Rebel Cowboy (10 page)

No one had ever kissed her like they couldn’t help themselves. Like it was all that mattered. This was the second time he’d done it, but it still wasn’t the same. This wasn’t angry, frustrated kissing that burst into heat and flame.

It was soft. His tongue traced her bottom lip, swept inside her mouth with a languorous ease that matched the way the heat and ache spread through her. Slow, steady, until she was all but humming with it. With the word
more
.

The ripple of fear settled somewhere underneath desire. She felt it, but she didn’t act on it—couldn’t. She was drowning in a sea of want. She wanted him to touch her, to follow the spiral of electricity that wound through her body. Every time his mouth touched hers, it was all she could think about. His hands on her skin. Her skin on his skin.

Until a bleating cracked through the peace of a quiet mountain afternoon.

Mel jerked back, eyes falling to where Mystery Llama was standing at the edge of the fence. Staring. Judging.

Not judging, wacko.

“He’s hungry,” she said, pointing to the llama even though Dan’s hands were still on her face, even though she could feel his body heat through her clothes and feel his breath on her temple. Even though everything inside of her was still reeling from confusion mixed with desire.

“The llama will keep.”

It would. It probably would, and as much as she wanted to throw up her hands and say
sure, why the hell not
, it was the middle of the day. They were in the middle of a project. You did not just leave something undone because you wanted connection. Wanted sex.

Oh, but I bet it will be really awesome sex.

She shook her head, stepping away from Dan and the idea that she could ever forget a responsibility. That she could let a few aches and desperate fantasies change the fact of her reality. She raised her chin, determined. “We have work to do. And you’re paying me. So, that makes this weird.”

He was quiet for a few beats, eyes steady on hers. “One of these days, you’re going to run out of excuses.”

She wanted it to feel like a threat, something she could fight against, be angry about. But it didn’t feel like that at all.
One of these days
sounded like a gift.

A gift she could have if she ever wanted it.

Not for you.

Why did that keep getting lost in all this…whatever it was? Dan was not for her. She knew that. But she also knew she
could
have him, however briefly, and she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to resist that forever.

* * *

Dan put every last ounce of energy into work. He wasn’t going to push Mel. The way he saw it, she had enough people trying to take things from her, and he was determined not to be that guy.

Even if it gave him blue balls in the process.

Every time he thought he got to the bottom of all of Mel’s stress, everything that made her so rigid and careful and tough, he fell down some other chasm.

He couldn’t say he was surprised that her mother had abandoned her family. She obviously had issues with people leaving, and she’d never mentioned a mother. What he was still working his way through was the anger, the absolute disgust in the way she’d explained what happened.

Then she’d cried. As if the anger had just been hiding this vulnerable hurt underneath, as if that’s what her tough-girl attitude was
always
hiding.

Seeing that filled him with an unease he didn’t know how to fight. Hurt was not something he liked to deal with. Was not something he’d ever had any skill at dealing with.

He had cracked under all the emotion of his parents’ crumbling marriage. Fallen apart, trouble and tears and too much.
Too much for me to handle with an absent husband
, Mom had said when she’d thought he hadn’t been listening. He had been her last straw.

Then Dad had taught him to skate, and he’d skated away from all feelings since then. From his own, from his mother’s. His grandparents’. He’d used hockey as an excuse not to visit. Grandma’s decline had been much worse, much sharper than Grandpa’s, and the way that broke Grandpa’s heart was written all over his face.

Always.

Dan’s chest ached, a deep, helpless pain he didn’t know what to do with. That pain he always chose to escape. So he didn’t do any more damage, like he had done with his parents. Except there was no skating, no escape in his immediate future. Just…fence building and llamas.

Well, at least it was something.

“It’s seven. I need to head out.” Mel yanked off work gloves and slapped them against her knee. “Think you can handle getting it closed up?”

He looked at the two posts they had left, which would bring the enclosure to a new, expanded rectangle.

“Yup.”

She nodded once then turned on a heel and headed for her truck. No good-bye. No “thanks for letting me cry on you.” No “hey, now that it’s quitting time, how about some sex?”

Which was good, really. This afternoon had given him this feeling of being strong and a take-care kind of guy, but he couldn’t let that feeling go to his head. Hugging someone while they cried did not equal being capable of handling much of anything.

When was the last time you tried?

She got to her truck, pulling open her door without a pause. He should not say something. He should focus on the fence and just…leave things as they were.

But he could remember what it had felt like holding her while she cried, wiping away the tears and kissing her with the salt of them still on her lips, and even knowing it was false, fake, and would probably come back to bite him in the ass, he felt like maybe—just maybe—he could be of some help to her. Be some kind of white knight, even if he’d always sucked at it.

“Mel?”

She paused, one foot on the step of her truck, hands braced on either side of the door frame. She cleared her throat, shoulders straightening, always bracing for the next blow.

He was
not
going to be the one to deliver it. If he could promise himself one thing this summer, it was that he was not going to be someone who added to the load she had to carry.

Even
he
could manage that.

“What, Dan?”

“My door is always open.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, eyebrows scrunched together in that whole “I do not get you” expression she wore more than occasionally, but then she smoothed out her features and nodded, pulling her cowboy hat down a little on her head, like a tip of the hat. “I’ll keep it in mind,” she said quietly.

That was enough that he found himself smiling as she drove away.

Because something about vulnerability on Mel drew him. The fear and the discomfort didn’t disappear, but stronger than both those things was this strange and powerful urge to help. In whatever lame way he could.

So, he would. Being in Blue Valley was all about learning new things, after all, so that’s just what he’d do.

Mel peeled off her boots and dumped them onto the mat. The empty mat, because Caleb was in here somewhere with his damn boots on. Tracking dirt. Not giving a damn.

He’s trying as much as you are.

Oh, she didn’t have the energy for this. She didn’t have the energy for anything. She was wrung out—from crying, from working her ass off on a damn llama fence, all so she didn’t have to think about that crying, that kiss.

Was it too much to ask to come home to boots on the mat and dinner on the table? Yes, too much to ask. Everything was too much to ask. That was her life.

Except for the times Dan made her forget. The hug, the kiss, the door-always-being-open thing. It wasn’t real, but it was there. Possible.

The kitchen was dark, as was the living room. Everything was quiet and heavy, and she wanted to scream. Scream and scream and scream until something changed, something clicked.

But she didn’t. She walked through the house, finally going out to the back porch. Caleb was sitting in one of the old rocking chairs, staring moodily at the mountains.

There was a glass next to him, the kind of glass that made her stomach clench. Except, she’d give him the benefit of the doubt, because aside from too many beers the night Dan had come over for dinner, he hadn’t been drinking.

It was just pop. Not a drop of Dad’s whiskey in it.

But when she wrenched her gaze away from the glass, Caleb’s gaze was on her. He didn’t bother to hide the scowl, and she tried to hold on to that last glimmer of hope. She needed him not to have done this.

“Fiona quit,” he said into the dark silence.

“What?” Those weren’t the words she’d been expecting. “Why?” It had to be some misunderstanding, something she could fix. Maybe with the extra money Dan was giving her, she could offer a raise…

“Dad did something, she wouldn’t tell me what.” Caleb waved an arm. “She only said it was too hard, and she couldn’t do it anymore.”

“What are we going to do?” Fiona had been a godsend. Mel hated the thought of going through the process of finding a new nurse who would come out here.

“You could run an ad, I guess.”

“
I
could?” Under the exhaustion and the sadness and the fear, a lick of anger flamed to life, and there was just enough kindling to make it blaze.

“My hands are kind of full, Mel.”

“So are mine,” she replied through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, having that guy buy you lunch every day at Georgia’s must be rough.” He pushed out of the chair, taking an angry step toward her. “You know I don’t hear much gossip, but I’m hearing plenty about you and Dan gallivanting around town.”

“Gallivanting?” She was so angry, the repeated word barely exited her throat. He thought she was
gallivanting.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m kind of carrying this ranch on my back right now.”

“And what the fuck am I doing, Caleb?” He had been drinking. She could tell, because he hadn’t been like this in a long time. Belligerent. “What have I been doing the past five damn years?”

“I need a drink,” he muttered, pushing past her. “You want me to have this conversation, I need a lot more booze in my system.”

“You’ve had enough,” she said firmly, following him into the kitchen.

“Easy, Mom.”

He’d never laid a hand on her, but he may as well have with that. “Don’t you ever, ever say that to me.”

His shoulders slumped, hand resting on the outside of the cabinet she thought to be empty. But he must have more alcohol in there.

He rested his forehead on the door of the cabinet next to his hand. “I’m sorry for that. I am.”

“You need to tell me what this is. Why you keep doing this.” They couldn’t keep dancing around this, and she couldn’t keep ignoring what was happening. Not if he was drinking. Not if he was lashing out. She couldn’t do this again.

He straightened and seemed to use great effort to remove his hand from the door. But when he turned to face her, his expression was completely blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bullshit.

It was all too much, and his apology was worthless without an explanation behind it. So damn worthless. All of this. What was she fighting so hard for? When he couldn’t just explain himself. When he had to turn anywhere but to her. “Fuck you, Caleb.” She had to get out of here. Go somewhere…

She knew where she shouldn’t go, but everyone else got to do what they shouldn’t do, so why not her?

“Mel.”

But she didn’t stop, not for a second. She was going to leave. She was going to go be selfish and stupid, and Caleb could deal with that for once in his life. She grabbed her boots, pulled the first on.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” She jammed her foot into the other boot. “Don’t wait up.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

She turned to face him, and the anger was so big and bright and glowing, she didn’t care what she said, or what they did. “Grow some balls. The pair of you.”

“Nice. Real nice. After all the shit I’ve dealt with today—”

She didn’t listen. She looked down at her boots. No, she couldn’t go in boots and work clothes. So she stomped upstairs to her room. She could still hear Caleb grumbling, but she was done, and nothing he could say could change that.

She pawed through her closet, trying to find something that wasn’t denim or flannel or plaid. She had nothing. Not one scrap of feminine, seductive clothing.

Damn it.

So she did what any smart, resourceful woman would do. She grabbed a pair of scissors from her sorely neglected mending box and cut a pair of jeans into shorts.

Short shorts.

She changed into her nicest underwear—which was black cotton instead of nude cotton, but hey, it was something. She shimmied into the short shorts, and found a red tank top she usually wore under another shirt.

Yanking her hair out of her braid, she stalked to the bathroom. It was all kinky and weird, so there went that idea. But instead of re-braiding, she just pulled it back into a ponytail.

It took about five minutes of searching through her bathroom cabinets to find her makeup. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had occasion to wear it, and the nail polish in there had long since separated, the lip gloss tube all dried out and cracky.

But she had eyeliner and mascara, though not the best hand at putting it on. She frowned at her reflection. The eyes were okay, dark and dangerous, but she needed lipstick.

She looked around the bathroom, then finally got a Q-tip wet and shoved it into the lip gloss tube. She managed to create enough color on her lips that, as long as she didn’t chew it off, should stay for at least a little while.

She gave herself a once-over. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.
Story of your life.
Well, so be it.

She stomped downstairs, seeing Caleb was gone, presumably to drink himself to death on the porch again. Dad shouldn’t need any help getting to bed, but if he had any problems, he could call Fiona and apologize. Mel had spent a fortune on making the house as accessible as possible for him.

At the cost of everything.

For once,
he
could face that. For once she didn’t have to stand there and pretend all the hard work she put in wasn’t a big deal. She was leaving because it was a big deal. Everything she’d done going completely unrecognized was a
big
damn deal.

She wouldn’t use liquor or a shitty attitude to make herself feel better. What she needed was something that would feel so good, so encompassing, that she didn’t have to think about anything else.

Dan was the answer. He’d rejected her once, and she’d rejected him once. So they were even—on even ground, and neither of them would make that stupid mistake again.

And if he did? Well, if Dan Sharpe wasn’t up to the challenge, she’d damn well find someone who was.

* * *

Dan stood under the hot spray of his shower. He was starving and would kill for a beer, but he couldn’t quite make the move to get out.

It had been a day. A day that had kicked his ass as well as any high-intensity playoff game might.

Funny how the water seemed to cool at just the moment his brain turned to hockey. Seemed about right. He wrenched the water off and grabbed the towel from the hook.

They still smelled a little musty, and he had to assume they always would after all the washings he’d done. He could get new towels, of course, just like he could get someone to fix this place up, but just like with the truck, something stopped him.

Maybe he should stop letting it. He had a plan now. A plan in place even if he left. He was building something for…something. Someday. Even if he got back in the league, he sure as hell couldn’t play hockey forever.

Much as he’d like to.

He dried off, pulled on his boxers, and ran a hand through his wet hair. He needed a haircut, and to do some laundry that wasn’t towels. He was out of clean pants, and he doubted the T-shirt situation was much better.

But first, he absolutely needed food.

He hadn’t conned Mel into teaching him to cook anything yet, and while he could probably search the Internet for a few tips and tricks to making something with the chicken in his fridge, he was too hungry to fiddle around.

Scrambled eggs would have to do, along with a little light llama reading, then some laundry.

Life had gotten weird.

He went through the prep, cracking a few eggs into the skillet, tossing some cheese in for good measure. He’d get back on the “protein shake, vegetables, and lean meats” thing tomorrow.

Drawing the spatula through the raw eggs, he squinted at the pages of his book. Then he cursed and went to retrieve his glasses. “Old-man eyes, my ass,” he grumbled, sliding the thick frames onto his nose.

He glanced from the book to the eggs, stirring occasionally. When a knock sounded at the door, he paused. Why was someone at his door at nearly eight thirty at night?

Shit, his life hadn’t just gotten weird—it had gotten lame.

The eggs were about done, so he took the pan with him. Buck and Mel and the kid who’d dropped off his library books the other day were the only people who ever came out here, and he wasn’t expecting anyone.

He opened the door and about dropped the pan. Mel stood on his doorstep looking…not at all like Mel.

She stared at his chest, and he acutely felt the fact that he was basically standing here in his underwear holding a pan of eggs. And she wasn’t exactly fully dressed herself.

She stepped inside. “Take off the glasses. Put the pan down.”

They were words, and perhaps at another time they might make sense strung together, but he could see her legs, her arms, the tops of her breasts. He could see more of her than he could
not
see of her.

“I’m sorry, did you…say things?”

She closed the door and crossed her arms under her breasts, which…um…what was happening? She had makeup on. And sexy clothes. With cowboy boots.

He was dreaming probably. Yes, this was an unconscious fantasy.

“I said, take off the glasses and put the pan down,” she said in a careful, measured tone.

“Could I possibly then get dressed?”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically, the loose ends of her ponytail swinging back and forth as she stared him down. “That will not be necessary.”

“Um.” He’d never considered himself shy before, and he’d certainly had his fair share of brazen sexual proposals thrown his way. He’d even taken up most of those women.

But those women weren’t Mel.

Her eyes met his, cool and determined, but there was a flash of something underneath. He couldn’t read it, she kept it so well hidden. “Glasses. Pan. Now.”

“Can you maybe fill me in on what’s going on, and why?” Carefully, watching her, he set down the pan, flicked off the burner, and then—because, eh, why not—he took off the glasses and placed them on top of his book.

She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She pushed out her chest, which meant he could see down the front of her shirt enough to see the tops of a black bra.

She looked so…soft. Which was not a word he’d ever associated with her, but his fingers itched to touch, to run along the delicate curve of her breasts, the sloping angle of her collarbone.

And then follow it with his mouth.

“We’re going to have sex.”

His gaze jerked from her breasts to her face. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

“And I don’t suppose I have any say in the matter?”

Her expression flickered briefly, like a quick flash of uncertainty before she banished it. “You want to, don’t you?”

He scratched fingers through his hair, trying to work out the right way to deal with this. Because, something about being a good guy for Mel, when he’d never been much of one before, held some strange appeal. He wanted to try this new good-guy thing. “Well, that’s not a straight yes or no question.”

“Yes, it is. Either you want to get me naked or you don’t.”

Oh, he wished it were that straightforward. That they were back in Chicago, his place, a hotel room, anything easy. But nothing about Blue Valley, Mel, or this ranch was simple or easy. “I would like that, but there are…ramifications to that. Complicated ones.”

“No, there aren’t. Not really. I need…” She took a deep breath. There was hurt and pain all over her face, but she didn’t slump in the face of it. She looked at him straight on. “I want to forget about everything. You can make that happen, can’t you?”

“Well, not permanently.”

“I don’t need permanent. I just need right now. I just need you.”

He let out a breath. This whole “be the good guy” thing was proving difficult, because he didn’t know what the good-guy thing to do here was. He felt like good guys probably said no to emotional pleas for forget-everything sex.

But it was what she wanted, and Christ, that getup was killing him. So…

He was at a loss.

“I am going to say this once, and only once.” She swallowed, her palm pressing against his bare chest. Warm, soft, small. He could almost forget those hands were capable of ripping a post out of the ground or—as she’d once warned him—castrating a cow.