Cowboy Heaven (3 page)

Traveling along such a rough road made conversation difficult, which left my mind free to consider what to do with my new stray.

My first thought was that offering Troy a job might have been a mistake. As an employee, he would live in the bunkhouse with the other hands and be out working all day. If I kept him in the house, I'd see a lot more of him.

I reminded myself that he still needed a few days for his feet to heal. During that time, I could indulge myself by nursing him back to health before I had to break down and actually make him work for his keep. Realistically, I couldn't expect his blisters to heal up overnight, nor would it take a week before he could walk without pain.

On the other hand, he might think there was something funny about staying in the house with Dad and me after he'd accepted the job. Dad might think there was something odd about it too.

These and other points to ponder kept my mouth shut and my mind occupied during most of the drive. Fortunately, Troy had figured out I was the quiet type and wouldn't assume I was ignoring him. I couldn't decide how to relate to him. I wasn't old enough to be his mother, nor was I his contemporary. Being employer and employee wasn't much better. Thinking of us as friends was the best alternative I could come up with. I would be friendly with him—perhaps more so than with the other hands because I…

Because I
what
? Liked him more? Thought he was cuter? There had to be some explanation as well as a reason for allowing a total stranger into my home. I could say he was a distant cousin of a friend of mine, but that would be too easy to disprove if anyone decided to check into it.

I waited until we'd reached one of the smoother sections of pavement before I broached the subject. “Troy, I feel sort of weird about this. I really don't know you from Adam, and it's going to seem strange when I tell everyone I picked up a hitchhiker and brought him home. I need some sort of…justification.”

“What, my being a handsome devil isn't reason enough?”

He was laughing when he said it, but I doubted he was kidding. Chances were good that his looks were the reason he'd acquired his previous girlfriend. It was also the conclusion almost anyone would reach for what I'd done—no matter how pitiful he might've seemed at the time.

“Really, Angela, you don't need an excuse to hire me. I'm a cowboy—not a con artist or a serial killer. I know there's no reason for you to believe that, but it's the honest-to-God truth.”

I ignored the crack about the serial killer and focused on his first question, which was first and foremost in my mind. “So you think I picked you up because you're a gorgeous hunk, huh?” If that was the case, then he already knew me too well. I wouldn't get away with much.

He arched a brow. “Am I wrong?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure. But even if you
are
a real cowboy, there must be something wrong with you, or your girlfriend wouldn't have left you stranded on the highway.”

Troy didn't answer me right away. Whether he used the time to fabricate a lie or search for the truth wasn't clear, but if I'd had to guess, I'd have said he was genuinely puzzled.

“I dunno,” he finally said. “Maybe I waited too long to ask her to marry me.”

“Were you planning to?”

“Nope.” With a sheepish shrug he added, “Actually, it never even occurred to me. I haven't got what you'd call a shining future as a rodeo cowboy, and I never have any money to speak of. I can't afford a wife.”

In my humble opinion, he could have sold his body on the street corner and been rich enough to retire in a month.

I didn't say that, of course. Instead, I suggested he model Levi's.

His grimace led me to believe he'd heard that line before. “Maybe. But I couldn't do that forever. Maybe it's time I admitted to myself that a ranch hand is all I'm cut out to be. There are worse things a man could do for a living.”

The streetwalker notion came to mind again, but I modified the idea slightly—feeling him out, as it were. “Like being a boy toy for a rich socialite with a thing for cowboys?” I hoped my accompanying giggle would encourage him to assume I was joking, but I wasn't. His viewpoint on sex with older women was a topic I had a considerable interest in at the time.

Obviously not a man to speak without thinking—a trait I found quite appealing—he took his time to reply. Either that or he was stunned speechless. “I don't believe I'd like that,” he said slowly. “I wouldn't have much to talk about with the socialite type. Rich people are too…
different
from the rest of us.”

At least he hadn't rejected the boy toy suggestion out of hand, only the rich socialite part—which was a good thing, since I wasn't rich. Perhaps I still had a chance to recruit him. “So it's not the boy toy thing you object to, just the rich socialite part?”

“I'm not sure I'd make a very good boy toy, either,” was his cautious reply. “I think I'm too old for that.”

He still seemed to be skirting the issue. Searching for a slightly different tack, I chose the most obvious. “Aha! Now we're getting somewhere. I know why your girlfriend dumped you. Viagra is too expensive.” My cowboy fantasy was already beginning to fade into oblivion. He wouldn't be hard in another twenty miles—it would be more like another twenty hours, or twenty days, or twenty weeks, or—

“That isn't the problem,” he said, interrupting my dismal appraisal of his sexual stamina. “Trust me, everything works fine. I just think a guy would have to be younger and not have much of a mind of his own for that sort of occupation. I'm not what you'd call submissive.”

Damn.
Clearly, none of my fantasies about him were going to come true. He was too old and so was I. At least I
assumed
that was the problem.

Back
to
the
drawing
board.

On the other hand, I didn't think I'd care for a totally submissive man. I liked a little sexual aggression now and then—liked the idea that a man could be so strongly attracted to me that he might get carried away sometimes.

“Bullheaded, huh? Is that what your girlfriend didn't like?”

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “Although, now that I think about it, for all practical purposes I probably
was
her boy toy. We were roughly the same age, but she did have money. I guess you could say she sponsored me, buying the horse and trailer and paying my entry fees when I couldn't come up with the cash. She probably got tired of wasting her money on a cowboy who didn't win all the time. Maybe she figured she'd have a better chance of finding a new guy without me tagging along.”

He was making me wish I'd never brought it up. “She couldn't have found one who was better-looking, that's for sure.” I tried for a teasing tone but didn't quite make it. The conversation was getting a bit deep for that.

My pathetic attempt at humor drew a mirthless chuckle. “Nothing more than a pretty face, huh? Lots of women complain they aren't taken seriously because they're beautiful, but I can relate to that in a way. No one seems to think I have a brain—that I'm the male equivalent of a dumb blond.”

I was beginning to feel guilty about my fantasy but consoled myself with the knowledge that he didn't and—if I kept quiet about it—wouldn't
ever
know I'd had such erotic thoughts concerning him. I was regretting the “slutty cowboy” part, too—until I remembered it was all in my head.

“Why is it that so many people feel the need to categorize others? You know what I mean—the whole ‘he's a geek, she's a brain, he's a hunk, or she's an airhead' thing, when the truth is that everyone has more than one defining characteristic. Some people have it all—brains and beauty and money and talent—but most of us don't, and we always seem to want what we can't have. You wish people wouldn't look at you and see only a pretty face, whereas I, on the other hand, would like very much to have a problem like that. Too bad we can't ever be satisfied.”

“Being satisfied might not be a good thing,” Troy said. “If you were satisfied, you'd never do anything different or strive to be better at what you already do, would you?”

This was a much deeper thought than I would have given him credit for having, which made me as guilty as anyone who'd decided he was all beauty and brawn and no brains. I peered at him out of the corner of my eye. “Now, there's a deep, insightful comment if I've ever heard one. You're absolutely right, Troy. Point made.” I gave him a quick once-over. “There's certainly more to you than a pretty face.”

“And you're a lot prettier than you think you are.”

“Bless you for that,” I whispered. Tears stung my eyes as I focused them on the road again. I didn't want him to see me cry any more than he'd wanted to shed tears in front of me. We'd come to another bumpy stretch of road, so I concentrated on that for the time being, but in truth, all I wanted was to simply stop the truck and hug him. Pain swelled within my chest as I realized I would probably never get the chance to do that. I never seemed to get hugs from anyone anymore.

“Hey, now, don't cry.”

Only then did I realize I
was
crying. Tears slid down my cheeks in salty little rivers, puddling in my eyes and fogging up my contact lenses until I could barely see.

“Why don't you pull over for a minute?” he suggested.

I did so without protest, having no other choice since I couldn't see well enough to avoid the potholes. I put the truck in park and dissolved into tears, leaning on the steering wheel as it struck me exactly how alone I felt. My husband was dead, my sons had gone off to college, and Dad hadn't been himself lately, though he'd never been what you'd call understanding and supportive. Mom had been gone for years. I had no one to turn to but—

“Come here.” Troy raised the fold-down console between us and popped the release on my seat belt. Pulling me out from behind the wheel and across the bench seat, he took me in his arms and held me as I added my tears to the sweat already staining his shirt. It seemed I'd gotten my wish, for I'd pulled over to the side of the road and hugged him. Too bad I was crying my eyes out at the time.

At that point, I didn't care
what
he was. He could have been a killer, a thief, a rapist, or any kind of creep you could think of. All I knew was that for the moments he held me in his arms I felt safe, cared for—possibly even loved. Believe me, it was heady stuff for a lonely widow. That, on top of all the fantasizing I'd been doing, may have been responsible for what happened next. But somehow I didn't think I was entirely to blame.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I didn't mean to make you cry, but you really are pretty, Angie. Didn't anyone ever tell you that? Not even your husband?”

Sobbing harder, I held tightly to the open edges of his shirt. “Yes, he did. But it was such a long time ago, and now he's dead. No one's paid the slightest bit of attention to me since he died, and I
miss
that. He couldn't be the only one, could he? I mean, there's got to be someone else on the planet who would feel the same way. Maybe I need to get out more or something. I tried going out with some friends once, but I only got ignored, so I never tried it again.”

He gave me a squeeze. “Not much of a flirt, huh?”

“Only with my husband. Cody and I used to flirt outrageously with each other, but we were so slick about it, no one ever realized what we were doing. We had a sort of code. One of us would catch the other's eye, or I would touch him in a way that didn't mean anything to anyone but us. I miss the closeness, the contact—this sort of thing.” I hugged him even harder than before. “Someone to put my arms around. My dad isn't much of a hugger, and my sons are both in college—the only ones who get hugs from me are the dogs and the horses, and they never hug me back.”

“You can hug me anytime you like.” He stroked my back, his hands gliding up and down. Soothing yet stimulating. “I'm feeling a little unloved, myself. I could do with a few hugs.”

“I'm sorry.” I sat up, sniffling as I wiped away my tears. “I'd forgotten. You should be the one crying, not me.”

“Yeah, well, I did that already,” he said. “I might do it again, but I'm okay for now. What about you? Are you all right or do you want me to drive?”

“I can drive.”

“Are you sure? Is there anything I can do to help?”

I shook my head, but a moment later I found myself staring at his mouth. I hadn't kissed him in my fantasy. What would it be like to taste those succulent lips? To feel their heat, to linger over their soft fullness…

I glanced away, knowing I shouldn't even think about kissing him. Hugs were good—certainly better than nothing—and he'd said I could hug him whenever I wanted. Any form of physical contact was an improvement over my previous situation. For now, hugs would have to do.

In a vain attempt to defog my contacts, I blinked several times. He must've thought I was batting my eyelashes, flirting with him, because when I looked up, he had this peculiar expression on his face. I can't describe it exactly, but it was a mixture of emotions—uncertainty, puzzlement—and then it changed, as though a light went on in his head and he suddenly knew the answer.

Reaching out, he took my face in his hands and leaned toward me. His kiss was whisper soft on my lips, which were parted in surprise. Tentative at first, he seemed to be asking for permission, seeking reassurance that this was indeed what I wanted.

I replied to his unspoken question the best way I could. Laying my hands on his shoulders, I slid them slowly around to his back, enfolding him in my arms.

Obviously needing no further encouragement, Troy deepened the kiss. Slipping one hand to the back of my head and the other to my waist, he pulled me closer until I was practically in his lap. I didn't think about the fact that only a few miles down the road, we hadn't even met. Didn't think about whether he minded kissing a woman older than himself and, comparatively speaking, far less attractive.