Just a Cowboy and His Baby (Spikes & Spurs) (6 page)

She mumbled, “Thank you.”

He handed her the coffee and she sipped it. It did help erase the bitter, nasty taste in her mouth. If she ever figured out what sorry bastard drugged her beer, she fully well intended to repay the favor. Only he wouldn’t wake up fully dressed in a bed with a Chihuahua licking his face. He’d wake up staked out spread eagle and naked on a fire ant bed. If he wanted a hot bed, then by damn she’d give him one.

She slung her legs over the side of the bed. The room did a couple of fast spins before it slowed down.

“Need some help there?”

“No, I can do it,” she declared. She set the coffee on the end table and held on to the wall. Her legs were rubbery at first but they finally supported her and she took a couple of feeble steps toward the table.

Trace slung his legs over the bed toward the other side and followed her. Knowing he was back there to catch her if she fell gave her confidence and determination to make it to the table without help. She slid into the booth and sighed.

“This is miserable,” she said.

“Think you can drive? We could stay right here until tomorrow,” Trace said.

We
could
stay
here?
she thought.
Where
did
that
“we” business come from?

“This coffee and aspirin are helping. Once I eat something I’ll be fine,” she said.

“Your eyes still look dazed,” he said.

“It’s a crazy feeling not knowing what in the devil happened. I keep trying to remember something past the dance and I can’t,” she said.

He put a plate in front of her with three fried eggs, bacon, and two pieces of toast on the side and refilled her coffee cup before he carried a second plate to the table and joined her.

She picked up a piece of bacon with her fingers and ate it. It was crispy enough to crackle when she bit a piece off and it had been smoked to just the right flavor.

“I love breakfast food,” she said.

“Me too. Good breakfast starts the day out right. Good supper ends it. Dinner can be a quick sandwich or leftovers from the night before,” he said.

She cut up the eggs. “Just right. Over easy, whites done.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He grinned. “That proves it, Gemma. You were drugged for sure. If you had a hangover, you damn sure wouldn’t be eating greasy fried eggs.”

She looked across the table at Trace but didn’t nod in agreement. Moving her head still hurt. “You got that right. First time I ever got drunk enough to have a hangover, I didn’t even want to eat a piece of dry toast.”

Trace smiled again. He had a killer smile and dreamy eyes, and words could not begin to describe his body or his slow Texas drawl. He could ride a bronc and talk about horses, ranching, and rodeos, and could cook too. Why in the hell wasn’t he married?

“What time is it?” she asked.

He glanced toward the clock on the microwave and her gaze followed his. It was seven thirty. If they were on the road at eight, they’d pull into the campground at five that afternoon. That should give her plenty of time to cook the traditional holiday supper before the fireworks show started at dark.

“I’ll follow you today,” he said. “And I need your cell phone number so we can keep in touch about stopping for food and potty breaks.”

“You don’t have to. I can take care of myself.”

He chuckled.

She gave him the meanest look she could conjure up with a headache.

He raised both palms. “Hey, you want to go it on your own just say the word, darlin’. I’m just offering since you’re not runnin’ on all eight cylinders today.”

“It’s getting better,” she grumbled. “But I’ll take you up on the offer. And I’ll even make supper to pay you back for protection and breakfast.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You cook?”

She met his gaze without blinking. “You think I can’t?”

“You want a fight? I can deliver it.” He growled but his eyes were teasing instead of angry.

“No, I’m too messed up to fight. You’d win and then I’d hate myself. Yes, I cook,” she answered between bites.

“What are you planning?”

“It’s the Fourth of July. We’ll have steaks on the grill at the campground, corn on the cob, and maybe summer goulash if I can find a fruit stand along the way.”

“Summer goulash?” he asked.

“That would be potatoes, squash, onions, and tomatoes or whatever fresh vegetables I can find at a stand all put together in some foil and grilled with the steaks. And watermelon for dessert.”

He polished off the rest of his omelet and smeared grape jelly on the last piece of his toast. “Sounds like a meal fit for a king who just rescued the princess.”

“Darlin’, I’m not the princess. I’m the queen and I intend to have the crown in Vegas,” she told him.

He leaned across the table until their noses were only inches apart. “Miss O’Donnell, to get that crown you are going to have to get past me.”

“I can do it.” Her green eyes locked with his brown ones.

He slowly straightened his back and picked up his coffee cup.

She was disappointed. She was so sure that he would kiss her that she could already taste the coffee on his lips. She felt cheated and then she was angry at herself for wanting him to kiss her at all.

“I believe that
you
think
you can beat me,” he said.

“I believe that
you
think
I can’t.” She slid out of the booth. The room didn’t sway and her feet were on solid ground once again.

“I guess we’ll see what happens in the next five months.”

“And like I told you before, one of us is going to be very happy. Thank you for breakfast. I’ll be ready to leave in thirty minutes,” she said.

The room seemed smaller when he slid out of the booth. Six feet two inches of a bronc rider took up a lot of real estate, especially in a small trailer. “I’ll follow you. If you start feeling light-headed or sick just pull over and we’ll stop earlier than the campground. We’ve got five days to get to Colorado Springs. We don’t have to hurry.”

He opened the door for her and followed her out into the bright sunlight. “Going to be another hot one. Thank goodness for air-conditioning.”

She turned around and smiled up at him. “Amen.”

His arms gathered her close to him and she barely had time to close her eyes before his lips had found hers in a searing kiss that came close to frying her underpants.

Tongue met tongue in a fiery mating dance, and their bodies pressed tightly together as if closeness would ease the aching pain brought on by steaming hot kisses. One kiss grew to two with the last one lingering on and on. Yet it ended too soon, and when he stepped back she had to get her bearings quickly or she would have fallen forward into his arms again.

“See you when we stop for lunch.” He picked up her hand and wrote his phone number on her palm. “That’s in case you need to call me.”

He quickly disappeared back into his trailer.

Words would not come out of her swollen and hot mouth. And her hand was every bit as warm as her lips. So that first impromptu kiss hadn’t created an oozy feeling down deep in her gut because of an adrenaline rush; she really was attracted to the cowboy.

“Dammit to hell on a rusty poker,” she exclaimed.

With shaking hands, she fished her key from the pocket of her tight jeans and unlocked the door into her own trailer. Once inside, she threw herself backwards on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

She could not be involved with Trace. She couldn’t let him kiss her again. It would be like sleeping with the enemy, and she’d never know if he was playing her or if he was seducing her with those blistering kisses just to mess up her head so she’d wreck at every rodeo. Or was he as attracted to her as she was to him? Either way, she’d never know the absolute truth.

She’d leased her beauty shop and given up a year of her life for this circuit round. No matter how much her heart whined for more kisses and a taste of what Trace would be like in bed, the answer was no. Her heart could get over it. It could not have both, and there’d be lots of cowboys in her future. The glory of the Vegas win was a one-time shot.

“I mean it!” she mumbled as she reached down and undid her belt. Then she sat up, undressed completely, padded to the tiny bathroom, took a quick shower, and washed her hair. She slipped into panties and a bra, a pair of jean shorts with frayed edges, sandals, and a yellow cotton top with spaghetti straps.

She’d locked the door securely and was on her way to get inside her truck when she saw Trace bringing Sugar back from a walk. She’d never get used to seeing a big tough cowboy with a little bitty dog prancing along beside him.

“Ready?” Trace asked.

“Are you?”

“Soon as I get in the truck. You go on first and I’ll follow you,” he said.

She nodded and settled into the pickup seat, belted up, and started the engine.

How could he act as if nothing had happened between them? It must be a man thing. Her insides were a pile of mush and her brain was barely functioning. She wanted to follow him back into the trailer and finish what they’d started with that kiss and be done with it. Maybe a good romp in the sheets
would
put an end to the fire.

***

Trace settled Sugar on her pillow in the passenger’s seat of his black pickup truck, fired up the engine, and waited until he saw Gemma expertly back her trailer up and slowly pull away from the rodeo grounds. He fell in behind her and wished she was right there in the truck with him instead of looking at her license plate.

“Damn woman, anyway!” he said to Sugar. “Her lips are even softer than I thought they’d be, and the way she fit into my arms was like she belonged there. But I can’t do it, Sugar. We can be friends and traveling buddies, but no more of those hot kisses. Besides, she might be trying to mess me up so she can have her glory ride and be the second woman to win the title. She’s got two strikes against her. She’s way out of my league and I could never trust her.”

He was still arguing like a prosecution lawyer going after a guilty conviction when she signaled that she was getting off at the next exit. He was surprised to see that the whole morning had passed and it was lunchtime. He’d give her credit for one thing: she didn’t piddle around when it came to getting from one place to the next. They’d put in two hundred and fifty miles since they left the rodeo grounds.

She was out of her vehicle and jogging toward the door before he could get Sugar’s leash snapped and take her to the doggy section of the truck parking area. By the time Sugar had sniffed every blade of grass and chased a grasshopper out from under a rock, Gemma was back.

“Tell me what you want and I’ll order for both of us. We can eat while we drive.”

“Slave driver.”

“Yep, I am. Now give me your order. I only allow thirty minutes for eating and then it’s back on the road.”

“You really are a slave driver,” he said.

“Keep up or stay out of my way,” she teased.

“I want two cheeseburgers with everything on them, a double order of fries, a chocolate shake, and a cup of coffee,” he said.

She looked at her watch. “I’ll take care of the orders and then watch Sugar while you have a potty break.”

“Bossy as hell, ain’t you?”

“I prefer to think of it as highly acute organizational skills.”

“That’s just fancy talk for bossy,” he argued.

“Words are words. I’ll order and be right back.”

He watched her trot back inside. She looked just as good in those cutoff shorts as she did in tight jeans. It was going to be a long, long five months.

The series of signs hung on the barbed wire fence like the old Burma Shave signs years before. Fruit Stand Ahead. Watermelon. Okra. Peaches. Squash. Tomatoes. Souvenirs. One mile. Don’t miss it. Exit now.

Gemma slapped on the signal for the exit, slowed down, and checked the rearview to be sure Trace was aware that she was turning off. It was bigger than the roadside stands in Texas where someone threw a tarp over a couple of folding tables or else over the bed of their pickup truck. It was a permanent pavilion with rows and rows of fresh fruit plus souvenirs and homemade furniture.

Trace pointed as they walked toward the building. “Hey, look at that picnic table.”

“Howdy, folks,” the man behind the counter said.

“Hello. You mind if we bring the dog in?” Trace asked.

“Long as it stays on that leash or you carry it. Them little ones is meaner and faster than the big ones most of the time,” he said.

Trace held up the leash and the man nodded.

“Make you a good deal on one of them picnic tables. I’m trying to sell them before the new stuff gets here,” the man said.

“They are beautiful, but I’m too far from home to buy one now,” Trace said.

The man nodded.

Trace looked over his shoulder at Gemma. “I see a Coke machine over there. Want something to drink?” Trace asked.

“Cold root beer sounds pretty good.”

He started for the machine and Sugar pulled against the leash to go outside. “I’ll have to get it later. She’s getting desperate. I’ll let her run in the grass out by the trucks and then come help you carry your bags out.”

Gemma understood Sugar’s desperation. She looked around, saw a ladies room sign at the back of the place, and headed straight for it. It didn’t have a bit of air-conditioning and felt like a sweatbox inside, so she didn’t tarry to check her hair roots or her lipstick. When she went back out she found a small cart and pushed it straight to the watermelons. She thumped the ends of four before she found one that sounded right. Then she went on to the peaches, cantaloupe, green beans, onions, potatoes, and yellow squash. She was on her way to the counter when she looked up and saw a swinging sign advertising wind chimes at fifty percent off, so she made a turn and headed toward the back of the store.

She picked up one made of old silver spoons and shook it to hear the tinkling sound as they brushed against each other. She felt a presence and, expecting it to be Trace, she turned slowly. But it was a woman wearing a bright orange and turquoise caftan, sandals, and a turquoise turban on her head.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. You were so engrossed that you didn’t hear me.”

Gemma held it up higher. “It is pretty, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. I love wind chimes—and hair.” She touched the turban.

Gemma raised an eyebrow.

“Cancer, but I’m in remission so they’ve promised I’ll get it all back. I do like that wind chime. Are you buying it?” she said.

“I don’t know. It reminds me of one that Momma has on the back porch, but the chimes are horseshoes. I have a construction paper horseshoe in my trailer out there. When I win at a rodeo bronc rider event I get to put a paper shamrock on it.” Gemma didn’t normally share personal things with strangers and suddenly wished she could take it all back.

The woman smiled brightly. “I bought a horseshoe and hung it above my door. My ancestors were Irish. We’re a tough lot and I’m going to beat this cancer.”

Gemma smiled. “Can I grow up and have your courage?”

The lady patted her on the arm. “Sure you can, darlin’. Now which one of us is going home with that wind chime?”

Gemma handed it to her. “You are. I’m going to buy that one with the shells because when I win the title in December, I’m taking a vacation to the beach.”

“Now that is determination, planning, and ambition,” she said. “Is that your husband out there with the little dog?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Your feller then?”

“I’m not sure what he is,” Gemma said honestly.

“You know him, though, and you are traveling together, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You got to be from Texas. Folks up here aren’t so quick to say ma’am.”

“I’m from Ringgold, Texas. Little place right across the Red River from Oklahoma. I’m on the rodeo circuit and I’m bound, damned, and determined to be the next woman to win the bronc riding event in the Vegas finals.”

“Well, you go get it! Looks like maybe I need to have your courage,” the lady said.

Gemma picked up her wind chime and headed for the front counter with the woman right behind her. “A word of advice from an old woman who should keep her mouth shut. Don’t shut a door before you look to see what’s behind it. And I’ll mark it on my calendar to watch that Vegas rodeo.”

“Thank you,” Gemma said.

The woman paid for her items and they walked out of the fruit stand together. The lady got into a Cadillac and drove away.

“You buy out the whole place?” Trace looked at her cart.

She held up the wind chime. “Almost. Look at what I bought. It’s going to remind me that I get a vacation when I win the title. You want me to take care of Sugar while you make a pit stop? I made a dash through the ladies room while I was in there. Got to warn you, though. There’s no air-conditioning in the bathrooms and it’s like a sweat lodge,” she said.

He handed her the leash and she leaned against the truck to wait. Sugar chased a grasshopper, growled at a bee, and kicked dirt behind her to teach those bugs not to mess with a mean ferocious Chihuahua.

He brought back two bottles of ice-cold root beer and handed one to Gemma.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome. See you in Boise.”

He pushed the cart out to her truck, unloaded all her fruit and vegetables into the backseat, and opened her door, picked up Sugar, and then slammed her door shut.

“With those manners, my daddy would really, really like you,” she mumbled.

They pulled into the Boise/Meridian KOA at four forty-five. The thermometer inside her truck said the outside temperature was ninety-six degrees, but it felt like it was only six degrees hotter than the devil’s pitchfork when she stepped out of the air-conditioning into the blistering heat.

She hurried inside the small log cabin that served as an office with Trace right behind her, Sugar in his arms.

“Cute dog. Y’all got reservations?” an elderly gentleman with white hair and a white moustache asked.

“Yes, sir. Gemma O’Donnell.”

“And Trace Coleman,” Trace said.

“Oh, I thought you was a newly married couple. I seen it a million times. Folks get married and get a dog instead of a baby. I must have been wrong this time.”

Gemma blushed crimson. “Guess so, sir.”

He poked a few keys on the computer and looked up, “Okay, that was Gemma, Emma with a
G
?”

“That’s right.”

“Right here. And Trace Coleman. You’d be the bronc rider I been readin’ so much about, right? I hear you done earned a spot at the big one this winter. I saw you ride last year in Cody.”

“Not yet, but I’m workin’ on it,” Trace said.

“Well, I got y’all hooked up beside each other at the end of the park under a big shade tree. You want to give me that dog and I won’t charge you for the night.” His dark brown eyes twinkled in a chiseled face full of wrinkles.

Trace reached for his wallet. “No, thank you. I’ll just pay.”

“Oh! A sale table!” Gemma’s eyes widened and she headed for a table near the back of the room.

“Things left from last year’s stock. I got them marked real cheap, missy,” the manager said.

She picked up a tiny dream catcher with a shell no bigger than her thumbnail embedded in the web. She held it up and the peacock feathers twirled in the breeze from the ceiling fan.

“I’ll take this. Add it in with my bill for the night,” she said.

When they had paid and were outside, Trace asked, “Why did you buy that?”

“Because I wanted it. See the shell in the middle? It’s an omen that I’m going to win and vacation somewhere on a beach.”

“Okay,” Trace drew out the word to four syllables long. “I bet you still believe in Santa Claus if you believe that fairy tale.”

She cocked her head to one side. “You don’t? Didn’t you ever sit on his knee?”

“Every year, and Mother has the pictures to prove it. What’d you ask for when you sat on his knee?”

She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Depends on what year.”

“How old were you the last time you sat on his knee?”

“You mean last year?”

Trace smiled. “You really did?”

“Momma has the picture to prove it, but I’m not telling you what I wished for. It’s between me and Santa. He said he couldn’t get it on such short notice, but he’d work on it for this year. We’ll see if he’s really magic or just a man in a suit.”

“Come on, what was it?” Trace asked.

“Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me. Let’s go make supper. I’ve been thinking about that watermelon all afternoon,” she changed the subject. There was no way she’d tell him that she’d really asked Santa for her very own cowboy and a baby by the next Christmas.

They parked their trucks in the last two lots with a big shade tree between them. Trace climbed out of his truck, shook faded jean legs down over the tops of his scuffed-up boots, and clamped a retracting leash on Sugar’s collar. He hitched it up to the leg of a picnic table and let her go twenty feet in any direction she chose. He sat down at the table and stretched his legs out in front of him.

“What can I do to help with supper?” he asked.

“You any good at grilling a steak?”

“You got a good steak?”

“Angus from my brother’s ranch in Terral, Oklahoma, and there’s a bottle of watermelon wine in there,” she nodded back toward the trailer, “from my sister-in-law’s cellar.”

“Then you’d best let me cook it. It’d be a pure sin if you burned a good Angus T-bone,” he said.

“Who said anything about a T-bone? I’ve got sirloins as big as a dinner plate. I brought half a dozen of them in my little freezer. I thawed two out for supper tonight, and they’ve been marinating in my secret sauce all day.”

Trace wiggled his eyebrows. “Sounds sexy.”

She air-slapped him on the arm and said, “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Where should it be? We slept together last night.”

Gemma clamped a hand over her mouth. “We did not!”

“Oh yes we did, darlin’! I don’t mind sharing my bed, but a woman has never put me out of it altogether. Sugar and I were glad to let you sleep on the other side, but we did indeed sleep together,” he said.

She sat down on the picnic table, propped her feet on the bench attached to it, and stared right into Trace’s brown eyes.

“Okay, Trace, what is this?”

He grinned. “I thought you were smarter than that, woman. We talked about the picnic bench at the fruit stand and this one isn’t that much different.”

“What?” she asked.

“You asked me what this is. It is a picnic bench.”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Her tone was pure exasperation.

“A KOA with a grill so we can enjoy supper and fireworks,” he continued to tease.

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, then serious is what you get. Seems like we kinda fell into a friendship of sorts. We are going to the same places, doing the same things, talking the same language, and it’s nice.”

She nodded. “Okay, ground rules then. Whatever this is does not interfere in any way with our bronc riding. Agreed?”

“Absolutely. I’m not about to feel sorry for you and let you win just because you want your name in the marquee lights for being the second woman to get the title. And I sure don’t give a damn about you wearing that glory crown.”

Her green eyes were daring when she caught his gaze. “And I’m not about to feel sorry for you because you want a ranch. I’m going to have that title, Trace Coleman. So now do you want to be my friend?”

“All’s fair in love, war, and on the rodeo grounds, right?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, it is! I’ll do anything to break your concentration. I won’t play fair, so be forewarned.”

He grinned. “And I will do the same thing, so ground rules are accepted. Now let’s get supper going. By the time it gets done I’m going to be half starved.”

Trace walked into the trailer and suddenly her tiny trailer was jam-packed full of muscles and dreamy brown eyes and it was twenty degrees hotter. He took one look at the paper horseshoe on the back of the door and raised an eyebrow.

“Look closely and you’ll understand,” she said.

He looked at the shamrocks with the names of the towns where they’d ridden and realized that only the ones where she had won were glued to the paper horseshoe.

She tapped the top of the horseshoe. “And that’s where I will hang the big one.”

“Or not!”

“No doubts in my mind.”

“Or mine!”

His eyes strayed to her bed where the table used to be. “I vote that we take the food into my trailer to eat. What can I do to help?”

“Soon as I get this done you can put it on the grill for a few minutes before we put the steaks on,” she said.

She cut tiny newly harvested red potatoes in half and piled them on top of fresh green onions then topped them with yellow squash circles and a slice of tomato before pulling the edges of foil up to form a pocket. He husked and silked four ears of corn, slathered them with butter, and wrapped them in foil and bumped against her at least a dozen times, creating so much electricity between them that every touch felt like a blast from a policeman’s Taser gun.

“All done! I’ll get the charcoal going now,” he said as he carried the steaks and corn outside.

Gemma heaved a sigh of relief. Good Lord, if she bumped against him one more time she was sure the whole trailer was going to ignite into a raging fire that would leave nothing but ashes and a metal framework in its wake. And he didn’t act like it affected him one damn bit. Was the cowboy made of pure ice?

She wet a washcloth with cold water and held it on her face for a few seconds, but it didn’t help the high color in her cheeks. She threw it into the sink and toted the vegetable pockets and a plastic tablecloth out to the table.