Chapter 21

By the end of the last performance on Saturday night, Shawnee figured she deserved a whole pack of gold stars for good behavior. A bottle of Pendleton whiskey at the very least—so she could take a long swig, then use the thick-bottomed bottle to coldcock the next well-meaning soul who said, “Sure is lucky that wasn’t your good horse.”

Those were the boneheads who’d pat your shoulder at a funeral and whisper, “At least he wasn’t your favorite uncle, bless his heart.”

Of course she was glad she hadn’t nearly lost Roy instead. She wasn’t stupid. But she was getting tired of the smirks they thought she didn’t see. Can you believe she spent that much money on a head-fighting bastard that’ll never amount to anything?

But she’d managed to keep her lip zipped. And she’d also managed to keep her hands and, for the most part, her eyes off of Cole. Since resisting temptation wasn’t a life skill she practiced much, she should definitely get extra credit.

She’d settled for extra calories instead. When she wasn’t underfoot at the equine hospital—where Butthead was now settled in a regular stall and being eased back on to a regular diet—she’d resorted to stress baking in an attempt to bribe her body into shutting the hell up about how easy it would be to mosey over to Cole’s trailer for a little afternoon delight. If she kept it up, she was gonna have to spend her next paycheck on a new, larger-sized wardrobe, so she left bags of cookies on the table under her awning and told the crew to help themselves. The second day, Hank presented her with a book of crossword puzzles.

Shawnee scowled at it, flipping through the pages. “What’s this for?”

“Chili, rolls, oatmeal cookies—it’s starting to feel like the old days. But if you wanna be the next Miz Iris, you’ve gotta have all the props.”

She nailed him between the shoulder blades with the book, but only because he paused to grab a cookie before he ran, and even then she had to put her whole arm into it. The little bastard was really fast.

Now she stepped into her trailer, hung her cowboy hat on the rack, kicked off her boots, and shucked her sweaty shirt and jeans on the way to the shower. One more rodeo in the books. Traveling town to town with their little crew was like her childhood dream of running away to be a carny, minus the greasy, leather-skinned dude who always operated the Tilt-a-Whirl.

She caught herself wishing the season wouldn’t end—and that was not good.

This was supposed to be a lark. Another experience to add to the stockpile she held against her uncertain future. She wasn’t supposed to love it. But who knew it would be such a rush, or that a big part of the thrill would be the moments when she and Cole operated not only on the same wavelength, but as if they were inside each other’s heads? It was almost better than…

A great team roping run, maybe. Not sex. Please. Nothing was better than sex, except more sex. As she stood under the lukewarm shower and soaped up, her body was more than happy to recall all that muscle wrapped around her. That excruciatingly sweet kiss, totally at odds with the erection he’d made no attempt to hide. How could he be so damn hard and so vulnerable at the same time?

But the hot tinglies weren’t near as disturbing as how much she hadn’t wanted him to let go. How his strength had drawn the anxiety out of her, like a human poultice. As long as he was holding her, she’d felt—

Horny. Anything more was out of bounds, so she shoved her head under the spray and forced her mind back to the good stuff.

Sex in the shower with Cole would be…well, impossible. First, the two of them would demolish the trailer shower if they started throwing their considerable weight around. Second, if he ever unwound enough to steam up a bathroom, he’d probably imprint on her like a baby duck. He’d already penciled her in on the Stuff Cole Is Responsible For list, and as far as she could tell, the man didn’t own an eraser. And it wasn’t even because she was so freaking irresistible.

Cole had decided he needed a wife, and once he set a goal, he became that boulder, rolling straight ahead until he reached his destination. Shawnee’s life was all detours and winding back roads. But they would eventually collide. With five weeks of the rodeo season left, practically in each other’s pockets all day, every day, and that kiss simmering between them? Yep, it was gonna happen. She’d just have to post all the hazards going in, like they did on arena gates. Warning: the owner of this facility is not responsible for injuries. Participate at your own risk.

She blew out an irritated sigh as she towel-dried her hair. Why couldn’t he just be a regular guy? But no, he had to be…Cole, whatever that was.

She slipped into her most comfortable gym shorts and an extra baggy T-shirt and padded barefoot to the refrigerator. She’d picked up some excellent homemade hummus and pita chips at the farmer’s market in New Mexico, and she intended to gorge while binge-watching NCIS reruns. And if she felt a little lonely, it was only because she’d let herself get used to hanging out at Tori’s place when Delon was on the road. Roping, pigging out, and swilling beer—now that’s what she called girl time.

She had just hunkered in when a tap at the door shot her heart straight into her esophagus. Oh shit. Butthead. Shoving her plate aside, she scrambled to answer.

Analise looked her up and back down again. “God. Mariah was right. You are in bad shape.”

Only because Analise had damn near given her a heart attack, knocking at her door at this time of night.

“Says the girl with a…” Shawnee leaned closer, squinting at Analise’s lip ring. “What the hell? Is that a real black widow spider?”

“No. But cool, right?”

Uh…that was one word for it. But she’d bet Analise didn’t have men just up and kissing her without warning. Or permission. Or…or…

Oh hell, who was she kidding? She’d been pumping out kiss me vibes like a freaking lipstick commercial.

Analise gave her a shove. “Go on. Get dressed and we’ll go drink a toast to Butthead. May he find his bliss. Or least a really good buzz.”

Shawnee folded her arms and didn’t budge. “Who is this we you speak of?”

“Um…me and you, mostly, but Hank did promise to buy the first round. I tried to drag Cruz along, but he’s got some horse thing he has to finish making. You know how he is.”

Analise made a face that was at least partly admiration. Marcelino Miguel Ruiz de la Cruz had come straight out of the El Paso projects, one of Wyatt Darrington’s first and most successful reclamation projects. He didn’t waste time or money on dancing and beer. Inside the seventies vintage camper trailer he pulled behind a well-preserved El Camino from the same era, he created intricate rawhide masterpieces. Braided reins. Bridles. Halters. If you wanted it—and could afford the steep price tag—Cruz could build it. And every extra dollar went toward getting the rest of his family out of the ghetto.

“Tyrell and Mariah will be there for a while,” Analise went on. “She found Cole a woman.”

Shawnee’s arms dropped, along with her jaw, too. Cole had a date? “What woman?”

Analise shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? If you get a move on.”

Without thinking, Shawnee backed away to let Analise in the door. She was not jealous, dammit. Just…curious. And protective. As a friend. Violet would have to live with whatever woman Cole dragged home. It was Shawnee’s duty to screen the prospects, that’s all.

And she had told him to run. She just hadn’t expected him to listen.

She eyed Analise, whose miniskirt was stretchy black lace to match her black lace gloves. Even her chunky high-heeled boots had lace insets on the sides and yes, more of those creepy black widows dangling from the laces.

“It’ll be last call by the time I do something with this hair,” Shawnee warned.

But she pulled out her best jeans—the ones that left no doubt how much junk she packed in her trunk—and a loose-fitting silky bronze tank top that slithered over her skin and showed enough cleavage to impair male judgment. “I’ll just be a few—”

“Ooh, hummus!” Analise plopped her bony butt down on the couch and helped herself.

“I gotta quit answering the door,” Shawnee said, and stomped into the bathroom.

She went heavier with the makeup than usual, especially on her eyes. A handful of magic goo worked through her damp hair tamed it from wild woman to a mussed-up Yeah, I just got laid look. She hardly ever wore it completely loose. The curls tickled her bare shoulders and smelled like an invitation to hot jungle sex. She added a necklace made of chunky amber glass beads with matching earrings, examined the result in the mirror, and smiled.

Yeah. That’d do.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Analise’s eyes popped wide, her gaze taking in the hair, the makeup, then zeroing in on Shawnee’s chest. “Holy crap.”

Shawnee propped a hand on her hip and struck a pose. “And honey, I know what to do with all of it.”

“Do you give lessons?”

“Depends. Are we talking lecture or hands-on?”

Analise rolled her dark-rimmed eyes. “You’re a little old for me, don’t you think?”

“Gee, thanks.” Shawnee grabbed her wallet, fished out cash and her ID—she wasn’t too damn old to get carded—and shoved them in the back pocket of her jeans, then slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops blinged-up with rhinestones and turquoise. “If we’re gonna do this, let’s go.”

Before this woman of Mariah’s had too much time to get her hooks into Cole.