Читать книгу Ride A Wild Heart - Peggy Moreland, Peggy Moreland - Страница 9

There were times in a cowboy’s life when eight seconds seemed like a lifetime.

For Pete Dugan those times were few and far between.

Not that he considered himself any more talented than the other bronc riders he competed against, nor did he feel he had more nerve. He just loved rodeoing. The lights, the crowds, the sleepless nights on the road chasing from one town to the next, the people, the camaraderie. The thrill of climbing onto the back of a mean-tempered bronc.

And this rodeo was no different from any other. Country music pulsed from a state-of-the-art sound system, while cowboys milled behind the chutes, shooting the breeze and joking around, passing the time until it was their turn to compete. The air all but crackled with the energy created by wired nerves and was thick with dueling scents—some enticing and drifting from the concession area, others earthy and familiar and associated with the roughstock penned behind the chutes.

Feeling the rush of adrenaline that every ride drew, Pete hitched a boot high on a rail of the chute and pulled himself up to look out over the rodeo arena. Dust thickened the air around the chutes, churned by the livestock, but through it Pete had a fair view of the filled stands.

A full house, he thought, and began to smile. And a noisy one. He liked that. Crowds made some cowboys nervous, but not Pete. He liked playing to a full house. And he liked his broncs full, too…electric, even a little rank.

The blue roan he’d drawn for the Mesquite Championship Rodeo was just such an animal, a high roller who shot straight up in the air right out of the chute and continued that sky-high bucking throughout the eight-second ride. Though Pete knew the horse he’d drawn, Diablo, would score high with the judges, he also knew the remainder of the points were his to earn.

“Ready?”

Pete turned to grin at the chute boss. “Always.”

He gave the leather strap on his resined glove a yank, tightening it around his wrist, then leaned over the railing to check the tension on his rigging’s cinch. Satisfied, he swung a leg over the chute, bracing his feet on the railings and his body above the horse, then slowly eased down over the bronc’s back. He felt the horse blow up beneath him, bowing his back, and knew without a doubt that the roan would be airborne the minute the gate opened.

And Pete was ready to fly.

He jammed his Resistol down over his ears, then leaned way back, curling his gloved fingers tightly around the handle of the rigging. He could feel the heat of the resin working, holding his gloved fingers in place. Drawing his knees up, he positioned his spurs high on the horse’s shoulders, then jerked his chin, signaling he was ready to ride.

The gate swung wide and the horse spun for the opening, looking for freedom…he found it one step out into the arena. He leaped high, then kicked out, throwing his rump hard against Pete’s spine. Muscles burned, and ligaments, already stretched and torn, took another beating as eleven hundred pounds of horsepower hit the end of the hand Pete gripped on the rigging.

He set his jaw against the pain and searched for the rhythm. It was there waiting for him, as familiar as a lover’s dance. With his spine almost level with the roan’s broad back, he focused on the timing, drawing his knees high and his toes out, spurring in sync with the bronc’s wild bucks, while whipping his free hand through the air above his head to keep his hips centered in the swell with each of the horse’s sudden twists and turns. He heard the loud cheers coming from the stands and knew the fans were getting their money’s worth.

Diablo was putting on one hell of a show.

And Pete Dugan wasn’t doing too badly himself.

Sweat stung his eyes, and the muscles in his legs and arms felt as if they were on fire. But Pete was confident that, if necessary, he could ride that bronc all night. Through the roar in his ears, he heard the buzzer sound, signaling the end of his eight-second ride. Cheers rose from the stands, and the grin that was as much a part of Pete’s features as his Roman-shaped nose quickly spread to his ears.

Working his gloved fingers loose in the rigging, he glanced to his left, looking for the pickup man. Just as he did, the roan spun sharply, slamming Pete’s right leg up hard against the arena wall. He heard the collective gasp that rose from the stands even as the pain shot from his knee and up his thigh like a bolt of white-hot lightning, making his stomach churn and his head swim. Clenching his teeth against the dizziness, he made a grab for the arena wall and hung on, letting the roan run out from beneath him.

Gasping, nearly blinded by pain, he glanced up at the faces peering down at him from over the top rail that framed the box seats. His gaze struck a pair of green eyes centered on his. The eyes, filled with concern, were achingly familiar.

Carol?

It couldn’t be, he told himself. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in over two years. He closed his eyes and gave his head a shake, sure that he was hallucinating, a result of the pain. When he opened them, she was gone.

“Eighty-nine points!” the rodeo announcer called out. “Let’s hear it for Pete Dugan, rodeo fans. This cowboy’s just broken the record for the highest score ever made in the bronc riding event at the Mesquite Rodeo.”

Loosening his grip on the wall, Pete dropped to the ground, hopping three steps until he was sure his right knee was going to take his weight. When he was sure he wasn’t going to crumple like a rag doll and humiliate himself in front of over a thousand rodeo fans, he planted both boots firmly in the dirt and ripped off his hat. With a loud whoop, he sailed it high in the air and punched the air with his fists.

The audience went wild.

Grinning, Pete stooped to pick up his hat, then waved it over his head in a salute to the crowd before settling it back over his sweat-creased hair and limping his way back to the chutes.

“You okay?”

Pete waved away the medic. “Yeah, I’m all right.” To prove it, he planted a boot on the fence rail and hauled himself to the top, then swung a leg over and dropped down on the other side. He landed beside his traveling buddy, Troy Jacobs.

“Helluva ride,” Troy said with a nod toward the giant screen where the ride was being replayed.

“Yep,” Pete agreed. “That Diablo sure knows how to raise some dust.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the computerized scoreboard and added, “But Ty Murrey’s up next. We’ll have to wait and see if my score will hold.”

“He’ll give you a run for the money. No doubt about that. But your score’ll hold,” Troy assured him, watching the screen as the chute swung open for Ty Murrey’s ride.

Pete turned his back on the rodeo arena and the giant screen that offered the rodeo fans a live and up-close view of the action going on in the arena. The same as every other cowboy on the circuit, Pete had his superstitions and rituals that he adhered to religiously, and one of them was to never, ever watch the next competitor out of the box after his own ride. Instead, he caught between his teeth the strip of leather that bound his wrist and gave it a tug, loosening it as he glanced back up at the section of box seats where he thought he’d seen Carol. As he pulled off his glove, he swept his gaze across the sea of faces, looking for a woman with flaming red hair and green eyes.

Telling himself he was a fool for even looking, he started to turn away but whipped back when the crowd shifted, revealing the woman he’d seen while hanging from the arena wall. Her gaze met his, and he froze, his heart freezing, too.

Carol. It was Carol.

With his heart a dead, aching weight in his chest, he tucked his glove into the belt of his chaps and started toward the rail, his gaze locked on hers. He hadn’t taken more than two steps when she bolted from her seat and fled up the ramp, disappearing into the crowd.

Pete stared, anger pulsing through him. He debated his chances of finding her in the crowd, then whirled away, ripping off his hat. Swearing, he slapped it against his chaps, making dust fly.

He wouldn’t chase after her. Not Pete Dugan. Not when she’d left him high and dry more than two years before.

Haunted by the image of Carol, but determined not to waste his time thinking about her, Pete strode straight for the bar, his spurs jingling on the planked wood floor. “Beer’s on me!” he yelled and dropped his duffel bag with his bronc riding gear at his feet.

Upon hearing the call for free beer, cowboys crowded up behind him.

Pete slapped a hand on the bar. “Line ’em up, bartender.” He swelled his chest a bit and gave it a smug rub, grinning. “We’ve got us some celebrating to do.”

Pitchers were quickly filled and placed on the bar, thick white foam spilling over their sides and pooling on the bar’s scarred surface.

“What are you celebrating, cowboy?”

Pete glanced over at the woman who pressed herself against his side, and gave her a slow, appreciative look up and down. A smile built as he decided that this little buckle bunny might be just the distraction he needed to take his mind off Carol. “Well, darlin’—” But before he could tell her about the bronc riding record he’d just broken, one of the cowboys picked up a pitcher of beer and dumped it over Pete’s head while the other men looking on cheered and hooted.

Pete yelped as the icy beer sluiced over the brim of his hat and down his back, then gave a loud whoop and ripped off his hat, tossing it high in the air. “Let the good times roll!”

Grabbing the woman around the waist, he danced her a fast waltz around the room, keeping time with the country song currently blaring from the jukebox. He stumbled to a stop when a wide hand closed over his shoulder from behind.

“Pete?”

Dragging a sleeve across his eyes to swipe at the beer that still dripped from his forehead, he turned to find Troy standing behind him. He shrugged off his friend’s hand. “Not now, Troy. Can’t you see I’m busy? Me and—” he peered down at the woman, frowning “—what did you say your name was, darlin’?”

She smiled up at him and sidled closer, rubbing her abdomen against his belt buckle. “Cheyenne.”

Pete grinned and did some belt polishing of his own as he told Troy, “Me and Cheyenne are dancing.”

“Clayton left.”

Pete whipped his head around, his eyebrows snapping together over his brow, his grin disappearing. “Left? Where’d he go?”

“Rena called.”

Noticing for the first time the worried look on his buddy’s face, Pete dropped a quick, if distracted, kiss on the woman’s mouth. “Stay right there, darlin’. This won’t take but a minute.” Taking Troy by the elbow, he herded his friend toward the empty hall where the restrooms were located and the noise level was somewhat less. “What’s the problem?”

“She’s gone.”

Confused, Pete furrowed his brow. “Rena?”

“Yeah,” Troy confirmed with a sigh. “She’s left Clayton. Packed up the kids and went to her mother’s.”

“Oh, man,” Pete said, swiping a shaky hand across his forehead. “That’s a shame. When did this happen?”

“About an hour ago. She called and left a message on his cell phone. He’s already gone. Hitched a ride with one of the boys who was headed for Austin. Said he needed to check on the ranch and pick up his truck. He wants you and me to take care of his ranch while he’s gone.” Troy sighed again, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Problem is, I’ve already promised Yuma I’d haze for him at a rodeo in New Mexico.”

Pete mentally rearranged his schedule. “Don’t worry. I can handle things alone.”

Troy looked at him uncertainly. “You sure?”

Pete reared back, bracing his hands low on his hips. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Some greenhorn?” He swelled his chest and thumped a fist against it. “This here is Pete Dugan, current contender for World Champion Bronc Rider. I believe I ought to be able to handle a little old ranch by myself for a couple of days.”

“I know Clayton wouldn’t ask if he wasn’t desperate,” Troy said, still looking uncertain. “He said his hired hand’s home with the chicken pox. Caught it from his kids. He tried calling Carol, but she wasn’t home.”

At the mention of Carol, Pete sagged against the wall. No, Carol wasn’t home, he thought, swallowing hard. She was right here in Mesquite at the rodeo. He’d seen her himself less than two hours before. “Carol still leases that place down the road from Clayton’s?” he asked uneasily.

“Yeah. And she teaches riding lessons a couple of times a week in his arena. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Pete dropped his head back against the wall and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. “No,” he said, trying to convince himself it was true. “No problem.”

“How soon can you leave? Clayton said he’d wait until you got there.”

“Three hours, max.”

It was nearly two in the morning when Pete bumped his way across the cattle guard marking the entrance to Clayton’s ranch. His eyes gritty from lack of sleep, he dragged a hand down his face and sighed. Ahead he could see the porch light was on…and Clayton on the top step, pacing.

Though Pete knew he’d miss a rodeo or two by filling in for Clayton, he figured if his efforts helped his friend save his marriage, the sacrifice was well worth any loss he might suffer in the standings. Both Clayton and Troy were his buddies, traveling the rodeo circuit with him, and, for all practical purposes, the only family he had.

Forcing an overbright smile for Clayton’s benefit, he hopped down from the truck. “The troops have arrived!” he shouted, then felt his knee give way beneath him. Cursing, he stumbled, but quickly righted himself.

“You’re drunk,” Clayton said, his eyes narrowing.

Pete straightened indignantly. “I am not.”

Clayton stepped closer, sniffing. Curling his nose, he withdrew. “You smell like a damn brewery. How the hell am I supposed to leave my ranch in the hands of a drunk?”

Angered by his friend’s wrongful assumption, Pete tossed back, “Well, you sure as hell didn’t seem to mind leaving your ranch in a woman’s hands for the past three years.”

Clayton whirled, his eyes dark with warning. “My marriage is none of your business.”

Pete took a step toward him, ready to argue the point, but stumbled again when his knee buckled a second time. He sucked in a breath as pain shot up his leg. Setting his jaw, he bent at the waist and gripped his hands above his knee caps, trying to swallow back the nausea that rose.

“You are drunk,” Clayton accused angrily.

Before Pete could offer another denial, Clayton ducked a shoulder into his midsection, picked him up fireman-style and strode for the corral.

“Put me down, dammit!” Pete yelled. “I’m not drunk!”

“You won’t be in a minute.” With no more warning than that, Clayton heaved Pete from his shoulder and dumped him in the horse trough.

Pete came up sputtering, scraping the water from his eyes. He glared up at Clayton. “You jackass! I’m not drunk! It’s my knee, dammit!” He fished his cowboy hat from the murky water and levered himself from the trough. His shirt and jeans were plastered to his body, and water sluiced down his face and dripped from his chin.

“Your knee?” Clayton dropped his gaze to stare at the bandage wrapped tightly around his friend’s leg.

Pete slapped the waterlogged hat over his head. “Yes, my knee. The bronc I rode last night thought the pickup man was taking a little too long in fetching me, so he decided to scrape me off his back on the arena wall. Wrenched my bad knee.”

Clayton ducked his head. “I didn’t know.”

“No, you didn’t. You just assumed. And you know what happens when a person assumes something, don’t you?”

Scowling, Clayton glanced up. Then, heaving a sigh, he slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders and headed him back toward the house. “Yeah. He makes an ass of himself,” he muttered.

“Apology accepted.”

Clayton whipped his head around to frown at Pete. “I didn’t offer an apology.”

Pete grinned and looped his arm over Clayton’s shoulders, letting his friend take most of his weight. “No, but I could tell you wanted to.” His grin widened while Clayton’s frown deepened. Limping along at his friend’s side, Pete felt the water squishing inside his boots and figured they were ruined…but decided he’d take that up with Clayton later. His buddy had enough on his mind at the moment. “You packed and ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Long as it takes.”

“You gonna put up a fight for her?”

At the porch Clayton dropped his arm from Pete’s shoulders and turned to face him. “If that’s what’s required.”

“She’s worth it,” Pete said with a nod of approval. “Rena’s a good woman.”

Clayton glanced toward the house, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “Yeah. I suppose.” Heaving a weighty sigh, he stooped and picked up his duffel bag. “Are you sure you can handle the ranch alone?”

Pete smiled confidently. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

With a last, doubtful look, Clayton turned for his truck. “I left a list of instructions on the kitchen table. If you need me, you can reach me on my cell phone.”

“You just bring Rena and the kids back home where they belong,” Pete called after him. “I’ll take care of things here.” He lifted a hand in farewell, then, when he was sure Clayton couldn’t see the action, he sank down on the porch step with a groan. He stretched out his leg to relieve the pressure on his throbbing knee…and wondered how he was going to manage a fifteen-hundred-acre ranch when the thought of making the short trek to his truck to gather his gear filled him with dread.

Pete awakened to pain. But that was nothing new. Seemed pain was his constant companion. He rolled to his back, his hand going instinctively to the puckered flesh on his knee. The scar his fingers rubbed at was two years old, left by a surgeon’s knife, but the pain in his knee wasn’t old. It was constant. He’d learned to live with it, as he had another pain…the one in his heart.

Refusing to think about that other pain, or the woman who had caused it, he pushed himself to a sitting position. He swung his left leg over the side of the bed and gingerly guided his right leg to join it. Standing, he kept his weight on his good leg as he tested the strength in the right. When it wobbled, he sighed and reached for the bandage he’d tossed over the chair the night before and sank back down on the bed, knowing he wouldn’t make it very far without the added support. He wrapped the knee tightly, then stood again, testing his knee’s ability to take his weight. Satisfied that it could, he tugged on his blue jeans and reached for his shirt. Barefoot, he limped for the kitchen. His boots were by the back door, where he’d left them, and a pool of water lay beneath the ruined leather soles. And, dangit, they were his favorite pair, too.

“You owe me a new pair of boots, Clayton,” he muttered as he detoured for the coffeemaker. He reached for the can of grounds and caught a glimpse of his hat lying on the counter, its brim limp, its crown crushed. “And a hat,” he added, frowning as he measured grounds into the basket. While the coffee perked, he hopscotched his way across the rocky drive to his truck and dug out an old pair of boots from behind the seat. Grabbing his cellular phone from the base unit on the console, he stuck it in his shirt pocket.

As he turned to head back to the house, he saw a truck by the barn…and stopped, staring, his heart slowly sinking to his stomach. He knew who the truck belonged to. And knew, too, that he might as well get it over with. No sense in avoiding the inevitable.

Bending over, he quickly stuck a foot into a boot, pulled it on, then gritted his teeth as he hopped a full circle, struggling to tug on the other one. Winded by the exertion, he straightened, hitching his hands low on his hips, and stared in the direction of the barn, dreading the confrontation.

But he had to do it, he told himself. There was no way he was going to be able to avoid seeing her, short of leaving Clayton in a bind.

Setting his jaw, he headed for the barn, trying to hide his limp, just in case she was watching. A man had his pride, after all, he reminded himself. He stepped inside the dim interior and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden change in light. He heard her murmuring softly to a horse in the far stall. As the sound of her voice washed over him, he curled his hands into tight fists at his sides. God, how he’d missed her.

But he wouldn’t let her know. Not when she had left him high and dry, without a word of explanation.

Hoping to keep his presence unknown for as long as possible, he followed the sound of her voice, keeping his tread light as he moved down the long alleyway. At the stall where she worked, he moved to the gate and braced his hands along its top rail. Inside, she was bent over, cleaning clods of dirt and stone from a sorrel mare’s rear hoof. Worn jeans covered long legs, slightly bent, and hugged slim hips shaped like an upside-down heart. A bright yellow T-shirt stretched across her back and was tucked neatly into the waist of her jeans. The brim of a stained cap shadowed her face, and hair—nearly the same shade of red as the mare’s sleek coat—spilled like a waterfall from the cap’s back opening and over her shoulders.

At the sight of her his chest tightened painfully.

“Hello, Carol.”

She dropped the mare’s hoof and whirled. He watched her green eyes widen and was glad that he’d had the element of surprise on his side. If the situation had been reversed and she’d walked up on him unsuspected, he was afraid he might have fainted dead away. Or cried. And he wasn’t sure which would’ve been worse.

Her eyes slowly narrowed and she turned her back to him, stooping to lift the mare’s hoof again.

“Hello, Pete.”

“Saw you at the rodeo last night. Were you there to watch me ride?”

She tossed a frown over her shoulder. “In your dreams, maybe.” Turning her attention back to the horse’s hoof, she added, “If you’re looking for Clayton, he’s not here.”

Though her comment stung, Pete hadn’t expected any less from her. She’d made it clear two years ago that she didn’t want to see him again. But what she hadn’t made clear was why. “I didn’t come to see Clayton. I came to take care of the place while he goes chasing after Rena.”

“He’s wasting his time.”

Pete opened the gate and stepped inside, closing it behind him. “What makes you say that?”

“Rena finally wised up and realized that Clayton doesn’t want a wife.”

“He married her, didn’t he?”

She dropped the mare’s hoof and slowly turned to face him. “Only because he had to.” She tossed the hoof pick into the tack box and retrieved a brush. Placing a hand on the mare’s wide rump, she moved to the animal’s opposite side.

Pete watched her, wondering if she felt she needed the barrier of the horse between them. “Clayton didn’t have to do anything. He married Rena because he wanted to.”

She snorted a laugh as she swept the brush along the mare’s neck. “Uh-huh. And I’m sure that’s why he stays on the road all the time, seldom coming home and rarely bothering to call to check on his wife and kids.”

He knew what she said was true. Hadn’t he worried about the same thing, constantly nagging at Clayton to call Rena and let her know that he was all right? Still, he felt an obligation to defend his friend. “You know what life’s like on the circuit. Racing from one rodeo to the next. Operating on little or no sleep. Eating breakfast in one state, dinner in another.”

She stopped brushing and lifted her head, focusing in on the cell phone he’d tucked in his shirt pocket. Slowly she lifted her gaze to his, arching a brow. “You know, technology is a wondrous thing. A person can pick up a phone and make a call no matter what the time or their location.” She gave her head a shake and went back to her brushing. “Sorry, Pete. Can’t buy into that excuse.”

He tossed his hands up in frustration. “Okay, so maybe Clayton hasn’t been the model husband.”

“He hasn’t been a husband, at all. Or a father.”

Pete quickly stepped to the mare’s side to glare at Carol over the animal’s back. “Now wait just a damn minute. Clayton loves those kids.”

She stopped brushing and rested her forearm along the mare’s spine. “Yes, I think he does,” she said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But the sad part is, he doesn’t know how to express it.”

“And you’re a professional when it comes to dealing with relationships head-on, aren’t you, Carol?” He knew the blow was low and well aimed. But he didn’t care. She’d hurt him when she’d disappeared from his life, and the need for revenge was strong.

He watched her face pale, then she took a step back, dragging her hand from the horse’s side. Turning away, she tossed the brush into the tack box. “Don’t go there, Pete.”

“Why not?” he asked, rounding the horse to confront her. “You don’t seem to mind talking about other people’s relationships, their feelings. Why can’t you talk about your own?”

When she angled her head to look at him, the eyes that met his were emotionless. “Because where you’re concerned, I don’t have any.”

Taking the mare’s lead rope, she opened the gate and led the horse out into the alleyway. Pete caught up with her just outside the barn. He grabbed her arm and whipped her around to face him, his fingers digging into the flesh above her elbow. “Yes, you do,” he said, his voice tight with suppressed fury. “You loved me once. I know you did.”

“No,” she said, trying to pull free. “I never loved you.”

He grabbed her other arm and forced her to face him. The mare shied away from the scuffle, jerking the lead from Carol’s hand, then trotted over to graze on the grass growing at the side of the barn.

“Yes, you did,” he growled and gave Carol a shake, determined to make her admit it. “I tasted it every time I kissed you. Felt it every time you put your hands on me. I saw it in your eyes when we made love.”

Panic filled her green eyes, and she frantically shook her head, denying his claim. “No. I didn’t love you. I didn’t.”

He jerked her up hard against him. “Yes, you did.” Then, as if even now he could prove it, he crushed his mouth over hers. He felt her resistance, tasted the denial on her tightly pressed lips…and was even more determined to make her remember what they’d once shared.

He swept his tongue along the seam of her lips and, when she kept them stubbornly pressed together, wondered if he’d been wrong. Maybe she didn’t love him. Maybe she never had. But then he felt a shudder pass through her, and her lips parted beneath his on a low moan of surrender while her hands climbed up his chest to curl around his neck. He felt the dig of her short, blunt nails in his skin as she drew his face closer, the fullness of her breasts as she surged against him, the desperation of a long-suppressed need as she mated her tongue with his.

Carol. Oh, Carol. What happened to us? he cried silently.

Tightening his hold on her, he lifted, drawing her to her toes, and thrust his tongue between her parted lips, deepening the kiss. The early morning sun bored down on his back, and a rivulet of sweat trailed irritatingly down his spine. A memory pushed itself into his mind of another time when he’d held her just this way, the sun warm on his back. Drawing her down to a quilt spread beneath the shade of the old live oak tree that grew on the rise just above her house. Watching the dappled sunshine play over her bare breasts. Feeling the heat of her body burning beneath his. Tasting her. Filling her. The mindless pleasure of losing himself in her, making her his.

But she wasn’t his. She’d cut him out of her life, refusing to see him and never returning his calls.

Remembering that, he pushed her from him, his chest heaving as he stared down into her flushed face. Her lids fluttered up until her gaze met his. He saw the passion that glazed her eyes, the brief flicker of disappointment that he’d ended the kiss…and he knew he was right. She did love him. Or, at the least, she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she tried to pretend.

Slowly her hands slipped from around his neck, and she dropped them to her sides. She took a step back, then another, the heat in her eyes giving way to a cool indifference.

She swept her tongue lazily across her upper lip. “You still know how to kiss a woman, Pete. I’ll give you that.” Turning her back on him, she strode for the side of the barn where the mare grazed.