Nothing Sweeter (Sweet on a Cowboy) (4 page)

“Jolie Danse, the registered Thoroughbred in the end stall.” She turned to the man, Bree dismissed. “He’d better not be the mess he was last week, or I swear I’m finding another barn. I don’t care if the Jamesons
do
need the money.”

What a bitch.
Bree turned on her heel, not sure if she was angry for herself or the brothers. And what kind of man would put up with that for more than two minutes?

She slung the stall door open and caught the halter of the rangy gray gelding who high-stepped in anticipation. After cross tying him in the aisle, she tacked him with the expensive bridle and English saddle that hung outside the stall. The woman sashayed over, and Bree caught the assessing look out of the corner of her eye as she worked.

“Well, at least this groom shows some promise.” The grudging compliment seemed directed to the barn in general, since the businessman had remained by the tack room, and she wasn’t lowering herself to speak with Bree.

The gelding whickered and dipped its head to nuzzle its owner. Alfalfa-stained drool smeared her immaculate blouse, but the woman ignored it, running a hand down his silky, dappled flank.

“Yes, I know, Peanut.” Her tone was gooey syrup. “You’ve been neglected of late. We’re going to keep an eye on that. I promise.” The gray’s head moved lower, snuffling. “Did you miss Mommy?” The ice queen’s face thawed as a look of delight crossed it. “You big baby, you just want a treat.” She hugged the horse’s neck and pulled a carrot from the back waistband of her jodhpurs. “Yes, Peanutiest, I brought you something. I swear you are the most spoiled baby on the planet.”

She turned to catch Bree’s openmouthed stare and looked down a nose too perfect not to have had work done. “Surely, even you have heard of using a barn name for blooded horses. His registered name is too much a mouthful for everyday use.” She sniffed and gave the gray a kiss on his delicate nose.

Hard to hate a woman who makes a fool of herself over a horse.
Aubrey pulled the last stirrup down with a snap, careful to hide a smile. “Is there anything else I could help you with, ma’am? Do you need a leg up?”

Her haughty look was back in place. “No. That will be all.”

Bree unsnapped the crossties and handed over the reins. The woman led the horse to the businessman, who pocketed his phone and listened to her babble with an indulgent smile.

Even an ice queen like that had a love. Bree’s hand jumped to her hollowed-out chest. Max’s strong profile drifted through her mind before she could shut it out. She
snorted to banish the silly imagining.
You’re here to heal, chickie, not go all soft. You saw where being soft got you, back in LA.

Keep things light and simple and everything will be okay.

5

Y
ou have no idea how good it is to see you, Juan.” Wyatt made sure the door to his bedroom was closed before he Skyped home.

Juan’s smile was wide and warm. “You look careworn. What’s going on there? Is your Neanderthal brother giving you a hard time?”

“Not on purpose. Max is a good guy, but it’s a simple, black-and-white lifestyle out here, and my presence brings up issues he’d rather not deal with.”

“Then let him deal with himself—and the details. Why don’t you just come home? After all, the will was clear. He’s executor, and you get half of everything. Sounds pretty straightforward to me.”

“I know, but—”

“Besides, I miss you like crazy.” Wyatt watched as Juan’s fingers touched his computer screen, as if to bridge the two thousand miles between them.

Homesickness opened a hole in Wyatt’s chest, and he fell in. He’d looked at the local weather report this
morning; Boston would be covered in a perfect crystalline blanket of snow by now. “Did you go to La Vie for a chocolate croissant this morning?”

“Is it Sunday?” Juan smiled into the camera. “Of course I did. Celeste asked where you were. When can you get out of there?”

Wyatt rubbed his fingers across his forehead. “It’s not that simple. The ranch is in trouble. Even if I gave Max my half, he’d lose it in a year.”

“So? Why is this your problem?” Juan leaned a bit closer to the screen. “You’ve heard from him what, five times in the past twenty years? He doesn’t care about you, Wyatt. Why are you wasting your time?”

“He does care about me, Juan. He loves me. He just doesn’t know how to reconcile loving me with his upbringing. But it’s more than that.” He glanced out the window that overlooked the front yard, the road, and the vast acreage beyond it. “I’ve avoided this place forever. Too long. Dad’s gone—it’s too late to reconcile with him. I don’t know if it’s possible to get closer to Max, but I’m not staying here for him only.

“I need to reconcile with this place, Juan. I blew out of here and never looked back. Coming here reminds me that I left things undone. The kind of things that eat at the back of your mind—your self-esteem. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“Sure I can.” Juan’s sad smile pulled at him. “But don’t forget, while you’re wandering in the wilds, finding yourself, that you have a full, rich life here and a guy that’s sure missing you.”

If he hadn’t been breathing the past in with the cold Colorado air, he would have hopped on the next plane
home. “I’m not likely to forget, Juan, because I sure am missing you too.”

On Friday evening, Aubrey sprinted to the mess hall, attempting to dodge fat raindrops. Once under the shelter of the porch, she walked to the end to look up at the sky. Purple, flat-bottomed clouds scudded from west to east, their white thunderhead tops broiling upward. She’d seldom noticed the sky in California; why bother? It was always blue, except for the transition to a smutty layer of smog at the horizon.

The sky out here had personality. The dawn was optimistic; days like today, moody and angry. Sunsets seemed weary from a long day’s labor, a misty pink edged in gold.
But the nights…
The nights were velvet. Aubrey wrapped herself in them to ward off the chilly air and the memories that dogged her steps when the sun went down and she was alone.

Her boots made a hollow thumping on the silver-gray boards of the porch. Voices trailed off when she opened the screen door. A few of the men mumbled a greeting as she passed. Brushing their cow ponies before dawn each day seemed to have broken the ice with the shy cowboys. She would never fit in, but she was getting used to their old-world manners and appreciated the deference they afforded her. They reminded her that, in spite of her job and her clothes, she was a woman.

She looked forward to a chat with Tia Nita. Being surrounded by men all day had its advantages, but sometimes she yearned for the simple company of a woman. She pushed through the door of the kitchen to see the older woman struggling to lift a huge pot from the stove. “Tia!”
She grabbed oven mitts from the counter and rushed across the room. “Let me help you.” She shooed the woman’s hands away and pulled the pot of beans from the stove, moving it to trivets on the counter. “You shouldn’t be lifting that, especially with nine able-bodied males within earshot.”

“Bah. If I wait for them, we’ll be here until breakfast. Men do not belong in the kitchen.”

Bree smiled at the dark-skinned woman. Salt-and-pepper hair frizzed from her kerchief, and her face glowed with moisture from the steam.

Bree picked up a knife to chop cilantro. Nita hadn’t allowed her access to the kitchen until convinced that Bree was serious about wanting to learn to cook. She’d first suggested it to ease Tia’s burden, but was surprised to find she enjoyed it. In her old life, cooking had consisted of reheating restaurant hors d’oeuvres. Wouldn’t her friends laugh if they could see her?
Huh, friends. All those “friends” disappeared around the time that cell door slammed shut.

“Tia? Tell me about Max and Wyatt. What were they like growing up?”

“I tell you, but cut
poquito
—small.” Tia cut a stalk of cilantro to demonstrate, then handed the knife back. “See?”

Bree concentrated, trying to match Tia’s example.

Tia picked up a shredder and a block of cheese. “Max, he came first. His mama was Cheyenne. Back then, it was not good to be Indian.” She sighed. “His papa didn’t care though. He loved that woman. Maybe too much, I think.”

Bree finished chopping cilantro and moved on to the mound of tomatoes that were an integral part of every meal. “What happened to her?”

“Fever. At the end she didn’t even know Angus. She had bad pain here.” She touched her right side. “How you say?”

“Appendicitis?”

“
Sí
. When she died, that was the start of the bad times. Angus, he locked himself away to drink. Angry all the time.” Nita’s plump arms wobbled as her hands flew. A pristine industrial shredder stood on the back counter, but she insisted that cheese tasted better shredded by hand. “Max, he was a little boy. He didn’t understand. Angus was too busy hurting to take care of him. I do my best, but…” She shook her head. “It was a bad time.”

“What about Wyatt?”

Tia looked over with sad eyes. “That was the beginning of a worse time. But first Angus, he started to get better and take care of the ranch again. He looked around and saw Max running wild, old enough to learn.” Her hands stilled as she smiled into the distance, remembering.

“Maxie looked like his mama, and Angus, he loved that boy. They were always together then.” Tia chose a block of jack cheese, and creamy slivers fell on the shredded mound of gold cheddar. Her tone hardened. “Then Angus goes to Denver to buy a bull. But he came home with new cow, too.
That
was Wyatt’s mama.” Tia’s dark eyes flashed. “That Christina, she was trouble. Angus didn’t see until it was too late. She’s one of those…” Tia lifted her hands to twirl them around her head. “Fancy ladies. She didn’t like life on the ranch. Not a bit.” She picked up the shredder once more and bent to her task. “All she wants is Angus’s money. In Denver, she thought he was rich.” Her eyes wrinkled with glee. “Ha! She got a surprise.” Her face sobered. “Christina stayed long enough to have that baby;
then she’s gone. Angus went to bring cattle from hills, and she lit out like her tail was on fire!”

“She left without her
son
?” Bree imagined a golden-haired baby lying in a crib, wailing for a mother who would never return. “What kind of woman could do that?”

“Pah!” Tia spat out. “A dog is a better mother than that one. It’s good she left.” Setting the bowl aside, she moved to open the oven door. As she opened it, the delicious smell made Bree’s mouth water. “Then it was just Angus and the boys. Much better then.” She pulled a cookie sheet of golden-brown puffed pastries out of the oven.

“Oh my God, Tia, what are those? Besides heavenly fat pills, that is.”

“Beef empanadas.” She placed one oven-mitted hand on her hip and turned to look Bree over. “You eat two. How you expect to get a man if you have a body like one?”

“You’re assuming I want a man.” Bree lifted a huge casserole dish of pinto beans as an excuse to escape before Tia got on a roll. Her life was complicated enough without adding love to the mix. She ignored the argument made by her libido and pushed the swinging kitchen door open with her butt. “Besides, if I keep eating your food, you’re going to have to widen the doors around here so I can get through them. Saddlebags should only be on horses.”

A half hour later, Bree addressed Wyatt, who sat beside her at the dinner table. “I’d like to take my half day off tomorrow and run into town, if that’s okay.” The cowboys had carried their dishes to the kitchen before gravitating to the television, as they did most nights. Only she and the two brothers remained, drinking coffee.

“Have to get your nails done?” Max asked.

Bree lifted her hand to look at her ragged nails and
reddened skin and snorted. “I only have a half day. I need to buy more work clothes.” She’d washed the few shirts she owned once already, and one pair of jeans was not going to make it. She’d forgotten how filthy you could get, working in a barn.

Max’s slouch belied the look in his eye, like a dog that had picked up a scent—and she was the rabbit. “I’ve got to go to the bank anyway. I’ll take you.”

Bree forced a smile, heart rate spiking. “Great.” She’d have to watch herself around him, or he’d see past the Bree Tanner persona she was still perfecting. No one here needed to know Aubrey Madison. She winced as a sheet of icy shame splashed through her. No one here would
want
to know Aubrey Madison.

Carrying her plate, she pushed the door open to the deserted kitchen. Only the
swish-thump
of the dishwasher and the smell of spices remained. A fine tremor ran through her fingers as she rinsed her plate, put it in the dishwasher, then looked around for something else to do. The empty counters gleamed. The familiar jitter coursed down her legs, and she stood, gripping the stainless-steel counter, foot tapping.

How fast could she leave without being obvious? Crowds still made her jumpy. Twelve men in a room without the distraction of food left her to be watched like an odd bug in a jar. The watching made her flesh crawl. But it was the jar part that brought an animal squeal to the back of her throat, and she lived in fear that one night it would burst free. If it ever did, her past would become her present, forcing Aubrey Madison and her secrets to the forefront.

Fake it till you make it.
She took a long breath.
Fake it
till you make it
. She let the air leak out through her mouth, picturing the panic going with it.

When the palsy in her hands calmed, she wiped her hands on her jeans, checked to be sure the bandana covered her neck, and forced her feet across the floor. She paused, hand on the door, and forced her muscles to relax. A fear-filled face would attract more attention.
Just fake it.
She pushed through the door.

Shouts from the cowboys clustered around the TV drew her.

The youngest hand, Pedro, leaped from the couch at her approach, gesturing for her to take his seat. The last thing she wanted to do was perch on the crowded couch, but she knew that argument would be futile in the face of ingrained old-fashioned manners.
This is what a normal person would do.
Forcing her knees to unlock, she sat, scrunching herself into the corner, eking an extra inch of personal space.

The men were watching what appeared to be a rodeo. Bulls were loaded into narrow chutes, and cowboys stood on a catwalk above them. The camera zoomed in. One of the gates opened and a huge brindled bull exploded from it. A cowboy rode perched on its back, with only a rope to hold on to. The bull crow-hopped, then spun in a circle, muscles bunching as it bucked. The cowboy, one gloved hand in the rope, the other waving over his head, sat balanced in the eye of the tornado. But then the animal stopped and changed directions. The rider’s feet flew behind him, his chest flattened on the beast’s shoulder. The bull turned its head to come around for another spin.

Bree sucked in a breath, anticipating a train wreck. The long horns caught the rider under the vest he wore,
and the bull tossed its head, flipping the man off its back, launching him across the arena to land in a heap on the dirt.

Men dressed in baggy clown-like clothes rushed in, yelling and running in front of the enraged animal. It ignored them and bore down on the stunned rider, who’d managed to struggle to his knees. The bull charged, missing with its horns but trampling the cowboy before racing off after one of the other men.

The cowboys around her groaned and shouted. Bree put a hand over her eyes, but looked through her fingers to see the bull trot out an open gate. She jumped when one of the older men patted her shoulder.

“He’s okay. Just got the wind knocked out of him.”

Several men entered the arena and knelt by the cowboy who was still on his hands and knees. When her lungs protested, Bree blew out the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding.

“That’ll teach him to keep his heels down,” Armando said.

The men helped the cowboy stand and the crowd cheered. They handed the loser his hat, and he turned to salute the crowd as he limped from the area. The show cut to a commercial.

“Dear God.” She glanced at the cowboys around her. “Why would anyone
do
that?”

“Do you know how much money those guys make?” Armando said from his seat on the raised hearth. “Besides, they’re famous. Ah, to be young and swarmed by fans every weekend. It sounds like a pretty good life to me.”

The raw brutality of the sport left Bree shaken. “You mean they volunteer for this?”

Armando shot her an incredulous look. “You’ve never watched the PBR?” At her blank look, he added, “Pro Bull Riders.”

Max’s deep voice came from behind her. “Don’t you know? Our Bree’s a city girl.”

She ignored him, her attention pulled back to the television as the next contestant got ready to ride. A cowboy on the catwalk pulled the rope taut and the rider wrapped it around his hand. He pushed his hat down on his head, gritted his teeth, and when he nodded, the gate opened.