Something Wild (9 page)

“Not if I can help it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed a heavy sweater at her. “If you don’t want to freeze, you might consider putting that on.”

Okay, so he was being nice, but only after she’d expressed her displeasure at his command. She might be exasperated with the frustrating yet sexy man, but she wasn’t crazy enough to ride out in the just-above-zero temperature without bundling up.

Picking the forest green sweater up from the tabletop where it had landed, she slipped the bulky knit over her head and inhaled tike faint scents of musky aftershave and ... Mike, a combination of leather and soap. Irish Spring, maybe. She remembered the scent from their ride last night, from their closeness in her bedroom, and the slight aroma that lingered in the wool came darn close to making her toes tingle.

Silly. Plain silly, she told herself, and went back to the business of getting ready for her trek out on the prairie.

Standing, she adjusted the enormous sweater over her hips and shoved the cuffs from her fingertips to her wrists. “It’s a bit big,” she said, pulling her ponytail from under the neckband.

“It’ll keep you warm, that’s all that matters.”

Obviously he wasn’t into fashion, because he dug through a laundry basket on top of the washing machine, pulled out what looked like a ragged ball of yarn, and thrust a red-and-orange knit stocking cap with a fat tassel at the end into her hands.

“You might want to try that on for size, too.”

She stared at the ridiculous garment. “This isn’t yours, is it?”

“One of my parishioners gave it to me for Christmas.”

“And you wear it?”

One side of his mouth tipped upward. “What do you think?”

“That you accepted it graciously and hid it away because no sensible—or fashionable—person would be caught dead in it.”

He shrugged. “Possibly.”

“So why should I wear it?”

“Because frostbitten ears are uglier than that cap. Even worse is a pretty woman who’s had her ears amputated.”

He had a point, she thought, as she pulled the cap over her head. But she didn’t see the point of the gooey white paste he was squeezing onto his fingertip.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“I’ll show you.” He curled his hand around the back of her head and held it steady while he applied the zinc oxide to the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her face as he worked, could almost feel the softness of his freshly shaved cheeks. Why, oh why, did her knees have to feel like jelly?

“That oughta keep your skin from burning.”

“It should scare away coyotes and mountain lions, too.”

His fingers slid from the back of her head and brushed over her jaw. His thumb whispered across her lips. “I can’t imagine you scaring anything or anyone away. Not mountain lions, not coyotes, not—” he dropped his hand as if her lips had suddenly ignited—“not anything.”

He tossed the tube of zinc oxide on the table and grabbed his coat from a rack by the door. “Why don’t you get your jacket and gloves and we’ll get going.”

“What about
your
knit cap and zinc oxide? Are you immune to the sun and frostbite?”

“I’m pretty much immune to everything.”

Everything but her, she imagined. But she was trouble, she was a showgirl, and he kept backing away.

And she tried convincing herself it was all for the best.

She grabbed her coat and gloves from the living room while Mike shoved the sandwiches and thermos of coffee into a saddlebag.

“So, Pastor Mike,” she said as he pulled on his jacket, “is this trip going to be as long and hard as you told me, or were you just trying to scare me off?”

He frowned at her from beneath the black Stetson he’d tilted low on his brow. “Something tells me this is going to be the longest and hardest journey I’ve ever taken.”

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Mike and Buck ambled alongside
Charity and Jezebel as the morning sun crested the eastern bluffs and shone down on the prairie. He tried to concentrate on their surroundings, knowing he should keep his eyes peeled for the black-and-white spotted mares, for Satan’s harem, and mainly for the dappled gray renegade, but his focus was centered on Charity.

She’d called him pastor, a term reserved for his parishioners, for minor acquaintances. Charity wasn’t either. She was something more, although he hadn’t quite pegged what.

Whatever she was, he didn’t want her calling him pastor. He didn’t want to be her minister, didn’t want to hear her confessions, or counsel her. What he wanted to do was kiss the slender curve of her neck, her temples, her brow. And, oh yeah, he wanted to kiss her lips. Wanted to kiss them till they were hot and swollen and she begged him for more.

He’d come close to kissing her when he’d put the zinc oxide on her nose and cheeks. His mouth had been only a fraction of an inch from her lips, so close that he could feel the heat of her body, could almost hear her heartbeat, so close that her exotic perfume intoxicated him and sent his mind wandering to places it shouldn’t go.

What a fool he was. A mixed up fool who didn’t know whether he should push her away or clasp her against his chest.

The only things he did seem to know was that she made him forget his troubles and made him hungry. He wanted her, which was pure hell for a man who couldn’t have every ounce of Charity Wilde unless he married her. Sheer agony for a man afraid of getting married again, because he knew in his heart that if he did, the guilt he couldn’t get rid of would someday rear its ugly head and rip his marriage apart.

Keep your hands off of her. Look all you want. Just don’t touch.

Easier said than done.

Somehow he kept his distance, but he couldn’t stop looking. He studied the soft lines of Charity’s profile; the way short tendrils of her golden brown hair had sprung out from under the ridiculous stocking cap he’d insisted she wear; the way her lips tilted into a smile when a jackrabbit skittered across the dirt and snow, and the way she frowned when an osprey swooped from the sky, caught the rabbit in its claws and carried it away.

He nudged Buck close to Charity and Jezebel and pointed out the track of a mountain lion, the bleached skeleton of an antelope, and the hazy shape of Devil’s Tower a good fifty miles away.

“Lauren told me Jack’s ranch was huge, but I had no idea it would be this big.”

“We left Jack’s place about a mile back. This is mine.” He stilled his mount and Charity did the same. He rested his gloved hands atop the saddle horn and stared at the vast stretch of land. “There aren’t any fences and you’d have to look awfully hard to find the property stakes, but a few thousand acres out here belong to me.”

Her hazel eyes widened as they followed his gaze. “A few thousand?”

“That’s not all that big, not by Wyoming standards, but it’s enough. Someday, when Jack’s son Beau takes over my job as manager, I’ll run my own cattle and horses out here. I won’t get rich, but money’s never been my priority.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see her frown. She found his statement hard to believe, but he could understand that, considering that she lived in Vegas, where money was everyone’s chief concern.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to live somewhere else, do some other kind of work?” she asked.

“All I’ve ever wanted is right here. Good friends. Two careers I love. A house I spent a few years building, and this land.” He breathed in the familiar scents of sage and icy snow, and caught a drift of Charity’s perfume again. She added something special to the prairie, something exotic, a unique brand of wildness. In spite of her stubbornness, he could get used to her hanging around.

“What about you?” he asked. “Have you ever wanted anything besides a life in Vegas?”

She shook her head. “What I didn’t want was the life I had.”

“Hell-fire-and-brimstone, right?”

“Sunday through Saturday, come rain or shine.” She laughed lightly. “There were good times, too, but my dad was determined to make me forget the life I’d led before he and my mom adopted me.”

“How old were you?”

“Five. I don’t remember much of anything before my folks took me in, but I never forgot the time I spent in Vegas with my real mom.”

“A good time?”

“My mom didn’t have any money, only an old truck, a bunch of glittery costumes she’d picked up at some thrift store, and me—her four-year-old ticket to riches and fame.” Charity tilted her head toward him and smiled. “I suppose it wasn’t the best of times for her, but I had fun.”

“Doing what?”

“Playing dress-up, wearing tons of sequins and jewels and makeup. My mom was sure I could be the next Shirley Temple if we could just get to Hollywood, but she needed money to get there, so she put me on a street corner, told me to sing and dance, and held out a hat for tips.”

“You didn’t mind?”

“I was a ham. I liked the bright lights and the showgirls I’d catch a glimpse of every now and then. I loved the applause and the way people tossed dollar bills into the hat and smiled when they watched me. We made pretty good money until the cops ran us off.”

“What did you do then?”

“Went to Hollywood for a while. My mom was certain I could be a star if the casting directors would give me a chance. What she refused to realize was that I could sing and dance, but I couldn’t act to save my life.”

“So you didn’t become a star?”

“I’m still working at it. I got waylaid for a few years when my mom decided she had better things to do than support a daughter. She’d already ditched my brothers, and getting rid of me was pretty easy.”

“You don’t sound bitter.”

“It was a long time ago and, well, let’s just say I didn’t miss her when she walked out of my life. After that I spent thirteen demure and sedate years as a preacher’s kid and the last seven once again trying to make a go of it in Vegas.”

“I take it it’s not all that easy?”

She laughed. “I live in a run-down apartment. I’m currently unemployed. No, it’s not easy.”

“What are you going to do when you get back home?” Mike asked, sidling Buck against Jezebel, allowing his leg to brush against Charity’s. “Any job prospects?”

“A few, of course some aren’t as good as others. If I don’t get into a big stage show right away, I’m sure I can find a bar or club looking for someone to sit on their piano and sing.”

He could easily picture her sitting on a piano, belting out tunes in her seductive voice, with her stunning legs crossed at the knee, her feet in a pair of sky-high heels, her body in a barely-there dress that was almost hidden by her cloak of long silky hair. If he thought she’d stay out here in the middle of nowhere, he’d hire her in a minute. Wouldn’t his parishioners love to see her sitting on top the piano on Sunday mornings, belting out a chorus of “Jesus Loves Me”!

“I’ve got an audition in a month,” she continued. “It’s the part of a lifetime—for me, at least.” He saw the sparkle in her eyes and knew in that instant that she’d never be happy staying in a place like this, where glamour only came in magazines delivered through the mail.

“I take it the job of a lifetime means you won’t be playing a peeled banana.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “I don’t know anything about the costume—or the show. Everything’s under wraps right now, but it’s touted as being the most elaborate production in Vegas history—in the biggest hotel in the world. Everything’s scheduled to open by summer and this time—for the first time—I’m trying out for the lead, at least I was when I left home.”

“You mean they could have picked someone already—without auditions?”

“That’s always possible. But... well...” She frowned and turned her gaze back to the prairie in front of them. “I might not get to audition.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story, all of it leading up to the fact that the choreographer hates my guts.”

“Did you fix him up with a blind date, too?”

Her eyes fumed, but he couldn’t miss the touch of mirth mixed with her agitation. “I didn’t like him well enough to fix him up with a date. In fact, one time he made me so mad I punched his lights out. Unfortunately, he’s put together the dance routines for the show I’m going to try out for. He could cross my name off the audition list or he could make my audition absolute hell.”

“If he’s such an important guy, why’d you hit him?”

“You’re sure you want to know?”

He nodded, wanting to know everything about her.

“He had a problem with the way I danced.” The words nearly ground through her clenched teeth. “I did everything under the sun to please Duane-the-lech, but nothing seemed to be good enough. Rehearsals were long and exhausting, and if the least little thing went wrong during the show I’d hear about it for hours on end.”

“What went wrong?”

“Anything and everything.”

She pulled her boot out of a stirrup and wrapped her leg around the saddle horn. As far as Mike could tell, the woman couldn’t do anything wrong—with her body, at least.

“For starters,” she said, “one time I danced right off the stage. It wasn’t my fault that someone swiped my mask and they gave me a substitute at the last second. It was too big and slipped over my eyes, and I could see Duane standing in the wings getting more and more irritated by the minute because my hands were on the mask instead of where they should have been. So I just got brave and figured I’d done the routine so many times I could do it in my sleep. But I was wrong. I toppled off the stage and landed in the lap of a man who’d had far too much to drink. He didn’t mind nearly as much as Duane.”

“Is that it?” Mike asked, desperately trying to keep a straight face.

She shook her head. “That was the
first
time Duane got mad. A few weeks later I passed out on the stage.”

Suddenly he was worried. “Why? Not enough sleep? Not enough to eat?”

She laughed, and the sparkle in her eyes brightened a day that was turning cloudy. “No, it was a costume problem again. I was a Mayan princess, and I had to wear this gigantic headpiece made of peacock feathers and rhinestones that must have weighed a good twenty pounds. The weight wasn’t the real problem, of course.

The blasted thing was engineered all wrong— heavier in the front than in the back. I complained up one end and down the other, but no one would listen to me. So there I was, out on the stage, all the lights shining down on me, and when I bowed to the sun god I lost my balance and my forehead smacked into the floor. I was out like a light for at least thirty seconds, but the show went on, right around me. Duane gave me the what-for when the curtain went down and made darn sure I was back in the show when the curtain came up.“

“You should have hit him twice.”

She frowned. “This from a minister?”

“From a man who doesn’t like bullies. You could have had a concussion. You could have been seriously hurt.”

“You think I hit him because he made me go back on stage? You can’t stop a show just because someone gets hurt or faints. You go on if you’ve got the flu or a sore ankle.”

“Okay, I get the picture here. You’re a glutton for punishment. You’d do anything and everything because the show must go on.”

“Almost anything and everything. I do draw the line occasionally.”

“So why’d you knock him out?”

“Like I said before, he had a problem with the way I danced. He didn’t think my bumps and grinds had enough realism to them and wanted to give me private lessons, but I declined. A few days later I got this note to come to his office on my day off, and when I got there he was stark naked. I started to leave but he grabbed my hand, pulled me up close and far too personal, and insisted on showing me how bumps and grinds were really done.
That’s
when I decked him.”

“He fired you when you could have turned him into the police for attempted rape?”

“Oh, yeah. And you should have heard him cussing even though I helped him get dressed, even though I hauled him to the hospital because I broke his nose, even though I told him I wouldn’t report him to the cops.”

Her smile, the way she told the tale, made him want to laugh, but the reality of what had happened sobered him.

“You really want to go back to Vegas, to a life like that?”

“Incidents like that are the exception, not the rule.”

“But you’d be working with that man again if you got the job.”

“It’s my life, Mike. You take the good with the bad.” She looked around them, at the snow-dusted prairie, at the storm clouds building in the north. “Do you throw up your hands when a blizzard comes in and wipes out a big part of your herd? Do you give up when the price of beef drops?”

He shook his head.

“The career I want in Vegas isn’t much different than you chasing after Satan. He doesn’t want to be caught, but he gets really close to you, teasing you, and you’re determined to chase him no matter what obstacles get in your way. Well, stardom’s this close to me,” she said, holding up her gloved hand so her thumb and index finger were just an inch apart. “I get frustrated sometimes. I want to throw my hands up and quit at least once a week, but I can’t.”