The Cowboy Way (8 page)

She took a sip of water. He took a couple chugs of beer.

Reality.

Beth looked at the band. She couldn't look at Jake drinking.

He had started to be her hero, the way he was Kevin's hero. He was a good man. He was great with kids. He had a good heart. He was respected by all the cowboys, his peers.

Darn it. She might as well admit that she was interested in him. But could she get past his drinking?

Two young women in tight blouses and jeans came over to the table to have Jake autograph cocktail napkins. They carried long-necked bottles of beer and plopped two down before Jake.

“For the best bull rider in the business,” the redhead gushed.

“Thank you,” Jake said, looking amused.

A blonde with hair down to her waist, a skimpy black tank top and jeans that looked painted on, appeared and set down yet another beer for Jake. She lifted her shirt for Jake to autograph her bare midriff.

“Write ‘To Trixie. It was a great night last night. With love, Jake Dixon,'” she instructed.

He laughed. “I'll leave that part out until I know for a fact it's true.”

She tossed her hair back and pursed her candy-apple-red lips. “Anytime, anywhere, Jake.”

He hesitated and glanced at Beth. “Trixie, if you don't mind, how about if I just autograph a cocktail napkin for you.”

Beth appreciated his consideration. “Oh, go for the stomach, Jake.” She grinned. “It's much more interesting than a cocktail napkin.”

“Nope. I make it a practice not to autograph body parts.” He wrote his name on a napkin and handed it to the woman.

Trixie bent over, giving him a nice view of her cleavage, and wrote her name and number on another napkin. She tucked it into the front pocket of his shirt. He was going to need another pocket if the cocktail napkins kept accumulating.

Trixie shot a triumphant look at Beth, tossed her hair and sauntered away.

Jake now had three new bottles of beer in front of him, one in his hand, and a grin as wide as the Wyoming sky.

Just like Brad.

She'd had enough. She needed to get far away from the Last Chance Saloon, far away from drunken laughter, buckle bunnies, and Jake Dixon's rising stockpile of beer bottles.

Beth grabbed her pocketbook and stood. “I'm going back to the ranch.”

J
ake had thought that Beth was having a good time.

But now her eyes squinted at him. Her lips were locked together in a thin line. She was madder than a bull in the bucking chutes with a rider on his back.

If he lived to be a hundred, he'd never understand women. He took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. Then it hit him. He knew what was wrong.

“Those ladies meant nothing to me. You don't have to be jealous.”

“Jealous? Me?” She stood with her hands on her hips. “Of all the conceited, thick-headed, addle-brained—”

“Whoa!” He held up his hand. “I get the message. But if you're not jealous, what is it?”

“Beer.” She spit out the word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

“Beer?”

“Is there an echo here? Yes, beer!”

He moved his hat back. “What about it?”

“You're drinking it.”

“So?” He thought for a while, then slapped his head with the palm of his hand. “Oh…Beth, I'm sorry. If my drinking a beer bothered you, why didn't you tell me?”

“I've been telling you since I met you. I haven't made any bones about how much I hate drinking.”

“You have. You're right. I'm sorry, but I wasn't going to have more than one. I'm driving, you know,” he said. “I'm not that much of an idiot.”

“You had three beers in front of you,” she reminded him.

“I know, but that doesn't mean I'm going to drink them all.”

“Oh?”

“I wasn't.”

She stared a hole right through him, weighing and measuring the truth of his statement. “Well…okay. Maybe I overreacted.”

“Maybe you did.” He offered her a hand, and she sat back down. “I'd like to dance with you some more.”

When she hesitated, he pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and passed them to her. “Maybe this'll make you feel better. You have my word—only one beer.”

She put the keys in her purse. “Thank you, Jake,” she said quietly. “It's just that I get so crazy.”

“No problem. I should have remembered. I apologize.”

Shyly she offered him her hand, and he reached for it across the table. Jake motioned to the waitress to clear the bottles away.

“Give 'em away, Connie,” he said to the waitress. “They're still cold.”

Connie gave him a strange look but cleared the table.

“And bring us two ice waters, please,” Jake said.

The waitress raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word.

“Thanks,” Beth said, when Connie walked away.

“No problem. Now, how about a little two-steppin'?”

“Sure.”

Jake lucked out. Big John McCoy had a microphone and was gathering everyone up for two-step lessons. Jake didn't have to do much, other than stand next to Beth and follow along. After a while, he motioned to his leg, told her to stay and dance, and he went back to the table to sit for a while. He could have stuck it out, but he enjoyed watching her more.

As she concentrated on doing the steps, her grin was as big as the Wyoming sky. Every time she missed a step or banged into someone, she laughed or apologized and looked like she was having the time of her life. Good. She needed some fun.

He tipped his chair back, put his feet up on a vacant seat and crossed his ankles. He had to admit that he hadn't wanted to go on this date, but it was turning out okay. Except for his Big Beer Mistake. Beth was good company when she forgot to obsess over Kevin…and drinking.

He liked her enough, but she had a wheelbarrow full of problems to sort through and he wasn't going to get involved with her. As she had told him herself, he was no psychiatrist. Besides, Kevin had volunteered the information that Beth hadn't gone out with a man since his father died.

He could tell that by the kiss they'd shared.

What the hell had made him kiss her in the meadow? It had rocked him down to the heels of his boots.

He wouldn't mind getting up close and personal with her for a week, but in the long run, it wouldn't work. She had to know that from the start.

She had a permanent residence. She went to parent-teacher meetings. She had an office job.

He was bulls and blood, food in a bag from a drive-through window, cheap hotels, thousands of frequent-flier miles and even more thousands in medical bills.

He'd only hurt her, and she'd been hurt enough.

They had nothing in common except one week at the Gold Buckle Ranch.

Maybe that would be enough.

More beers appeared at his table. He smiled his thanks, signed autographs, stretched out his legs and kept calling for Connie to pass them around.

Big John McCoy paired Beth with a tall, lean cowboy that Jake recognized as a bronc rider from around Kaycee. The cowboy slipped his arm around Beth and pulled her much too close to him, as far as Jake was concerned.

While Beth was two-stepping like a Texas native, he wondered if his leg was ever going to get better. He'd settle for it not constantly hurting him. As he grew older, it took him longer to react and to get away from a bull set on killing him. It might be only a second or two more, but that meant the difference between a minor injury and one that was debilitating—or fatal.

Yet he loved it—the adrenaline rush, the cheers of the crowd, the sponsors, the TV appearances, the fans—oh, the fans. He loved the fans. He loved all of it.

Beth came back to a table with more beer bottles on it than when she'd left. She frowned slightly.

“Now, don't worry. I'm giving them all away,” he said. “Just as soon as Connie comes this way again.”

As soon as Beth sat down, a camera flash went off in his eyes, followed by another.

“Well, there he is! Mr. King of the Bull Riders. And look at all those bottles of beer! Another great picture for my newspaper.”

Jake knew the voice. “Harvey Trumble. Not again. Who hates me that much that they had to call you and tell you I was here?”

Beth turned toward the man. “Mr. Trumble, Jake is not drinking. Those are not his beer bottles. People have been buying them for him. So if you write otherwise in your paper, it would be untrue.”

“Pardon me, miss, but this doesn't concern you.” Harvey's words were abrupt and sarcastic.

With difficulty, Jake stood. “Yes, it does concern her. You're interrupting our dance lesson.” It seemed that half the place stood and moved toward Jake's table in case he needed help.

With one glance, Harvey knew he was outnumbered.

“Harvey, I'm going to tell you one last time. Keith tripped and fell and broke his arm during a brawl here,” Jake said. “He was making unwelcome advances toward my sister. I tried to reason with him, and he threw a punch. It turned into a free-for-all with everyone getting involved. He fell. End of story.”

“You said that my son wasn't good enough for your sister.”

“I remember.”

“And you were drinking.”

Jake nodded. “That's right, but I'm not tonight, so quit bothering me, Harvey. If Keith wants to talk to me about the whole thing, I'd be glad to sit down with him.”

Harvey pointed a finger at Jake's chest. “This isn't over yet.”

“As far as I'm concerned, it is.”

Harvey broke into a slow, sly grin. “Hey, I have a proposition for you, Dixon.”

“What's that?”

“The night of your big rodeo—”

Jake hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “It's not a rodeo. It's bull riding.”

“Whatever,” he said through clamped teeth. “If you ride Twister, I'll donate some money to Wheelchair Rodeo on behalf of my paper and lay off you.”

“Who?” Beth asked.

“Twister's a bounty bull. No one has ever made eight seconds on him,” Jake explained. “Thirty guys have tried him but they were all bucked off. His owner has increased the pot by increments of five thousand, so now it's up to a hundred and fifty thousand bucks.”

Jake turned to Harvey to find himself in a cloud of cigar smoke. He held his breath, waved the smoke away and stepped back. “I'll get the hundred and fifty thousand from the stock contractor who owns Twister, Harvey. What are you going to donate to Wheelchair Rodeo?”

“A half-million over the course of three years.”

Jake put on a poker face. That was more than he had ever expected. That kind of money would help—im
mensely. Knowing how to play to the crowd, he bluffed. “Aw, c'mon, Harvey, for such a good cause and all tax deductible, I think your paper could afford a million over the course of three years.”

Harvey's mouth opened and closed like that of a fish, as the crowd cheered their encouragement.

“What do you have to worry about? Your money is safe. You said so yourself that I'm a has-been bull rider. I don't have a prayer of riding Twister.”

“It's a deal.” Sputtering and stammering, Harvey stormed out of the bar.

Jake couldn't believe Harvey had taken the bait.

When he was able to concentrate again on Beth, he saw her confusion. “Sorry. I'll bet that this is the worst date you've ever been on.”

“It's the
only
date I've been on in the past ten years.” She shrugged. “But this is exactly how I remember them.”

Damn, she could make him laugh.

“Let's dance,” he said. Dancing was safe. He held out his hand. When his fingers closed around hers, he felt…protective. He wanted to cushion her from any more heartache, any more pain.

But Beth Conroy was tough. She wouldn't accept his protection.

He took her in his arms. It was a slow song and the lead singer was trying to imitate the gravelly voice of Willie Nelson. It was perfect shuffling and swaying music.

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you ride Twister?”

“I don't know. He's bucked off a lot of good guys. I'm sure as hell going to try my best. A million bucks will go far in Wheelchair Rodeo.”

“But you're injured. I see you limping and trying to straighten your back, and—”

“Bull riding's a tough sport. We don't have multimillion-dollar contracts like the basketball, football and baseball players have. A lot of cowboys ride injured all the time. It's their job. They have families to support. Only a few who are really, really lucky and really good can earn a lot of money—most of which comes from endorsements and sponsors. Until recently, I've been one of those few.”

“As Kevin says, ‘Jake Dixon's the best.'” She laid her head on his shoulder.

Moments later he heard Beth singing to the music. He liked that. “A country music fan?”

She looked up, her green eyes sparkling in the dim light. “I listen to it all the time.”

When the song ended he didn't want to let her go, but they had to part when Big John McCoy put a meaty hand on Jake's shoulder and turned him toward the crowd sitting at the tables.

Beth tried to back away, but Jake held on to her hand.

Big John spoke into a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure you know one of the best bull riders in the business, our own Jake Dixon.”

Jake waved to the audience and tipped his hat to the cheers.

“Jake, you've been injured a lot, and there's a lot of talk that your career is over. What do you have to say to that?”

Beth squeezed his hand. He looked at her and she nodded at him with confidence. It warmed him clear down to his boots.

“Well, Big John, we have a saying in bull riding. It's not
if
you're going to get injured, it's
when
and
how bad.
I got injured pretty bad in Loughlin, but I've been down before.”

Big John nodded. “What would you respond to those who say that your career is over?”

“I'd tell them that I'm coming back and I'm going to be better than ever.”

“Thank you, Jake Dixon!” Big John waited until the applause died down. “Anything else you'd like to say to your friends here?”

Jake didn't hesitate. “Many of you know that Wheelchair Rodeo is in progress right now at the Gold Buckle Ranch, and everyone has been generous in their support. I'd like to thank everyone, on behalf of the kids.”

Big John took off his cowboy hat and spoke. “I think we should pass the hat for the kids—right, everyone?”

There was another round of applause.

“Thank you,” Jake said. “And I'd like to remind everyone that the Jake Dixon Gold Buckle Challenge will be Saturday night at the Mountain Springs Arena, so come on over. Proceeds will be donated to Wheelchair Rodeo. And I just found out that Harvey Trumble, the owner of the
Wyoming Journal,
is going to be sponsoring me on the bounty bull. If I ride him, he's donating a hefty chunk of money to Wheelchair Rodeo.”

Jake waited for the applause and hooting to end. “It'll be a good time as usual. So come and support this
good cause and maybe get on TV.” He tapped his hat brim once more. “Thanks, everyone. Now, let's dance!”

The band kicked up a two-step and he swung Beth into position. “Let's see what you've learned, or how rusty I am.”

“But your leg—”

“I'll stop when I need to.”

Beth Conroy was a quick study, and Jake tried to make it to the end of the song, but the band was carrying on with chorus after chorus. He finally knew he had to sit down.

“My boots are still like new and I don't have any broken toes. You can go back to Arizona and show them how you can do the Texas two-step, Wyoming-style.”

She smiled. “I'll do that.”

He guided her back to their table. They both reached for their glasses of ice water and took a long draw.

“Drinking water isn't so bad, is it?” she asked, clinking her glass against his.

He really wanted a beer. “It'll do.”

She ran her finger down the dewy glass. “I can't help but notice that you're in a lot of pain. If you are bucked off, will you be able to get up fast enough to get away from the bull?”