Nothing Sweeter (Sweet on a Cowboy) (9 page)

“I understand better than you, Max, how the homophobes in town feel about my lifestyle. What I want to know is what
you
think.”

Max looked up. “You best to put on that sunscreen, I’m telling you.” He looked down the row of new fence posts—nowhere near enough to quit for the day.
Shit.
“Look, you know I love you. We grew up together. You’re my brother.” Another clump of dirt hit the ground, and he stopped to wipe his brow.

“Yeah, I know you love me. I don’t know what you think of me, though.”

Max threw down the post-hole digger. “What, Wyatt? You want to know what I think of your lifestyle?”

Wyatt nodded.

“I hate it. Okay? Is that what you want from me? I hate that you’re different. I hate that because of who you love, you don’t fit in.” He stomped to where the horses stood, snatching mouthfuls of prairie grass. He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out the sunscreen. “And I hate that it hurts you so much.”

He tossed the plastic bottle to Wyatt, walked back to the hole, and picked up the digger. Blood pounded in the veins of his neck, and his head throbbed in the same beat. “Now, can we just get this done so we can get back to the house and get a shower?”

“Okay, Max, we can let it go for now. But you’re going to have to find a way to deal with this, if we’re to have a relationship going forward.” He popped the top on the sunscreen and dabbed it on his palm. “Because I can’t change who I am, even if I wanted to.” He spread lotion on his face. “So that leaves only one of us to do the changing.”

11

S
aturday night, Max sat stewing at the empty dinner table in the mess hall. Wyatt had excused himself after dinner, saying he planned to work for a few hours. Max scowled at the men—and one stubborn woman—huddled around the television, watching bull riding. He remembered how shy the cowboys had been when Bree first arrived. What a difference a few weeks made. Now, aside from polite deference, the men showed no sign they noticed she was female. Bree had changed too. She’d been so skittish at first. Now she sat, hip-to-hip on the crowded couch with four men, cheering for the bulls.

She’s doing this just to get me to change my mind about the business.
But if that were true, why was she ignoring him? Bree asked Armando a question, one Max couldn’t quite hear.

Armando laughed. “The flank strap doesn’t hurt them. It doesn’t even make them buck. That’s in their blood. All it does is get them to kick out their back feet, see?” He pointed to the screen, and Bree leaned in, intent.

“How do they—”

The rest was lost in the squeal of Max’s chair on the linoleum. No one noticed when he walked out.

At the main house, Max gazed out the window of the great room, a cut-crystal glass of whiskey in his hand. Actually, he was seeing himself; the lamplight turned the dark pane to a mirror. Wyatt was right; he did look like the old man.

Been behaving like him too
.

He’d told Bree to examine her motives. Maybe it was time he did the same. Hell, probably past time. He paced the length of the room, his boots making a hollow thumping on the pine floor. Each lap granted new insights. The bull operation was a good idea, and he’d been too stubborn to admit it.

But he did have some questions. He recalled the horrific ropy scar on Bree’s neck. The shadows in her eyes. He still didn’t know who this woman was, or where she came from. And it rubbed him like a foxtail under a saddle blanket. She could be a running from the law, for all they knew. He snorted. Maybe Wyatt had a point about small-town paranoia.

Wyatt was right about something else too. He’d nixed Bree’s idea at first because it had come from a woman. When had he turned into his father—discounting women for anything more than their obvious charms?

He took a sip from the rocks glass and winced, only partly due to the liquor’s bite. It wasn’t that he thought women weren’t smart or capable. It’s just that it was a man’s job to work things out. He made a sound of disgust. Did he believe that? Or was it just a part of the cultural pool he’d swum in since he was a kid? After all, he didn’t
buy into his father’s opinion of Wyatt, or his lifestyle. At least, he didn’t think he did.

He glanced at his reflection in the mirrored window once more. It was as if a younger version of his father stood before him. “Yeah, well, if you had all the answers, old man, we wouldn’t be in this fix to begin with. Maybe it’s time to try something different.” Setting the half-empty glass on the coffee table, he walked to the door.

Looked like it was going to be crow for dessert.

“Much as I’ve eaten of it lately, you’d think I’d have a taste for it.” The crisp night closed around him as he stepped out of the house. The light in the barn window told him Bree was still up. He crossed the yard to slip in the side door. Horses rustled in stalls as he passed, casting lighter shadows in the gloom of the unlighted breezeway. He followed the beacon of the tack room light. Stepping in, he glanced around. Considering this room an extension of Bree’s quarters, he hadn’t been here in a while.

No more snaked pile of leather in the corner. Clean bridles hung from pegs, each labeled with a horse’s name. Saddles straddled sawhorses, supple leather glowing. Even the linoleum floor shone. He inhaled the smell of rich leather and warm horse.

How many hours had she spent on this room alone? Max knew other responsibilities kept her busy all day, so that only left—He imagined her, late at night, cleaning leather all alone. He swallowed the stab of guilt.

Jesus, if she works this hard for someone else, how hard would she work for herself?

He might not have known Bree long, and he might not know her past, but he felt like he knew her. He noticed a hand-lettered sign, thumbtacked on the wall by the door.
High Heather appreciates your patronage!
This is a good, hardworking, caring woman.

He stepped to the inner door and knocked.

“W-who is it?”

“Bree, it’s Max. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

The door opened the length of the safety chain and a tawny eye appeared in the crack. The door closed, then swung open. She stood in a spaghetti-strap cotton top and some kind of stretchy pants that hugged her legs, ending midcalf. A space heater rattled in the corner, making the room cozy-warm. He glanced to the bed, where a contorted mass of yarn lay, knitting needles sticking out of the middle.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

Her eyes darted around the room as she considered, then stepped back. She gestured to the only chair, but he stayed where he was.
Easier to do this standing up.

“Bree, I’ve been an ass, and I’m sorry.” He raked his hand through his hair. “You’ve done nothing but work hard and try to help since you got here, and I’ve been taking out my troubles on you.”

Her jaw dropped in surprise.

I guess I’ve got a longer fence to mend than I thought.

Her eyes narrowed. “Have you been drinking?”

He smiled. “Yes, but only half a glass.”

“In that case, I accept your apology. Now, will you sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

He crossed to the chair. It looked like one of the leather ones from his office. Wyatt’s doing, no doubt.
Danged brown-noser.
“Are you comfortable out here? Is there anything you need?”

She sat on the bed, the only other seat in the room. “No, I’m good. Thanks for asking.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes. “This idea of yours. Wyatt’s high on it. And if it would be a way for me to keep ranching…”

Her eyes lit up. “I think it’s a viable solution, Max.” She reached for the laptop. “Let me show you. I’ve worked up some spreadsheets.”

A half hour later, Bree straightened and rubbed her lower back. Standing bent over Max’s shoulder, squinting at data had taken its toll. He’d offered her the chair, but imagining his solid chest leaning over her, his face next to hers, she knew she’d never be able to concentrate on numbers. She had to hand it to Max. Once he opened his mind, he opened it all the way. He’d listened closely and asked educated questions.

He looked up at her. “Sit down, will you? I’m getting a crick in my neck.” He closed the computer. “I think I have all the facts I need, anyway.”

Bree perched on the edge of the bed, their knees almost touching, waiting for the verdict.

Forearms braced on his thighs, he took one of her hands. Habit forced her spine straight, and she leaned back. Holding her hand in his rough one, his thumb rubbed the back in a soothing motion, like he would with a skittish horse. “I’m going to think hard on this, Bree.” He glanced up. “Either way, I want you to know how much I appreciate you trying to help. We were pretty lucky the day you saw our ad in the paper.”

“Who are you?” She tilted her head. “And what have you done with Max?” She smiled to cover her discomfiture. “Are you
sure
you didn’t tie one on, back at the house, cowboy?”

His eyes roamed her face to settle on her lips. “I feel a buzz, but booze doesn’t have a thing to do with it.” He tugged her hand, and before she knew it, she was settled in his lap, his arms around her. “You’ve got a lot stronger kick than Johnnie Walker.” He reached up to smooth her hair, trailing the back of his fingers down the side of her face. “Smoother, too.”

He waited, still holding her gaze, giving her the choice. She leaned in, lips just above his. “Let’s hope there’s no hangover.”

The kiss started sweet, but a spark struck when she took in the smell of him: the scent of outdoors, an undertone of booze, and
man.
A tendril of smoke unfurled in her chest. From the cold campfire ring of burnt-out relationships, tinder burst into a small hot flame.

She grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer. She opened her lips and he was there, meeting her halfway.
It’s been too long.
Craving fired in her chest, making her breath hitch. His hands held her, cradling her face, his tongue exploring. He lightened the kiss; then his lips were gone. She groaned, wanting more. He covered her face in featherlight kisses, touching her eyes, her chin. She tipped her head back as he trailed down her neck.

My neck.
Reality crashed in like cops at a drug bust. She jerked away and sat up.

He let her go. “Won’t you tell me what happened, Bree?” His dark eyes shifted from her neck to her eyes. His look was open and vulnerable, as if he actually cared. “Not because of business, but because I want to know you. Like it or not, your past is a part of who you are.”

And he’d almost made her forget that. She recalled his reaction to Trey Colburn. Max’s black-and-white morality.
He’d never understand. It made her sadder than it should have. Sliding from his lap, she stood and stepped away.

He sat a moment, watching her with sad eyes. “Well, I’ll say good night then.” He retrieved his hat from the desk and stood. “You lock the door behind me, now, hear?”

12

B
oots on the railing, Wyatt tilted on the back legs of the porch chair, admiring the yellow cast of midmorning light on the porch.
There are a few advantages to country living
.
I wonder what Juan would think of Colorado. If he came out for a visit, maybe he would like it.
Wyatt tipped his hat back as his brother charged out the screen door, briefcase in hand.

“It must be nice to sit on the porch like a hound. Some of us have to work for a living,” Max snarled.

Wyatt yawned and stretched. “I am working, just on a different shift. I was up until two this morning fixing an application error. Where are you off to?”

“Taking the calf crop to the sale barn. The men rounded up the calves in the pen that fronts the road, and they’re meeting me there to load them.”

Wyatt pulled a nail file from his back pocket.

“And what are you going to do? Get a manicure?” Max spit the words like they were a piece of bad meat.

“What does a
real
man clean his nails with, Max? A bowie knife?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You’re nervous about today. You’re not comfortable with the emotion. So instead of dealing with that, you pick a fight with me. Nothing much changes on the Heather.”

“Well, thanks for the insight, Dr. Phil.” When Wyatt didn’t return the smile, he turned away and settled his hat. “Sorry, Wyatt.”

“No problem, bro. Actually, Bree and I are taking a ride out to check herd in the far pasture. I heard wolves howl last night.”

They both glanced up as Bree rounded the corner mounted on Smooth, leading a saddled broomtail and Max’s pinto dancing at the end of a short halter rope.

Max mumbled under his breath, “Here comes trouble.”

Wyatt dropped his feet from the rail and stood. “Which one?”

Max snorted a laugh. “Both.” He walked down the porch steps. It looked like Trouble was going out for the exercise, since he wore only a halter. “How long did it take you to catch him this morning?”

“He came when I called.”

“Yeah, right.” When the pinto head butted him, Max scratched him under the jaw.

“No, really, he came right to me,” she said in a little-girl, I-have-no-idea-where-the-cookies-went voice.

Wyatt walked down the steps to take the broomtail’s reins. “Good luck with the calves, Max.” Leather creaked as he mounted and settled in the saddle. “We’ll see you at dinner.”

“I just hope the price is up today.” Max threw over his shoulder as he strode to the ancient cattle hauler parked in the dirt drive.

Wyatt nudged his mount to a walk and Bree kept pace, Trouble taking mincing steps beside her. She wore the same fancy shirt she had on when they’d first met. But instead of a country-dressed city girl, she now looked like a dressed-up country girl.

“Do you miss this when you’re in Boston?”

“Yes and no. I miss the land.” He looked to the snow-dusted mountains at the horizon and pulled in a lungful of scent-laden air. Summer had finally made its way to the high country. This was the first shirtsleeve day they’d had since he’d arrived.

“It must’ve been hard for you, growing up here.”

Maybe it was her casual attitude that loosened his tongue. Or maybe it was just time. The feel of the past returned the empty separateness he’d lived in back then. With puberty came the first kernel of understanding. A terrifying kernel that he’d shoved to a dark place inside.

“The worst were high school mouth breathers. Like a pack of wolves, they scented out that I was different.” The memories were well worn. They shouldn’t still have sharp edges. But they did. “There were some dicey moments in the locker room after gym class, I can tell you that.”

She winced. “I’ll bet.”

“One day after school, Max took on the alpha wolf. I wasn’t there, and Max never talked about it, but the kid ended up in the hospital.” He remembered his horror at the violence, then at himself for being happy about it. “They were dumb, but they had long memories. It was bearable after that.”

They rode in silence for a while, stirrups bumping occasionally, watching the purple martins dart after cabbage moths.

Bree said, “My best friend in high school was the quarterback of the football team. He was all state, the darling of the town. His safety as well as his future depended on no one knowing he was gay.” She glanced over at him. “Such a great guy. He had it all: brains, talent, killer looks. He was what every other kid in that school wanted to be, with one exception.”

“This story doesn’t end well, does it?”

She grinned. “Are you kidding? He’s in the NFL now, happy, well adjusted, and in love with the greatest guy. I fly out to see them once a year.” She sobered. “It doesn’t have to end badly, Wyatt.”

“Oh, I’m not complaining.” He tipped his straw hat to block the sun as the trail turned. “My life is wonderful. It’s just that coming home stirs the silt at the bottom of the tank, you know?”

“Boy, do I.”

From her pained look, he could see that she did. “What about you? Are you going to tell me about your personal drama?”

Bree tilted her head, considering. “Nope.” She laughed. “But if I did, you’re who I’d talk to, Wyatt. Thanks.” The paint had calmed as they walked, and she loosened his lead. “I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to talk to your dad before he died.”

“I’m not.” The moment the words left his mouth, he realized it was true. “Oh, I’ll admit to fantasies of coming home and having him actually
see
me. To look at me, just once, like he did Max.”
Jeez, I sound like a guest on
Oprah. The saddle creaked as he straightened.

“But it’s not too late with Max. I’m not giving up what’s left of my family. In a twisted way, it’s good that we’ve got
money problems. It puts us in the traces together, and like it or not, we’ll have to work things out.”

Bree rubbed her palms together. “I understand that Max talked to you about my bucking-bull business idea. I’ve been dying to ask what you thought about it.”

He smiled. “Now, keep in mind, my area of expertise is about as far from bucking bulls as is possible, but I like what I’ve heard so far.” He reined his horse to a halt. “I’ll be honest with you, Bree. For me, it isn’t about the land, or the money. I’ve gotten along all these years without either and done just fine. It’s about Max.” He tipped his chin to the meadow before them. “This is more than his career. It’s who he is. It’s where he was meant to be.” He shook his head. “Sorry to sound all dramatic, but he’s my big brother, and I owe him. A lot.” He leaned his forearm on his saddle horn and watched her. “And unless I miss my guess, you care for him as well.”

Bree opened her mouth, then closed it.

“So if you’ve found a way to help, you can count me in.”

She cleared her throat. “I think the next step is to sit down and discuss a business plan.”

Max reclined, feeling downright smug, arms draped across the metal bleacher at his back. He listened as the auctioneer droned on. The price of beef was still dismal, but thanks to their reputation, the Heather’s calf price held better than most. He scanned the crowded sale barn as the next lot of yearlings was herded into the auction pen.

A raucous laugh overrode the babble of conversation and the bawling of cattle. Trey Colburn stood next to the pen, holding court over a group of “gentlemen ranchers”—rich
men who wanted to play at what men here took dead serious.

“Kinda makes you sick, don’t it?”

Max looked up. Slim Tanton, a local rancher and friend of his father, stood next to the bleachers. “Like Frank Zappa said, ‘There’s more stupidity than hydrogen in the universe, and it has a longer shelf life.’ ”

Slim’s wrinkles lifted in a smile. “Stupidity’s sure been running wild here the past few years.” He rolled the auction schedule in his fist. “I’ve been meaning to get out to see you, Max.”

“What can I do for you, Slim?” Max sat up.

“Nothin’. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I’m selling out.” He raised a hand to halt protest. “I’m tired, Max. Tired of the long winters, the politics, the changes.” He waved the paper tube toward Colburn’s group. “Tired of that.”

“Damn sorry to hear you’re leaving us, Slim.”

“My Tracy’s asked me to come live with her down Abilene way. Since I lost Maggie, it hasn’t been the same. I want to get to know my grandkids ’fore I die.” His washed-out blue eyes hardened. “Just wanted you to know, I ain’t selling out to no yuppie. Justin White, next to me, is gonna lease my land to run cattle.”

Max whistled through his teeth. “Does White have that kind of money, Slim?”

“He don’t need money. Not now, anyway.” The old man’s shoulders straightened as he looked across the ring at the men in expensive slacks and string ties. “He’ll make payments as he can. Hell, I don’t need the money. When I’m gone, Tracy can decide what she wants to do with the land.”

“I understand, but I wish to hell you weren’t doing this. You and my dad went back a long ways. I’ll be sorry not to have you for a neighbor.” Max put out his hand. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

He shook. “Nothin’ to do, Max. I’ll stop by the Heather before I leave town.”

“Be sure you do that, Slim.” As he watched the rancher walk away, Max’s celebratory mood vanished. Acid gnawed at the wall of his stomach. Reality gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Hell, I’m gonna be in the same place if something doesn’t change… soon.

Two hours later, the empty trailer rattled over the Heather’s gravel drive. As Max pulled up and shut off the ignition, dust billowed in the cab. They sure could use some rain. He cranked up the window and grabbed his briefcase. Stepping from the cab, he noticed the hands clustered around the front paddock.

They didn’t notice his approach. Their focus was on a pint-sized bull, chewing cud in the center of the paddock, looking bored. A mixed-breed, charcoal gray with black spots—so many that they smeared together in places, lending it a mottled, unbalanced look. One short horn tilted skyward, the other at the ground.

Max tipped his hat back. “What the hell is that?”

Luis said, “That’s Fire Ant, boss. Bree’s new buckin’ bull.”

He snorted. “That little thing?”
God help us. She may know business, but we’re going to have to keep her away from the sale barn.

Armando stood, arms draped on the top of the fence, one boot on the bottom rail. “I don’t know, boss. Some of the best bulls in the PBR are small.”

Max shook his head. “Maybe, but I’ve seen horseflies bigger’n that.”

The men chuckled.

Armando said, “There’s Little Yellow Jacket. He retired the best in the business.”

Luis broke in. “Yeah, but give me a big, slab-sided bucker like Mudslinger. He looks scary just standing there.”

“Standing ain’t what they’re paid to do,” Armando said. “PBR isn’t a beauty contest.”

The clang of the dinner bell ended all conversation. Max followed the crowd that hustled up the steps and into the mess hall.

Bree stood at the top of the porch steps, hand on the bellpull. “Well, Max? What do you think of my bull?”

He opened his mouth to tell her, but seeing the pride shining on her girl-next-door face, he didn’t have the heart. His hesitation gave him away.

Bree sniffed and lifted her freckled nose. “Well, you haven’t seen him buck.”

Dang, she’s cute when her back’s up
. “And you have?”

“Of course.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Well. Not in person, but I watched video clips, and he’s got potential.”

“Oh. Well. In that case…” He climbed the steps and ducked his head to hide a smile.

“I’ve got a couple of big three-year-olds coming that you’ll like the look of.” She raised her chin. “But I’m telling you, Fire Ant is going to sire a famous line of PBR bulls.”

“Hey, lady, you say it, I believe it.” His stomach growled. Ignoring it, he added, “I’ve been thinking on your idea. Wyatt and I talked, and we’re ready to sit down and meet when you are.”

Her face lit up like a little girl at Christmas. And it made him feel like Santa. Well, a younger, randy Santa.

“How about if I cook you two dinner at the main house sometime next week? That way we wouldn’t be interrupted.”

“You can cook?” He dodged a slap. “Sounds good to me.” He opened the door and held it for her, but she hung back.

“You go ahead. I’ve got to make a call.” Bree waited until the screen slapped behind Max, then reached in her pocket to pull out her cell phone.

She hit speed dial. “Mom? I need some help.”

At her mother’s anxious reply she said, “No. No, Mama, I’m fine. I didn’t mean to scare you. Everything’s great.” She walked to the end of the porch, out of earshot. “I need some emergency recipe therapy, Mama. What do cowboys eat besides Mexican food?”

Bree dragged another bale of alfalfa from the outside door of the hayloft to where Max was stacking them against the wall. She’d objected when he offered to help, but looking at the growing pile, she knew there was no way she could have put away the latest delivery without him. She put a fist to the small of her back as she straightened. “Unh.”

Max dropped the bale on the rising pile and turned. “Let’s take a break.”

“No, I’m okay—”

He caught her arm just above the elbow and led her to the doorway, where a blessed breeze lifted the wet hair off her neck. “Your face is beet red, and you’re sweating. You sit here. I’ll be right back.” He strode to the hayloft, snatched up the bale she’d struggled with, and tossed it
on the pile as if it weighed twenty pounds rather than a hundred twenty.

She admired the way his Wranglers pulled taut over his backside when he bent. She appreciated the heavy muscles of his shoulders and back when he lifted. But when he turned and walked toward her, she treasured one of his rare smiles even more.

“You and Wyatt. Take the gloves off. It’ll help with the blisters.” When she pulled off her gloves, he sat on the bale next to her and examined her palms.

“It’s all right. I need to develop calluses. They’ll make me look tougher.” She tried to ignore the tingle that spread from her palms up her arm, as if his touch had mainlined into her blood.