How to Handle a Cowboy (12 page)

The road to Decker Ranch seemed long and lonesome in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. At least Sierra's Jeep took the curves better than the bulky van, and she didn't have two backseats full of fighting boys. Still, by the time she reached the ranch, daylight was giving way to dusk, and the old house at the bottom of the drive looked spooky and desolate.

Hitting the rocky two-track at a healthy rate of speed, the Liberty tackled the challenge with gusto. Sierra clenched her teeth and downshifted as the climb grew steeper then slid back into third as the road leveled out.

A huge washout loomed ahead. She managed to gun her way through it, but just when she thought the worst was over, there was a hideous clunk and a sudden lurch to the right, toward an abrupt and unprotected drop-off.

Opening the door, she stepped out to discover that her right rear tire was in the washout, her front one in a pothole. If she'd kept accelerating, the car would have steered its way straight to oblivion.

She surveyed the situation, pondering her choices. She could put the car in neutral and try to shove it out of the potholes, but there was a slope to the road and she wasn't sure it wouldn't back up instead and flatten her in the dirt. The other option was to try to back up a little bit and gun it over the obstacles, hoping the car would bounce left rather than flying off over the drop-off.

Neither option was very attractive. She really wished she'd called Ridge.

Maybe she could summon him somehow. She wasn't far from the house, and it was awfully quiet out here. A few birds indulged in some evening chatter, and a chorus of crickets chirped a hesitant accompaniment.

Putting her fingers in her mouth, she let out a high, long whistle. Almost immediately, she heard something crashing through the underbrush, accompanied by heavy breathing.

Seconds later, the brush parted and two black-and-white blurs streaked out, headed straight for the car. Tongues lolling from exertion, they flung themselves at her with joyful abandon.

“Tweedles!” She ruffled the hair around their grinning faces as they lunged to lick her face. “Hey, Dum. Hey, Dee. Where's your boss?” She knelt and cupped Dee's furry face—or was it Dum's?—in her hands. “Please tell me he's right behind you.”

The dog barked, but no cowboy appeared. It was obvious Dum—or Dee—was just telling her what she wanted to hear.

“Go get him!” she told them, pointing toward the house. “Go on, guys! Go get Ridge!”

They stood side by side, grinning at her, obviously entertained by her histrionics.

“Go!” she said, stamping a foot. “You're collies, right? Aren't you supposed to be smart, like Lassie? Go get him.”

The dogs leaped and swirled around her, panting. They seemed willing to help but utterly clueless as to what she wanted. Maybe if she got in the car, they'd give up on her and go find Ridge.

She opened the door and was nearly knocked over by two dogs who evidently loved a car ride even more than they loved sloppy kisses. Shouldering her aside, they leaped into the Liberty's tiny backseat and sat expectantly, side by side, panting.

“Oh, shoot,” she groaned.

Each dog let out a happy bark as they shimmied their skinny hindquarters deeper into the upholstery.

“I'm not taking you for a ride,” she said. “I'm not even taking
myself
for a ride. Now get out of there.”

The dogs grinned, panted, and stayed put.

Sighing, she got in and turned the key, so she could roll down the windows and keep them from overheating. The panting increased in speed and volume as their grins widened.

She stepped out of the car and opened the back door. “There you go, guys. Good trip, huh?”

They weren't that stupid.

She considered the vehicle again, making a slow circuit around it. She probably couldn't push it forward, but maybe she could push it back. There was a rock she'd had to carefully surmount farther down that would be sure to stop it. Then she could make another try.

She got in again, much to the dogs' delight, and put it in neutral, then exited to a chorus of whimpers and stepped around to the front. Throwing herself at the front grill, she shoved with all her might.

Miracle of miracles, the car rolled backward.

And rolled. And rolled some more. Gaining speed, it rollicked over ridges and dips and bounced right over that rock. The dogs burst into a volley of barks that faded as they and the car bounced down the gentle slope of the road.

At least the ruts slowed it down. Sierra figured she might have a chance to catch it if she could run flat-out, but the uneven terrain worked against her. She kept slipping in and out of ruts. Once she twisted her ankle, but apparently she twisted it back again because it stopped hurting after a while.

Fortunately, the ruts slowed the car down too, and after much tripping and stumbling, she finally grabbed the handle of the driver's side door. She felt her ankle give and twist again inside her oh-so-Western cowboy boot, but she would
not
let go.

She lunged into position and yanked the door open, figuring she'd slide into the driver's seat and hit the brake. But the dogs were faster, scrambling over the seat back and shoving her aside, as eager to jump out of the vehicle as she was to jump in. Their determination knocked her flat.

Rising to a sitting position, she watched her car roll out of sight. The dogs stood at her side and barked furiously, as if that was any help. Though the headlights were blank and sightless, she could swear the Liberty wore a helpless, frightened expression.

Good-bye, car. How was she going to explain this to her insurance company?

She supposed she should run after it, see where it landed. But her ankle was killing her, and what would she do once she found it? Take pictures?

Turning, she began the long trek up to the ranch house, the dogs trotting companionably beside her.

***

By the time she reached the barn, Sierra had reached her peak of annoyed, sweaty exhaustion for the day—and on this day, that was saying something. She suspected her ankle had swollen enough to fill the cowboy boot. She could have taken the boot off and checked, but she probably wouldn't be able to get it back on. Besides, she really didn't want to know.

For some reason, her spirits had risen with the uphill trek. She told herself the car had probably been stopped by a rut or a pothole, not a tree or a rock. Once she got her phone, she could probably just drive it home.

And apparently, she'd be able to do that without Ridge even knowing she was here. She'd already made enough noise to scare all the birds into the next county, and he hadn't shown up. Maybe he wasn't home.

The dogs shot ahead of her, bouncing toward the house with so much joy and grace she half expected them to sprout wings and fly. It was more likely that they'd bark, of course, and then she'd be busted.

“Dum! Dee!” she hissed, standing as tall as she could. “Shh!”

The dogs looked startled then hurt, and she felt a little sorry for them as they skulked up to the porch and laid down in what were apparently their usual spots at the top of the porch steps. Their sad, watchful eyes made her feel guilty as she headed for the broad barn door, which stood wide open.

In the dim light from the dusty windows, horses stood like ghosts, rustling the straw whenever they shifted their weight. It felt peaceful somehow, and Sierra took the time to just stand there and breathe in the sweet scent of straw and the earthier odor of animals. She was surprised to realize the odor wasn't unpleasant; it was warm and somehow comforting. She felt like the interior of the barn was an oasis in time, standing safe and unchanged as the rest of the world bustled around it.

She moved stealthily, edging down the row of stalls to the second one on the right. Sluefoot the Butt Biter was ogling her with that weird sideways leer again. She knew it was some kind of medical condition, but she couldn't help thinking the horse looked like he had some kind of dirty secret.

“Hello, Sluefoot.” She cautiously stroked the animal's nose while she craned her neck to peer past him.

No phone.

Ridge had probably found it and taken it into the house. She was surprised he hadn't called the landline at Phoenix House to let her know. Maybe he had, while she was chauffeuring his dogs on a quick trip to nowhere.

She really wished she'd thought this through.

Sluefoot edged closer for another pat and she heard a crackling sound under his feet. When he shifted his weight, she saw that Ridge hadn't found her phone after all.

Sluefoot had. He'd found it with his big old feet, and he'd crushed it to bits.

“Sluefoot, no!” She felt like crying. She was barely making it financially as it was, with her student loans eating up half of her measly paycheck. She'd opted out of insurance on the phone, figuring she'd just be careful.

So much for that gamble.

She put her hand on the latch, and Sluefoot turned to face her, nosing the air in search of treats. To get the phone, she'd have to bend over, and she was sure the greedy animal would snuffle her back pockets for treats. She was liable to get nipped again.

Confirming her suspicions about his intentions, he gave her that sly sideways look. She tilted her own head and gave him the eye, along with a grimace as gruesome as his own.

This was ridiculous. How had she ended up here, making faces at a horse? She swung open the stall door just enough to slip inside.

Slinging his head around, the horse lunged forward, shouldering her aside. Barely missing her feet with his hooves, he trotted through the door with surprising agility.

“Sluefoot, no!”

She grabbed for his halter, but he whirled and gave her backside a sharp farewell nip before galloping out the barn door.

Kids were exhausting. Ridge didn't know how Sierra dealt with it day after day—especially since she seemed so emotionally invested in the boys. He remembered her tears over Jeffrey's progress. It was sweet that she cared so much.

But he was exhausted, nodding over his book. He flipped a few pages, searching for a spicy part to take his mind off his throbbing shoulder and aching arm. Just two months away from his sport, and he was already getting soft. He could barely stay awake.

He wasn't sure why he bothered to try. Chores were done, so he might as well take a nap, like some old guy—some old guy who couldn't rodeo, living all alone on a ranch.

He really had to do something about that last part. He wasn't exactly a party animal; in fact, he suspected a lot of the other cowboys on the circuit found him terse and unfriendly. But even if he hadn't joined in their raucous conversations and practical jokes, he'd been entertained. Living alone wasn't nearly as pleasant as he'd expected. He was starting to understand why Bill had liked having him and his brothers around.

He had no idea how much time had passed when a distant bark from one of the Tweedles jerked him back to the world. Glancing around the dim room, he caught a flash of white through the window. What the hell?

He rose to see old Sluefoot careening across the yard at a high-spirited trot. Dumbstruck, he watched the horse snatch up a mouthful of Irene's daylilies on his way around the corner.

Another flash of color attracted Ridge's attention, and he turned to see a woman racing across the yard in hot pursuit of his renegade horse.

Sierra.

What the hell was she doing here? She'd left hours ago with the kids.

As he watched, she put on a burst of speed and rounded the corner then tripped on a hillock of grass and went flying, hitting the ground with a stupendous, skidding belly flop.

He didn't know what was going on, but it looked like fun. By the time he got outside, Sierra was on her feet again, pursuing the horse. The Tweedles had joined her, barking a joyful chorus as they frolicked around her ankles, threatening to send her flying into another belly flop.

Pausing to tear up another mouthful of foliage, Sluefoot watched her approach then dodged away just before she grabbed his halter. She snatched at it again and again, but the wily old horse stayed just out of reach.

Putting his fingers to his lips, Ridge blew out his patented Sluefoot whistle. The horse stopped, spun around, and jogged docilely up to Ridge. He immediately began nuzzling at his master's pockets, looking for treats.

“Sorry, bud.” He gently pushed the horse's nose away and scratched the animal's bony withers as a consolation prize. “No snacks this time.” He grinned at Sierra, who was glowering at both of them. Her face gleamed with exertion, and her hair was a wild, spiky mess.

“That animal.” She narrowed her eyes and shot Sluefoot a withering look.

Tilting his head at his usual rakish angle, the animal blew a loud raspberry.

The woman had obviously lost her sense of humor. She shot the horse a killing glare, and Ridge could swear there was steam coming out of her ears. If he could just stop laughing, he'd get the horse back to the barn.

“You mind telling me why you're out here chasing my livestock?” he asked once he'd recovered and started toward the barn.

“I forgot my cell phone.” She glanced warily at Sluefoot. “I came back to get it and got stuck in your driveway and then the horse got loose, and—well, and here I am.” She held up an iPhone encased in pink plastic. Huge cracks radiated across the screen.

“It's broken,” he said.

She glared as he led Sluefoot into his stall. “Your damned horse stepped on it. After your driveway ate my car.”

He latched the stall door carefully. Sluefoot had been known to lift a half-fastened latch and turn up at the front door, begging for treats. He was surprised the old guy hadn't figured out how to ring the doorbell. “Maybe it's just the screen that's broken on your phone.”

“I'd better check. I have to call Riley. It's been hours.”

She poked at the screen, sighing with relief when it lit up.

“Excuse me.”

Turning away from him, she hunched her shoulders just like she had before. Whoever this Riley guy was, she needed all kinds of privacy to talk to him.

“You okay?” he heard her say.

Then, “I'm really sorry. I lost my phone, or I would have called.” There was a pause. “I know. I'm sorry.”

She walked out into the sunlight, giving him an apologetic shake of the head, and muttered another apology into the phone. Riley kept her on a short leash. That meant he was controlling. Maybe abusive.

Maybe Sierra needed rescuing.

Yeah, right.
Ridge was hardly the knight-in-shining-armor type. It would be out of the frying pan and into the fire. He might not be controlling, but according to Shelley, he was cold, uncaring, and incapable of commitment.

When Sierra returned to the barn, she looked frazzled and hot, as if her day had taken a turn for the worse. What could be worse than getting lost, losing her phone, and getting her car stuck? Riley had to be bad news.

Maybe he couldn't rescue Sierra, but she could probably use a friend. And while he hadn't been able to give Shelley what she wanted, he always stuck by his friends.

“Why don't you come on inside and have a drink?” he asked. “I've got some of that lemonade left.” He grinned. “Or you could have a beer.”

“I can't.” She glanced down the drive. “My car. And my phone. And…” She stopped and stared at him a moment. He did his best to look harmless, and apparently it worked, because he could almost see her guard drop as her posture relaxed.

“Oh, forget it,” she said. “Yes. Yes, I'd love to have a beer.”

***

Sierra leaned against the kitchen counter and watched Ridge take two beers out of the refrigerator. The kitchen wasn't nearly as tidy as it had been earlier in the day. The packaging from a couple of microwave dinners was scattered across the counter; maybe he'd had company, but she doubted it. More likely, it took two or three dinners to fill him up. The lemonade glasses and pitcher were still on the counter too, and she realized she should have helped him clean up. She'd been in such a hurry to get the boys together that she hadn't thought of it.

“Where'd your car end up?” he asked.

She described the spot where she'd bottomed out.

“You walked from there? No wonder you're tired.”

She smoothed her damp hair and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “What makes you think I'm tired?”

“I just—um…”

He looked stricken, and she was tempted to let him try and talk his way out of the insult, but she took pity on him.

“You're right. I'm absolutely wrung out.” She collapsed onto one of the breakfast nook's benches and gratefully downed a draught of beer then lifted it in a toast. “Thanks.”

He joined her, sliding onto the bench across from her. His long legs tangled with hers for one awkward moment, and she suppressed a wild urge to play footsie.

“I'll take you down in the truck,” he said. “We'll get you turned around.”

She shrugged. “I can do it.” She glanced over at the dogs, who were cooling off on the cold kitchen floor. “Your dogs were very helpful.”

“Were they?”

“They got in the backseat and wouldn't get out.”

He threw back his head and laughed. Apparently, she'd caught him in a good mood.

She nodded toward the picture she'd noticed earlier. “So are those your parents?”

He nodded.

“And your brothers?”

“For all intents and purposes.”

She scanned the picture again—the blond boy, the dark-haired one, and Ridge himself, with his unruly mass of wavy, brown hair. “You're all so different.”

“We're alike where it matters.”

She wanted to ask if they'd been adopted. That would explain how different they looked. But the question seemed too personal. Despite his easy good humor, Ridge seemed guarded about his personal life.

“Are they rodeo cowboys too?”

He nodded. “Functioning rodeo cowboys. Unlike me.” He downed another sip of beer and set the bottle down a little too hard.

“What happened?”

“Got thrown.”

“I'd imagine that happens a lot.”

“It does.”

His sharp tone was a clear indication that he didn't want to talk about his injury, but she couldn't hold back her curiosity.

“Is it bad?”

“Yes.” He stood up from the table and busied himself with the dishes, squirting soap in one side of the double sink and cranking on the hot water. Either he was embarrassed by the mess, or he didn't want to talk about his injury. Or both.

She stood and crossed the room, nudging him aside with her shoulder. “Here, let me. I should have done this earlier.”

“No.” He nudged her back, a little too hard. The man didn't know his own strength.

“Yes.” Impulsively, she scooped up a handful of bubbles from the sink and swatted at him. Most of the white foam wound up on his chin, but a generous dot stuck to the end of his nose. It should have looked ridiculous, but the hard glint in his eyes shut down the giggle that welled up in Sierra's throat. He scooped up some bubbles of his own and swatted at her, leaving a trail from ear to chin.

A playful smile tilted his lips, but it was clear he wasn't accustomed to losing games. She suspected a lot of bucking horses had seen that same narrow-eyed grin, and wondered if their big hearts had pounded as fast as her little one.

Dodging back to the sink, she scooped up another handful of bubbles. He needed some on top of his head to complete the look.

She should have gone for something less ambitious, because when she hiked herself up on her toes he grabbed her hand and held fast to her wrist. Her giggle exploded as the two of them wrestled. He was strong, even stronger than she'd expected. His grip on her wrist wasn't painful, but it was powerful. There was no way she could escape, no matter how she twisted and turned.

Inexorably, he forced her bubble-laden hand toward her own face.

“Want some bubbles?” he teased. “Mmm… bubbles.”

They were standing still now, locked in battle. She was resisting as best she could, but her arm muscles were starting to tire.

“Yum,” he said.

Her hand shook with the effort of holding him back, but it stopped just inches from her nose—and only because he stopped pushing.

“Say ‘uncle.'” He grinned, his eyes on hers, and she almost forgot to resist.

“Never!
Ooh!
”

She said the last word through a face full of foam. Sputtering and blowing, she dove toward the sink and scooped out another handful. She couldn't win on strength, so she went for speed, splashing his chest with water as well as bubbles.

The fight was on. Dodging around him, she managed to soak the front of his shirt and the back of his jeans before he splashed what felt like half the sink down her front. She dove for the sink again and he grabbed both her wrists, pinning her with her back to the counter and her front to—

Him.

Oh.

Their bodies were pressed together and she had nowhere to go. She wasn't sure she'd have moved if she could, because his muscular body, damp and slick with soap, was pressed against her equally wet and slippery torso. Pressed
hard.

She looked down in shock and surprise. She hadn't realized just how wet she was or how thin her flimsy bra was. No wonder he was turned on.

She might as well be naked.