the swirl of sensation and back to the real world long enough to lunge across the bed and open the nightstand drawer. He pulled out a condom and she grabbed it, taking charge, pushing him down on the bed and ripping the foil open. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed it in place.

Straddling him, she set her hands on his shoulders and pinned him to the bed. She smiled into his eyes with a feral grin that was a little bit wicked and a whole lot sexy as she lowered herself slowly, just touching him before she pulled away, then dipped down to touch him again, again, again, letting him ease into the soft heart of her a little at a time. He rocked his hips up, straining for her, but she kept on teasing, letting him slip inside a little farther each time, a little deeper, and then finally he was there, inside her, and her heat wrapped around him and carried him away.

Charlie moved against him, building from a sweet, slow rhythm to an all-out rumba, watching his face as if to see how far she could go without taking him over the edge, slowing when he started to crest, speeding up again when his strength returned. He gripped her hips in his hands, wresting control from her before he lost it completely, and moved her in a slow circle. She threw her head back and closed her eyes and he watched her give in to the pleasure of it.

He wouldn’t lose control, he told himself. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

He would.

Arching her back, Charlie cried out and the sweet animal abandon of the sound carried him to a height he hadn’t known he could reach. She tensed and drove herself down onto him just as he rose to meet her and let himself go, groaning with sweet, aching release.

She lowered her body to his, nestling her head in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. He could feel her breath warm on his neck, her body vibrating with subtle aftershocks. He sucked in a quick breath and started to speak, but she put her finger to his lips and stopped him.

He smiled. “You’re telling me to shut up again,” he said.

“Trust me,” she said, closing her eyes. “You have nothing left to say.”

Charlie woke to the high, wild whinny of a horse. Junior was up and at ’em. Turning her head, she glanced at the clock and shot out of bed.

Nine o’clock. Nate must have been up for hours. He’d gotten up and dressed while she lay beside him, sleeping. He’d probably given her that look again. Seen her with her defenses down. Caught her at her weakest.

Yeah, right. Like she’d had a shred of willpower last night. What the hell had been in that beer? She’d gone and slept with the guy again. She couldn’t resist him. Couldn’t say no. Once he got close, once he touched her, she was helpless.

That was okay—more than okay—as long as neither one of them took it seriously. She had a life to live, and it wasn’t going to happen here.

If Nate lived a little closer to civilization, they might have made a real relationship work. For what they had together, she might have considered changing schools. Compromising. But there wasn’t a university she’d consider within three hundred miles of Purvis.

She’d have to give up everything to be with him—and no man was worth that.

Not even Nate.

Besides, there were still some disturbing details about the man she didn’t understand. That ever-present Stetson kept his eyes shaded from view through most of their conversations. And it wasn’t just his feelings he kept hidden away.

There was something in the attic. Something he felt compelled to keep secret behind a locked door.

Slipping into a pair of jeans, she shoved her feet into her new cowboy boots, tugged the T-shirt she’d slept in down far enough to cover her midriff, and headed for the kitchen, pausing by the attic door on the way and rattling the knob.

Still locked.

She frowned at it for a moment, then turned and galloped out the front door to face the emotional fallout of the morning after.

Junior was in the round ring, bucking out his morning kinks, greeting the sun with another high-pitched challenge. Nate leaned against the gate, watching the big horse dance. As Charlie approached, the stallion stopped dead in his tracks, then bounced up on his hind legs and whinnied out a welcome.

“Mornin’,” Nate said. The smile he gave her was loaded with shared secrets and promises.

“Morning.” She pretended to be absorbed in the horse, but she couldn’t help flicking her eyes sideways now and then, watching Nate. What did you say to a man after a night like that?
Thank you
hardly seemed appropriate.

But that was about all she had to say. She’d lost her head and shed her emotional armor with her clothes last night, and now it was time to suit up and defend herself. She’d almost broken her promise—to herself, to her mother, and to Sadie. She had to keep her distance.
Observe and report
.

She suppressed a smile. Sadie’s glasses would slide right off her nose and onto her desk if Charlie observed and reported on last night. A paper on Nate’s considerable nonverbal communication skills would lead to a very different kind of career. Probably a more lucrative one, but not quite what The Plan called for.

No, The Plan demanded that she should keep her head—even if she lost her panties. Nate was a fling, nothing more. A good time. A little break from real life.

But nothing serious. She should put the whole incident behind her. Maybe she could even find a way to regret it.

Cowboy,
she told herself.
Stupid cowboy
.

It wasn’t working. Some other voice inside her was overpowering the Plan-approved mantra with wild speculations on what might happen if she stepped a little closer, if she reached out and touched Nate’s shoulder. She couldn’t look at him without remembering how he’d touched her, how he’d looked at her, how he’d sent her into orbit with his hands and his mouth and his...

Damn.

“We need to talk,” she said. She folded her arms on the fence rail and kept her eyes glued to the horse.

“We do?”

She nodded. “That was great last night. Really. But it was nothing serious, right?”

“Right,” he said. “Sure.”

He sounded disappointed. He must have thought they’d started something that would last. She glanced over at him, taking his body, his broad shoulders, his eyes and lips and talented hands, and wrapped all those gifts in one tidy package in her mind. Then she slapped a label on it:
Fling.

The trouble was, she wasn’t sure that word was in Nate’s vocabulary. He seemed to take things so seriously. And the way he looked at her…

She wasn’t ready for that. She needed to stop this now—before anyone’s feelings got hurt.

“I’m sorry, Nate. It’s just—I don’t want to get involved right now. Not with anybody.” She sighed. “It’s not you. You… well, you’re… you’re fine.” That was an understatement. “I’m the problem.” Sheesh, she sounded like a seventh grader struggling through her first breakup. “It’s just that I have a plan, Nate, and it doesn’t include a relationship.”

There. She’d said it, clearly and concisely.
Walk away,
she told herself.
Just walk away now.
But something kept her glued to the ground.

Maybe it was the fact that he deserved better. That he’d given her so much of himself, and she was tossing the gift away like it was some tacky bauble from the five-and-ten.

But he hadn’t given her everything. He still had secrets.

“So what’s in the attic?” she asked. “Ears? Fingers?”

“What?” Nate looked totally confused.

“I thought maybe you were a serial killer and you kept your trophies up there.”

He laughed, sort of. It was more of a mirthless cough, really. He didn’t sound amused.

She stepped back.

“No big secret,” he said.

“Nate, the door’s locked.”

“You’re impossible.” He sighed. “It’s Sam’s room, okay? I knew you didn’t want to take my bed—not that first night, anyway.” He flashed her a faint smile. “You’d have thought it would be better to sleep upstairs, and I didn’t want anybody messing with her stuff. Sorry, but it’s still just like she left it. I don’t want her to come home and—well, you know. It’s hers.”

Charlie nodded. She and her mother had moved so often she’d never felt like she had a room of her own—just a series of cubicles that held her white-painted bed and matching dresser. Every one of them had neutral carpet and featureless walls, and not one of them had felt like home. But Nate protected his daughter’s room as if it was a sacred space. Charlie could feel her armor crumbling again.

“That’s nice,” she said. “That you keep it for her, I mean. So when is she coming back?”

“I don’t know.” He kept watching the horse, his face impassive. “Soon, I hope.”

He didn’t sound hopeful. “Sorry.” She took a step back, but she could feel something tugging her closer, something drawing her to the man. Something that grew stronger and stronger as she learned more about him.

Step away from the cowboy,
she told herself.

“I didn’t mean to get personal,” she said.

Nate turned and braced his elbows on the top rail of the fence, crossing his ankles as he looked her up and down. The pose emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the solid mass of his muscled chest, the narrow hips encased in his worn Wranglers. She dragged her eyes up to his face.

“Is that what you call it?” he asked. “Getting personal?”

Even to Charlie, that seemed like a weak definition for what had happened the night before. She looked away, shutting out the memories and bringing back her mother’s lifelong litany of admonitions and advice.

“I need to get my life together,” she said. “Finish school, get my degree—you know.”

He nodded. But he didn’t know. He couldn’t. His life was so different from hers. He was right where he wanted to be, building the life he’d envisioned. She’d barely gotten started on her own dreams.

She couldn’t stop now. Not for anything—or anybody.

“It’s just that I want to do something meaningful with my life,” she said. “Something important, that helps people. I don’t want to just, you know, get married.”

The corners of his mouth tilted up in a faint smile.

“Not that we’d ever get married or anything,” she said. She could feel her face going red as Junior’s nylon halter. How many times had she blushed since she arrived here? She’d never blushed before she met Nate. Never.

What did that mean?

She didn’t want to know.

“I didn’t mean I think you want to marry me or anything,” she said. “I mean, we just had sex, right? Really good sex, and everything, but not, like, marry-me sex. It was more like crazy, hot, gotta-have-it sex. A fling, you know? So I… I don’t…”

He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Charlie,” he said.

“What?” She scanned his face, searching his eyes, knowing she should pull away but somehow helpless, fixed to the spot. He reached toward her and she flinched, but he only set his finger to her lips.

“Shut up,” he said.

And then he kissed her, hard and thoroughly, bringing back all the heat and desire that had pulled them into bed last night, carrying her to the brink of collapse, tearing her armor to shreds in the space of a minute. When he stopped, she opened her eyes wide and stared at him.

“You can’t do that,” she said.

“No?” His shoulders relaxed and his lips flexed into a smile.

“No,” she said.

“Okay.” He shrugged and turned away, and Charlie suddenly hated herself. Why did she always make things so complicated? Why couldn’t she just let loose and enjoy herself? Why was she so worried she’d break his heart when she finally got over him and left? He was a man, for heaven’s sake. Men were good at good-byes.

“Well, good morning,” a voice behind her said.

Charlie started guiltily at the sight of Doris and Phaedra approaching from the bunkhouse. She wondered how much they’d seen. Doris looked exactly like she always did, sparkling and chipper, but with a knowing smile that said she’d caught that kiss—and maybe even knew where Charlie had spent the night.

Phaedra, on the other hand, looked like death warmed over twice and pounded flat. Her black hair was snaking around her face in Medusa tangles, and her eyes were ringed with remnants of yesterday’s makeup and mascara.

But when she saw the horse, her eyes widened and she almost smiled.

“Mornin’,” Nate said. “Thought I’d just work the kinks out of Junior, here, while you folks have your breakfast. Then we’ll do some demos with the other horses.”

“I thought we were going to
ride
the horses,” Phaedra said.

“We are—eventually,” Nate said. “But ground work always comes first, and we need to talk about conformation. It’ll be a while before you’re ready to ride.”

Phaedra put her head down and muttered something about “bullshit.”

Charlie offered a smile to offset the teen’s sulky pout. “Well, I’ve got every kind of cereal you could think of. Frosted Flakes, Rice Krispies, and oh, Phaedra—you’d probably like Count Chocula. He’s kind of a kindred soul, right?”

“Not hungry,” Phaedra muttered.

“Well, come on anyway,” Charlie coaxed. “Have some coffee, at least. Or orange juice.”

Phaedra shook her head and set one foot on the bottom rail of the gate, determined to watch Nate put the stallion through his paces.

“You’re not staying here,” Nate said. “You’ll be a distraction. I need Junior’s full attention, and you’re freaking him out.” As if to demonstrate, Junior arched his back and crow-hopped across the ring like a spastic wind-up toy.

“Whatever.” Phaedra slouched off toward the bunkhouse. The kid would probably go back to bed, Charlie figured. Hopefully she’d wake up in a better mood on her second try.

Two bowls of cereal later, Doris and Charlie headed for the round ring. Nate had finished with Junior, and was cleaning up the horse’s leavings with a pitchfork.

“The romance of ranch life,” he said, tossing a pile of road apples to one side. He rested the pitchfork against the fence and led the two women to the barn.

“Where’s the princess of doom and gloom?” he asked.

Charlie shrugged. “I have no idea. I thought she’d gone back to bed, but she’s not in the bunkhouse.”

“I’m not sure that one’s going to work out,” Nate said.

“Maybe you should call her parents,” Doris said. “See if they can clue you in. The child seems troubled to me.”

“I know,” Charlie said. “But we don’t know how to get in touch with her parents. We don’t even know her last name. The registration forms are, um, missing.” She looked the older woman up and down, feigning suspicion. “For all I know, you’re a wanted psycho killer.”

“Nothing so interesting,” Doris said. “Just an old cowgirl past her prime.”

“I’d say you’re right in your prime,” Charlie said. “Right dead center.”

Doris grinned, nodding. Charlie hoped she’d be as satisfied with herself when she was that age.

“Maybe you could talk to Phaedra,” Nate said to Charlie. “She seems to like you. You could find out some contact information, like you want to keep in touch with her after the clinic. Then we can call her parents and have them take Witchy McSpook back home.”

“Maybe,” Charlie said. “Or maybe I can talk her into behaving herself. Give her a chance, Nate. I think she might shape up once we start working with the horses.”

“Let’s hope.” Nate stopped in front of a generous box stall housing a handsome brown-and-white paint. The horse had a round brown circle over one eye in an otherwise white face, making him look like the dog in the old
Little Rascals
films. When they stopped, he tossed his head up and lifted his upper lip. Charlie could swear he was smiling.

“This is Razz,” Nate said. “Short for Rascal, ’cause of that patch and his personality. I thought we’d start with him today.”

Charlie reached out a tentative hand to pet the horse’s muzzle, but he shied away. She sucked in a wondering breath. “Is he a mustang?”