The Cowboy Way

But damned if she’d say it.

Fantasy or not, the man was a cowboy. Worse, he was a four-time Pro Rodeo championship bull-riding cowboy. Which meant he was a true wild thing, more reckless, more feckless, more fancy-free and unreliable than the usual breed of cowboy. Trouble with a capital T, and she sure as hell didn’t need any more of that in her life.

She gave him her haughtiest glare, and tried to think of anything other than what he’d look like soaking wet and wearing nothing but his black Resistol hat. “I thought you rode down here because you saw someone nosing around the water tank and were concerned they were up to no good.”

“Yep,” he said amiably, wondering exactly what it would take to make her lose her cool and rattle that ironclad composure she wore like a shield. “I surely was. But then I saw you slide down into the water and start…ah…” He hesitated and his gaze dipped downward again, as if he could see beneath the sparkling surface of the water to the place where her hand had been so busily engaged just a few moments ago.

Jo Beth felt every sensitive female part of her body begin to tingle, tensing with anticipation under the promise of that heated look, but she merely smiled—a small, icy, cowboy-withering smile meant to cut a man’s ego to ribbons—and raised an imperious eyebrow, daring him to say it flat out.

“Thrashing around in the water like you were doing,” he finished smoothly, as if that’s what he’d intended to say all along. “Well, it got me to worrying. It surely did. As far away as I was, there was no telling what kind of trouble you were having.”

“Trouble? Is that what you call it?”

The look in his hot-coffee eyes heated to scorching. His wicked cowboy grin turned a shade more knowing and intimate. “Unless you’d like me to call it something else.”

Jo Beth ignored the wild leap of her pulse at the invitation implicit in his words and manner. “What I’d like is for you to turn around and ride away,” she said, knowing she was lying through her teeth. What she’d really like was for him to shuck down to his birthday suit and climb into the water tank with her so she could see if the reality of him lived up to her fantasies.

“And I’d like to oblige you, Miz Jensen,” he said genially, lying in his turn. He thumbed the brim of his hat another half inch farther back on his head. “I really would,” he said earnestly, as if he actually meant it. “But my dear sainted ma raised me up to be a gentleman like my pa—”

Jo Beth snorted inelegantly.

“—like my pa,” he reiterated, giving her a doleful look of mock censure, “an’ she’d roll over in her grave for sure if I was to just up and leave you out here by your lonesome, all unprotected and vulnerable-like. Some fella who ain’t nearly as well-mannered as me might come along an’ try to take advantage of the situation.”

The attitude, the words, the tone, the ridiculously thick aw-shucks-ma’am-I’m-just-a-dumb-cowboy accent were all calculated to make him sound as innocent as a wet-behind-the-ears farm boy. Even the way he was wearing his hat, well back on his head with the brim framing his face like a halo, contributed to the impression of a harmless good-natured hayseed bent on doing the right thing.

But the heated look in his eyes, his sly Cheshire-cat grin, even the casual loose-limbed way he sat his horse was a blatant, unabashed sexual come-on, a challenge of the most sexual sort.

I’ve got what you want, he said, without saying a word. All you have to do is ask.

And, oh, it was tempting.

He was tempting.

Too tempting.

And he knew it.

The arrogant jerk.

That’s what came of having legions of panting, dewy-eyed buckle bunnies throwing themselves at his feet every time he so much as flashed that lady-killer smile of his. It gave a man an exaggerated impression of his appeal and made him think every woman he met was just dying to get down and dirty with him.

There was only one surefire way to regain her dignity and show him he had absolutely no allure for her.

“Well, then, if you won’t leave, I will.”

She put her palms on the rim of the tank behind her and pushed herself up. The movement was swift but unhurried, as natural as if she were rising, unobserved, from her bath. And then, using every last bit of self-control she possessed, she stood there for a moment, knee deep in the trough, and calmly, efficiently sluiced water down her arms and torso with the flat of her hands, just as she would have done had she been alone.

That would show him how unimpressed she was with his cowboy charm.

He didn’t say a word, didn’t so much as move a muscle, but she could feel him watching her, could feel the heat of his gaze following her hands as she briskly skimmed them over her own body. Without looking at him she knew he was completely, absolutely, utterly focused on her. Handsome-as-sin, four-time Pro Rodeo bull-riding champion Clay Madison was looking at her. And practically drooling with lust. The sensation was as physical as a touch, as heady as brandy fumes, as irresistible as a soft, sweet kiss in the dark.

Almost without conscious volition, she raised her hands back to her chest, placing her palms flat against her skin, and moved them downward for a second time, outlining the sleek wet lines of her body as she brushed the water from her skin. Her palms slid over the gentle swell of her breasts…caressed the firm, flat plane of her midriff and stomach…brushed ever so lightly across the patch of dark silky hair covering her pubic mound…

He made a strangled sound, something between a moan and a growl.

Jo Beth looked up at him, square into his eyes. What she saw there caused her to cross her hands over her pubic mound, instinctively, as if to hide it from him. But her shoulders remained straight and square, and her chin was well up. “What?” she said belligerently, trying to pretend she wasn’t the least bit intimidated.

He didn’t move his gaze from her face. “Do you want me to climb down off this horse and get into that tank with you?”

For one brief, delicious, insane second, she actually thought about saying yes. What could it hurt, after all? One hot, fast bout of slap-and-tickle with the fantasy cowboy who’d been driving her crazy for the past week might do her some good. It would get him out of her system, relieve the itch, and settle her down for the wedding tomorrow so she could concentrate on her maid-of-honor duties. No one would know. No one would care. And he’d be gone in a couple of days, so it wasn’t like she’d be in danger of actually getting involved in any kind of messy public relationship that would need explaining somewhere down the line. She could screw him and forget him, and that would be that.

On the other hand, he had the look of a man who might not be all that easy to forget. And that could be plenty messy in its own way, even if nobody ever found out.

“Well?” he demanded, his glare both furious and fascinated.

She opened her mouth. “Ah…” The word stuck in her throat, and the horror of it was, she didn’t know if that word was yes or no. “Ah…”

Clay tightened his hand on the reins, pulling the pinto’s nose up and around with one quick twist of his wrist. “Let me know when you make up your mind,” he said, and touched his spurs to the horse’s sides so that it sprang into a gallop from a standing start.

Jo Beth stood in the water tank, her hands still shielding the dark hair at the top of her thighs, her shoulders still square, and watched him until he disappeared up and over the hill. And then she sank down onto the side of the concrete tank because her knees were trembling too hard to hold her up anymore, and wondered just what the hell she would have said if he’d waited for her answer.

3

“LADIES. LADIES. PLEASE. Let’s have a little decorum here.” Jo Beth rapped the top of the coffee table with her empty glass. “And another shot. I need to make a toast.”

A slender blonde in a hot-pink, lace-trimmed satin chemise peered at her through an untidy fringe of spiky bangs, a half-empty bottle of tequila clutched protectively to her chest. “You just made a toast.”

“Well, I’m gonna make another one. I’m the maid of honor. It’s my job.” Jo Beth rose unsteadily to her knees and thrust her empty glass out across the table, waggling it back and forth under the blonde’s nose. “Come on, Roxy. Pour me another shot so I can do my job.” She waved her free hand expansively. “Pour everybody another shot.”

“Everybody” consisted of all six bridesmaids and the bride-to-be. They were ranged around the glass-topped coffee table in Cassie’s living room in various states of dishabille, from Roxy Steele’s pink satin and black lace chemise, to Cassie’s white eyelet baby doll with embroidered forget-me-not blue flowers, to Jo Beth’s yellow cotton knit tank top and green plaid boxer shorts. Thanks to the professional manicurist Roxy had hired as her contribution to the festivities, they all wore Juicy Peach polish on their toenails and sported matching French manicures.

The table was littered with cold slices of half-eaten pizza, barbecued chicken wings and baby back ribs on paper plates, chocolate-smeared sundae glasses, an empty Sara Lee cheesecake box, and a pile of squeezed-out lime wedges. A phallic-shaped saltshaker sat, strategically placed, atop the centerfold of the most recent issue of Playgirl magazine.

They’d started the evening with two unopened bottles of Jose Cuervo’s finest. The first lay on its side under the table, its contents sacrificed to the evening’s merriment. The second bottle was barely half-full.

Roxy obligingly served it up, pouring shots all around. Most of it ended up in the glasses, but some sloshed over onto the table. Not much, though, considering the bartender was halfway sloshed, as well.

Jo Beth bent her head, licking stray drops of tequila off her fingers, then raised her glass and waited until all five of the other bridesmaids—and the bride—had raised theirs, too.

“To Rooster Wills, the groom-to-be.” Her tone was somber, her manner solemn and almost respectful, as if she had something of particular gravity to say.

“To Rooster Wills,” they echoed, equally somber and serious.

They clinked glasses. More tequila sloshed onto the table.

“May he have more sexual stamina and staying power than the bird he was named after,” Jo Beth said and tossed back the content of her glass in one dramatic gulp.

A cacophony of feminine voices erupted in whoops and squeals. Someone giggled. Someone else spewed a mouthful of tequila out of her nose. They had reached the point in the evening’s festivities where every utterance seemed screamingly funny to at least half of them, and deeply profound to the rest. They’d also gotten to the point where the discussion of sex was inevitable—and inevitably risqué.

“So how about it, Cassie?” Roxy put her forearm flat on the table for balance and leaned in close, unmindful of the puddles of tequila soaking into the front of her satin chemise. “How is ol’ Rooster in the sack?”

Cassie shook her head. “I don’t kiss and tell,” she muttered, hiding a lopsided smile behind the rim of her glass. “It’s not ladylike.”

“Aw, come on, Cassie.” LaWanda Brewster fluffed her springy red curls in a gesture she’d copied from watching countless old Mae West movies. “There aren’t any ladies here. Spill.”

“Yeah, spill, Cassie.” The added encouragement came from Melissa Meeker, an elegant and urbane mortgage broker who’d flown in from Atlanta the previous evening. “I’ve always wanted to know if what they say about bull riders is true.”

Cassie came out from behind her shot glass and aimed a smile at her old college roommate and sorority sister. “And just what do they say about bull riders?”

“Well.” Melissa edged closer to the table and leaned in to dish. Everyone else leaned in, too, until they were huddled over the coffee table like a gaggle of teenaged girls at a slumber party whispering about S-E-X. “I don’t have any personal experience, you understand. Not like some lucky people I could name—” she rolled her eyes at Cassie, who rolled them right back at her “—but I’ve heard tell that all that experience riding bulls sort of transfers over into other, more, shall we say, intimate kinds of riding.” She waggled her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “If you get my meaning.”

They all got it, but, “No, tell us what you mean,” LaWanda said. “Don’t be shy. Just lay it right out there on the table.”

“I mean,” Melissa continued, “if a bull rider can stick on the back of a bull with all that bucking. And twisting.” She drew out each word, her voice husky and heated and not the least bit shy. “And thrashing. And heaving. Well, then, it just naturally follows that he’d have that same kind of expertise and stick-to-it-ness in bed. At least—” she sighed lustily “—I sure hope it does.”

Jo Beth sighed, too, thinking of one particular cowboy bucking and twisting and thrashing around in bed. It created quite a vivid picture in her mind’s eye. She sank back down on her heels and crossed her arms, very casually, over her chest in an effort to conceal just how vivid that picture was. Some of the other bridesmaids weren’t so circumspect.

“Oh, gawd,” LaWanda squealed. “My nipples are getting hard just thinking about it.”

“Speaking of nipples…” Barb Kittner, mother of two, heavily pregnant with her third, and the only one of the seven women who hadn’t sampled the tequila, smiled dreamily. “Cowboys have great hands. Have y’all noticed that? Big. Strong. Capable.” Her dreamy smile turned a shade sly as she pinched her own nipples through the fabric of her soft cotton nightshirt. “Talented.”

The other women hooted in approval.

Jo Beth pressed her thighs together and tried not to think of Clay Madison’s hands and what she had imagined them doing to her earlier that afternoon. Tried not to think of what they would most certainly have done if she’d invited him into the water tank with her instead of sending him away. If she’d said yes, if she’d actually allowed him to do everything she’d imagined him doing, she wouldn’t be suffering the tortures of the foolishly celibate now, listening to the other women talk about cowboys’ legendary—and wholly inflated!—sexual expertise.

“They’ve got great butts, too. Nice and small with tight, compact little buns. Tasty.” Karen Holden, oldest bridesmaid by six months and leader of the Bowie First Fellowship Church Choir, smacked her lips. “Mighty tasty.” She chuckled wickedly. “Makes me want to leave teeth marks on ’em.”

“Good idea.” LaWanda waved her empty glass to show her approval. “Put your brand right smack-dab on their cute little tushies. Keep ’em from straying.”

Jo Beth pressed her thighs even tighter together, and prayed for a turn in the conversation. Good Lord! Did all women have the same fantasies about cowboys? Or had she somehow telegraphed her lustful daydreams to the rest of the bridesmaids? Not that she’d actually imagined biting Clay’s backside but…damn if the idea didn’t sound kind of appealing, now that she thought of it. She squirmed slightly, trying to banish the picture of Clay lying facedown in the sheets on her bed, his tight little cowboy butt offered up like a particularly tasty treat.

“They’ve got great shoulders, too,” Melissa said. “Have you noticed? You just don’t see any stoop-shouldered cowboys running around, now do you? I wonder why that is?”

An instant picture formed in Jo Beth’s mind of Clay Madison’s shoulders. They were a yard wide, at least. Or they’d looked that wide, at any rate, with him sitting up there, atop that pinto gelding, with the sun at his back, silhouetting his impressive shoulders against the blue sky. They’d have been more impressive, of course, without the shirt. Jo Beth closed her eyes, imagining it…imagining him slowly unsnapping the front of that black shirt…imagining him sliding it down off one magnificently broad shoulder…imagining…

“I just like the way cowboys are built. Period,” LaWanda said. “All lean and wiry, with— Hey, Jo Beth. You falling asleep on us?”

Jo Beth’s eyes snapped open. “Oh. No. Sorry. Just resting my eyes. Too much tequila,” she said, flushing as she pushed her empty glass away. “I need to switch to something softer.” She placed one hand flat against the table and levered herself to her feet. “Anybody else want a Coke or a Dr. Pepper while I’m up?”

Nobody did.

They refilled their shot glasses with what was left of the tequila and went right on talking about cowboys while she made her way out to the kitchen.

THINGS WERE A TAD MORE SEDATE over in the bunkhouse at Tom Steele’s Second Chance Ranch, where Rooster and his groomsmen were holding the bachelor party. The seven men sat around a scarred wooden game table, mostly silent as they scrutinized the cards they’d been dealt. George Strait sang softly from the CD player. A narrow side table held the remains of a jumbo deli platter. The yeasty smell of beer mixed with the cigar smoke hovering in a blue cloud over their heads.

“I’m in.” Clay tossed a couple of chips into the pot in the middle of the table, then reached out a long arm and tapped his cigar on the edge of a terra-cotta flowerpot they were using as an ashtray. So far, the spiny barrel cactus in it didn’t seem any the worse for wear. “So, what are the ladies up to tonight?”

Rooster squinted at the cards in his hand. “Slumber party,” he said and tossed in his chips to match Clay’s bet.

“Slumber party?”

“Yeah, you know. A bunch of women in pajamas doin’ girl stuff. Watchin’ sappy movies. Eatin’ popcorn. Talkin’ about whatever it is women talk about when they get together. Probably fixin’ each other’s hair and nails. Stuff like that.”

Clay immediately honed in on what was really important. “What kind of pajamas?”

Tom grinned around the thin black cheroot clamped in his teeth. “I can’t speak for the rest of them, but Roxy packed a really hot-looking pink number with lace all over it,” he said. He’d been jealous of Clay once, a long time ago. He figured it was only fair Clay return the favor now. “Black lace.”

“Black lace, huh?” Clay threw down a couple of cards. “Two,” he said to Hector before turning to Rooster. “How ’bout Cassie?”

Rooster was still squinting at his cards. “How ’bout Cassie what?”

“Her pajamas. She pack a hot number for the slumber party, too?”

“Cassie don’t wear pajamas,” Rooster said, and then blushed beet-red. “What I mean is,” he sputtered, manfully ignoring the snickering of his groomsmen, “she wears a nightgown.”

“What color?” Clay asked.

“I dunno. Blue, usually.”

“It have any lace on it?”

Rooster shook his head. “Flowers,” he said, as he tossed down a single card and signaled for one to replace it.

Quiet reigned for a moment as they all studied their newly reconstituted hands. Bob Evers and Tiny O’Leary, both buddies of Rooster’s from the rodeo circuit, threw down their cards in disgust and got up to get more beer and scavenge at the remains of the deli platter. The other five men all added chips to the pot.

“You know who I wouldn’t mind seeing in her pajamas is that redhead,” Tiny said as he wandered back to the poker table to kibitz. He had a fat dill pickle in one hand and a beer in the other. “That LaWanda what’s-her-name?”

“LaWanda Brewster,” Rooster said.

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Pickle juice dripped down onto the front of Tiny’s plaid shirt but he paid it no mind. “She’s built real nice, that one is. I bet she looks fine in her pajamas. Or in nothin’ at all, if it come to that.”

“Well, hell, if we’re fantasizin’ here and pickin’ favorites, I’ll admit to some curiosity about that slick little gal who flew in from Atlanta yesterday.” Joel Boyd, who ran the local feed store, had been a friend of Rooster’s since they both got sent to detention in high school. “I bet she wears one of those thong things. Most city women do.”

“And you’d know that how?” Tom said. He’d known Joel since high school, too, and felt free to razz him when the BS quotient got too high.

“I read about it in Cosmo,” Joel said, deadpan. He tossed a chip into the pot. “Call.”

Rooster grunted derisively. “I think you’d be ashamed to admit you read that kind of smut.” He tossed in two chips, doubling the bet. “Call and raise.”

“I’m out.” Tom laid his cards facedown on the table and reached for his beer. “You know, I saw all Cassie’s bridesmaids in their pajamas once,” he said into the silence, as they waited for Clay to decide whether he was in or out. “Briefly. It was back in high school. Me and Rooster and a couple of our buddies got it into our heads to crash the cheerleaders’ annual slumber party.”

Rooster smiled in fond remembrance. “The girls started screamin’ and runnin’ around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off when we tapped on the window glass. You’d’a thought we was serial killers or somethin’. A right fine sight, it was. All those cheerleaders flittin’ around in their baby-doll nightgowns.”

Clay glanced up from his contemplation of his cards. “Any of ’em wearing lace?”

“Not that I recall.” Tom finished off the last swallow of his beer and flipped the empty can into a wastebasket. “’Course I have to admit I was kind of distracted by LaWanda’s sister. She’s seven or eight years older, which would have made her all of about twenty-four at the time. She was chaperoning the party.” He shot a grin at Rooster. “Remember?”

Rooster gave a bark of laughter. “I ain’t likely to forget it. She came chargin’ out onto the porch with her daddy’s shotgun pumped and ready, wearin’ nothin’ but a skimpy little black nightgown—”

“With lace,” Tom added for Clay’s benefit.

“—and her hair done up with them big pink rollers with one of those what’d’ya call ’em?—beauty masks?—smeared all over her face. Threatened to pepper our asses with buckshot if we didn’t hightail it outta there. She would’a done it, too.”

“She a redhead, too?” Tiny took up the subject of LaWanda and redheads as if they’d never left it. “I’ve always been partial to red hair on a woman. Top and bottom, if you know what I mean.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Hector “Padre” Menendez censored them all with a look from beneath his grizzled brows. He was an imposing patriarchal figure, more than twice the age of most of the other groomsmen, and had had a hand in raising both Rooster and Tom. “You’re talking about our friends and neighbors, and the wives and daughters of our friends and neighbors. Show a little respect.”

They all had the grace to look shamefaced, except Clay, who sat brooding at his cards, wondering why no one had picked Jo Beth Jensen as an object of their erotic fantasies. True, she wasn’t as out-and-out, in-your-face sexy as Tom’s wife Roxy. She didn’t have flaming red hair and generous curves like LaWanda. She lacked Cassie’s kittenish cuteness. But, damn, she was hot— burning-up-the-stove, curl-your-toes, fry-your-brain hot.

Hadn’t any of these jackasses ever looked at her, he wondered, forgetting that he himself hadn’t really looked at her, either, until she appeared naked in the viewfinder of his binoculars.

“Hey, pard.” Rooster nudged him with his elbow. “You gonna hold ’em or fold ’em?”

“Sorry.” Clay tossed in the chips necessary to stay in the game. “Hold,” he said, and then sat silently while the game progressed, entertaining himself with fantasies of Jo Beth Jensen wearing nothing but a black-lace thong while performing lewd and wonderful acts upon his body.

It was a shame, really, that he wouldn’t be in town long enough to make those fantasies a reality. On the other hand, he wasn’t planning to leave Bowie until the day after the wedding. Two days was more than enough time to make his fantasies—and hers—come true.

“Well, hell, if you’re gonna sit there grinnin’ like a skunk eatin’ cabbage, I’m out, too,” Rooster said, and tossed down his cards.

THEY WERE STILL TALKING about cowboys when Jo Beth came back into the living room with an icy can of soda in her hand.