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Pete reared back, bracing his hands low on his hips. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Some greenhorn?” He swelled his chest and thumped a fist against it. “This here is Pete Dugan, current contender for World Champion Bronc Rider. I believe I ought to be able to handle a little old ranch by myself for a couple of days.”
“I know Clayton wouldn’t ask if he wasn’t desperate,” Troy said, still looking uncertain. “He said his hired hand’s home with the chicken pox. Caught it from his kids. He tried calling Carol, but she wasn’t home.”
At the mention of Carol, Pete sagged against the wall. No, Carol wasn’t home, he thought, swallowing hard. She was right here in Mesquite at the rodeo. He’d seen her himself less than two hours before. “Carol still leases that place down the road from Clayton’s?” he asked uneasily.
“Yeah. And she teaches riding lessons a couple of times a week in his arena. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
Pete dropped his head back against the wall and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. “No,” he said, trying to convince himself it was true. “No problem.”
“How soon can you leave? Clayton said he’d wait until you got there.”
“Three hours, max.”
It was nearly two in the morning when Pete bumped his way across the cattle guard marking the entrance to Clayton’s ranch. His eyes gritty from lack of sleep, he dragged a hand down his face and sighed. Ahead he could see the porch light was on…and Clayton on the top step, pacing.
Though Pete knew he’d miss a rodeo or two by filling in for Clayton, he figured if his efforts helped his friend save his marriage, the sacrifice was well worth any loss he might suffer in the standings. Both Clayton and Troy were his buddies, traveling the rodeo circuit with him, and, for all practical purposes, the only family he had.
Forcing an overbright smile for Clayton’s benefit, he hopped down from the truck. “The troops have arrived!” he shouted, then felt his knee give way beneath him. Cursing, he stumbled, but quickly righted himself.
“You’re drunk,” Clayton said, his eyes narrowing.
Pete straightened indignantly. “I am not.”
Clayton stepped closer, sniffing. Curling his nose, he withdrew. “You smell like a damn brewery. How the hell am I supposed to leave my ranch in the hands of a drunk?”
Angered by his friend’s wrongful assumption, Pete tossed back, “Well, you sure as hell didn’t seem to mind leaving your ranch in a woman’s hands for the past three years.”
Clayton whirled, his eyes dark with warning. “My marriage is none of your business.”
Pete took a step toward him, ready to argue the point, but stumbled again when his knee buckled a second time. He sucked in a breath as pain shot up his leg. Setting his jaw, he bent at the waist and gripped his hands above his knee caps, trying to swallow back the nausea that rose.
“You are drunk,” Clayton accused angrily.
Before Pete could offer another denial, Clayton ducked a shoulder into his midsection, picked him up fireman-style and strode for the corral.
“Put me down, dammit!” Pete yelled. “I’m not drunk!”
“You won’t be in a minute.” With no more warning than that, Clayton heaved Pete from his shoulder and dumped him in the horse trough.
Pete came up sputtering, scraping the water from his eyes. He glared up at Clayton. “You jackass! I’m not drunk! It’s my knee, dammit!” He fished his cowboy hat from the murky water and levered himself from the trough. His shirt and jeans were plastered to his body, and water sluiced down his face and dripped from his chin.
“Your knee?” Clayton dropped his gaze to stare at the bandage wrapped tightly around his friend’s leg.
Pete slapped the waterlogged hat over his head. “Yes, my knee. The bronc I rode last night thought the pickup man was taking a little too long in fetching me, so he decided to scrape me off his back on the arena wall. Wrenched my bad knee.”
Clayton ducked his head. “I didn’t know.”
“No, you didn’t. You just assumed. And you know what happens when a person assumes something, don’t you?”
Scowling, Clayton glanced up. Then, heaving a sigh, he slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders and headed him back toward the house. “Yeah. He makes an ass of himself,” he muttered.
“Apology accepted.”
Clayton whipped his head around to frown at Pete. “I didn’t offer an apology.”
Pete grinned and looped his arm over Clayton’s shoulders, letting his friend take most of his weight. “No, but I could tell you wanted to.” His grin widened while Clayton’s frown deepened. Limping along at his friend’s side, Pete felt the water squishing inside his boots and figured they were ruined…but decided he’d take that up with Clayton later. His buddy had enough on his mind at the moment. “You packed and ready to go?”
“Yeah.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Long as it takes.”
“You gonna put up a fight for her?”
At the porch Clayton dropped his arm from Pete’s shoulders and turned to face him. “If that’s what’s required.”
“She’s worth it,” Pete said with a nod of approval. “Rena’s a good woman.”
Clayton glanced toward the house, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “Yeah. I suppose.” Heaving a weighty sigh, he stooped and picked up his duffel bag. “Are you sure you can handle the ranch alone?”
Pete smiled confidently. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
With a last, doubtful look, Clayton turned for his truck. “I left a list of instructions on the kitchen table. If you need me, you can reach me on my cell phone.”
“You just bring Rena and the kids back home where they belong,” Pete called after him. “I’ll take care of things here.” He lifted a hand in farewell, then, when he was sure Clayton couldn’t see the action, he sank down on the porch step with a groan. He stretched out his leg to relieve the pressure on his throbbing knee…and wondered how he was going to manage a fifteen-hundred-acre ranch when the thought of making the short trek to his truck to gather his gear filled him with dread.
Pete awakened to pain. But that was nothing new. Seemed pain was his constant companion. He rolled to his back, his hand going instinctively to the puckered flesh on his knee. The scar his fingers rubbed at was two years old, left by a surgeon’s knife, but the pain in his knee wasn’t old. It was constant. He’d learned to live with it, as he had another pain…the one in his heart.
Refusing to think about that other pain, or the woman who had caused it, he pushed himself to a sitting position. He swung his left leg over the side of the bed and gingerly guided his right leg to join it. Standing, he kept his weight on his good leg as he tested the strength in the right. When it wobbled, he sighed and reached for the bandage he’d tossed over the chair the night before and sank back down on the bed, knowing he wouldn’t make it very far without the added support. He wrapped the knee tightly, then stood again, testing his knee’s ability to take his weight. Satisfied that it could, he tugged on his blue jeans and reached for his shirt. Barefoot, he limped for the kitchen. His boots were by the back door, where he’d left them, and a pool of water lay beneath the ruined leather soles. And, dangit, they were his favorite pair, too.
“You owe me a new pair of boots, Clayton,” he muttered as he detoured for the coffeemaker. He reached for the can of grounds and caught a glimpse of his hat lying on the counter, its brim limp, its crown crushed. “And a hat,” he added, frowning as he measured grounds into the basket. While the coffee perked, he hopscotched his way across the rocky drive to his truck and dug out an old pair of boots from behind the seat. Grabbing his cellular phone from the base unit on the console, he stuck it in his shirt pocket.
As he turned to head back to the house, he saw a truck by the barn…and stopped, staring, his heart slowly sinking to his stomach. He knew who the truck belonged to. And knew, too, that he might as well get it over with. No sense in avoiding the inevitable.
Bending over, he quickly stuck a foot into a boot, pulled it on, then gritted his teeth as he hopped a full circle, struggling to tug on the other one. Winded by the exertion, he straightened, hitching his hands low on his hips, and stared in the direction of the barn, dreading the confrontation.
But he had to do it, he told himself. There was no way he was going to be able to avoid seeing her, short of leaving Clayton in a bind.
Setting his jaw, he headed for the barn, trying to hide his limp, just in case she was watching. A man had his pride, after all, he reminded himself. He stepped inside the dim interior and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden change in light. He heard her murmuring softly to a horse in the far stall. As the sound of her voice washed over him, he curled his hands into tight fists at his sides. God, how he’d missed her.
But he wouldn’t let her know. Not when she had left him high and dry, without a word of explanation.
Hoping to keep his presence unknown for as long as possible, he followed the sound of her voice, keeping his tread light as he moved down the long alleyway. At the stall where she worked, he moved to the gate and braced his hands along its top rail. Inside, she was bent over, cleaning clods of dirt and stone from a sorrel mare’s rear hoof. Worn jeans covered long legs, slightly bent, and hugged slim hips shaped like an upside-down heart. A bright yellow T-shirt stretched across her back and was tucked neatly into the waist of her jeans. The brim of a stained cap shadowed her face, and hair—nearly the same shade of red as the mare’s sleek coat—spilled like a waterfall from the cap’s back opening and over her shoulders.
At the sight of her his chest tightened painfully.
“Hello, Carol.”
She dropped the mare’s hoof and whirled. He watched her green eyes widen and was glad that he’d had the element of surprise on his side. If the situation had been reversed and she’d walked up on him unsuspected, he was afraid he might have fainted dead away. Or cried. And he wasn’t sure which would’ve been worse.
Her eyes slowly narrowed and she turned her back to him, stooping to lift the mare’s hoof again.
“Hello, Pete.”
“Saw you at the rodeo last night. Were you there to watch me ride?”
She tossed a frown over her shoulder. “In your dreams, maybe.” Turning her attention back to the horse’s hoof, she added, “If you’re looking for Clayton, he’s not here.”
Though her comment stung, Pete hadn’t expected any less from her. She’d made it clear two years ago that she didn’t want to see him again. But what she hadn’t made clear was why. “I didn’t come to see Clayton. I came to take care of the place while he goes chasing after Rena.”
“He’s wasting his time.”
Pete opened the gate and stepped inside, closing it behind him. “What makes you say that?”
“Rena finally wised up and realized that Clayton doesn’t want a wife.”
“He married her, didn’t he?”
She dropped the mare’s hoof and slowly turned to face him. “Only because he had to.” She tossed the hoof pick into the tack box and retrieved a brush. Placing a hand on the mare’s wide rump, she moved to the animal’s opposite side.
Pete watched her, wondering if she felt she needed the barrier of the horse between them. “Clayton didn’t have to do anything. He married Rena because he wanted to.”
She snorted a laugh as she swept the brush along the mare’s neck. “Uh-huh. And I’m sure that’s why he stays on the road all the time, seldom coming home and rarely bothering to call to check on his wife and kids.”
He knew what she said was true. Hadn’t he worried about the same thing, constantly nagging at Clayton to call Rena and let her know that he was all right? Still, he felt an obligation to defend his friend. “You know what life’s like on the circuit. Racing from one rodeo to the next. Operating on little or no sleep. Eating breakfast in one state, dinner in another.”
She stopped brushing and lifted her head, focusing in on the cell phone he’d tucked in his shirt pocket. Slowly she lifted her gaze to his, arching a brow. “You know, technology is a wondrous thing. A person can pick up a phone and make a call no matter what the time or their location.” She gave her head a shake and went back to her brushing. “Sorry, Pete. Can’t buy into that excuse.”
He tossed his hands up in frustration. “Okay, so maybe Clayton hasn’t been the model husband.”
“He hasn’t been a husband, at all. Or a father.”
Pete quickly stepped to the mare’s side to glare at Carol over the animal’s back. “Now wait just a damn minute. Clayton loves those kids.”
She stopped brushing and rested her forearm along the mare’s spine. “Yes, I think he does,” she said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But the sad part is, he doesn’t know how to express it.”
“And you’re a professional when it comes to dealing with relationships head-on, aren’t you, Carol?” He knew the blow was low and well aimed. But he didn’t care. She’d hurt him when she’d disappeared from his life, and the need for revenge was strong.
He watched her face pale, then she took a step back, dragging her hand from the horse’s side. Turning away, she tossed the brush into the tack box. “Don’t go there, Pete.”
“Why not?” he asked, rounding the horse to confront her. “You don’t seem to mind talking about other people’s relationships, their feelings. Why can’t you talk about your own?”
When she angled her head to look at him, the eyes that met his were emotionless. “Because where you’re concerned, I don’t have any.”
Taking the mare’s lead rope, she opened the gate and led the horse out into the alleyway. Pete caught up with her just outside the barn. He grabbed her arm and whipped her around to face him, his fingers digging into the flesh above her elbow. “Yes, you do,” he said, his voice tight with suppressed fury. “You loved me once. I know you did.”
“No,” she said, trying to pull free. “I never loved you.”
He grabbed her other arm and forced her to face him. The mare shied away from the scuffle, jerking the lead from Carol’s hand, then trotted over to graze on the grass growing at the side of the barn.
“Yes, you did,” he growled and gave Carol a shake, determined to make her admit it. “I tasted it every time I kissed you. Felt it every time you put your hands on me. I saw it in your eyes when we made love.”
Panic filled her green eyes, and she frantically shook her head, denying his claim. “No. I didn’t love you. I didn’t.”
He jerked her up hard against him. “Yes, you did.” Then, as if even now he could prove it, he crushed his mouth over hers. He felt her resistance, tasted the denial on her tightly pressed lips…and was even more determined to make her remember what they’d once shared.
He swept his tongue along the seam of her lips and, when she kept them stubbornly pressed together, wondered if he’d been wrong. Maybe she didn’t love him. Maybe she never had. But then he felt a shudder pass through her, and her lips parted beneath his on a low moan of surrender while her hands climbed up his chest to curl around his neck. He felt the dig of her short, blunt nails in his skin as she drew his face closer, the fullness of her breasts as she surged against him, the desperation of a long-suppressed need as she mated her tongue with his.
Carol. Oh, Carol. What happened to us? he cried silently.
Tightening his hold on her, he lifted, drawing her to her toes, and thrust his tongue between her parted lips, deepening the kiss. The early morning sun bored down on his back, and a rivulet of sweat trailed irritatingly down his spine. A memory pushed itself into his mind of another time when he’d held her just this way, the sun warm on his back. Drawing her down to a quilt spread beneath the shade of the old live oak tree that grew on the rise just above her house. Watching the dappled sunshine play over her bare breasts. Feeling the heat of her body burning beneath his. Tasting her. Filling her. The mindless pleasure of losing himself in her, making her his.
But she wasn’t his. She’d cut him out of her life, refusing to see him and never returning his calls.
Remembering that, he pushed her from him, his chest heaving as he stared down into her flushed face. Her lids fluttered up until her gaze met his. He saw the passion that glazed her eyes, the brief flicker of disappointment that he’d ended the kiss…and he knew he was right. She did love him. Or, at the least, she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she tried to pretend.
Slowly her hands slipped from around his neck, and she dropped them to her sides. She took a step back, then another, the heat in her eyes giving way to a cool indifference.
She swept her tongue lazily across her upper lip. “You still know how to kiss a woman, Pete. I’ll give you that.” Turning her back on him, she strode for the side of the barn where the mare grazed.
Two
“Who’s that man?”
Carol glanced down at Adam, her first student of the day, then followed the line of his gaze to where Pete was riding away from the barn, Clayton’s cow dog trotting closely behind. The straw hat Pete wore was old, stained and pulled low over his forehead, shadowing his face. But she could tell by the way he sat in the saddle—shoulders square, spine as straight as an arrow—that he was still angry with her. Even the way his fingers curled around the lariat he held against his leg—knuckles white against his tanned skin and digging into his thigh—was an indication of his dark mood.
With a sigh she turned back to the mare she was saddling and pulled the cinch tight. “That’s Pete Dugan.”
“Is he a rodeo cowboy?” Adam asked, squinting up at her.
“Yes.”
“Is he a roper like Clayton?”
Chuckling, Carol squatted down, putting herself eye level with Adam. At six, his heroes were all still cowboys. “No, he’s a bronc rider.”
His eyes, already magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses, grew even larger. “For real?”
Laughing, Carol tapped the brim of his cap, knocking it down over his eyes. “Yes, for real.” She rose, drawing her hands to her hips. “Now, are you ready to ride this old bronc?” she asked, nodding toward the horse she’d just saddled.
Adam shoved up the cap and scowled at the mare who stood placidly at the arena fence. “Honey’s not a bronc. She’s just a horse.”
Carol bent over and cupped her hands, offering Adam a boost up to the saddle. “That’s what you think, buster. Honey may not buck now, but when she was younger, there wasn’t a cowboy around who could ride her.”
Adam planted a boot in her hands and swung a leg over the saddle as she hefted him up. “No foolin’?”
“No foolin’.” She gathered the reins and passed them to him. “Warm her up, okay? Three laps at a walk. Two at a trot. And remember your posture. Head up, back straight, heels down.”
