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“Where are you staying?” The question was out before Trace could stop himself. He knew the answer. Larry hadn’t scored in the money, and he was nobody’s favorite road warrior, so he had to be sleeping single in his pickup.
“Put it this way, there’s no running water,” Larry said.
“Come on over to the Sheridan Inn. I got myself a room this time out.”
“I wouldn’t wanna put you out, Trace. That’s a fancy place.”
“I know. All I’m offering is soap and water.” Trace tapped the big man’s chest with the back of his hand. “You don’t wanna out-reek Bob’s burgers.”
Trace topped off his steak by washing down a few aspirin and left the hotel dining room hoping Larry hadn’t left the bathroom in a mess. Trace didn’t mind sharing—he’d been raised to share—but he’d also been taught to clean up after himself, especially when he was sharing a room or a bed. Growing up he’d shared a low-end range of small quarters and smaller beds with his younger brother, Ethan, who’d never done well with rules. Cleaning up after Ethan had taught Trace a corollary to the clean-up rule. People should do it for themselves. Otherwise, each mess was a little harder to deal with than the last. Leaving a mess in the bathroom had become a deal breaker for sharing a room with Trace. But he’d still make an exception for his brother. All Ethan had to do was show up.
Or the camera lady. She could drop her towel on Trace’s bathroom floor anytime. He hadn’t expected her to use the ticket, but he knew damn well she’d given it some thought. No matter what her circumstances, he knew he’d caught more than her eye. And she’d sure stimulated his imagination. If a woman like her went out on the town, where would he find her? Provided he felt like looking for a woman who smelled like an orange tree standing in the middle of a horse barn. Pretty risky for a horse-barn kind of a guy.
He was on his way to the hotel bar and a shot of pain reliever when he ran into calf roper Mike Quinn, who said he was buying. He could have sworn Mike wasn’t old enough to get served, but his driver’s license said he was legal. Barely. Trace had just finished turning up Mike’s roping horse, a sideline that was becoming increasingly profitable.
“I owe you one,” Mike said as he smacked his cash down on the bar as though he had a point to make. “Eleven-two, man, that’s the fastest run I’ve made all summer. You put a hell of a handle on that horse.”
“That’s what you paid me for.”
Trace stepped aside for a lady looking for a barstool.
He wouldn’t be riding one of those tonight. With a rodeo in town, one drink in a fancy hotel bar was all he was good for. If he could get past his headache, he’d find the party down at the low end of Main Street on the other side of the tracks.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mike said quietly. He’d suddenly gone shy. “The horse did his part, but the roper’s a little slow on the ground.”
Trace lifted one shoulder. “You drew a big calf.”
“Caught him, too, but damn them doggies’re getting heavy. Now that you’ve got my horse lined out, I’m gonna have to get myself a personal trainer. I don’t suppose you’d …”
“I only work with horses. Cowboys can be temperamental.” But they didn’t call calves doggies anymore. Mike needed to put some new tunes on his iPod.
“Not this cowboy. Win or lose, I celebrate.” Mike was pushing it, laying his novice hand on Trace’s proven shoulder. The kid had a lot to learn before he could rightly call himself a cowboy. “Whatever you’re drinking tonight, it’s on me. Frank Taggert’s here and Earl Kessler. You know Earl?”
“I don’t.”
“Earl has a big spread over on the Powder River. I belong to a team-penning club that meets at his place. You should check us out. We’ve got guys coming from as far away as Casper.”
“I haven’t played team sports since high school.” And he damn sure wasn’t interested in driving a hundred miles or more to play cowboy. Not that he had anything against the popularity of team penning. He’d trained a couple of cutting horses for penning club members.
“Earl’s place is kinda central, easy to get to, he doesn’t charge us to use his stock, and he always fires up the grill and ices down the beer. I fixed him up for dinner tonight.” Mike laughed. “With my mother. You believe that?”
Trace glanced up from his drink, ready for some weird punch line. Mike had a weird sense of humor.
The kid shrugged. “My dad’s been dead a year now and it’s time she moved on. So to speak.”
Trace remembered a time when he’d hoped for a new dad. Not that he’d missed the old one, whoever he was, but at the age of ten he’d imagined his mother doing a better job of mothering if she hooked up with a man who’d stick around. He couldn’t have asked for better than Logan Wolf Track, who’d stuck by Trace and his brother even after their mother had walked out on all of them. So Mike had just earned a few points in Trace’s book for looking after his lonely mother.
Glancing past Trace’s shoulder, Mike frowned. “Speak of the devil …”
Trace suddenly felt a little buzzed and he knew the whiskey wasn’t that potent. He turned slowly. She was a willowy silhouette standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright lobby. He suddenly got all tingly. Strangest, most godawful giddy sensation he could imagine, partly because he knew who she was, knew she was surprised to see him even though he couldn’t quite make out her face. “That’s your mother?”
“Stepmother,” Mike said quietly as they watched her approach them at the bar, at once purposeful and unhurried. “But I don’t like that term. Sounds cold, y’know?”
“Cold as the devil.” Trace nodded, inadvertently lifting his hand to touch a hat brim that wasn’t there. “Mrs. Quinn.”
“Trace Wolf Track,” she said, eyes alight. “Your name was on the program.”
“You were there?”
“How else was I going to get a program?” She smiled. “You were magnificent.”
“Thanks.” Magnificent. Damn. “For eight whole seconds.”
“Just a sample. Imagine eight whole hours.” Her quick laugh was throaty and rich. “You’re all alike.”
Trace raised one eyebrow and challenged her with a look. Try me.
“Looks like we can skip the introductions,” Mike said.
“Only if your mother likes to be called Mrs. Quinn.” But Mike could skip town now for all Trace cared. He only had eyes and ears for …
“Skyler.”
“This is the guy who trained Bit-o-Honey,” Mike supplied. “You wrote the check. Remember?”
Trace glanced down at the glass in his hand. He’d hardly looked at the check. Counted the zeros, copied them onto the deposit slip. Why did it feel funny knowing that she’d been the one who’d paid him?
“I’m the bookkeeper.” She gave a honeyed laugh. “Names might escape me, but I never forget an expense category.”
“You remembered mine from the program.”
“I had a face to put with it.” She turned to her son. Stepson. “I was taking pictures at the arena this afternoon, and Trace and I … crossed paths.”
Trace slid her a smile.
“What happened to Earl?” Mike demanded, glancing toward the lobby.
Skyler stabbed Mike’s arm with a small but forceful forefinger. “The question is, what happened to you?”
“I told you guys to go ahead and get supper. I’m toasting my trainer here.”
“Were you invited to Mike’s party, too?” she asked Trace.
“I was offered a drink.” He lifted his half-full glass. “I’m a long way from getting toasted.”
She claimed Trace’s drink and mirrored his gesture. “Here’s to Mike and his trainer.”
Down the hatch.
She set the empty glass aside and took number two from Mike’s hand, flashing an enticing glance at Trace as she raised the glass. “And to Trace Wolf Track and his impressive horse sense.” Down the hatch.
Glass on wood, she called out, “Bartender! Another round for these two cowboys.”
“Okay, she’s mad now,” Mike told Trace.
“Not anymore.” Skyler gave Mike a perfunctory smile. “If you aren’t having dinner with Earl, you might want to tell him he’s excused.”
“I was coming back.”
“You were on your way back, but you ran into a couple of buddies, and one drink led to another.” She shifted from script reader to instructor. “Earl doesn’t interest me. Nothing about Earl interests me. I had a wonderful time at the rodeo, Mike. You interest me because you’re my son. Trace interests me because he’s … interesting.” She spared Trace a pointed glance. “Earl does not interest me.”
“But he’s got—”
“I don’t care what he’s got. You don’t have to worry about me. Okay?” She shrugged dismissively. “And if this is a celebration, I’m not feeling it.”
“One more oughta do it.” Mike gave a nod for the two drinks the bartender was just setting down near his elbow.
“You know what?” Trace pulled a couple of bills from his pocket and tossed them on the bar. “In the interest of mutual interest—” he turned to Skyler and smiled “—why don’t we hold off and take a walk?”
“What about Earl?” Mike demanded. Trace laid a friendly hand on Mike’s beefy shoulder. “I’d say Earl is your problem, son.”
“Son?”
“You make a date, it’s yours to keep, yours to break.”
“Impressive,” Skyler said. “Who trained the trainer?”
“My dad. Logan Wolf Track is the best there is.” He gestured toward the exit with a flourish. After you. “What’s your pleasure tonight, Mrs. Quinn?”
“Do you dance?”
“Hell, yeah, like nobody’s watching. You know any cowboys who don’t?” He offered his arm. “Mrs.
Quinn?”
“Mrs. Quinn doesn’t remember how to dance like nobody’s watching.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and smile up at him. “But let’s see if Skyler does.”
Chapter Two
There was a sweet sensuality about the way Trace held her when they danced—not hard, not tight, but close enough to feel the power in his thighs and the heat in his belly and the cool in his carriage. Her body moved with his, riding double on a silky new song. New for Skyler, anyway. She hadn’t danced in ages, which was not a measure of time, but a chunk of life. She felt lighter on her feet than she had in ages, lighter in heart and head. Giddy-light, something a man like Trace would know nothing about. She felt so new she was afraid if she opened her mouth she’d squeal with delight or babble some kind of gibberish and he’d have no interest in a translation. So she kept quiet and rode her senses, her thighs glancing off his, her nose sneaking up on his neck, her ears tuning in to the drums and the steel guitar.
Given the kind of erotic thoughts she’d been having lately, it was probably pretty risky for her to let a man who smelled this good get this close, but she was sure she had the upper hand. She was a woman, after all. She knew how to smell the flowers. Or, in this case, the alfalfa. She knew how to lose herself on a little detour, soak up some unexpected warmth and inhale the greener grass.
Close your eyes and take a long, slow breath. Let the picture draw itself in your mind. Pure, natural manhood.
Now that she knew why Mike had insisted on her coming to Sheridan to watch him put his newly trained calf roping horse to the test, she had to admit, he wasn’t totally off base. It felt good to “meet somebody.” Not Mike’s choice of somebody. Not an internet site’s choice or the choice of a friend worried about her widowhood, but her own out-of-the-blue discovery. Somebody who tapped into her own senses and jangled nerves she’d tried and failed to forget she had. Not that she didn’t like the feeling, but she wasn’t sure she could rein it in if she gave it any slack.
“It was nice of Mrs. Quinn to let me take Skyler dancing.” He leaned back and smiled at her. “Tell her for me next time you see her.”
“Tell her yourself.” She looked up, but not, she realized, as far up as she’d expected to. The way he carried himself made him seem taller than he was.
“Truthfully, I don’t see her. Everyone else does, but I don’t.”
“You’re like that comedian on TV, huh? He doesn’t see skin color, including his own?” He chuckled. “How do you know what everyone else sees?”
“Maybe not you. Who do you see?”
“Right now, I see a woman who’s enjoying herself.”
“Good eye, cowboy.” Wolf eyes. Tawny and teasing, they twinkled with every charming line he spoke. “Would you have fixed me up with Earl Kessler?”
“Absolutely not. And I don’t know Earl Kessler.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what Mike was thinking. He should have fixed you up with me.”
“He shouldn’t be trying to fix me up at all.”
“If he hadn’t, would we be dancing right now?” He raised his wounded brow. “Would Mrs. Quinn have let Skyler come out to play?”
“Mrs. Quinn might have gone out with you herself. You wouldn’t have been able to dance this close, but otherwise you wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Ah, so you do know her.”
“I don’t see her, but she was fifteen years in the making, so I know her.”
He smiled again. “I only dance as close as my partner wants me to. Sometimes it’s like this. Sometimes it’s even closer. But I always know the difference.”
“Instinctively?”
“My instincts are pretty good. I’ve got good ears, too.”
“And you’ve got a good lump on your head.” The knot on the right side of his temple was decorated with Steri-Strips. Without thinking, she touched the outer edge of the goose egg. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I touch it.” He laughed when she jerked her hand away. “Do that again. Your fingers feel cool.”
She put her hand back in its proper place on his shoulder. “I’ve fallen off a horse a few times, but I’ve never been kicked.”
“I didn’t fall.”
“You were unloaded.”
“I made the whistle. That’s what counts.”
She welcomed the excuse to touch his head again. “This counts.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” he said, grinning. “I know it draws sharks, but I didn’t realize blood was a chick magnet.”
She laughed. “Hardly.”
“Hardly attracted?”
