Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (30 page)

Abruptly, she said, “Wait here.”

Bodey couldn’t summon the wherewithal to inform her that he didn’t plan on going anywhere, so he grunted, only dimly aware of the rustle of her skirt as she strode from the tent. Seconds later, he heard her approach. Then, to his utter amazement, he felt her remove his hat and replace it with an icy cold pack against his scalp.

Daring to open his eye again, he saw her watching him with something that approximated concern. But somehow, he knew the sentiment had more to do with the danger of his woofing his biscuits on the merchandise rather than anything personal.

“I filled a shopping bag with ice from one of the water stations on the range,” she said, referring to the large plastic totes that were regularly stocked with crushed ice and bottles of water to encourage the participants to stay hydrated in the scorching summer heat.

“Drink this.” She held out a bottle of Pepsi that was wet with condensation and bits of melting ice. “Helen keeps a cooler in the back loaded with her secret stockpile. I don’t think she’d mind if you had one.”

Knowing that the caffeine would help, he gratefully took it, twisting off the top.

She dug into the voluminous pocket of her skirt and pulled out a pill bottle. “It’s just over-the-counter stuff from the RV. Do you need something else?”

“This will work.” Bodey had a prescription painkiller, but the thought of waiting even a moment longer for relief held no appeal. He grappled with the lid and shook four pills into his palm, then swallowed them with a swig of soda and leaned back, closing his eyes again. “Thanks.”

There was a beat of silence. No, not silence, exactly. In the background, Bodey could hear the sharp
bang-ping
of bullets striking the metal targets. Laughter and good-natured jeering rode softly on the breeze.

“So you know Syd and Helen?”

He opened his eyes again when the woman spoke, and the caffeine must have hit his system because he didn’t feel the need to wince. Even so, he was struck by the intent expression of the woman who had helped him. There was something . . . strikingly odd about her. She had delicate, gamine features and huge blue-black eyes. Rather than donning the Victorian wigs worn by most of the women at the matches, she’d kept hers short and spiky, but the wind and the heat had caused it to curl around her face. Even so, there was no hiding that the blunt, avant-garde haircut had been highlighted with a subtle shade of blue. But where the effect of the offbeat hair, her slight build, and her too-large clothing should have made her look like an orphan, she was clearly a grown-up woman. It was there in the “I’ve been knocked down by life but I’ve come back swinging” shadows in her eyes and the way she seemed comfortable in her own skin, if not the costume she’d been forced to wear.

Her brows lifted in silent query, but this time, there was a mocking hint to the deadpan set of her features. As if she’d heard his thoughts out loud.

Too late, he realized that she’d asked him a question.

Syd and Helen. Did he know them?

“Yeah. Syd and Helen are neighbors of mine in Utah.”

“Ah.”

He held out his hand, grimaced when he realized it was wet from the ice pack and the soda bottle, and swiped it down his thigh. Then he held it out again. “Bodey Taggart.”

Her eyes narrowed, just for a moment.

Damnit.
What stories had Helen been telling?

But she finally slipped her hand into his. Bodey liked the way that it felt there, small and warm, but with a firm grip. “Beth.”

She didn’t offer her last name and there was no further explanation of her relationship to Helen—friend, relative, acquaintance—which left Bodey curious. Beth wasn’t from Bliss. He would have seen her around. So how did she end up working with Helen?

“That’s it? Just plain ‘Beth’? No last name? Or are you
one of those people who only needs one name, like Cher or Usher?”

It was a weak attempt at humor—mainly because he already felt like an idiot. He’d stumbled into the tent like one of the Walking Dead and nearly upchucked all over her shoes. He didn’t like anyone seeing him that way, not even his brothers. He’d lived too long under a single motto: never let them see you sweat; never let them see you weak.

“I try to keep things simple.”

Simple?

Oh, yeah. One name.

For some reason, he’d forgotten that he’d even asked a question. Instead, he’d grown conscious of the way her hand nestled in his, small and delicate, but strong. Even as he debated prolonging the contact, she tugged free—not quickly, not self-consciously. No, she did it . . . dismissingly. As if she would be more than happy for him to remain a stranger. Then, very subtly, she slid both hands into the pockets of her skirt.

Well, hell.
If that wasn’t a subtle “keep your distance” move, he didn’t know what was.

Nevertheless, even with his head pounding and his stomach tied in knots, Bodey found himself responding to the challenge—though, for the life of him, he didn’t understand why her attitude rankled. He was a nice guy—charming as hell, if his sisters-in-law were to be believed. She didn’t have to assume he was Jack the Ripper. Or worse.

Weak.

She’d seen him at his worst. He didn’t want her to think this was all he was.

At the very least, she could smile.

“Thanks for your help.” He held her gaze, searching her expression, her eyes, for any hint of emotion. “I’m pretty sure I would have face-planted it if I’d tried to get back to my trailer.”

Dipping into his arsenal, he offered her a crooked grin, one that was guaranteed to get even the frostiest woman to lighten up.

But her features remained absolutely deadpan. “Mmm.”

Mmm?
That’s all the response he got?

He sat back in his chair, still holding the makeshift ice bag to his head, and regarded her curiously. He usually didn’t go for females like her. No, he gravitated toward women who fell into certain molds: “girl-next-door,” or “Rodeo Queen,” or “Miss Boobs and Legs.” He liked women who were tall and stacked and willing to indulge in a little harmless fun. Like Miss Ima Ontop. But this one . . .

There was something brooding and intense about her. And she was tiny. Hell, he could tuck her under his arm with room to spare. But that didn’t make her delicate. The way she looked at him warned that she had a will of iron.

He must have been staring because she looked away, offered a slightly annoyed sigh, then asked with a little more conversational warmth, “Do you get them often? The migraines?”

He shook his head, and this time, rather than feeling like his brain was crashing against his skull, the movement merely inspired a dull throb. “I had two concussions within a month of each other. The migraines are a side effect. Hopefully, not a lingering one.”

Especially since his brothers had “grounded him” for the summer. No cow cutting, no bronco busting, no sky diving, no ATVs. He was lucky that they hadn’t forbidden him to ride altogether—although he wouldn’t be surprised if they threatened to restrict him to the corrals back home and his little brother’s aging pony if they caught wind of this latest headache.

In truth, Bodey couldn’t blame them. The first injury had occurred on the ranch when they’d taken a load of cattle up to the summer pastures. A rabbit had darted from beneath a bush, startling his mount. The horse had zigged and Bodey had zagged. Next thing he knew, he’d been flying through the air. When he’d landed, his head had struck a rock and he’d been out like a light. The second concussion had been more serious. On his way home from a competition in Jackson, he’d been T-boned by a drunk driver and had spent
two days unconscious in the hospital. When he’d finally been allowed to return home, he’d been plagued by double vision, vertigo, bouts of nausea—and headaches that made the one he had now seem like a cakewalk. But, over time, most of his symptoms had disappeared.

Until today.

He should have known better and worn dark glasses rather than the lighter protective lenses he used for shooting.

A pair of women entered the tent and Beth backed away, murmuring, “Excuse me.”

Bodey appreciated the way she kept her voice soft and soothing, unconsciously encouraging the other women to do the same. Soon, their conversation washed over him like lake water, allowing him to close his eyes again and sip his Pepsi. By the time the women disappeared with one of Helen’s hand-sewn ensembles in a shopping bag, the pain in his head had eased to a dull ache. When Beth approached him again, he smiled ruefully.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

“Yeah. Thanks to you.”

Nothing.
She gave him the same inscrutable look Spock would give Captain Kirk if he announced he was beaming down to the inhospitable planet below where it was guaranteed he would be attacked by life-sucking aliens.

Shit.
He’d spent too much time watching television with Barry during his recuperation.

“I’m serious. I doubt I would have made it back to my trailer.”

He flashed her another broad grin.

Nothing.

Damn. Was he losing his touch? He’d expected a ghost of a smile at least. But her eyes grew shadowed with emotions that he couldn’t translate, and her face remained neutral.

And damned if that didn’t egg him on even more.

“So you’re staying with Helen?” he probed, hoping for a little more information.

“Not exactly.”

He stood and was pleased to find that he was steady on
his feet. Rather than lurching, his stomach responded with a twinge of hunger.

Good sign.

The makeshift ice pack had completely melted by now and the water was growing tepid, so Bodey grimaced, tossing it and the empty soda bottle into the wastepaper basket.

“I owe you a Pepsi at least.”

“It’s Helen you owe.”

Again, although she gave no hint of emotion, Bodey sensed that she knew exactly what he was up to, that he was bound and determined to make her react. But she remained outwardly unimpressed. So much so, that he sensed she was toying with him, like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s tail, taking great delight in watching it squirm.

But Bodey wasn’t so easily cowed. “Then tell
Helen
I owe her a drink.”

“If you insist.”

He couldn’t prevent a soft laugh. “I do.” Moving toward her, he watched the way she subtly drew herself up to full height. Even so, she wasn’t any bigger than a mite.

As he closed the distance between them, he saw the first chink in her armor when her hands clenched in her pockets and she rocked back on her heels—and once again, he was struck by the innocent high-necked blouse and voluminous skirt. The old granny charm of her outfit was completely at odds with her rocker hairstyle and the dark liner around her eyes. He’d bet money that the costume had been supplied at the last minute.

“Are you shooting on one of the posses?” He gestured to the range.

This time, he saw tiny lines appear at the corners of her eyes and he knew she was amused. “Me? Uh . . . no. I’m just helping Helen in the tent.”

“Are you staying with them in their motor home?”

She shook her head again, and this time her lips actually twitched. Clearly, she knew he was fishing. “No.”

He waited, but she didn’t add anything more, so he was finally forced to say something to ease the silence. “I see.”

Nothing.

Bodey knew that was his cue to leave, but he found himself curiously loath to do so. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had seemed so . . . unaffected by his easy charm. Normally, he could coax a self-conscious giggle out of even the most hard-hearted female, whether she was ninety or nine. But Beth . . . she was proving hard to fathom.

“I’d love a chance to properly thank you.” Bodey lobbed her a softball flirt, figuring it was worth a try.

“Consider me properly thanked.”

Strike one.

Clearly she wasn’t willing to play. At least not with him. But he couldn’t resist trying again. “Maybe I can follow up that vote of thanks with lunch.”

Her head tipped back, a lock of blue hair falling over her brow. Normally, he didn’t like that kind of thing on a woman. God had given women perfectly good hair. Why would they adopt a hue not found in nature? But with the rest of her tresses so dark, the color was subtle—reminding him of the blue-black tones of the crows that gathered around the silos during harvest time.

“Thanks, but no. I have to stay in the tent while Helen is gone.”

Strike two.

“What about later?”

She didn’t immediately answer.

“You’ve gotta eat sometime,” he said, purposely dropping his voice. But his attempt at tempting her backfired.

“Maybe. But not necessarily with you.”

You’re out!

He lifted a hand to his chest as if wounded, but to his surprise, rather than feeling rejected, her comment made him laugh.

“You don’t like me much, do you?”

She crossed her arms, eyeing him from tip to toe. “I don’t know you enough to like or dislike you. But . . . Helen’s told me about you.”

Ouch
. He was going to have to get with Helen and find
out what horror stories she’d been recounting. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything so awful that this girl would shoot him down right out of the gate.

“And what has she been saying?”

He anticipated a recital of the women he’d loved and lost, but her response took him by surprise.

“That you’re an adrenaline junky. A risk jockey.”

Risk jockey?

He laughed, supposing he couldn’t argue too much with that label. “And that makes me non-lunch-companion material?”

She regarded him with those dark, dark eyes, and again, he wondered if she could read his thoughts.

“I don’t know. But I’m only helping Helen until the shoot is over, so there’s not much point in finding out, is there?”

Bam! You’re not only out for the inning; you’re ejected from the game.

But again, rather than being put off by her frankness, he said, “You really don’t pull your punches, do you?”