The Cowboy Takes a Bride (16 page)

“I know, he’s the second coming of horsedom.”

“He is.” Cordy breathed. “In a manner of speaking. If Miracle was a quarterback, he’d be Roger Staubach.”

“If he was a president, he’d be JFK,” Ila threw in.

“If he was a lover, he’d be Casanova,” Clover said, wandering over to see if they wanted another pitcher.

“You people are besotted over a horse.” Mariah shook her head.

“We are,” Ila, Clover, and Cordy chorused.

But Joe suddenly found himself seeing the Silver Horseshoe through Mariah’s eyes. Men dressed in Wranglers, cowboy shirts, hats and boots, shooting pool, watching the basketball game, and talking about horses. Single women sitting at tables with their girlfriends, giggling and watching the cowboys and talking about cutting horses. Couples and families in the dining area of the Silver Horseshoe, eating the blue-plate special, talking Little Britches rodeo and cutting horses.

He supposed that to Mariah it was an alien culture, even though her early beginnings were steeped in it. Having been abandoned by her father, she spurned this life as Dutch had spurned her, and Joe couldn’t blame her. It was enlightening, seeing his home turf through her eyes, and it softened him toward her. A little.

Besides, she was trying. She deserved some credit for that.

Yes, yes, give her credit, but do not let down your guard. She’s not the right one for you. She’ll hurt you.
Dammit all. He didn’t want to be here feeling the things he was feeling.

“Where’d you learn to play pool?” Joe asked.

“When the rich people are away, the hired help will play,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning the people my mother worked for had a billiards room and they were always jetting around to someplace or the other. As long as we cleaned up afterward, my mother would let me bring a friend or two over.”

“You grew up as the hired help in rich folks’ homes?” Cordy asked.

Mariah nodded.

“Explains a lot.” Ila sank another ball.

“Ooh, who’s that?” Mariah asked, and nudged Joe in the side with her elbow.

He followed her gaze. The people near the entrance parted and a man strolled in, cock of the walk, wearing a rodeo belt buckle the size of a hubcap. Trust Mariah to hone in on the biggest tool in Jubilee. Joe’s ribs tingled where her elbow had grazed him, and he caught a whiff of her hair. She smelled like chocolate chip cookies.

“That’s Lee Turpin. His daddy is the richest man in Jubilee,” Ila said.

“He used to ride bulls in the PRCA during the same time as Joe,” Cordy supplied. “Turpin always came up second place. He also dated Becca in high school before she started going out with Joe.”

“Turpin and his horse Dancer are up against Joe and Miracle in the Fort Worth Futurity,” Ila said, and sank another ball. “They’re his stiffest competition.”

Mariah shot Joe a look. “I take that to mean he’s not a fan of yours?”

“And vice versa.” Joe glowered at Turpin. The scuzzball.

“Turpin was really pissed at Dutch because he wouldn’t sell Miracle to him,” Cordy told Mariah. “There’s some bad blood over that too.”

“I have a feeling I’m sitting in the middle of a turf war,” Mariah said.

“Uh-oh,” Ila said, setting down her pool cue. “Turpin looks drunk.”

“Ignore him,” Cordy said. “It’s your shot, Joe.”

Joe turned his back on Turpin, picked up his cue. “The guy’s a show-off, blowhard.”

“Sounds like a lot of cowboys I’ve known,” Mariah said.

“He’s not a real cowboy,” Joe said. “He lives in a condo, for hell’s sake, and drives a Corvette.”

“But he’s a cutter, right?” Mariah asked, angling her head at Turpin.

He wished she would quit looking at the guy. Why did he care who she looked at? “After a fashion.”

“What does that mean?”

“He doesn’t know how to treat horses. Which is one reason Dutch would never sell a horse to him. He’s rough, runs ’em hard. I can’t stand a man who mistreats animals.” Joe heard the hatred in his voice, saw the startled expression on Mariah’s face.

Back off. You’re coming on too strong.

His mother used to tell him his strong passions would get him into trouble one day. He’d never been the kind of guy to sit on the sidelines. He threw himself into whatever venture he undertook. Rodeoing, cutting horses, grieving, making love.

Lazily, he flicked a gaze over Mariah’s body. The woman could surely fill out a pair of jeans. His pulse jumped. Not good. Not good at all.

But the thing of it was, whenever he was around Mariah he felt alive again. For two years, he’d had a passion for only two things—cutting horses and nursing his grief like sustenance. He wasn’t inclined to let either one of them go.

He turned away from her, felt the heat of her gaze on him as he smacked the ball with his cue, scratched, and then put his stick aside.

“You’re losing your edge, cowboy,” Ila crowed.

“Well, hello there, beautiful, where have you been all my life?” The sound of Lee Turpin’s voice cut through Joe like a saw blade.

A tingle ran up the back of his hands and he curled his fingers into his palms. Tension fisted his shoulder muscles. Slowly, Joe pivoted.

Turpin loomed over Mariah, his stance wide. He stuck his hand out to her, cast Joe a sly glance from the corner of his eye. “Lee Turpin, sweet thing, and you are . . . ?”

“Mariah Callahan.” She took his hand.

Joe gritted his teeth.

“Dutch’s daughter. I am so very sorry for your loss.” Aggressively, Turpin hauled her to her feet, pulled her to his chest on the pretext of giving her a sympathetic hug.

Mariah’s eyes rounded.

In disbelief? Surprise? Or was it delight? Some women liked pushy guys.

“You know, darlin’,” Turpin drawled. “Just let me know when you’re ready to sell your daddy’s land. I’ve got two hundred grand sitting in the bank earmarked for that property.”

Over the top of Mariah’s head, Turpin’s gaze smashed into Joe’s, smacking him like a physical blow.

Once upon a time, when Joe and Becca were first dating, not long after she’d broken up with Turpin, Joe had caught them together in a pasture at a rodeo, standing between two horse trailers in an identical embrace. Except Becca’s arms had been around Turpin’s neck and Turpin’s hand had been on Becca’s ass. That memory was a shard of glass in his heart. Even though, as he stood there in the shadows, and he heard Becca tell Turpin it was over for good, that she was with Joe now, he couldn’t erase the image from his mind of the woman he loved cradled in the arms of his nemesis.

Turpin stared at Joe over a river of bitterness, rivalry, and distrust, and then he reached out and planted a meaty palm over Mariah’s shapely rump.

She gasped, grabbed for Turpin’s hand.

Turpin hung on, his eyes stabbing Joe’s, a dangerous smirk on his face.

“Let go of me!” Mariah demanded.

Turpin yanked her closer, just daring Joe to make something out of it. Instigating a brawl.

Joe had had enough. If Turpin wanted a fight, he’d give it to him. In an instant, he was climbing over the pool table, his anger scaling up to spill from dizzying heights. He body-slammed Turpin.

Everything happened at once.

Spectators surrounded their corner of the room, the air filled with commentary, egging on the fight.

Cordy grabbed for the back of Joe’s shirt, attempting to restrain him. Joe barely heard it rip, hardly felt the rush of air against his skin.

“Stop it,” Ila hollered, and he didn’t know if she was talking to him or Turpin or both of them. All he knew was that if he had to, he’d dismantle Turpin’s arm from its socket to get it off Mariah’s behind.

Mariah shoved at Turpin’s chest, just as Turpin thrust her aside. She went flying into the wall. The air left her lungs with an audible
oomph
and she landed on her butt on the floor.

The asshole had hurt her!

Joe snarled with rage.

Turpin raised his fists.

Joe charged him, headbutting Turpin in the breadbasket.

They went down slugging. Years of pent-up animosity coming to a head. They were pretty evenly matched. Both the same size, both lean and hard-muscled. But Joe had righteous rage on his side and he was winning, sitting on top of Turpin, smacking him in a bare-knuckled free-for-all.

But as he was doing it he kept thinking,
Here I am, back at the first stage of grief all over again.

“Becca wouldn’t have died if she hadn’t married you,” Turpin howled. “If she’d stayed with me she wouldn’t have died. I wouldn’t have let her keep barrel racing. I would have made her stay home and be a good wife.”

Turpin’s cheekbone sliced Joe’s fist, but his words were an arrow, going straight to the truth.

“Becca was her own woman. No man could contain her. Not you. Not me. She lived. She died. She’s gone. It’s over.”

It’s over.

The words echoed in his head and that’s when Joe felt it. True acceptance. Becca was gone, and he was finally ready to let her go, even if Turpin wasn’t. He had options. He could start again. Could feel alive again.

With Mariah?

No, no, not her. But with someone.

“Your fault,” Turpin accused.

Joe grunted, glanced over and saw Mariah sitting on the floor, watching him with frightened eyes. He’d scared her. She was scared of him. Shame burned a brushfire in his heart. What the hell was he doing? What was wrong with him? Bully. Brute. Hooligan.

His moment of hesitation was all that Turpin needed. He plowed a fist squarely into Joe’s left eye, knocked him back.

“Enough!” Ila commanded, simultaneously grabbing both Joe and Turpin by the scruffs of their necks. “If you don’t stop it right now, both of you are going to spend the night in the county jail.”

Joe and Turpin chuffed in simultaneous breaths, both their hands flexed in a boxer’s stance, Ila standing between them.

“If I let you go, will you stop it?” she asked.

Joe nodded begrudgingly, felt the anger drain away. Stupid. He’d been stupid to let Turpin get to him. He’d embarrassed himself in front of Mariah. Dutch would have kicked his ass.

Turpin shrugged. “He attacked me. I want to press charges.”

“Shut up,” Ila snapped. “You had it coming and you know it. Now both of you, clean up this mess and give Clover enough money to cover the damages.”

Sheepish, Joe swiped the sweat from his brow, turned to Mariah, offered his hand to help her up.

She looked into his eyes, shook her head.

He dropped his hand to his side. He couldn’t really blame her for not wanting to touch him. He’d gone off his rocker, acted berserk. He’d terrified her.

Clover came toward them, stepped over the mess of spilled beer and scattered pool cues. Cocked her head at Mariah. “Well, what do you think? If you still want the job, it’s yours.”

Chapter Nine

Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of the rain dance.

—Dutch Callahan

M
ariah’s head spun. She’d never been in a place like this. Seen a brawl like this. Felt quite like this.

Excited. Alive. Real. On fire with desire.

How freaking bizarre was that? She should feel shocked or alarmed or something appropriate. Instead, the sight of Joe defending her honor in the most primal way a man could defend a woman turned her on as she’d never before been turned on.

No man had ever fought for her. Over her.

It was wrong. So wrong, and yet all she wanted to do was draw him into her arms and kiss him until she couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t she stop thinking like this? She didn’t want to think like this.

When he reached down a palm to help her up the first time, she’d been so overwhelmed she’d just stared at it. But this time, when he offered it again, she eagerly placed her small hand in his big one.

Trembling.

She was trembling. His touch made her tremble.

Oh, this was serious trouble. Resist. Resist at all costs.
He is not the man for you. He’s a cowboy in love with horses. Just like Dutch. Just like the first man who walked out on you.

“You okay?” he murmured huskily, his left eye quickly swelling shut.

“I’m fine.” She giggled. She giggled when she got really nervous. Unfortunate habit. “You’re the one who looks like you’ve been run through a blender.”

“Ha!” Turpin said from the other side of the room where Ila had pushed him. “The Turpin blender.” He pantomimed punching a speed bag.

“Outta here.” Ila ushered Turpin toward the exit.

“You’re on Daniels’s side because you’ve got the hots for him,” Turpin accused Ila.