The Cowboy Takes a Bride (6 page)

He thought of the way she’d treated Dutch. Never calling him or coming to see him. Thought about how the last thing Dutch had asked of him was not to contact Mariah until after the funeral.

Joe clenched his jaw, hardened his heart against her.

Just go get your horse.

The morning sun was bright now and it had started burning off the dew. His head throbbed as if someone had buzzed a chain saw through it. So much for aspirin. No more tequila. Ever.

He opened the door of his truck and swung to the ground, but just as he did, Mariah came tumbling from the cabin screaming at the top of her lungs.

Immediately, Joe reacted. He ran toward her, grabbed her up in his arms.

The second his hands touched her, he knew it was a mistake. The top of her sweet-smelling head grazed his shoulder and the earth shifted beneath his feet.

“Whoa there,” he said, alarmed to hear his voice come out thready. He was speaking as much to himself as he was to her. “Whoa.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, and pulled back as if she just now realized whose arms she ran into. “Oh, it’s
you
.”

She said “you” like it was a dirty word.

He grinned, tipped his hat back on his head, slammed a firm grip on himself, and drawled, “Joe Daniels at your service, ma’am.”

She pulled herself up to the full extent of her five-foot-nothing and flashed him a haughty expression. “Good to see you finally managed to find your pants.”

“How long are you planning to keep throwing that in my face?”

“Every time I see you.”

“You’re relentless.”

“You don’t like it? Don’t come around.”

“This wasn’t voluntary.”

“And yet, look, here you are.”

Her smart brown eyes peered into him as if she knew every thought that passed through his head. The woman didn’t miss a trick. Smart-mouthed and sassy. Paradoxically, she was cute in the way of baby chicks. Innocent bit of fluff.

He didn’t like baby chicks. They were too cute, fluffy, and you had to make them a pen so things wouldn’t eat them, and, well, they were just a pain in the ass.

Her pink cherubic cheeks gave her an angelic appearance. Like those wide-eyed kids in the Christmas figurines his mother collected. Her complexion was the color of cream, with a slight dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Cinnamon sprinkled on eggnog. Her lush lips were full, but not wide.

Angels and baby chicks. Who needed that kind of hassle? Especially with the daughter of his best friend. A friend she’d treated like dirt.

But what rattled him to the center of his soul was the aura of loneliness radiating off her in waves. She was as isolated as Joe.

Startled by that realization, involuntarily he tightened his arms around her. “What’s wrong, what has you running and screaming from the cabin like demons are on your tail?”

“Sn-sn-snake,” she stammered, and trembled. “There’s a rattlesnake in the cabin. I’m terrified of snakes.”

But of course, snakes and baby chicks were sworn enemies. “In the bedroom?”

“How did you know?”

Joe laughed in relief.

“You’re laughing at me.” She glowered and swatted at his chest, a soft, girlie blow. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“The snake in the bedroom? That’s just Stuffy.”

Mariah narrowed her eyes. “Who’s Stuffy?”

She aroused something in him, something illogical, improbable, impossible; something beyond the sexual attraction that instantly hardened him below the waist. Briefly, he closed his eyes, swallowed hard, struggled to gain self-control.

Frankly, his body’s reaction shocked him. He’d grown accustomed to feeling nothing. Here was living proof that his libido hadn’t died with Becca, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Scratch that. He was sure. He didn’t like it at all and he didn’t like her. He wasn’t going to let some cute little thing unhinge him simply because he hadn’t had sex in two years.

But that was easier said than done when her well-rounded breasts were smashed snugly against his chest. Get away from her. Move now.

Joe stepped back and immediately felt better. “Stuffy is a taxidermied rattlesnake mounted on a shellacked tree stump. Dutch told me he won Stuffy as a trophy at his first amateur cutting exhibition.”

“Oh yeah.” Mariah sounded dumbfounded. “I remember that snake now. Dutch used to keep it on the bureau in the bedroom. He was so proud of Stuffy. My mom hated it and she kept throwing clothes over the atrocious thing to hide it.”

“Ah, sentimental memories.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Never.” He put on a serious face.

“That damn snake really scared me.” Her smart brown eyes flashed with spunk. Her scent—a combination of flowers and cookies—clung to him.

Before he’d married Becca, he’d been something of a scoundrel. He’d be the first to admit it. He’d been one helluva bull rider and that wasn’t all ego talking. Eight solid seconds on the backs of critters named Terminator and Satan’s Son and Buzz Saw earned a man his pick of buckle bunnies. He made enough money on the PRCA to purchase Green Ridge Ranch after a knee injury had knocked him out of the bullpen. But he hadn’t minded. He had his day in the sun. He’d married Becca and he’d been faithful, and once he lost her, he lost all interest in sex.

Until now.

And he hated himself for it. Hated her.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a bottle of tequila to kill or something?” she snapped.

“I’m not a drunk,” he said lightly, suddenly wanting her to know that he didn’t make a habit out of getting blitzed and falling into horse troughs. Why did he give a good damn what she thought of him?

Last night had been a rare lapse. He was over it now. Well, except for the pounding headache.

Mariah reached up to touch her neck in a self-conscious gesture. He tracked her movements, and that’s when he saw that a couple of buttons on her sweater were undone, giving him a helluva glimpse at a pink lace bra.

Ah, hell. He did not want to stare but he couldn’t look away.

“Stop ogling my breast.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His gaze stayed glued to her chest.

“Yo, buddy.” Mariah snapped her fingers near her face. “Eyes up here.”

“Kind of hard to do,” he said. “When you’re flaunting it.”

“What?” She glanced down, her mouth formed an alarmed, silent O, then she instantly started buttoning up. “The buttons must have come undone while I tried to take a nap in the backseat.”

Joe shifted his attention toward the white sedan, relieved to have something else to look at. “You slept in your car?”

“It’s a long drive from Chicago.”

“Why didn’t you get a motel room?”

“I couldn’t afford a rental car and a motel room. And since I couldn’t drive a hotel room, the vehicle won out.”

She had a fine sense of the absurd. Unexpected.

“You’re broke?”

“In a word, yes.”

“Dutch told me you were a wedding planner. What happened with that?”

“Dutch talked about me to you?” Her suspicious eyes instantly softened and her voice sounded hopeful. In that moment, she looked so starkly vulnerable it hurt Joe’s head.

“Every day,” he admitted, wanting for some perverse reason to hurt her.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip and her eyes clouded.

“How come you never came to see him?” Joe murmured, knowing how much it had hurt Dutch to have so little contact with his only child. He never talked about his regret, but it was in his voice every time he spoke Mariah’s name.

She tossed her head, struggled to control the tiny quiver in her chin. “That was his choice, not mine. He’s the one who left me and my mother for horses.”

Joe rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck, ashamed of his cruel impulse. Ila was right. He didn’t know Mariah’s side of the story. “I’m sorry about your father’s passing.”

“I should be giving you condolences since you knew him so much better than I did,” she said.

“You’re jealous?”

“That my own father preferred the company of strangers and horses to mine? Why would you think I’m jealous? ‘Resentful’ just might be the word you’re looking for.”

Ouch. He was strolling in a field strewn with land mines of emotions between Mariah and her father. One wrong move and he’d blow himself up.

She crossed her arms over her chest, knitted her brow in a scowl, tough as the South Side of Chicago, but she couldn’t mask the quick glimmer of sadness in her brown eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Miracle.”

She startled. “What?”

“Some Kind of Miracle.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It’s a horse. A quarter horse stallion to be precise and the best cutting horse I’ve ever had the pleasure to clamp eyes on.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Miracle was Dutch’s horse. When Miracle won several cutting events in a row, we knew we had something special on our hands.”

“If he’s Dutch’s horse, what do you have to do with it?”

“He trained Miracle. I rode him. We knew we stood a good chance at winning the Fort Worth Triple Crown Futurity this season. The purse is four hundred thousand dollars. Dutch told me Miracle was his last chance.”

“Last chance for what?”

“To settle down,” Joe said. “Make amends. Redemption. Hell, I don’t know. We didn’t talk about stuff like that. He just offered me the stallion in exchange for this old cabin he’d been renting, the horse barn, and four hundred acres of land a few weeks before he died. I took him up on it.”

“I see.” She turned to run a scathing gaze over the ramshackle house. “Looks like you got the best end of that deal. Want to trade back?”

“What would you do with a cutting horse?”

“Sell it.”

“You can’t sell Miracle!” What in the hell was wrong with this woman? She had some screwed-up values. “That stallion is the best cutting horse to ever draw breath.”

“Oops, forgive me for blasphemy.” Mariah rolled her eyes. “I had no idea you were one of
those
.”

“One of what?” he drawled lethally, not liking her tone.

“Pie-in-the-sky dreamers just like my father.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Miracle
is
going to win the futurity.”

“You sound just like Dutch in the throes of his get-rich-quick schemes.”

“Anyone who thinks you can get rich quick training cutting horses has no idea what they’re talking about. It takes time, hard work, skill, and lots of luck just to make a passing living.”

“And yet you’re certain this horse is going to win.”

“He’s not named Some Kind of Miracle for nothing.”

They fell silent, warily watching each other.

“Does that pickup truck belong to Dutch?” she asked, nodding at the dually.

“It does.”

“Do you know if he left it to anyone?”

“I believe it’s yours. You need to go see your father’s lawyer, Art Bunting, for the details of his estate.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

Joe never intended on saying the next words out of his mouth, but somehow they just slipped out. Probably guilt over being mean to her a few minutes ago. Or maybe some damn misguided sense of chivalry. “You need someone to follow you to turn in the rental car and give you a ride back?”

“Would you do that?” She sounded astonished.

Every instinct was telling him to leave her to her own devices, but Joe wasn’t built that way. He saw a damsel in distress and he broke out in Sir Galahad. Bad habit, but there it was. “Sure.”

“That’s very kind of you, considering I thumped your hat.”

“I won’t hold it against you.” He grinned. “I was sort of asking for it.”

She raised a palm to hide a yawn. “And could you give me just a couple of hours to get some sleep? I’ve been awake for over thirty-six hours.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “We’ll do it tomorrow after you’ve had a good night’s sleep. In the meantime, I’ll just go round up Miracle from your barn and take him back home.”

Chapter Four

At some point, home is a strange land.

—Dutch Callahan

M
ariah left Joe to retrieve his horse and went back inside the house. One more look at the mess and she heaved a deep sigh. If she had any money, she’d drive to a motel. As it was, she had to make do. At least the house was hers and she wouldn’t have to sleep in her car.

A place to call her own. In Jubilee, Texas. Cowboy country. The last place she ever wanted to wind up.