Cowboy Fever (11 page)

Teague almost laughed. Everything seemed to get this girl excited. The old Teague would have taken advantage of that—but he knew better now. Sex without strings attached didn't hold much meaning, and besides, he had a feeling Courtney would tie strings to everything, and she'd hang on like a rookie rider in a wild horse race.

Jodi edged sideways through the crowded tables, hoping her face wasn't sagging as badly as her spirits. The crowd had welcomed her so enthusiastically. They'd listened so raptly to her speech. She'd been sure they'd award her a grant on the spot, or at least move that it be considered—but her reputation had somehow outshone her accomplishments. Nobody cared that she'd been to college. Nobody cared that she was trying to help the handicapped. All they wanted was Miss Rodeo USA.

She stopped to greet the Rotary president, who smiled sympathetically.

“Sorry, hon,” he said. “They didn't really listen, did they? Tell you what. We're having a board meeting on the twelfth. I'll see if you can't come talk to us then, okay? It might be a better setting.”

Jodi nodded. “Sure. Thank you.”

“And you might want to dress up next time,” his wife said, smiling brightly. “You'll have much better luck with all these men looking like—well, you know, like you used to. I think you'll find it much easier to get what you want that way.”

Jodi knew the woman was right, but heck, she could get what she wanted by sleeping with all of them too. That didn't mean she was willing to do it.

***

As the room began to clear, Courtney picked up her purse and let out a gasp.

“Honeybucket's gone!” She stood, clutching her purse to her chest, and glanced wildly around the room. “Oh, find him, please, Teague? He's so tiny! He could be hurt!”

Teague pushed back his chair. “I'll find him,” he said. “He can't have gone far.”

He made his way through the crowd, looking under tables and chairs and making occasional kissy noises. A few club members gave him sideways looks, but he was used to that.

He made a full circuit of the room without spotting the little puffball. Setting his hands on his hips, he surveyed the room and spotted the men's room door, propped wide open. Stepping inside, he spotted a familiar set of fluffy hindquarters through an open stall door. Honeybucket had hiked himself up on the rim of a toilet and was slurping water with his tiny pink tongue. As Teague watched, the pup tilted forward, kicked his little hind legs, and slid into the bowl. Letting out a panicked yap, he scrabbled at the slippery porcelain, his eyes bugging out with the effort.

“Damn.” Gingerly, Teague picked the puppy up by the scruff of his neck and carried him to the sink. “Your mistress is not going to be pleased. Guess I'd better clean you up.”

He turned on the faucet and went to work, using hand soap from the wall dispenser to scrub the critter's fine, fluffy coat. Wet, Honeybucket looked more like a squirrel than a dog. At least he was a good-natured little thing, still grinning despite the ordeal of a bath. If he'd just been normal-sized, Teague might have liked him.

He squeezed the water out of the matted fur as best he could, then rubbed Honeybucket down with a paper towel. The dog still looked like a drowned rat.

“Here, buddy.” Teague punched the automatic hand dryer to life and held Honeybucket in the stream of warm air. “This'll get you dry.”

Honeybucket squirmed and gave a sharp yip.

“What the hell?” The sheriff stepped inside and stared at Teague, who was turning the animal slowly in front of the dryer, working on the rotisserie principle. “What is that thing?”

“It's Courtney's dog,” Teague muttered.

“The Skelton girl?”

Teague nodded.

The sheriff grinned. “Moving up in the world, aren't you?”

“Not really.” Teague shifted the dog to dry its belly and frowned. “We're not dating or anything. I don't even know why she's here.”

“I do.” The sheriff waggled his eyebrows. “The girl's all over you, son.”

“I know. I don't know how to get rid of her without being rude.”

“Just stay away from her,” the sheriff suggested. “It shouldn't be too hard. It's not like you run with the same crowd, or have the same interests.”

“Right.” Teague thought of the polo game and suppressed an urge to smack his forehead. Grimacing, he held out the dog. “Here,” he said. “Hold this.”

That stopped the conversation. The sheriff stared down at the animal in dismay while Teague washed and dried his hands, then grabbed the dog and gave the sheriff a nod. “Better get him back to his mistress,” he said.

He dodged out of the men's room and made his way to Courtney, who was sitting at the table, tapping one impatient foot. Apparently she wasn't capable of looking for the dog herself. She probably had servants for that at home.

“Here you go,” Teague said, handing Honeybucket over. The little guy wasn't quite dry, and his hair stuck out in rigid spikes that made him look like a punk rock Pomeranian.

“What did you
do
to him?” Courtney tried to finger-comb Honeybucket's hair, but she got caught in his mattered undercoat, which had congealed into a felted bodysuit beneath the spikes.

“Gave him a bath.” Teague stifled a smile. “He fell in the toilet.”

“Oh. Oh!” Courtney shoved Honeybucket back into his bag and waved her hands in the air. “Oh! You dirty thing!” She gave Teague a horrified glance, then ran off toward the ladies' room, still shrieking. “You dirty dog! You dirty, dirty dog!”

Teague watched her go, then realized the room had gone quiet. A low hum of whispering had replaced the din of conversation, and every eye that wasn't staring after Courtney was turned toward him.

Dang. If he had a reputation to ruin, that would have done it for sure. As it was, it just dug the hole he was in a little deeper.

***

Teague almost skipped the next morning's surreptitious polo expedition. Things with Courtney were getting complicated.

But he'd heard about the Argentine players who sold their skills to rich polo sponsors in the States. They were supposed to be some of the best horsemen in the world. Maybe he'd learn something he could use.

And then there was that ten thousand dollars…

The sun was just starting to streak the eastern sky with pink and amber when he pulled up to the Skelton mini-manse. Two stories tall, with a long front porch and an assortment of dormers and turrets, it sported so much white-painted gingerbread that it looked like a mad Victorian architect's delirium dream. Courtney was waiting for him on the porch, dressed in her usual over-the-top Western regalia. It was quite a picture, the overdressed girl on the lace-bedecked porch. The kind of thing you'd see photographed in artsy black and white in a book called
The New West
, or something.

It would be a sad book—one of those that showed the real West eroding, getting hijacked by its own romantic image.

Courtney trotted out to the truck and climbed in. “Park the car behind the barn,” she said. “That way Daddy won't see us.”

“Why's this such a big secret?” Teague asked.

“Daddy's just weird,” she said. “He doesn't like anyone to see the horses work. It's some kind of big secret.” She tossed off an eye-roll that would have made a Valley Girl proud.

The two of them entered the arena through a side door Gustaldo had apparently left unlocked as promised. Climbing a set of metal bleachers, she led him to a seat high up in the corner, shadowed by the arena's tin roof. She slid close to him and put one hand on his thigh, then the other. With no dog to hang onto, she was free to paw him as much as she wanted. He tensed reflexively.

“Ooh, muscles,” she said, kneading his leg.

He jerked it away.

“We'll have to be quiet once the trainers get here.” She didn't seem to notice his discomfort. In fact, she scooted toward him again, edging over until her hip touched his, and blinked up into his face. He stared down at the empty arena. Courtney offered up an odd combination of innocence, helplessness, and brazen sexuality that made it stunningly clear she was his for the taking. Some men liked that kind of thing. Teague didn't. Not anymore.

“It's a good thing Daddy sleeps in, so you can see this.” Courtney made a sour face. “He never gets up before noon. What a jerk.”

It sounded like typical adolescent rebellion—the kind Courtney should have outgrown by now. Teague doubted her father was that bad. He'd never seen the guy drunk, stumbling down the street, or crouched over a beer at a bar in mid-afternoon. That was about all Teague knew to ask for in a father—sobriety.

“He's successful, though. And it seems like he's given you a good life.”

Courtney huffed out a mirthless laugh. “Hardly. Unless you think it's good to have your mother kicked out of the house while your dad takes up with some floozy half his age.”

Teague didn't have an answer for that one. His own parents had been as bad as parents could get, but Courtney's situation did sound kind of difficult.

“And he pretty much ignores me. He's too busy with his polo team.” She rolled her eyes. “Mummy said he might as well flush his fortune down the toilet, and I think she's right. You wouldn't believe what he pays his players. All so he can show off to his rich friends.” She slumped in her seat. “She says he's going through money like water, and he'll be broke in ten years if he keeps it up. Marissa—that's the floozy—actually encourages him.” She thrust out her lower lip in a pout. “There won't be anything left for me when he dies. Not a dime.”

Teague's stomach twisted with disgust. He'd had issues with his own dad—worse issues, he was sure, than Courtney had ever faced. But he'd never wished him dead. Not for real.

“Why do you live with your dad, then?” he asked. “Why not stay with your mom?”

“Well,
duh
,” she said. “He's a
lot
richer. And anyway, she's busy looking for another husband.” She gazed out the window. “But if Daddy's little slut has a baby, I bet he'll toss me out and she'll get everything. I found her birth control pills in her purse, and she hasn't been taking them.” She laughed mirthlessly. “Mom said not to worry, though. She said the old man can't get it up anymore.”

Teague was saved from responding by a beam of light slashing across the arena floor. The double doors at the end of the oval opened and two men in breeches and high boots strolled in, leading horses decked out with braided tails, red leg wraps, and tiny postage-stamp saddles. The men carried long, slender mallets, swinging them as they walked and chattering in what sounded like Spanish.

“That's Alejandro and Esteban,” Courtney whispered. “Alejandro was on the team that won the world championship last year.”

Teague eyed the horses critically. They were small, about fourteen hands, and wiry. They'd be nimble, no doubt, but they didn't have much muscle, and he wondered if they could put on much speed.

The trainers led their horses to the center of the ring and began swinging their mallets in circles around the animals' heads. Teague could hear the whir of air as the mallets spun and jabbed, almost touching the animals.

“That's to get them accustomed to the action,” Courtney whispered. “They can't flinch when the rider takes a shot.”

One of the horses twitched and took a half-step back. The trainer led it around in a circle, then squared it up and started up swinging the mallet again. The exercise went on for about twenty minutes, the trainers forcing the horses to move every time they flinched. Finally, once the animals had stood stoically for five minutes or so, the two men mounted.

The animals seemed well trained, but Teague wasn't impressed with their performance. One seemed stiff on the forehand, and the other stumbled on a lead change as his rider goaded him toward a small white ball in the center of the arena. Approaching the ball at a gallop, the rider gave his mallet a roundhouse swing and whacked the ball across the arena.

“See? You could do that,” Courtney said.

Teague shrugged. Sure he could, but it didn't seem like something he'd want to pursue once the fund-raiser was over. At least cutting competitions had some application to the real world. Same with rodeo. Nobody broke horses by bucking them out anymore, but it was still a genuine ranch skill.

The two horsemen thundered after the ball. One swung for a hit, but despite the exercise with the mallet his horse shied at the last minute. The rider shouted an oath and yanked hard on one rein to spin the animal in place, swinging the mallet perilously close to the animal's head.

“Hey,” Teague said. “That's kind of rough.”

“You can't tolerate it when a horse shies,” Courtney said. “Somebody could get hurt.”

“We can only hope,” Teague muttered.

“It's hard to tell from this how exciting it is when they're playing for real,” Courtney said. She obviously hadn't heard him, which was just as well. “There are four players on a team, and the action's so fast, a horse can only handle it for seven minutes. That's how long a period is. It's called a ‘chukkah.'”

“Interesting,” Teague lied. He'd already seen enough. The riders were manhandling the horses, and for what? So they could play a game? It didn't make sense.

“So don't you think you could do that?” Courtney urged. Teague had a feeling she'd keep after him until he said yes. He felt like that horse, being pushed and spun, with the mallet swinging closer and closer.

“It's really the only way you'll get my dad's friends to help with funding,” Courtney continued. “That rodeo queen act will never get a dime out of them.” She tossed her head. “Too low class.”

Teague grimaced. Being Miss Rodeo USA had lifted Jodi up into the highest echelon of Purvis's small-town society, far out of his reach. He'd spent years working his way up to her level, and now Courtney was calling it “low class.”

What did that say about where he'd started? What did it say about who he was now?

What did it say about Courtney?