A Bride for the Texas Cowboy

by Sinclair Jayne

  “August,” she whispered and leaned over him. Was he even breathing? She placed her hand on his chest, pressed a little. Was that a heartbeat? He was so much more muscular and filled out than she remembered.

  She wiggled closer. She should have gotten out of the Jeep. Unlike every other woman on the West Coast, she had never done a yoga class in her life. Stretching across to the passenger seat hurt.

  “Ouch. Are you alive?” she demanded, shaking him.

  “Unfortunately,” he muttered.

  “Look at me.” She pushed his arm off his face, and it flopped down. “Let me see your pupils.”

  “Now there’s a come-on line no one’s heard ever,” August said.

  “I was worried that you were dead, and you’re playing smartass.” She slapped his chest.

  “My ass is not smart, and again, your bedside manner needs a lot of practice.” He winced.

  “Not on you.” She climbed out of the Jeep, noting an older model Honda Accord parked off toward the garage.

  August had said no one lived in the house. Maybe it belonged to one of the ranch hands and they’d left it to take out one of the Gators or ATVs.

  Cat grabbed the groceries and then looked at her backpack and computer bag. Bringing them into the house implied she was staying. Until she got August sorted, she just might be. Although the ranch had bunkhouses and cabins scattered around the property. There should be something for her.

  But August might need help for a day or two.

  Swearing under her breath, she slid the backpack on and added her computer bag. Might as well. She needed a shower and a change of clothes immediately. Wearing pink a second day was two days too many.

  She stalked to the other side of the Jeep and jerked the door open just as August tried to sit up and attempt to unbuckle his seat belt. She did it for him, but she hadn’t counted on gravity or momentum. He tumbled into her arms. Or would have if she had any available.

  Catalina dropped her pack, computer bag and the groceries and grabbed at him. She went down hard, jarring both shoulders as she broke his fall.

  He ended up sprawled half across her lap creatively cursing the entire time.

  “This would be interesting if it didn’t hurt so much,” he commented.

  He was spared a scathing retort because she couldn’t breathe. Nor could she heave him off of her without potentially causing him further injury.

  Was this some sort of cosmic test?

  August’s long, dark lashes feathered along his high cheekbones and then lifted.

  “Like old times,” he whispered, and she couldn’t tell if he was feeling rueful or mocking her.

  “It’s like you planned this.” Her voice was tight, and she had to shut down the unexpected stab of heat and longing that shot low in her belly. There couldn’t be a worse time for her libido to awaken.

  “I would have chosen something softer with less dirt,” he said. “And I would have taken a shower first.”

  “You and me both.”

  “That sounds lovely.” The ocean of blue in his eyes was even more spectacular than she remembered. How the hell had he ever been hers even for a breath of time?

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  A dozen replies ricocheted around her brain, each one more caustic than the last, but she bit her tongue. For all that August had hurt her over the years, he’d also been her first love. Her only love if she were honest, which she tried not to dwell on too much when thinking about August. And he’d been kind. Respectful. A trustworthy friend. Other than his mother, Elizabeta, she hadn’t had a lot of that growing up until she headed off to college.

  And then he’d followed—graduating early, the brainiac. She’d attended University of Oregon and studied environmental science, whereas he had studied chemical engineering at Oregon State only an hour away. When he’d started brewing beer and came up with a business plan, she’d been one of the few who’d encouraged him. And when she’d headed off to UC Davis to complete the enology program, he’d been her cheerleader.

  They’d been friends. Lovers. August had always believed in her.

  Until he hadn’t.

  And she needed to let all the hurt, anger and disappointment go.

  Then she could truly heal and move on.

  This was her chance to prove to herself and to August that the past was the past.

  She was going to get him back on his feet and walk away. Heart whole. No more bitterness.

  She was tough. Texas cowgirl tough long before she’d become a winemaker. She could nail this to the wall.

  She wiggled out from under him while keeping him from falling on his shoulder and his arm in a sling.

  “Even more distracting,” he grit out.

  “Right.” Like he hadn’t been with a million women far sexier and more beautiful than her over the years.

  She levered back into a low squat and looked at him anxiously for signs of further injury. Her gaze glued to one area. He wasn’t exactly lying. August—injured and in pain—was obviously erect. The press against his jeans was hypnotically seductive. And the brief feel she’d had of him, long and thick and hard against her abdomen, made heat and liquid pool wicked and low.

  Her tummy flipped. Her mouth dried. Her heart pounded. And worse, the heat that flared between her thighs seemed like a feral animal. Her body came alive in a way she’d forgotten it could. She felt hungry. Desperate.

  And August watched it all happen.

  Dammit.

  Not fair.

  And totally inappropriate. He could have died yesterday.

  “You could help me out,” he suggested.

  “Wwwwwhat?” she whispered, for a moment thinking he meant she should…

  “Staring is flattering but not helping me get vertical,” he gritted out, “except that one part of me.”

  “I’m not staring.”

  She so totally was.

  “We have a lot to talk about, Cat, and it’s not fair to you to let that get in the way.”

  Catalina shot to her feet. What was wrong with her? She was done with “that,” as he so pointedly called it. Not done with sex necessarily. But definitely done with sex with August. She was done with everything with August, and yet less than an hour in his presence and she was rattled. And lusting after an injured man who could be concussed and not in full control of his faculties was reprehensible.

  She needed a cold shower and…and…some sort of vaccine against August.

  A million miles and a decade likely wouldn’t be enough.

  “Let me help you up.” She stomped the hurt and embarrassment out of her voice. She picked up the bags and then held out her hand, which he grabbed. She tried to not look at the contrast between their skin—his tanned and dark and hers pale—and the differences in the size—his large, hers small.

  She’d always loved their contrasts almost to the point of fascination. Or obsession. Something else she needed to ignore.

  “Lean on me.” She strove to be cool and professional as she slipped one arm low around his hips and then held him up by one of his belt loops.

  “I’m sorry, Cat.”

  “Don’t be.”

  She was tough. She’d make it through getting him settled and then get back to Oregon and refocus on her life. Find a job. Find a place to live.

  “I’m sorry about so much,” he admitted.

  She couldn’t look into all that blue without drowning.

  “What’s done is done,” she said, pretending she was speaking about two different people. “Water under the bridge.”

  Bridges she’d burned.

  She started to lead him toward the front door.

  “We need to go around back,” he said. “The front door doesn’t open.”

  Catalina hesitated. She looked up toward the massive dark green door that had been hand carved, the top inset with leaded stained glass. She’d always loved to stand in the vaulted entryway and let the colors from the glass play across her face and body
.

  “Why?”

  “Axel,” he said as if that explained everything when it explained nothing. “He screwed steel plates or something over the door and told me to do whatever I wanted to the house but to leave the door shut.”

  “Surprised that’s not the first thing you messed with,” she said, keeping her arm around him and gripping the waist of his jeans as she changed direction to lead him along the slate pavers and little bunches of low-growing thyme beside the house. He limped beside her using his cane.

  His laugh was bitter. “You know me well. Jesus, I forgot how strong you are.”

  She loved being strong. But she tagged on the adjective unfeminine. Her mother had lobbed that at her often. Walk slowly. Add a swing to your hips. Smile. Listen. Don’t interrupt. Don’t talk too much. And when you speak, talk softly. No jeans.

  There had been so many rules, and none of them had seemed to make any sense for who she was.

  And then her mother and perfect, beautiful sister, Mari, were gone. No more criticisms. No more anything, really.

  “I feel like such a dumbass. Dragging you away from your job and the wedding and now you’re carrying everything, including me.”

  She nearly told him it didn’t matter. She had nothing going on in Oregon except her orphan vines that, with their low-maintenance care, probably wouldn’t notice or mind if she didn’t return.

  But this fall would be her first harvest with the scattered and abandoned vines. She had time and equipment booked at a co-op winery facility for small producers, so she wasn’t completely directionless. And she wasn’t going to succumb to feeling sorry for herself. She’d get back on her feet. She always did.

  “Almost there,” she said eager to get him in the house as if it offered some sort of magical refuge that would fix them both.

  “I’m so grateful you came.” His low voice rumbled with pain. “I would hate Axel to see me like this.”

  “He’s your brother.”

  “He wouldn’t be limping or let you carry groceries while you hauled his sorry ass into the house.”

  “That’s right,” Catalina said breezily. “Axel is Teflon. I’m sure he never busted anything riding the rodeo.”

  “Not so you’d notice. He came home between rides, climbed on a horse, and did ranch work injured or not.”

  She had to remember she was in Texas again. The men—especially ranch-born cowboys—were a different breed from Oregon winemakers, who weren’t exactly wimps.

  “So, you’re still in a who’s got more testosterone contest with Axel. Marvelous.” She kept her voice light. “I’m sure he’ll let you help with branding with a dislocated shoulder, fractured ribs and whatever’s wrong with your leg. Not to mention the concussion you won’t mention.”

  “Axel wouldn’t let me help with branding if I were one hundred percent.”

  She knew him too well. That was the problem. She could hear the hurt and bitterness. And her heart pinched a little. Not that she had any sort of relationship with her brothers or her sister or her parents. But August had always idolized Axel.

  He’d just manifested it in a bull in a china shop kind of way. And then after their younger brother Aurik died, the family never recovered.

  “August.” She stopped walking and turned to face him. “Do you even want to help with branding? I mean, you were often off at science and robotics camps and spent a few weeks each summer at universities back east in special programs for gifted kids.”

  “Branding’s not the point.”

  “It kinda is. Axel was always ranch through and through. When he went to college, he went local enough so that he could come back on the weekends he wasn’t competing. He worked summers. Anders comes back during his AEBR breaks and works the ranch. You left for college and stayed away.”

  Same as she did.

  “Nothing to come back to.” August ran his fingers through his dark, shaggy hair. “After that IQ test and special schooling program, my parents treated me like some sort of freak. I was encouraged to study and work on STEM projects and complete online classes instead of helping out as much around the ranch like Axel did and then Anders.”

  She shouldn’t.

  Bad idea.

  But the tone that edged his voice drop-kicked her wiser, caution-oriented voice.

  “August,” she said. “You have darn near built an empire with your microbreweries and gastro-pubs. You have two boutique hotels built on historic properties. And now a whiskey brand and a distillery and tasting room and Prohibition-Era-styled bar in Portland’s Pearl District. You’ve accomplished so much in such a short time.”

  How the heck could he not see that?

  “But your roots are ranch, same as mine. Your roots are cowboy. Last Stand and Ghost Hill Ranch are in your blood. Axel’s always been a hard-ass, but you’re his brother. And that means something. Family is family. Axel’s all about family. You just need to let him in.”

  God, she hoped that was true. Axel had never been a fan of hers, but she could hardly blame him. Her father had dragged the Wolf family to court more than a couple of times, and likely still skirted the law. She felt a little sick just thinking about it. She knew her Clemmens ancestors had been shot and hung for cattle rustling. And cheating at cards.

  Dang, her family’s past was like a bad western movie shot in black and white, viewed a few times on Sunday afternoon movie marathons, and best forgotten.

  “You’re his brother,” she reminded him softly.

  She’d always envied August’s family despite the tragedies. The boys had known love from their parents and grandparents. She’d craved what he had. Probably why she’d spent more time helping out in his kitchen and his gardens and his stables than she had in her own.

  And maybe if she could get August to get rid of some of the chip on his shoulder about Axel, the brothers could have some sort of…if not closeness, at least détente. And she could get out of here.

  His intense blue eyes searched hers. What he was looking for?

  “I’ve missed you, Cat,” he whispered, and he reached out and brushed his knuckles lightly along her cheekbone.

  She shivered at the touch, and everything in her body leaned toward him. Panic surged through her.

  “You’re misremembering.” Her voice shook. “We drove each other crazy.”

  With lust.

  “And you felt stifled.” She forced the last word out, her diction precise to hide the hurt.

  “Ahhh, Kitty Cat.” He twisted one finger through one corkscrew curl and touched her hair to his lip. “I was young and dumb and impossibly arrogant.”

  If he expected her to disagree, they’d stand here forever.

  High noon.

  Their weapons, words. And their shared past.

  But didn’t she want to be better than that? Not be mired in the past and bitterness and hurt? Take a different path?

  “But we were always good together. Better together, Cat, than apart.”

  She sucked in a breath, held it, and then searched his expression, guarding her heart as protective as Gollum.

  “Were,” she reminded softly.

  “You sure about that?” His mouth kicked up at one corner and his dimple flashed, and one dark brow rose in challenge.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Prove it,” he whispered.

  But he might as well have hurled the challenge across an open field, and Catalina, who’d never been able to stamp on the brakes until after she hurtled over the edge, grinned back, feeling cocky and dangerous and angry.

  Hell, yeah, she’d prove to him that she was so over him.

  She stood on tiptoes, looped one arm around his neck so she could palm the back of his head and kissed him.

  For a moment, August stiffened and sucked in a startled breath.

  Got you!

  It was not easy to ever get the drop on August Wolf, but Cat had always enjoyed their verbal games and challenges—because they’d always led to bed and hot, oh-so-smok
in’-hot sex. But she didn’t want that now. Time to pull away and to not let him think that pulse she could feel fluttering in her neck had anything to do with him.

  But then his lips moved and hardened against hers, and he leaned into her so she could feel the hard muscles of his chest, his erection and his thighs, and she caught fire as surely as she would have had he doused her with whiskey and lit a match.

  “Cat,” he groaned against her lips as she arched further into him. She gasped. This had not been part of her plan. Not. At. All. His tongue slipped between her lips and slid sensuously against the inside of her bottom lip. He anchored her to him, the fingers of his left hand digging hard into her hip, and she sighed as he took further advantage and deepened the kiss.

  Catalina struggled for sanity—to pull back before she was consumed.

  What was wrong with her? Why was she playing with fire? She knew what would happen if she let August close emotionally or physically. She’d fall for him again. She’d get hurt again.

  Done with him.

  Maybe if she repeated it enough, her body would get on board, but it just kept ignoring the warning her brain screeched even as her body melted against his, nerve endings sparking, shorting, sizzling. She was seconds from hurling herself over the edge into the flames.

  “Cat, damn,” he murmured against her mouth, and the vibration against her lips quivered all the way to her sex.

  She’d promised herself never to go down this road, but just for a second, she wanted to burn, to feel alive, to feel wanted.

  It had been so damn long.

  She’d had a few short—very short—term relationships but nothing close to the intense passion August had always evoked.

  And with August, it was so much more than physical love.

  He’d consumed her.

  And she’d loved it.

  So, just one last kiss and then she’d let reality knock her back on her ass for good this time.

  “Baby,” he breathed, and for a moment the years apart didn’t exist. They hadn’t suffered an unimaginable loss. He hadn’t asked her for extensive advice about launching a vineyard and then hired another crew to run it.