Читать книгу Christmas Eve Delivery - Connie Cox - Страница 10

DESERÉ WEDGED HER car into a parking place between a dual-axel diesel truck and a huge silver horse trailer as red dust swirled around her. East Texas dust.

So different from New Orleans pavement.

She put her hand over her stomach. New town. New life. “Here’s to us, baby James. To our future.” She hefted the bottle of milk she’d purchased at her last gas and restroom stop, toasted her sister’s unborn baby and chugged.

Reinforced by lukewarm milk, she gathered her purse along with her courage and opened the door.

The sultriness of the heavy, humid air hit her hard. One step behind was the scent of pine trees and the odor of horse manure.

The pine trees had towered over her as she’d travelled down the unpaved road leading to the rodeo arena. In the dusk, those tall skinny evergreens appeared imposing, like sentinels warning her that she wasn’t in the big city anymore.

For the baby’s sake, she wouldn’t let this alien landscape intimidate her.

“Everything will be just fine.” She said it out loud to force conviction.

A gaunt, stooped cowboy with a weathered straw hat shadowing his leathered face stopped on the way to his truck.

She knew he drove a truck even though she didn’t know which one. She knew it had to be a truck because she had the only car in the parking lot.

He put two fingers to the brim of his hat and nodded before asking, “You okay, ma’am?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

The old man gave her a strong look, half-wary that she might be crazy talking to herself and the other half suspicious of the overdressed stranger in their midst.

She tried to reassure him with the brightest smile she could muster after eight hours of driving with all her worldly goods crammed into her little compact car.

“I’m fine, really.”

He glanced at her stomach as if he knew. How could he? She was only four and a half months and had barely begun to show.

She was being fanciful. A fleeting look of no consequence was all it had been.

Working hard to shrug off her supposition, she blamed it on her sensitivity to the situation. On hormones. On paranoia from lack of sleep.

He couldn’t know her secret.

Because if he did, the man she had driven all these hundreds of miles to find would know, too. And then where would she be?

She couldn’t even think about a near future that bleak.

He had to say yes. There was no other option.

She’d called in the only favor she had and it had been a weak one. A doctor she’d once dated. A relationship that hadn’t worked out. What were the odds of that wildcard making the difference?

The odds were already stacked against her and her chances plummeted if the cowboy she was looking for realized she was pregnant.

In her open-toed sandals, she picked her way across the ruts cut into the dried mud and scarce grass sprigs that made up the entrance in front of the arena. Dusky shadows made the short distance seem treacherous.

Ringed by a tall wooden fence, the arena was hidden from her. Looking up, she could see only the glare of the tall lights and the wash of bodies in the stands. Cowboy hats on everyone’s heads made each person’s features indistinguishable from each other.

How would she ever find him?

With only nineteen dollars and twenty-nine cents in her wallet, she had to find him. She could sleep in her car again, but she needed a few gallons in her gas tank to keep her car rolling and a decent meal to keep the baby healthy.

Her stomach chose that moment to growl. Except for her daily dose of midmorning nausea, her pregnancy kept her continually hungry.

She circled the arena, looking for an opening into this world of rodeo that personified testosterone, muscle and mastery of will.

Carefully, she skirted the hitching posts where horses were tethered with only thin strips of rope or single leather reins. Didn’t these monsters know they could pull away with only a shake of their heads?

How far could they kick? A protective hand over her stomach, she gave them wide berth.

Pulling out her thin wallet, she prepared to pay admission, whatever it cost. She had no other choice.

“Excuse me?” She stopped a young girl in perfect make-up, painted-on jeans, embossed boots, long blonde curls and rhinestones in the band of her white cowgirl hat.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Another “ma’am.” This time it made her feel more old than honored.

Giving the girl the last smile she had in her, Deseré asked, “Where’s the entrance and how much is the entry fee?”

The girl gave a kind, sympathetic glance at her inappropriate tailored slacks, silk blouse and strappy sandals before she waved toward the end of the wooden fence. “All the events are free to watch. Just go right on in. But watch your step, okay?”

Deseré looked down to where the girl pointed. She’d missed a huge pile of horse droppings by scant millimeters.

“Thanks.”

As she minced her way toward the stands, she had to get a bit too close for comfort to the massive horses that were either tied to the backs of the stands or were being ridden in various directions from the barns to the arena.

No one else seemed concerned as the tons of muscle on delicate hoofs pranced by so close.

So this was Friday night in Piney Woods, Texas.

“We’re definitely not in New Orleans anymore,” she whispered to the baby nestled in her womb.

As she approached the full stands, several rows of observers started scooting over, packing themselves in tighter as they made room for her.

One of the cowboys on the end stood. He gave her an appreciative, if curious once-over as he touched the brim of his hat. “Please, ma’am, have my seat. I’ll stand.”

“Thank you.” Instead of sliding onto the hard wooden bench, Deseré took a deep breath. No turning back from here. “I’m looking for Dr. Hart.”

“Jordan will be first one out of the gate as soon as we get started again.” He drew his brows together in concern. “You’re not needing him, are you? Do I need to go and fetch him for you?”

It was more the other way around. She was hoping—counting on—Dr. Hart needing her. If he didn’t, she didn’t know what she would do.

Almost on instinct, her hand moved to cover her abdomen. At the last moment she diverted it to the strap of the purse slung across her body.

“No emergency.”

“After his ride, I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him.” He waved her toward his vacated seat on the bench. “Best seat in the house.”

“Thanks.”

“Rusty.” He touched his hat again. “Folks call me Rusty.”

He left the introduction hanging with his expectant look. What would it hurt to introduce herself?

“Deseré.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Deseré.”

Miss Deseré. She knew, even if she’d been wearing a wedding ring that was bigger than Dallas, Rusty would have called her “Miss” as a sign of respect. Among the gentlemen she knew in New Orleans, it was a sign of respect there, too.

The familiar custom eased the tension across her shoulders by the slightest of muscle twitches.

Before she could return the nicety a loudspeaker boomed, “Up next is Jordan Hart, points leader for this event.”

Distantly, she heard a deep voice call out, “Cowboy up.”

She looked in that direction, to see a calf burst from a narrow chute into the arena. Hot on its heels was a cowboy on a very large red horse.

With only the slightest flick of his wrist, Dr. Jordan Hart unfurled his rope. The stiff loop shot out and fell neatly over the neck of the running calf.

His horse stopped short, jerking the calf to a standstill.

Quicker than she could comprehend, Jordan slid out of his saddle and began taking big strides toward the snared calf as his horse backed away without direction to keep the rope taut, with its end looped around the saddle horn.

He grabbed the calf, tipped it onto its side and wrapped three of its four legs using the short ropes he’d carried in his mouth.

Once done, he threw his hands in the air. Another man looking official with his stopwatch and mounted on a horse that stood as still as a statue called, “Time,” as he nodded to someone in the speaker’s booth next to the complex structure Rusty had called “the gate.”

A smattering of applause broke out from the stands. Deseré couldn’t help but notice that most of the cheering came from the women and girls, all dressed similarly to the first girl Deseré had met.

If those were his type of women, then she definitely didn’t fit his mold.

Not that she needed to be Jordan Hart’s type.

She just needed his money.

As Jordan loosened the cinch on his mare, he saw his cousin and ranch foreman, Rusty, approach him.

“Nice run, cuz.” Rusty gave Jordan’s mare a rub on her neck. She leaned into it, clearly enjoying his touch.

“Thanks.”

“Jordan …” Rusty hesitated. “Are you expecting to meet a woman here tonight?”

He quirked his eyebrow at his cousin’s cautious question. “No, I’m not.”

“Well, there’s one waiting for you on the bleachers.”

She wouldn’t be the first buckle bunny to approach him. Under the brim of his hat, he checked her out.

In her city clothes, she certainly wasn’t dressed for a rodeo pickup. He couldn’t be sure as she was slumped on the bench, arms tightly wrapped around her huge purse, but he thought she might be five feet seven or so to his six one. Tall enough to kiss without getting a crick in his neck.

Where had that thought come from?

And the accompanying spark in his veins?

At first he was jolted by it. But by his second heartbeat he welcomed it. It had been so long since he’d felt even a flicker of interest.

Gently blowing on that internal ember, he continued to examine her.

Her mink-brown hair shimmered in the bright overhead lights as it fell to her shoulder blades. It was the perfect length. A man could tangle his hands in that silky softness as they lay together, but the length wouldn’t get caught underneath her when they tangled arms and legs.

Jordan let that image grow, reveling in the way his nerve endings seemed to be waking up.

Hope. He’d despaired of ever feeling that emotion again.

She moved her purse, revealing the way she filled out her blouse.

No model-skinny skeleton here.

Ample.

Just the way he liked them.

A flame of interest burned through the apathy he’d been living in these last months.

It felt good, and not just in his groin.

Want. Desire. The burning sensation in the pit of his solar plexus was a very good thing.

Need.

Not so good. He didn’t need anyone.

“She said she was looking for Dr. Hart. When I pointed you out, she didn’t seem to recognize you. Do you know her?”

Jordan shook his head. “Nope.”

“Got any suspicions?”

Jordan ignored his cousin’s curiosity, giving a strong stare at Rusty’s bronc-riding vest instead. “You sure you want to do this?”

Not that Jordan didn’t want to climb on a bucking bronc himself. Only, as the older cousin, he felt duty-bound to make a token protest after Rusty’s last unsuccessful ride and consequent fall.

He refrained from rubbing his hand over his face.

He felt so old lately. And so numb.

“It’s what we do, right?” Rusty shifted under Jordan’s gaze. “Get thrown. Get right back on.”

Jordan shook his head. “Until you get smart enough to realize you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”

Unwanted sympathy showed in Rusty’s eyes. “I guess you’ve had enough adrenaline rush to last a lifetime, huh?”

Jordan tightened his lips, neither confirming nor denying it.

He was supposed to be recovering from too much living on the edge. How could he admit to anyone that without that infusion of fight-or-flight-induced chemical his life was gray and deadly dull, bordering on meaningless?

His mare nudged him, clearly jealous when he should be paying attention to her. She didn’t need words to make herself clear.

Absently, he reached up to scratch behind her ears. “No need to worry, Valkyrie. You’re my best girl.”

Rusty punched Jordan in his shoulder.

Jordan welcomed the pain to bring him back to himself.

“That’s your problem, cuz. You’ve got women driving all the way out from who knows where to find you and you’d rather keep company with your horse.” Rusty gave him a serious stare. “Get thrown. Get back on. That’s what we do.”

“Or wise up and learn I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.” With conviction, Jordan repeated his earlier statement, knowing neither he nor Rusty were talking about anything close to bull riding.

Rusty jostled him. “I’ll say this about that city girl you brought us a few years ago. She tried. She really tried. You must have been doing something right for her to stay so long.”

“What I was doing right was being a doctor. She was really impressed with that.”

He ignored the worried look in Rusty’s eyes and forced a grin to lighten the moment as he answered, “When she found out the only store within a fifty-mile radius was a combination feed store/hardware store/ boot shop with a smattering of jeans, hats and pearl button shirts to choose from, she quickly become disillusioned with small-town living.”

Forcing those smiles was getting harder and harder.

“That was it? The lack of fancy department stores?” Rusty wasn’t the first to try to pry out more information.

But a gentleman didn’t kiss and tell. Jordan might not have a lot left going for him, but he was determined to keep his dignity.

He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “She loved boutiques more than me. I’ve learned to live with it.”

“And you’ve had plenty of offers of companionship from the buckle bunnies to sooth any man’s ego.”

Jordan had to admit he’d taken advantage of enough of those offers that his ego should be well soothed.

But afterglow didn’t last much past sunrise, did it?

He stole a quick glance at the woman in the stands. Should he recognize her?

“Old history.” He leaned into Valkyrie, taking comfort in how the mare supported his weight. “I’ve grown up a bit since then.”

As his shoulder throbbed where Rusty had punched him, he felt much older than his years.

Between the physical exertion he’d been doing to try to exhaust himself enough to sleep and the tossing and turning he’d done once he finally forced himself into bed, his bones hurt to the marrow.

Add that to his clinic schedule that had him working over sixty hours a week and he was starting to feel trapped in a dark tunnel as the light of the freight train bore toward him faster and faster.

What were the odds of finding a nurse practitioner who could take some of his load from him?

Over the loud speaker, the announcer called Rusty to the gate.

Jordan squared his shoulders. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck. Just a bull that wants to buck. Skill will take care of the rest.” Rusty gave him a cocky grin then strutted toward the gates.

He watched his younger cousin with envy. What would it be like to feel alive again? To feel the blood rush through his veins? To feel his heart beat fast and his mind flash with lightning-quick thoughts? To feel a connection with another human being?

Although he tried to stop himself, he couldn’t stop from glancing over at the woman staring intensely at him as if she were looking inside his head.

What did she see?

He pulled the brim of his hat lower and turned away, determined to ignore the feeling of being evaluated.