Cowboy Tough (4 page)

Mack strode down the aisle between two rows of stalls, stroking a muzzle here, fondling a forelock there as the animals stretched their necks to greet him. His easy familiarity with the animals and their eagerness for his touch reminded Cat of a star on the red carpet accepting the adulation of his fans.

She envied his confidence. She loved animals, but she wasn't particularly good with them. She'd never had pets as a child, and though she handled them carefully, she seemed to make them nervous.

Reaching up, she stroked the velvety muzzle hanging over the nearest stall door. The horse nodded his head, so she supposed she'd done it right.

“Ready to saddle up?”

“Sure.” She set her shoulders back and shifted her weight to one hip. She was supposed to be the leader on this trip. She needed to appear confident and in charge so she'd have some semblance of authority over the group—and over the wrangler.

She had a feeling that last bit was going to be a challenge.

“Which one?”

“We'll let you ride Rembrandt.”

“The mule?” Her voice cracked. She couldn't help it. The animal was huge. And loud. And kind of scary.

But if she didn't step up and succeed with this trip, she'd be spending the rest of her life drawing babies and kittens. She might never make it to France or Italy.

“So are there any particular tips you want to give me?” she asked. “I heard mules are stubborn.”

“Nope. They're not stubborn, just smart. If he balks, it means you're trying to do something stupid.”

Great. Evidently the mule was the real brains behind this operation.

“Here.” He slid the bit into the animal's mouth, slipped the headstall over his ears, and handed her the reins.

“He'll take care of you. Trust me.” He caught her disbelieving glance. “Or trust him.” He flashed a grin. “He's probably more trustworthy.”

As she backed out of the stall leading the mule, she was aware of Mack's gaze taking a long, lingering journey around her backside.

“You'd be a fifteen, I think,” he muttered.

She had no idea how to respond, so she fell back on humor and dropped a flippant curtsy. “Out of ten? Thank you.”

He looked startled. “Saddle size.”

Turning abruptly, he headed down the aisle and disappeared, Tippy at his heels.

Score. She'd made him blush.

When he returned, he had a Western saddle propped on one hip. The brim of his hat shaded his face, drawing her eyes to the broad chest and narrow hips, the muscular arms, and big, square hands. Despite the weight of the saddle, he walked with a swinging, casual gait.

She and Tippy watched him slide a bulky saddle blanket over the mule's back, then toss the saddle effortlessly on top and tug the cinch under the animal's belly. He started a complicated knotting process with a leather strap and a D-ring, and she held out a hand to stop him.

“Can you show me how to do that?”

“You won't need to. It's what I'm here for.” He tied off the knot, giving Rembrandt a quick nudge in the belly with his knee.

“I have eight students coming. I think it would be best if I knew how to help you saddle up.”

“We'll have to go over it later, then.” He nodded toward the barn door. Long shadows slanted from the tree line and the sun hung low in the sky. “Right now we'd better get going. You two get acquainted while I saddle up.”

Alone with the mule, she eyed the saddle perched high on his back. Maybe she should ask Mack to let her ride one of the chubby little horses in the other stalls, because this animal was
huge.
He'd been all concerned about the size of her seat, but had he looked at the rest of her?

It didn't matter. It was important to take charge of this situation, show the animal—and the man—who was boss. She'd ride an elephant if she had to.

Shoving her foot in the stirrup, she gave a mighty hop. She'd seen enough Westerns to know how to swing her leg over the saddle, but in movies the animal stood still.

Not this animal. Rembrandt laid his ears back and moved one small step to the right, as if he was doing the hokeypokey. Her leg slid off his hip and she fell back to earth, left foot still stuck in the stirrup.

The mule snorted and headed for the barn door, oblivious to the desperate hopping woman clinging to the saddle horn. Saying good-bye to leadership and dignity, she lurched gamely after him. She was sure she looked ridiculous, bouncing around, mad as a trapped chicken and making trapped-chicken-like sounds. Her arm was stretched to the limit, her thigh aching, and they hadn't even gotten started.

“Stay
.
” She used her strictest leader-of-the-pack dog-training voice, but apparently mules weren't pack animals. Well, actually, they were—but not in the I'm-the-boss-so-you-better-mind-me sense.

Pinning his big rabbit ears back, Rembrandt let out a loud hee-haw that just about burst her eardrums. She pulled her foot out of the stirrup and staggered away, covering her ears.

Mack emerged from the tack room. How could he say mules weren't stubborn? She wasn't doing anything stupid. She was just trying to ride the damn animal like she was supposed to.

She could see Mack's mouth moving, but it wasn't until he grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away from her ears that she could hear what he was saying.

“He's trying to tell you we don't mount up in the barn,” he said.

Oh. So she
was
stupid.

“You'll get your head knocked off if he bucks,” he continued.

“He
bucks
?”

“Everybody bucks.” He tightened his grip on her wrists and smiled. “At least a little bit. It just depends how much you rile 'em up.”

She looked up at him, feeling impossibly vulnerable. She shouldn't let him manhandle her like this, should she? There was a part of her that was enjoying it, but that wasn't the part of herself she should listen to—was it?

No. It was the part of herself she needed to smother into submission. But her body was softening, and so was her brain—shutting down the sensible sections of her consciousness and opening up the ones that said
It's okay. He's hot. Just once. Just one time.

She knew better. In the past, one time had always led to twice, and twice led to heartache. The men she'd met in Chicago were always on the make—for women, for money, for pleasure. But never for commitment, or love.

And they weren't even real men. Not when you compared them to this guy. If most men were uncaring and selfish, what would this ultra-masculine cowboy be? Selfish to the umpteenth power, no doubt.

And strong. He wasn't just gripping her with his hands; he was holding her with his eyes too, reading her face, watching her battle her urges as if he was taking in a boxing match. And judging from the amusement that sparkled in his dark eyes, he knew which side was winning.

She needed to get a grip. She was stuck in the middle of nowhere on a dilapidated ranch with some guy she didn't know and his crazy mother. The violin sound track from
Psycho
started screeching in her head and she tried to remember the self-defense workshop she'd taken before moving to the city.

Step
down
hard
on
his
instep.
No, that wouldn't work. He was wearing heavy work boots, and he probably wouldn't even notice.

Turn
around
and
run.
Yeah, right. Where was she going to run? It was twenty miles to the nearest town, and even that was nothing but a couple of gas pumps, a convenience store, and a boarded-up schoolhouse.

Kick
him
in
the…

Could she actually
do
that? And what would happen when he did? She'd be back to running again, and there was absolutely nowhere to go.

Besides, she didn't really want to do any of those things. He was so different from her, so big and tough and
real.
She'd lost a stare-down with a leopard at the Brookfield Zoo once and felt the same thing: the dangerous heat of a predator's heart hidden behind a hard stare.

She'd never been good with animals, and she'd never had much luck with men either. But for some reason, she couldn't take her eyes off him. She didn't want to fight it. She didn't want to run, either.

She just wanted to stay there, looking into his eyes, for as long as he'd let her.

***

Mack looked down into two big Bambi eyes wide with fear. When a horse went rigid like this, you held on and waited for it to give to pressure. He loosed his hold on Cat's arms, but he didn't let her go.

And slowly, surely, he felt the resistance drain out of her.

Rembrandt leaned down and nipped at his belt loop, probably wondering why he was all saddled up if they were just going to stand around and stare at each other.

“Stay,” he said to the mule.

Tippy slammed her butt obediently to the floor, but the mule just gave him the stink-eye.

He looked back at Cat and repeated the command, softer this time, as he tugged her closer. “Stay.”

She felt so good, soft in all the right places, firm in the others, with her body snug against his and her breath coming quick and tight. She smelled like flowers, and the sweet scent mingled with the familiar ones of straw and hay and horses in a heady, feminine stew.

Suddenly, he was happy to be right here, right now. Forget rodeo season. Forget his stepdad, his mom, his family troubles. Right now, home was a good place to be.

Holding this woman shouldn't feel right. The two of them weren't just strangers; they were two different species. But when he clasped his arms around her, he felt a hot, wanting energy flowing between them that sure as hell made them something more than friends.

“Stay,” he said again, and he meant it. And he proved it by dipping his head and kissing her, the way he'd wanted to kiss her from the first moment he'd seen her.

Stupid. Plain, damn stupid.

Mack cussed himself even as he pulled Cat closer. How was he going to explain to his mother when the Boyd Dude Ranch's first and only customer kneed him in the groin and took off screaming for the hills? Or worse yet, accused him of assault?

All day, he'd felt like his life was slipping out from under him, leaving no solid place to stand. He'd had a meeting with the bank and discovered his mother's second husband had spent the past two years tossing money away with one hand while he cooked the books with the other. Now the ranch was mortgaged and bills were coming due faster than they could pay them.

The worst part was that Mack suspected Ollie wasn't done wreaking havoc on their lives. He hadn't even signed the divorce papers yet, because they couldn't find him. That meant everything was still up in the air, like a set of juggler's balls that might plummet to earth at any moment.

It was natural to want to hang onto something, but this woman was the wrong thing to grab for. Her body was poised to run like a wild horse dodging a rope, and he was sure she was about to scream, to slap him, to push him away and run.

But then those pretty, pillowy lips opened and she kissed him back. His brain and body flooded with relief—relief and a hot rush of need. For one blissful moment, he forgot everything but the way it felt to warm himself in the heat of a woman. It was like the two of them were the center of the universe, with the world spinning crazily around them on its newly tilted axis.

When she pulled away, she didn't scream or run. She just stood there, bringing her fingers to her lips as if she could cool the heat with a touch.

But nothing could cool that heat.

Tippy whined from her position on the barn floor. She was still “staying.”

“You can go now. Go on up to the house and hang out with Mom,” he said.

Cat looked startled.

“I meant the dog.”

Damn, she probably thought he was some kind of cowboy Casanova, jumping women the moment they arrived. But the truth was, he was more than cautious around women; he was downright cagey. When the other guys prowled the bars and beer tents for buckle bunnies, he kept to himself.

Marriage had taught him women were more trouble than they were worth. At the start of their relationship, his ex had been starstruck and starry-eyed. She'd showed him off to her friends as if she'd lassoed the prize pony at the fair. But the minute they married, she resented every minute he spent on the road. She didn't care if he was shackled to a desk nine to five, working construction, or selling his soul; she just wanted him tied up and tamed, coming home to some McMansion she could show off to her friends.

Of course, he'd wanted to be home more too, once their daughter was born. From the first time he'd laid eyes on Vivian's tip-tilted nose and tiny fingers, he'd stopped seeing rodeo as an adventure and started seeing it as a job. A man had to provide for his family, and he could do that better through rodeo than anything else. But his ex had never understood the shift in his priorities.

Maybe Cat was different. She'd come out here to a place she'd never seen and plunged into an unknown world. While that meant she was a greenhorn, it also meant she had some courage. If she was the kind of woman who wanted adventure, he was more than willing to provide it.

She was still standing there, pressing her fingers to her lips, but her eyes had gone from scared to speculative. Finally, she turned and set her hand on Rembrandt's saddle. “So I should mount up outside?”

He shook his head to get his thoughts back on track. Apparently they were going to pretend the kiss had never happened. That was probably lucky for him, since it would cut down on the running, the screaming, and the possible lawsuits. He ought to be relieved, but pretending it hadn't happened would put it in the past, and he didn't want it to be over.

He'd play her game, he decided, but he'd play it his way. Reaching out, he touched her arm—just a friendly touch, to remind her that they'd shared something.

“Just lead him out and wait, okay? I'll get Spanky and we'll head out together.”

She grinned. “You named your horse Spanky?”

“The horses are from a kids' camp. Their names tend to be a little on the cute side.”

By the time he led Spanky outside, Rembrandt was cropping grass while Cat stared off into the distance as if mesmerized by the open plains. The reins hung loose in her hand, forgotten in her absorption with the landscape. Mack felt a stab of sympathy for her city-girl past, but she needed to get a grip. On the reins, and on the responsibility of handling a thousand-pound animal.

“Don't let him eat when he's tacked up.” At the sound of his voice, Rembrandt looked up, annoyed. “You need to stay in charge.”

He reached over to show her how to hold the reins. As their fingers touched, he felt that shared heat again and glanced at her face, wondering if she felt it too. But she was concentrating almost fiercely on the mule, her brows drawn into a determined “V.”

“Don't let him tug.” He formed her fingers around the leather just below the mule's jaw.

The mule didn't tug but Cat did—tugged her hand away from his and shot him a warning look that reminded him she held the future of the Boyd Ranch in her hands as surely as she held the mule's reins. No matter how sizzling hot that kiss had felt, he needed to be careful. Just because the running and screaming hadn't happened the first time didn't mean he was in the clear.

He watched her gather the reins in her hand, grab the saddle horn, and stick one foot in the stirrup. Her boots were going to be a problem. They were designed for style, not practicality, and the tips were so rakishly tilted they must strain her calf muscles with every step.

She gave a mighty hop and hauled herself up the mule's side, struggling to hoist the other leg over the saddle. No way was she going to make it. Without thinking, he palmed her butt and gave her a shove. He was a little worried he'd overdone it and she'd slide down the other side, but she caught the far stirrup and straightened out just in time.

She eyed him from the saddle with a strict schoolteacher squint. “If we're going to work together, we're going to have to set some ground rules.”

He leaned one elbow on the mule's withers and tried to look attentive, but behind his back he flexed the fingers of his other hand in a vain effort to hang on to the warmth of her pleasantly rounded backside. It would be nice if the ground rules included some more palming her butt and kissing in the barn, but he didn't think that was what she had in mind.

“First of all, no touching.” She was trying to be harsh, but with her big eyes and small stature, she reminded him of a kitten spitting and showing its claws. “None. We're here for the students, not for—well—
that
.”

“That?”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

“I do?” He knew he shouldn't tease her, but he just couldn't help himself. And women liked it when you flirted a little, right? “No, really. What?”

“
That.
”

“Oh,
that.
” He let the smile fade as he shoved his hat up so he could meet her eyes. “I'm not sure I want to give
that
up.”

“Well, you're going to have to,” she said. “My niece is coming on this trip, and I don't want her to see anything inappropriate. She has—issues.”

As far as Mack could see, all women had issues. And he had a feeling this one had more than most. But then again, so did he.

Maybe they had something in common after all.

***

Cat looked down at Mack and tried to smother the rush of arousal that was still flowing from the spot where he'd touched her. Apparently the clear country air was making her crazy. It was hardly “plain,” with its heady scents of sage and earth and straw.

But the real problem was the cowboy himself. In his ragged shirt and worn jeans, he looked as much a part of the landscape as the gnarled trees and the weathered barn. Tough, elemental, and real.

“Never mind.” She waved one hand carelessly, as if the rest of the rules were obvious. “Just keep it professional. Obviously that's a challenge for you, but please try to be serious.”

“I am serious.” There was a defensive note in his voice that made her think she might have struck a nerve. “You don't succeed in my line of work unless you're pretty damn serious about it.”

“I'm sure that's true,” she said. “But I'm not a bucking bronco; I'm a woman.”

“I know,” he said. “I'm serious about that too.”