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Cowboy, Take Me Away
Kathleen Eagle
The camera doesn’t lie… When photographer Skyler first fixed her lens on gorgeous cowboy Trace, she liked what she saw but didn’t give it much thought. Until everywhere she went, there he was, and the heat between them was building to boiling point. As a widow struggling with debts and loyalties from a former life, Skyler needed to stay focused, especially if she wanted to achieve her dream of becoming a mother.Was Trace a dangerous distraction, a mere summer fling? Or did this younger man – so deep, so passionate – hold the key to a future that would make all her dreams come true?
“What’s happening tomorrow?”
His fingers skimmed her palm. “Our first kiss.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. First thing.” He winked at her. “So tell me when it’s midnight.”
“I’m nobody’s timekeeper, Trace.”
“Look at me.” He waited for Skyler’s full attention, which she granted. “Right here, right now, you and me. One kiss to start the day. It’s my birthday.” He glanced at her watch. “It’s midnight.”
“Happy birthday.” She tipped her head and leaned close to bestow a friendly kiss.
He slid his arm around her and met her halfway, raising the ante on her gift by making it interactive, taking her breath away. She felt trembly inside when he lifted his head and looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes that said got’cha.
Dear Reader,
“Cowboy, Take Me Away” is an incredibly romantic song recorded by the Dixie Chicks. The title itself conjures an image silhouetted against a painted Western sky—two lovers on one magnificent horse taking the long way home.
Trace and Skyler are about as different as two people can be, but they have at least one thing in common: each lives in a house that doesn’t feel like home. They meet in the heat of summer, when excitement runs higher, hearts beat faster, and risks are easier to take because it’s rodeo season. Can a cautious woman like Skyler allow herself to be taken away from a world that holds no promise for her by a man who makes his living “going down the road”?
Well, maybe for a day or two.
Happy reading!
Kathleen Eagle
About the Author
KATHLEEN EAGLE published her first book, a Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award winner, in 1984. Since then she has published more than forty books, including historical and contemporary, series and single titles, earning her nearly every award in the industry. Her books have consistently appeared on regional and national bestseller lists, including the USA TODAY list and the New York Times extended bestseller list.
Kathleen lives in Minnesota with her husband, who is Lakota Sioux. They have three grown children and three lively grandchildren.
Cowboy, Take Me Away
Kathleen Eagle
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my wonderful editors, Leslie Wainger
and Charles Griemsman.
Chapter One
Skyler Quinn’s viewfinder served as both protection and pretext for her hungry eye. Naked, her eye was never more than mildly interested. Behind the camera, it was appreciative of all things bright and beautiful. The viewfinder found and framed views she had schooled herself to ignore, like the rear view of five fine-looking cowboys hooked over a fence. She would call the shot Five Perfect Pairs of Jeans.
And then there were four.
Skyler lowered the camera. The best pair of jeans was getting away. Up one side of the fence and down the other, the cowboy on the far left had spoiled the symmetry of her shot. She climbed a set of wooden steps and took a position on the first landing of the outdoor grandstand, where an audience would later gather to watch professional rodeo cowboys ride, rope and race for cash prizes. For now, the place belonged to cowboys, critters and one unobtrusive camera.
Skyler watched the runaway piece of her picture stride purposefully across the dusty arena toward one of several ropers who were warming up to compete in the afternoon “slack” for overflow timed-event contestants. The roper responded to a quick gesture as though he’d been summoned by the coach.
Skyler zoomed in as the two men changed places. She knew horses, and the blazed-face sorrel hadn’t been working for his rider, but the animal collected himself immediately with a new man in the saddle. The camera committed the subtleties of change to its memory card. Eyes, ears, carriage, gait—the animal transformed from ordinary to outstanding before Skyler’s hidden eye.
Now, that’s what I’m talking about.
Or would talk about when she got around to putting a story together. The centaur lived, she would claim. He was no freak of nature, anything but barbaric, and beyond comparison with a mere horse master. He was a partner. He shared his brainpower with the horse and the horse gave him legs. It was a pleasing blend of assets, particularly when both partners were beautifully supplied. Not only would her pictures tell the story, but they could sell the story. Most horse magazines were bought and read by women, and here was a man who would stop any girl’s thumb-through dead in its tracks. Long, lean, lithe and leggy, he was made to ride. The square chin and chiseled jaw were promising, but she wished he would push his hat back a little so she could see more of his face.
Skyler kept her distance as she followed the cowboy through his ride. She supposed he was giving a demonstration—teaching, selling, maybe considering a purchase. A cowboy with a good roping horse often “mounted” other ropers for a share of their winnings, but the sorrel didn’t fit the bill. She wondered what the cowboy said to the original rider after his smooth dismount. Deal, no deal, or a word of advice? She’d be interested in the man’s advice. Lately she’d been learning the difference between horse master—that would be Skyler—and master trainer, which she was not. Yet.
At the moment she was interested in taking pictures. She clambered down the grandstand steps and strolled toward the exit, eyeing a long shot down an alley where two palominos were visiting across a portable panel fence. The rodeo wasn’t Skyler’s favorite venue, but horses and horsemen were among her favorite subjects for her second-favorite hobby. And it was high time she turned at least one of her hobbies into an income-earning proposition.
“Business or pleasure?”
Skyler turned to the sound of a deep, smooth voice and looked directly into engaging gold-brown eyes. Unexpected, unshielded, up close and personal. Thereyou are, said her heart. “I beg your pardon?” said her mouth.
“You were taking pictures of me.” His eyes hinted at some amusement, but no uncertainty. “Are you a professional or a fan?”
Skyler’s brain cartwheeled over her other body parts and took charge.
“I don’t know you, but I know horse sense when I see it, and I like to take pictures.” She smiled. His face complemented his body—long, slender, neatly groomed, ready for a close-up. “I wouldn’t mind getting paid to do it, but at the moment, it’s merely my pleasure.”
“Taking pictures of … horse sense.”
She turned the camera on, pressed a button and turned the display his way. “Would you like to see?”
He clicked through her pictures. “You’ve got a powerful zoom there. Look at that.” He stepped closer and shared a peek. “You can see where I nicked myself shaving this morning.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Luckily, it’s just my face. No harm done to the horse sense.”
“It’s a valuable asset.” She nodded toward the picture on the camera display. Commanding Cowboy on a Collected Mount. “Do you have an interest in this horse?”
“I might buy him.” He studied the picture, considering. “If the price is right. This guy’s trying to take him in the wrong direction. He’s not a roping horse. He’s small and he’s quick.” Their fingers touched as he handed the camera back. She bit back an apology and a cliché about cold hands. His warmth reached his eyes. “Make a nice cuttin’ horse.”
“You’re a trainer?” Obviously.
“I’m a bronc rider. Got no sense at all.” He tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. “You coming to the show tonight? “
“I haven’t decided.” She was committed to watching the ropers in the afternoon slack, which moments ago had seemed like enough rodeo for one day.
“You’d get some good pictures.”
“I’m not your Rodeo Sports News kind of photographer. And I’m really not interested in the kind of ride that only lasts eight seconds.”
“Only?” He laughed. “That’s eight real seconds. You know you’re alive when every second really means something. How many seconds like that can you stand, one right after another?”
“I feel very much alive on the back of a horse. I could go all day.”
He took her point with a nod, eyes dancing. “They say when you meet your match, time stands still. You believe that?”
“I think your idea of the perfect match is different from mine.”
“What do you look for?”
“A great ride.”
“Same here. You say girth and I say cinch, but, hell, we’re both horse people. If you’re thirsty, I know a good watering hole that’s probably pretty quiet this time of day. First round’s on me.”
“That’s very tempting, but I have to …” Not really. There was nothing she had to do in Sheridan, Wyoming. If she’d come on her own, she could watch the afternoon calf roping and go home, where she always had things to do. “Are you competing in the rodeo tonight?” He nodded. “Which event?”
“Bareback.” He pushed his right hand deep into his jeans pocket. “I’ve got an extra ticket. One is all I’ve got, so if you’re with somebody …”
“No, I’m …” But she took the ticket he handed her and inspected it as though she hadn’t seen one before. “I mean, I haven’t decided. I wouldn’t want this to go to waste.”
She looked up to find him grinning as he backed away. “You should see my horse sense in a pair of chaps. Bring your camera.”
She met his grin with a smile. “You cowboys are all alike.”
“I won’t ask how many you know. You can tell me tonight when you come by the chutes to wish me luck.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“It’ll be on the program.” Safely out of returning-the-ticket distance, he paused. “You gonna tell me yours? “
“I haven’t decided. And I’m not on the program.”
Trace wasn’t holding his breath. The woman was as intriguing as she was beautiful, and her showing up behind the chutes or even in the stands was a long shot, which was what made the bet interesting. Surprise was the spice of Trace Wolf Track’s life.
He hadn’t always seen it that way, but he’d lived and he’d learned. Life was full of surprises, people were totally unpredictable and a guy could either try to buck the system or enjoy the ride. Sure, he searched the crowd for that pretty face once or twice, and he turned his head to the sound of a female voice just before he lowered himself into the chute and took hold of his bareback rigging.
And then he cursed himself for losing his concentration when he should have been calling for the gate. He’d drawn a chute fighter. No screwing around, cowboy. I’m outta here, with or without you.
Trace made the whistle, but his signature dismount turned ugly in the face of a flying hoof. He didn’t mind getting clipped in the head, but mentally he took points off his score for stumbling and losing his hat. Winning a go-round wasn’t everything. He scanned the bleachers as he acknowledged the applause with a wave of the errant hat. He had no idea where to look for the seat he’d given her, but did a double take at the sight of a pretty woman in the front row jumping to her feet.
He had to laugh at himself when the woman reached across the aisle and took a toddler from somebody’s arms. Not his ticket holder. The hair was too yellow, the hips were too broad and the kid appeared to be hers. He’d been thinking about his green-eyed photographer with the reddish-blond hair all afternoon, recalling her sweet scent, guessing her name and making up her story. It didn’t include kids.
Trace unbuckled his chaps as he ambled back to the chutes. He wiped his head with his shirtsleeve. Sure enough, the hoof had drawn blood, which he didn’t mind getting on his shirt, but he hated like hell messing up the sponsor’s patch on the sleeve. He’d sold his right arm to promote cigarettes. Took the money and quit smoking, thanks to the bloody patch.
He put his hat back on for a dignified departure. Exiting the arena on the heels of a good score required cowboy reserve. Win or lose, the slight swagger in his step came from years of forking a horse nearly every day. Ordinarily he would have been mentally downshifting now that his workday was over—one man’s eight seconds was another’s eight hours—and it was time to celebrate, whether he felt like it or not.
“Nice ride,” said saddle bronc rider Larry Moss-brucker as he caught up with Trace on the way to the medic’s van. “Where’s the party tonight?”
“Haven’t heard.”
“It’s your call, man. First round’s on the winner.” Larry clapped a beefy hand on Trace’s shoulder.
“Bob’s? You don’t wanna miss BOGO Burger Night.”
The only thing worse than one of Bob’s Bronc Buster burgers would be a second Bronc Buster burger, but the place would be packed to the gills on Bob’s stuffed-and-mounted trophy trout.
“Think I’ll pass on the gut busters. Busted enough for one day. But I’ll stop in and pony up after I clean up and get something to eat.” Trace glanced at Larry, who looked disappointed. “Something that won’t bite back.”
“How’s the head?”
“I’m keepin’ it under my hat.”
“Aw, man, don’t let a fresh wound go to waste. That’s good for unlimited female sympathy. A rare treat. Tender.” Larry grinned. “Juicy.”
“Mmm. I can taste it already. But that kind of meal don’t come cheap and they don’t give a free one on top of it.” Trace eased his hat off. The sweatband was killing him. “�Course you don’t need it when the first one’s that good.”
“Yeah, well, you gotta do a few shots between burgers at Bob’s.”
“Should be good for unlimited sympathy all around.”
“They started burger night after they had to quit Ladies’ Night.” Larry was keeping pace with Trace, who wasn’t in the mood for much conversation, which meant he wasn’t in the mood for Larry.
But Larry was a talker.
“Some tourist said it wasn’t right to charge men more than women. Discrimination, he called it. Maybe they’ve got a big supply of women where he comes from, but out here the good ones are scarce, and no shortage of demand. No shortage of bars or beer, either, so which law should we go by? Supply and demand, or whatever it is that outlaws discrimination?”
Trace chuckled. “My guess, it’s that ol’ killjoy, the U.S. Constitution.”
“The only woman willing to go to Bob’s for a free burger would have to be another tourist.”
“With an iron gut. Hell, Bob’s not hurtin’ for business and we ain’t hurtin’ for women.”
Larry snorted. “Speak for yourself.”
He was.
Another twenty yards and Trace would be speaking to the rodeo medic about whether he needed stitches, and he wouldn’t be expressing any more interest than he was feeling when he asked, “Angie kicked you out again? “
“Hell, no. She’s letting me sleep on the sofa.” Larry gave an unconvincing chuckle. “Hell, when I first met her, she was all about being with a cowboy. Now she wants me to quit riding.”
“Gotta quit sometime.” While you’re ahead. While your head is ahead.
“Not me, boy. Not till I’m damn good and ready.” They’d reached the “Cowboy Clinic” van and Larry was dragging his heels like a pouty kid. “Hell, I don’t know what else I’d do.”
“This is where I get off, Larry. Maybe I’ll catch up with you at Bob’s.”
Larry nodded, but he wasn’t moving.
“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?”
“Hardly a chick.”
“You’re right. My bad.” He flashed that infectious grin again. “You like �filly bait’ any better?”
“Give it up, cowboy. I like you, okay? No bloodshed necessary. Extra points for not calling me a mother hen.”
Trace guided her to the corner booth they’d claimed at the Mane and Tail Tavern, one of Sheridan’s quieter nightspots. Rodeo cowboys preferred Bob’s Place and rodeo fans followed rodeo cowboys. His hand on the small of her back was their only contact point, but she felt him covering her back, head to heels.
“I like you, too,” he said as she took herself from him, only to slide around the vinyl curve of the seat and meet him at the back of the booth. “So let’s get this out on the table. I’m not a kid. I’m not sure I ever was. I was raised by my stepfather, and he was younger than my mother. Still is if she’s alive.”
“You don’t know?”
“I like to think she isn’t.” He toyed with his watered-down whiskey, spreading its sweat ring in an ever-widening circle. “I made up a story about how she was trying to get back to us when she got hit by a train. That’s the only reason we never heard from her again.” He sipped his drink before eyeing her. “How’s that for bloodthirsty? Do I lose points?”
“She just disappeared?”
“She told us she was gonna look for a better place for us. I knew she wasn’t coming back. Logan had adopted us first thing after he married her. He told her he wasn’t goin’ anywhere, and for a while he thought she’d come back.” He smiled wistfully. “He was so damn young.” His eyes suddenly gleamed. “But he was a good father, and he will be again. He just remarried. Took him a while, but, hell, when that man makes up his mind, he doesn’t waste any time. I hope this one works out better for him.”
“Is this one older, too?”
“Older than Logan?” He shook his head. “She’s probably not much older than me. Funny. I don’t remember ever running into her, but turns out she didn’t live too far away. Two different worlds, I guess. Small, side by side and different.”
“Where are they?”
“South Dakota. Logan—my dad—he’s Sioux. Lakota Sioux.”
“You’re not?”
“In name only. He offered his name when he adopted us, and we jumped on it. Who wouldn’t? Wolf Track.” He punctuated a tight-lipped growl with a fisted gesture. “Powerful name.”
“So he’s your true father.”
“Oh, yeah. Taught me everything I know about horses. Not everything he knows, but everything I know.”
“Is he a rodeo cowboy, too?”
“No. He’s smarter than that. Logan’s a tribal councilman, and he’s also a horse trainer. He wrote a book about it and everything.”
“You did a wonderful job with Bit-o-Honey. I can’t believe he’s the same horse.” Skyler lifted her shoulder. “Of course, Mike’s still the same rider.”
“It’s a good hobby for a rancher.”
“He told you he was a rancher?”
Trace nodded.
“Good to know,” she said offhandedly. “He tells me he’s a calf roper.”
“He’s young. He can still be a lot of things.”
“He’d better decide which is the hobby pretty soon, or the choice won’t be there for him.”
“What time is it?” Trace slid his hand over the back of hers and turned her wrist for a peek at her watch. “Almost tomorrow. Big day tomorrow.”
“Bigger than today? You won your go-round today. What’s happening tomorrow?”
His fingers skimmed her palm. “Our first kiss.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. First thing.” He winked at her. “So tell me when it’s midnight.”
“I’m nobody’s timekeeper, Trace. Trying not to be.” She gave her head a quick shake as she echoed her admonishment to him. “Give it up, Skyler.”
“We’re talking past each other here. Look at me.” He waited for her full attention, which she granted. “Right here, right now, you and me. One kiss to start the day. It’s my birthday.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “Well, that’s different.”
“I’m different. Give me a day to prove it.”
“Why?”
“Because …” He glanced at her watch. “It’s midnight.”
“Happy birthday.” She tipped her head and leaned close to bestow a friendly kiss.
He slid his arm around her and met her halfway, raising the ante on her gift by making it interactive, taking her breath away. Her kiss became theirs as she slid her arm around him and smoothed the back of his shirt with her eager hand. She felt trembly inside when he lifted his head and looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes that said gotcha.
“Spend the day with me,” he entreated, and she had to glance away from those glittering eyes to keep from jumping all over the suggestion.
“What’s holding you back?” He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, and I’ll get it out of your way.”
“I have things to do at home.”
“I’ll help you. Give me one day and I’ll give one back.” She hesitated, and he laughed. He knew he had her, but he offered, “Two. I’ll trade you two days for one, and I’m a damn good hand.”
“Now, that’s tempting.” A crazy idea was taking shape in her head. Lately they’d been popping up like soap bubbles. Crazy notions pushing for bubble-headed moves. She’d made one or two, just to get herself off dead center, and she was about to make another one.
She smiled. “What can I get out of you on those days?”
“What do you need?”
“Mostly horse sense.”
“Well, then, I’m mostly your man.”
“I own horses, condition them, ride them, school them. I’m a natural, really. And I’ve had some spirited horses.” She leaned into her story, trusting him with the girlish enthusiasm that was generally reserved for her horses. “So I thought, why shouldn’t I be able to turn a mustang into a mild-mannered saddle horse? We could learn from each other. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”
“For me?”
“For me. I entered a training competition. But I might have bitten off more than I can chew.” She lowered her gaze to his smirking lips. She could still taste them. “How are your teeth?”
“I’m not missing any, but you’ll have to take the deal before I let you count �em.”
She laughed. She liked this man. She truly did. “After two days, can I have an option to hire?”
“Nope.” He leaned back, challenging her with a playful look as he reached toward his glass. “Free agency after three days. Then we renegotiate.”
“Sounds fair.”
“It’s more than sound.” He gestured, glass in hand. “You’re getting a twofer.”
“Can’t pass that up, can I?” She slapped the table. “Okay, I need to rest up for the big day.”
“Oh, no. Today is my day.” He drained his drink and then set the glass aside. “I get to call the shots. You play Hearts?”
“The card game?”
“We’re gonna shoot the moon, Skyler Quinn,” he promised with a charming wink. “We’re gonna make room for sunrise and then watch it together.”
The image made her smile. The image and the challenge. She remembered that shooting the moon meant collecting all the hearts in play, and this man clearly had the knack. But if there was one heart that wasn’t going down on the table, it was hers.
So call your shots, cowboy. The night’s as young as you are, and I’m game.
He lifted a strand of hair from her shoulder and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “What do you call this color?”
“I think the bottle said strawberry.”
“I don’t see strawberries. I don’t see a bottle. But I have seen this color somewhere.” He abandoned her hair and took her hand, drawing her out of the booth. “It’ll come to me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find some slow and easy holding-you-in-my-arms music. I just danced out of my twenties and I wanna dance into my thirties.” He squeezed her hand. “You with me?”
“Yes, I am.” She squeezed back. She was getting that giddy feeling again, and she was beginning to like it. “I like your style, cowboy.”
“Skill takes you to the whistle, but it’s style that wins the buckle.”
Trace turned off the highway and followed a familiar dirt road to a spot overlooking the Powder River with a long view to the east. He’d found it back in his rookie days, and it was still a favorite place to pull off the highway and catch a little sleep knowing the sun would roust him in plenty of time to get to Casper to make the afternoon show and then head for Denver or Boise. He slept just fine in the cab of his pickup as long as there were no headlights coming at him, no 18-wheelers whooshing past him in the night.
Skyler was asleep. At his suggestion, she’d cranked her seat back and drifted off in the middle of her own sentence. Something about not being able to sleep on the road. He wasn’t going to let her sleep much longer. He’d flipped the center console upright and made way for a close encounter. With the moon on the run, it was the darkest part of a night that would soon be cracked by daylight. If he’d picked the right spot, they were in for a spectacular moment. But in the dark he couldn’t be sure the landscape hadn’t been sullied since his last visit. Miners and drillers were tearing into the Powder River country like some Biblical plague. He wanted this sunrise—his sunrise—to reveal nothing but pristine Wyoming.
But watching the woman sleep was nice, too. He was trying to decide how to wake her—whether to say her name or touch her bare shoulder, maybe her cheek—when she stirred, edging closer, giving faint voice to her soft sigh. He touched his lips briefly to hers and felt the sweet beginnings of a smile. He lifted his head and watched her lashes unveil her eyes, a gradual dawning. The smile vanished momentarily, but then it returned. It was too dark to see it in her eyes, but he knew it was there. He could feel the connection when she recognized him.
“Are we there yet?” she asked sleepily.
“No, but we’re here. I promised you sunrise.”
Her smile broadened as she closed her eyes. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Not this one.” The horizon was beginning to lighten. He released her seat belt and patted the empty leather space between them. “Come on over,” he whispered, and he drew her under his arm as soon as she gave him the chance. She snuggled against him as though he were her favorite pillow. “Tell me about your mustang,” he said. “How long have you had him?”
“Three weeks. I’ve managed to halter him, but that’s about all.”
“What do you want him to do for you?”
“Take me places.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I haven’t decided. Maybe just down the road.” She tipped her head back without lifting it from his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her smile, and he felt favored and strangely honored by her ease with him. “Isn’t that what you’re doing, cowboy? Goin’ down the road?”
He nodded. He wasn’t feeling the hell, yeah he would have given with gusto back … when? A few months ago? A year? The rush that came with the ride was still good, but the road between rushes was getting longer. And something else, something that was beginning to wear on him more than sore muscles and aching joints. He wasn’t ready to name it. Naming it would give it power, and he didn’t feel like putting up a fight, not while this woman’s head was resting on his shoulder. Which felt dangerously sweet.
“Here it comes.” He laid his free hand on the top of the steering wheel and pointed a finger toward a burst of gold spearing through the pinks and purples washing over the jagged horizon. It was a common sight of incomparable beauty. “There it is, Skyler. On the edge of that cloud. I knew I’d seen that color before.” He lifted a curl from her shoulder. “You have the morning sky in your hair.”
“And you …” She sat up and looked him in the eye, laughing. “No, I won’t say you have a silver tongue.”
“I won’t say don’t knock it.” He drew her close and she met his kiss fully, paying him back with interest, forcing him to be the reluctant quitter. “Mmm. That was a knockout.”
“It surely was,” she said dreamily. He liked the sound.
“And it’s only day one.”
“Between us we could cause a lot of damage in three days.”
“Damage,” he said as he touched her hair, “is not my style.”
She gave him a quick good boy kiss and then turned her attention to the buoyant sun. “It’s beautiful here,” she said. But what he heard was moving right along … “This is the kind of place I want that mustang to take me.”
“You picked the right trainer, then.” He drew his arm over her head, effectively taking his pillow back. He was still thinking about those kisses. The first one was great. The second one rubbed him the wrong way. He knew what she was thinking.
Hell, he knew about a lot of things.
“Are you signed up with the Double D Wild Horse Sanctuary competition?”
“Mustang Sally’s Makeover Challenge,” she recited. He nodded, giving her pause. “You’re not already in it, are you?”
“No, but my father is, and my brother was trying to get into it, too.” He shrugged. I’m way ahead of you, lady. “I hear there’s a big prize at stake.”
A moment passed before she spoke again. “We have a deal, don’t we?” From her tone, the shoe that had changed feet was a little tight. “The clock’s already ticking on it.”
He was a little surprised. He’d wanted her company, pure and simple, but he could have sworn her side of the deal was born of a whim. He didn’t mind that her whim affected her need for his skill. She had already seen him make a difference with a horse and she’d soon realize there was more where that came from. Maybe there was more to this arrangement than he’d thought. Maybe there was more to this little dance of theirs, and maybe what had felt like a kiss-off was just a sweet little kiss.
And maybe she was a little more high maintenance than he was used to, but, damn, he wasn’t about to quit now.
He offered a smile. “Trust me, Skyler, I’m a man of my word.”
“Trust me, cowboy, trust me is a line with a definite sell-by date.” She raked her fingers through the hair he’d touched tenderly. “It expired for me a long time ago.”
Don’t ask, Wolf Track.
“Mike gave me the impression your husband was a good man.”
That’s asking, you idiot.
“He was.” She sighed. “He was.”
“If you don’t wanna go back there, I sure don’t mind moving ahead. It’s a new day.” Right. Good luck with that.
“The perfect beginning for a three-day event,” she quipped. “You won’t be competing against your family. I just need a little help getting over the first hump.”
He made the catch, grinning and grateful. “Like I said, I’m your man.”
“Briefly,” she amended with a straight face, and he acknowledged with a shrug and a smile. “So let’s make the most of it. I took this on thinking a horse is a horse.”
“Of course.”
“Of course!” Her laughter sounded girlish, and her eyes glittered in the morning sun like bits of green-and-brown bottle glass. “But he’s a wild horse, and he wanted absolutely no part of that halter.”
“Yeah, but he wants a part of you,” Trace said as he pulled the pickup keys out of the cup holder and plugged one into the ignition. “So he’ll take the halter, the bit, the saddle, the whole crazy outfit,” he continued as he put the pickup in gear. “Just give him free rein when you hit that next hump, and you’ll go—” he made the jump with his hand, arching from gearshift to steering wheel “—up and over.”
“Free rein,” she echoed as she turned to him, her enthusiasm mounting as the pickup bumped and rattled over red clay ruts. “I saw a news clip about the competition and how they’re trying to drum up support for the wild-horse sanctuary in South Dakota that those two sisters have devoted themselves to, put everything they have into it, and I just thought, this is important. I’ve trained horses. I can do this.” Her tone took a contemplative turn. “The wild ones are different, though. You wonder …”
“They’re horses,” he assured her.
“But they seem more sensitive. I swear, that horse can read my mind.”
“That’s a two-way street, isn’t it?”
“Right now he isn’t thinking free rein. He’s thinking no rein.”
“He can’t imagine a rein, so go easy and try to stay one step ahead of him. You’re just as sensitive as he is. You’re a woman.”
“Of course.” She smiled playfully. “I know how to stay a step ahead without letting it show.”
“There you go.”
“Maybe I don’t even need you.”
“Maybe you don’t, but you’re curious about me.” He returned her smile in kind. “It shows.”
Curious didn’t begin to describe where Skyler’s head was. She was charmed, but she hoped it didn’t show too much. She was as keyed up as a kid on her way to a carnival, but when he reminded her they’d be taking in the WYO Fair after he rode in his event, she tried to beg off, saying she didn’t “do dizzy.”
Trace was having none of it. No foot dragging today, he had said. It was a gorgeous midsummer day, and there was a program to get with, a crowd to entertain, a good time to be had. Skyler found herself eager to keep up with him, but something told her she’d better slow down, stay cool, be the grown-up. Childhood was, after all, much overrated.
Skyler had chosen to marry a man twice her age, and she’d worked hard to shed inconvenient youth in favor of sophistication. She’d achieved a certain dignity as Tony Quinn’s wife for fifteen years and his widow for one. Dignity was about all she had left. She was too old to be a buckle bunny, too young to be a cougar and too smart to get herself stuffed, mounted and labeled with a trophy plaque. There wasn’t a man in the big, wide world worth playing the fool for, not one.
Especially not one who regularly risked his fool neck bucking out rough stock. Skyler couldn’t breathe watching Trace tether himself to a snorting sorrel bronc and call for the gate, but she couldn’t close her eyes to the thrill of the horse’s first jump and the skill of the man in making the jump his own. Trace rode the action more than the animal. He leaned back and became less the rider than the ride itself. He defined going with the flow, and it was breathtaking.
When the buzzer sounded, he bailed off the hurricane deck and landed on his feet. He waved his hat to the cheering crowd and then turned to where he’d left her, standing behind a chin-high fence under a Wrangler Jeans sign adjacent to the bucking chutes. Hat back in place, he dodged the pickup man, who was herding the high-stepping bronc toward the exit gate. Trace scaled the fence and swung over the top, but rather than drop to the ground, he eased himself rail by rail—giving her time to notice how nicely the fringed chaps framed the cowboy ass, Skyler supposed.
He turned and reached for her, and she stepped under his extended arm, slid her arms around his waist and gave him the kiss he deserved. Somebody sitting atop the chutes shouted, “Woo-hoo,” and somebody else added, “Way to go, Trace!” He finished off the kiss with a little extra smooch and then gave the boys up top a wave with his free arm while he wheeled Skyler in the other direction, muttering something about his damn joints.
She tightened her hold on his side. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just my trick knee.” The smooth rowels on his spurs jingled as they rounded a fence corner and took refuge in an alley among the maze of stock pens. He flicked the chaps buckles loose at the back of his thighs, unbuckled the front and peeled them off.
“Can I help?”
“Thanks.” He handed her the chaps, grabbed a rail with one hand and his knee with the other and “Sheee—” Crack! “—zam!” He straightened slowly. “Gotta start letting the pickup man do his job.” He offered a sheepish grin. “Swear to God, that was my last flying dismount.”
“It was magnificent,” she enthused. “Can you walk?”
“Oh, yeah.” He laid his arm around her shoulder and favored his knee as they walked. “All in an eight-second day’s work.”
“Won’t it swell?”
“Not much. It’s prewrapped. Did you get any good pictures?”
“I … No, I didn’t. I forgot about the camera.” She lifted the chaps she’d been clutching against her side. Yes, she still had her shoulder bag. “Oh my God, I forgot about the camera.”
“You left it somewhere?”
“No, I have it. I was watching. I wasn’t thinking about anything else.” He relieved her of the chaps and she smiled. “Pretty amazing.”
“That watching can take your full attention?”
“That you can make a crazy ride like that look easy. The rest of those guys are working overtime, but you looked like you were quite comfortable. Like you were actually having fun.”
“It’s a helluvalot of fun when I’m on a roll. It’s been a good season. Haven’t broken anything in months.”
“Ninety is a wonderful score. Do you think you’ll win?”
“Can’t lose.” Grinning, he flipped the chaps over his shoulder. “It’s my birthday.”
“Let me take you out for dinner.”
“You’re on. I want a corn dog and a snow cone.”
“I want to take you someplace nice.”
“Exactly. The WYO Fair.” He gave her a playful squeeze. “It’s my birthday, woman! You take me to the corn-dog stand and I’ll take you up on the Ferris wheel.”
Skyler looked up. The wheel looked huge up close. The red seats rocked gently like the storied cradle in the treetops and the lights on the spokes were gaining on the dimming sky. She hadn’t faced one of these things since Mike had last dragged her to a line like the one she was standing in now and handed off two tickets. She remembered being surprised that the top of his cowboy hat reached her nose, and he was barely eight.
She lowered her gaze and watched the cars dip, drag and rise. A starry-eyed young couple. Mom with kids. Dad with kids. Kids with kids. Lots of kids. Beautiful, beautiful kids. They all looked fairly secure, pretty happy. Begging off would have her looking like a stick-in-the-mud. It wasn’t a roller coaster, after all. One Ferris wheel ride couldn’t hurt.
“You wanna eat first?”
Skyler looked up at the handsome face below the brim of the cowboy hat. “Why don’t we do this before we tackle the corn dogs?”
Going up was fine. Uploading. Uplifting. Upstanding. It was all good. At the top of the arc, she looked up at the sky, darkening from the top down as though an angel had bumped a bottle of blue ink. It washed over the remains of crimson and gold as the stars popped open one by one and hovered playfully just out of reach. Better than good, she thought.
“You won’t find any prettier country than this,” Trace said.
Skyler nodded. Her stomach signaled the shift from ascent to descent and her smile stiffened. She gripped the lap bar.
“You see that?” He laughed. “Guy just flew off the mechanical bull, landed on his head. Back to the bucking barrel for you, boy.” He lifted his arm over her head and laid it across the back of the seat, glanced at her and then did a double take. “You okay?”
She nodded again. “Taller than I thought.”
“Who, me?”
“The thing. The wheel. We’re really high.”
“Both of us? I was afraid it was just me. Gettin’ hooked on a …” He paused, gave a look of concern and a blessed break. “Heights bother you?”
“A little.”
“If you want me to, I can give the operator a distress signal when we hit bottom.”
She shook her head. “No distress. Felt funny just because it was the first time around.” She offered a tight smile. “You?”
“Yeah, a little.” He snugged her up and she scooted a little closer as they slid across home plate and started back up. “Okay?”
“Talk to me. I don’t want to be a wimp.” But that was home. Total ground control. Wimp city was a secure no-fly zone. “My head says I’m fine, but some of my parts see it differently. I mean, my eyes are in my head, right? So how do my legs know how high up we are? And what’s with my stomach?”
“It’s probably talking to your legs, saying get us off this thing. How serious is it? What does your gut tell you? Because if it’s saying—”
“It isn’t. No rebellion in the making. It’s just acting silly.” She was looking up and out and feeling some improvement. But then came the lurch and the slow rocking, and she buried her face in his shirt. “Oh my God, we’re stopping.”
“Somebody’s ride is over. We get down, yours will be, too.”
“No, no, I have to do this.” Head up, shoulders back. Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing. “I have to make the whistle.”
“Nobody’s scoring you, honey. You should’ve told me you don’t like—”
“But I do. I mean, I want to. There’s so much to see from here. I like this spot right here. As long as I keep my chin up, there’s only up. Right?”
“Right. You want a score? Lean back, hang on to me. But not with this arm.” He took her right hand from his shoulder and lifted it toward the sky. “That’s your free arm. Can’t touch this with that arm.”
“Can’t touch what?”
“Any of this.” He referred to himself, hat to boots, with a sweep of his free hand. “You gotta control yourself in the face of the uncontrollable.”
“Is this a twelve-step challenge?”
“Cowboy two-step, honey. We don’t count much higher than that. Lean back and hang on.”
She laughed.
“Not that we can’t, but why bother? It doesn’t get any better than two.”
“Yes, it does. Two is just a start. Three is holy.”
“Four is sacred.”
“Seven is lucky.”
“You are beautiful.” He touched her chin and she tipped her head to receive his kiss. A cool breeze lifted her hair while his warm kiss turned her sinking feeling into a rising one. “Feels like we’re moving,” she whispered against his lips.
“It does.” He brushed her nose with his. “But we’re not.”
“Let’s try again.” She paid his kiss back, thinking to improve on it with his help. His fingers teasing her nape helped. His distracting tongue, his soothing breath, the pleasured sound coming from deep in his throat. “You’re right,” she said at last. “Two is just a start.”
“If we count down from ten, I think we’ll get liftoff.” Another mechanical groan set the wheels in motion. She stiffened. He cuddled her close. “Hold me, Skyler.”
“You’ll deduct points.”
“New rule,” he said. “The more you touch, the better your score.”
She laughed. “You’ll get liftoff, and I’ll be left hanging.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere without you. Damn. We’re moving.”
“Distract me again.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. They kissed like teenagers who’d held off until the third date. She didn’t care about numbers anymore—how many times around, how many birthdays, how many seconds, points, days, dollars or debts—she was deliriously distracted, disappointed when the ride slowed down and started unloading passengers.
“Mmm,” she crooned. “I think we made it.”
“Not even close.” He winked at her as they came to their final stop. “But we will.”
The ride operator—a clean-cut kid who might have been earning tuition money—grinned as Trace lifted his loop over Skyler’s head. “I was about to apologize for the delay, but looks like you did okay with it.”
“What delay?” she asked.
“Right after you guys got on we had to stop for a puking rider. You were probably stuck up top for a while, huh?”
Skyler looked at Trace. “Were we?”
He shrugged dramatically.
“You can keep going if you want. Otherwise—” the kid offered tickets “—next ride’s on me.”
“Thanks, but we’re good. We’re heading for the carousel.” Trace waved the offer off. “We’re horse people.”
Chapter Three
“I was kidding about the snow cone.”
But that was where they were heading. Skyler had the carnival midway’s feedlot in her sights, and she was bearing down on a row of stands marked with painted fairgoer favorites, like an apple wearing a caramel coat and bananas splashing around in a vat of chocolate.
“I was actually looking forward to the corn dog,” she said merrily as she turned and let him catch up. “A rare treat, as it should be but still …” She folded her arms and took a Mama stance, but the look in her eyes was all about big flavor, little nutrition. “Perfect for a kid’s birthday party.”
“You kiddin’ me, woman? What kid?” Without pausing he hooked his arm around her and swept her along, zeroing in on a fading picture of two dancing corn dogs. “Do I kiss like a kid?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Uh-uh. And I’m not the one who wimped out on the Ferris wheel. Sure, I like playing games, but my game pays pretty well.” He lined them up for supper on a stick. “When I’m on my game. �Course, as of today, I’m past my prime. Over the hill.” He flashed the ponytailed man in the window a two-fingered order. “Are you a mustard or ketchup girl?”
“I like mine unsauced.” She took the deep-fried dog in hand and flashed him a yum-yum smile. “Clean and sober.”
“Hold mine, then.” He chuckled as he pumped mustard from a gallon jug into a small paper cup. “Down and dirty.”
They finished their main course in silence, eyeing pictures of their follow-up options as they strolled amid parents catering to children and couples caught up in each other. It was a good time to be part of a pair. Trace didn’t always feel that way, but tonight was different. It was his birthday and he was with somebody. Not just hanging out, but being together and actually looking forward to another day of the same.
Without the birthday, of course. So maybe not quite the same. Or maybe better. He damn sure wanted to find out whether he’d like her even more tomorrow.
“Last I heard, the hill was forty. Not that I’ve been there myself.” She gave him the over-to-you eye as they tossed their wooden sticks in a red trash bin.
“What?” He wasn’t going there either.
“Go ahead and ask.”
“I was raised by a gentleman.” To prove it he offered his arm. She smiled, tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and they walked on. “Let me ask you this—how old was Mike when you married his dad?”
“He was seven. I took a summer job as his nanny. I was—” she glanced up at him, her eyes teasing “—in college. I didn’t finish.” She lifted one shoulder. “Unfortunately.”
“Me neither. The only subject I was interested in at the time was college rodeo. But I don’t say it was unfortunate. I say, fortunately I can go back when I’m ready.” He tuned in to the distant echo of the rodeo announcer talking up the final event. Bull riding. Unless a buddy was entered up, Trace didn’t care to stick around for the grand finale. “I was ten when Logan came along,” he went on. “It’s never too late for good fortune.”
“Or snow cones,” Skyler said cheerfully as she dragged her boot heels to a halt. He followed her gaze to the top of a tiny stand. Big Bad Ice.
“You want one?” Matching her delight, his cool was blown.
“No.” She went from straight face to sassy smile. “But I’ll have some cotton candy.”
He let her taste his purple snow cone and she fed him wisps of spun pink sugar. They shared a deep-fried funnel cake and a crisp cone full of frozen custard. She sang “Happy Birthday” to him over the cake and he smiled at the way her tongue stormed that tower of custard, her green eyes flashing as she left no surface unlicked. He pointed to the drip at the point of the cone and she caught it before it escaped and then sucked noisily for good measure. She caught him staring.
“Your turn.” She lifted the tongue-marked treat close to his mouth. “Sorry, but it’s melting so fast and it’s the kind that needs licking.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Well, we’ve already exchanged …” she said, as Trace plunged the tip of his tongue into custard, curled it and scooped out a substantial niche. “Oh.”
“Don’t give me that look. It was my turn.” He licked his lips as he scanned new midway territory. “You like to play games, too, don’t you?”
“That’s what birthdays are all about. Fun and games.” She handed him the rest of the ice cream, lighting up as she pointed at a new attraction. “Ring-toss! Now we’re talking.” And she was walking off on him again. She had the prettiest, most purposeful stride he’d seen on a woman, and her jeans loved her for it.
But his knee didn’t. He did a little hop-step as he followed her to a stand that housed an arrangement of bottles and an array of stuffed toys.
“Slow down, honey, you’ve got an injured man here.”
She turned in front of the stand, smiling and giving him the come-on as if nobody was hurting. “I’m gonna win you a birthday present.”
“It’s your birthday?” the burly huckster asked as he spread three plastic rings on the counter. “First toss is on the house, then. Happy birthday, cowboy.”
“Getting older and better,” Skyler reported as she reached into her purse. “He gave a fearless performance a while ago.”
“Let me guess,” the man said. “Bronc rider.”
“That, too,” she quipped. Trace laughed, elbowing her as he slapped some cash on the counter. She snatched it up ahead of the ringtoss man and tucked it under the flap of his Western-style shirt pocket. “Pick your prize, and it’s yours.”
He smiled into her eyes. “I only see one thing I want, and I’ll have to win that myself.”
“The sky’s the limit.”
“Then I’m all in.”
“And I’m all ears, waitin’ to hear who’s payin’,” said the huckster. “Sounds like the lady’s landed her share of rings.”
Trace warned the man with a look—the lady was in no way his business—and then glanced at the next booth. “How are you at knocking down milk bottles?”
“This is my game. Really. It doesn’t pay well, but I’m very good at lots of things that don’t pay well.”
She traded cash for plastic rings and then she sized up the targets. “What should I go for?”
“A rabbit’s foot.” He gave a nod. “That pink one.”
“That’s too easy. Pick a top-row prize.” She pointed to the big stuffed bunny.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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