Reckless for Cowboy (2 page)

Blood is everywhere.

At first Kai, one of the bouncers is going to throw Cooper out with the other rabble rousers but I stop him, explaining how it was Cooper who tried to stop the fight in the first place. Tom, the manager of the bar, comes out with a first aid kit and gets Marla, a nursing student who works at the Cattlemen part-time, to patch Cooper up.

“He needs stitches,” Marla says.

“I’m fine.” Cooper tries to wave off all the attention.

Tom looks at me and then at Cooper. “Brooke, take this guy to the South Calgary Emergent Care Clinic down Macleod. Make sure he gets stitched up.”

“Really?” I’m totally surprised by this. Doesn’t he want me here on such a busy night?

“Make sure you
take care
of him.” Tom arches a brow trying to send me some form of unspoken communication. What the hell does that mean,
take care of him
? Is he worried about a law suit or something?

“He’s a big boy,” I say. “I’m pretty sure he can take care of himself.”

“We don’t need him passing out on the way to the hospital.” He motions toward Denny. “He can cash out for you.”

“Well, fly-me-to-the-moon,” I say under my breath, handing over my apron full of cash and slips to Denny.

Cooper gives me a funny look until he notices his blood has soaked through the bar towel and asks for another.

By the amount of blood he’s losing, I realize the cut’s pretty bad so I give up arguing and say, “Come on. I’ll take you to get stitches.”

He hands me a set of keys. When I look up at him questioningly, he says, “We’ll take my truck. I don’t want to bleed all over your car.”

Of course he drives a truck. Once outside, I notice the plates are from Alberta and wonder if he’s local. Somehow I don’t think so. If he was local I’m sure I would remember seeing him around the Cattlemen’s. He doesn’t exactly have a face you can forget. I climb into his truck which requires some tricky maneuvering in my short, tight skirt. His truck is one of those ginormous four-by-four things that makes me feel like I’m driving a bus. Luckily the emergent care facility is only a few kilometers away and traffic is light at this time of night.

While we’re sitting at a light a few blocks from the clinic, Cooper asks, “Did your boss just pimp you out?”

I think about the way Tom told me to
take care
of Cooper. “Kind of sounded like it, didn’t it?”

“Yes.” He glances at me. I can’t make out his face in the dim light but I can see him turned toward me. “And you’re going to keep working for that douche bag?”

“Five grand in ten days. I’ll put up with Tom for that kind of cash.”
Besides
, I think to myself.
After this week, I start my new job
.

“You saving for something?”

“University.”

“Oh yeah? What are you taking?”

“I got into law school.” I can’t keep the pride out of my voice. Why should I? It was a heck of a lot work, so what if I’m a little proud? I’ve even managed to get a job at a law firm. Of course it’s only a lowly summer position and I’ll probably only be doing data entry or something equally mundane, but it’s a step up from waiting tables.

Cooper whistles. “Nice.”

I glance over at him and grin.

Once inside the reception area at the clinic, they take all Cooper’s info and get him in to see a doctor right away. I guess bleeders are triaged more quickly than others because the waiting room looks pretty full to me. The stitches don’t take long and we’re back in his truck within forty-five minutes. This time Cooper drives and before I know it, we’ve passed the Cattlemen’s and are heading north.

“Look buddy, I don’t know what you think my boss was implying, but as far as I’m concerned, we’re done.”

He glances at me but he doesn’t make any move to turn the truck around. “It’s almost last call. Do you really want to go back to work now and have to help clean up all that shit?”

The man makes a good point. “How do you know what happens after last call?” I ask.

“I used to work in a bar.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“A little shit hole in Pincher Creek.”

“Is that where you still live?”

“The ranch is south of the creek. That’s where I live when I’m not on the circuit.”

The rodeo circuit. Of course. I know all about the circuit and what kinds of things happen on the circuit—the parties, the sacked hotel rooms. The groupies. I know more than I want to know about the kind of jerk-rods who play the circuit, like Wes, my stepdad, and Brandt, the lying, cheating dirt bag.

“How long have you been bronc riding?” I ask, more as a reminder about what kind of guy I was dealing with—and need to avoid—than out of true interest.

“Ten years but—”

Suddenly Cooper yanks the steering wheel hard to the left, throwing me against the door even though I’m wearing my seatbelt. “What the…!”

A millisecond later, a car speeds through the intersection on a red light and I realize Cooper has just avoided what could have been a serious collision. “Holy,” I say out of breath. “That was close.”

“Open the glove box. Find a pen and a piece of paper. Write this down.”

I find a pen and an oil change receipt and he recites a license plate number. We’re silent for the next few blocks until he pulls into the Carriage House Inn parking lot, takes out his mobile and phones the cops.

I’m watching all this with fascination. Most people I know don’t like getting involved in this kind of stuff. They’d just be happy they avoided an accident and walked away unscathed. But Cooper is all intense and exacting. He describes the car in detail, giving the location, street address, and time of the incident, like he’s a cop himself or something.

Once he hangs up, he says, “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” I say, still trying to figure him out. He’s a typical cowboy in so many ways. Cocky, sure of himself, charming. But there’s something different about him too.

He glances at me, “You don’t cuss, do you?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t swear.”

I’m startled by his statement. “No. I don’t.” Most people don’t notice my lack of swearing.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.” I look up at the Carriage House sign wondering what he thinks we’re doing here. “Are you staying here?”

“Yeah, it’s one of the sponsor hotels.”

I clear my throat. “I’m not coming up to your room.”

He nudges his hat back so I can see his face more clearly. “I’m not inviting you up to my room.”

“Oh.”

“I’m inviting you for coffee. Then you can tell me why you don’t swear.”

I consider his offer. What harm is there in a coffee? None. Plus I really don’t want to go back to work now.

Right!
Interrupts my louder and more obnoxious cynical side.
First it’s coffee, then it’s kissing, next thing you know, you’re flat on your back with your legs in the air. Don’t do it, Brooke!

“Oh be quiet,” I whisper beneath my breath.

“Did you say something?”

“No.” I say. “No, I was just about to say I’ll come for coffee but only if you tell me why you don’t drink.”

“Deal.” He hops out of the truck and before I know it, he’s standing beside my door, opening it for me and offering his hand to help me down. The time for making other choices—probably better choices—has passed.

The lounge is closed but the restaurant is open twenty-four hours—just for Stampede—so that’s where we head. We order coffee and pie and while we’re waiting, he looks over at me and says, “It’s rare to find a woman these days who doesn’t cuss.”

I shrug.

“So, what’s the deal?”

“I don’t like the sound of it.” I lie and my lie sounds like a question.

“What’s the real reason?”

Sheesh. Am I that transparent?

Our coffee and pie arrive and I’m freed from answering for a few minutes. But, once the server leaves, he says, “Come on. You’ve seen me bleed all over everything. The least you can do is tell me why you don’t swear.”

I know it’s rude, but for some reason, I take a bite of pie and answer. Talking through a mouthful of food somehow makes it easier to tell him. “I just knew this guy who used to swear all the time.” I swallow and take a sip of coffee to wash it down. “I didn’t like it.” I shrug. “I didn’t like how it made me feel.”

Through all of this he’s just watching me from underneath the brim of his hat. I think it’s a trick cowboys play so that their faces are always in shade and you can’t read their expression. I expect him to ask more. Like, who was the guy, maybe. But he doesn’t.

“What about you,” I say turning the tables before he has the chance to ask me any more questions about it. “Why do you order hi-balls without the ‘hi’?”

Cooper doesn’t speak through his pie like me. He looks me square in the eye and says, “My brother was killed by a drunk driver.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

His chest rises and falls and he shuts his eyes for a brief moment, like he’s reliving something.

“I always drank rye and Coke. When I tended bar, I’d keep up with the regulars, drink for drink. I can’t tell you how many times I got into my truck, half-cut. Then Jason was killed and I realized it could have been me who did it. I’d been playing Russian roulette, not only with my life but with other’s too.”

He takes a scoop of pie and the fork jangles against the ceramic plate, his shaking hand the only indication of the emotional turmoil he must be feeling. I desperately want to reach across the table and cover his hand with mine.

That’s when I notice his hands. Lord help me, they’re beautiful. Tanned. Strong. Dextrous. An image of his hands on my body flashes unbidden through my mind and I gasp at the immediate response in my nether regions.

“You okay?” he asks and my eyes fly open because I’ve been sitting there with my eyes closed—for I don’t know how long—imagining his hands on me…his lips on me. Oh lord!

“Fine.”

We finish our pie and coffee and then talk for hours afterward. I ask about his family—his sister and parents. He talks mostly about his sister, he doesn’t mention his brother Jason again. Instead he bombards me with questions about my family. I tell him about my dad and how he died of cancer a couple of years ago. My mom, who’s now living in British Columbia. I don’t talk about Wes, my former stepfather. I’ve vowed never to mention the creep’s name again.

We talk about Stampede. For some reason, I let slip how I used to be a member of the Young Canadians, a singing and dancing troupe that always performed at the evening grandstand show between other, much bigger-named acts and a host of fireworks.

“No kidding,” he says with a smirk. “So
that’s
where I’ve seen you before.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I haven’t missed a grandstand show in ten years.”

The thought of Cooper in the crowd while I was up on stage makes me tingle. Of course he’s just saying he recognizes me. I was only a chorus girl, one among many, there’s no way he could pick me out from the others, let alone remember me. But still, my stupid heart chooses to believe him.

I clear my throat and ask about the rodeo.

He must sense some kind of hesitation in me because he asks, “You don’t like the rodeo?”

“No. I like it fine.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. A lot of people don’t.”

I know there are a lot of animal rights activists who are against the rodeo, but I’m not one of them. The problem isn’t that I don’t like it. It’s that I like it too much.

He changes the subject and asks about law school about what I want to do when I’m done and it’s not until later that I realize I’ve spent the majority of the time talking about myself. Finally he drives me back to the now empty parking lot of the Cattlemen’s Saloon and the night sky is beginning to lighten around the eastern edge. Funny I don’t feel the least bit tired.

We’re standing in the parking lot and he says, “Do you know, I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you.”

“Shut-up,” I whisper.

So he does.

He doesn’t say a word. He reaches around the back of my neck, leans in and kisses me.

Sweet Jesus. The guy’s an expert kisser. Hungry, commanding, sweet. I twist my fingers through his dark curls and hold on like his hair’s the rope and he’s the bronc. There’s a barely tamed wildness to his kiss and it thrills me. What would happen if he let go of the reins that are holding him back? What would that kind of kiss taste like?

He pulls away and I’m panting like a puppy.

“Damn, girl. You sure can kiss.”

My hands are still on his chest and he covers them with his. Then he slowly slides one lower until I’m cupping the front of his jeans. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” There’s an amazing ridge of solid flesh behind his fly.

I groan. I can’t help it. I’m wet for him. Have been all night. The cocky smile, the jeans, the boots, the hat, the narrow hips, the broad shoulders, the hands that have seen hard work since they were a kid. Jesus Murphy, I’m such a cowboy groupie. And this man standing in front of me, holding my hand against his arousal? He’s pure cowboy.

Oh, but I’ve been burned one too many times and something’s telling me Cooper could break my heart worse than even Brandt. I yank my hand away. “I gotta go.” I make my way to my car on wobbly legs.

He catches up to me before I have a chance to unlock the door. “Need company?”

“No, but thanks all the same.”

“Can I see you again?”

“No.”

He cocks his head to one side. “Why not?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t do cowboys.”

From the expression on his face, this is not the answer he expects. “Why?”

“Long story.”

“I’m different.”

“No you’re not.” For some reason the blasted key won’t fit in the lock. Finally I manage it and open the car door. “Bye Cooper.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. He walks back to his truck, calling, “I’ll see you around,” before getting in and taking off.

I hope to heaven he’s just saying it because I don’t think I can handle seeing him again.

Chapter Two

T
he next couple nights I look for him at the bar, but he doesn’t show. I hate that I’m looking. I hate that I can’t stop myself. For two straight nights I search for a black cowboy hat. For dark eyes following me. It’s driving me crazy and when he doesn’t show and I’m crushed, I recognize that I’m already sliding down a slippery slope where he’s concerned.