Sweet on You (Sweet on a Cowboy)

by Drake, Laura

  He couldn’t handle the uncertainty of a future with her. A lot could happen in eighteen months. Not to him, or how he felt about her. To Katya. How would she feel at the end of her tour?

  He drew a shaky breath, realizing he had one more forgotten card—the one up his sleeve—the ultimatum. He wasn’t proud to be using it, but he was fresh out of pride.

  Besides, it was the truth.

  “Look, I’m just a broken-down old bull rider. I don’t know much. But one thing a bull rider can’t avoid knowing are limits. I know mine. What you’re asking is past them.” He dug down, to try to find something hard inside himself, to anchor himself to… to keep from unsnapping the frigging seat belt and getting on his knees to beg. “You’re asking me to wait. It doesn’t matter how bad I want to. I can’t.”

  Katya turned to the window to watch the barren landscape pass under the plane. Something about looking out, knowing there was a world outside this tube calmed the claustrophobia. But that’s all it calmed.

  He wants to marry you! A small flame of joy started in her core before reality smothered it like a candle flame, to a wisp of smoke. That was just the pretty dream she’d dreamed the past two weeks. That was for other people; ones who didn’t carry dead friends on their backs.

  Coward that she was, she couldn’t stand to see Cam’s pain. It didn’t matter though; when she closed her eyes, she still saw it burned on the backs of her eyelids. Cam, his blue eyes shiny with anguish, features haggard, looking more his father’s age than his own.

  This was her fault.

  Carrie had laid out plainly what this visit really meant to Cam. She’d even warned Katya what would happen. She should have marched out to that field, right then, and told him.

  That was only one of her sins.

  Yesterday, she’d actually planned their house with him on that hill. Shame burned like acid, etching deeper, until she squirmed to get away from the knowing. Knowing she loved him. Knowing it for pure selfishness. It had made her feel better at the time, but now it was making him feel worse.

  And subconscious ignorance was no excuse.

  Tucking her hair behind her ear as a diversion, she ran her fingers under her eyes. It would hurt Cam more in the long run if she stayed and ruined the beautiful thing they’d built together with her past. Her guilt. Her sin.

  What is wrong with you? Why can’t you put Kandahar behind you?

  Cam was right. Carol and Murphy would both want her to be happy.

  So why did that make her want to give up living entirely?

  Cam couldn’t wait for her. She didn’t blame him for that. The best she could hope for the next eighteen months was to help some soldiers, and maybe carry out emotional burial duty.

  No joy, nothing to look forward to. Maybe she’d get lucky and not come back.

  The pitch of the engines changed as the pilot began his approach. She sat up and forced her eyes ahead. All she could do to make it easier for Cam to walk away was to hide her devastation. She took a deep breath and held on to her pain, her remaining strength, and her dog tags.

  CHAPTER

  29

  They’d parted ways at the car rental counter. Cam had halfheartedly offered to drive her to the hotel, but she’d let them both off the hook by renting her own car. Katya paced her luxurious room on the strip, unable to sit still in spite of two cups of calming tea.

  The last event of the regular season seemed a lifetime ago. She was having a hard time remembering the riders’ faces; imagining walking back into a treatment room full of cowboys and Cam. Buster had already called to verify they’d be training in the morning, so it was time to get her head back in the game.

  Which, given her trajectory in life, involved gut-wrenching. She got out the wrench, lifted her phone from her breast pocket, and dialed Dr. Heinz’s number.

  “Katya. I’ve been thinking about you. How was your vacation?”

  She dropped onto the bed and winced. “Remember that program? ‘The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat’? It was like that.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She spilled her guts, filling him in on the past two weeks, laying out the facts, making no excuses.

  He was quiet for a few moments. “I know we’ve spoken about this before. Tell me again. Why is it your fault that Murphy is dead?”

  She leapt to her feet. “Jesus, doc. I’m talking about the present, not the past.”

  “Humor me.”

  She sighed, then recited, “I saw the kid come around the corner of a building. He was bleeding. Something about him bothered me. I realized he was afraid. I unslung my gun. Murphy pushed past me. I grabbed for him. I missed. He died.”

  “How was that your fault?” His pushy tone pricked her wounds like a dirty knife slicing a scab. “You didn’t have a bomb. You tried to pull him back.”

  “And I failed. What’s so hard to understand here?”

  “Oh, I see. You must be God.” His deep, patient voice ground gravel in the wound.

  She resumed pacing. “Of course I’m not.” How many times did they have to go over the same tired shit? “I may have complexes, but that’s not one of them. Or maybe it is. You’re the one with all the diplomas. You tell me.”

  Deep inhale. “Well, if you didn’t have the bomb and you are not God, then why is Murphy’s death your fault?”

  The bottle of pissed-off she’d kept a lid on all afternoon exploded, the shards shredding her tired, misused heart. “I could have saved him! Don’t you see, you overeducated, sanctimonious ass? He was my partner. It was my job to protect him. I didn’t. And because I didn’t, he’s dead.”

  “Okay, then what about Carol? How was that your fault, when you weren’t even in the same hemisphere at the time?”

  He wasn’t missing any buttons today. “Not directly. If I’d have been there…”

  “She still would have died.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose to keep the jackhammer inside her head from breaking through. “I should have caught up to Murphy.”

  “And you would have died too.”

  She was so tired; tired of trying, screwing up, and trying again. “Maybe that’s what was supposed to happen.”

  But under that, deep in the bottom of her mind where light couldn’t penetrate, was fear. Helpless, paralyzing, curled-in-a-ball-blubbering fear. Every screwup took her down farther into that hellhole. She wondered when she’d reach the place where she wouldn’t have the energy to try again.

  “Listen to me a moment, Lieutenant. I don’t want you to say anything now. Just consider what I’ve said when we hang up.” She heard his chair creak. “The hardest part of survivor’s guilt to move past is an unconscious self-sabotage. The survivor feels they don’t have the right to success, happiness, or even life, because the ones who died can no longer experience those things.”

  She dropped on the bed once more, too tired to even be irritated. “Trace, Cam, and now you. Are you trying to convince me not to go back, too?”

  “I told you before. My job isn’t to get you back to the army. It’s to get you back to the living.”

  Cam paid the man and stepped out of the cab in the almost empty parking lot. The dome of the Thomas and Mack Center blocked the rising sun. A familiar zing of excitement shot through him. However the next five days turned out, after them he’d never again enter an arena as a bull rider. Wanting to savor the feeling, he took his time strolling toward the building.

  Sure, there were some things he wouldn’t miss: the buckle bunnies, the cameras, the interviews. But the rest—damn, he’d had fun. He’d miss the challenge, pitting his strength and skill against a ton of pissed-off bovine. He’d miss the men. They’d shared the road, the danger, the friendship. Outsiders thought bull riders were crazy. Well, maybe they were, but they understood each other. He wouldn’t be traveling with them next year, but bonds forged like that were strong.

  He’d made a promise to himself this morning. This week he wasn’t going to look a
head. There’d be time enough next week to sort out his future. This week, he was going to savor his swan song. That’s why he’d shown up so early.

  He took the steps to the rider’s entrance slow, favoring his knee. It was giving him fits again. Today he felt every bad wreck he’d ever had. Was his body missing that tea? Or the Gypsy woman who made it for him?

  He may have banished the future from his thoughts, but not Katya. Utter fail.

  You’d better learn fast, Hoss. She’s in the wind at the end of the week.

  That plane ride still stung like a whip’s lash. He knew that she had no more control over what she felt, or what she had to do, than he did. Still, he was bitter. Not at her, exactly, but—Why couldn’t she just put it down? Her being responsible for her friends’ deaths didn’t even make logical sense. They were dead. Would saving more lives make up for those who were lost? He’d never been a soldier, but even he knew better than that. Would she even be able to quit at the end of her stint? Maybe she’d re-up, be career army, working on an impossible task like that guy in mythology, pushing a boulder up the hill, only to have it roll back down.

  And if he was waiting at the bottom, that boulder would flatten him. He had to move on. Somehow.

  The uselessness of it scoured a hollow place in him. Such a waste to snuff out a beautiful future. A beautiful life. For what?

  Not your problem. She’s leaving. And if you’re not careful, your heart will be with her, packed in her duffel.

  Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t fix things for her. He had to back away.

  Had to.

  They checked his rider’s badge at the door, and wished him luck. Instead of walking to the locker room, he took the twisting, behind-the-scenes corridors to the arena floor. He’d come early today, to steep himself in the atmosphere. Besides, he wanted to check the dirt. If it was good, the bulls had a solid footing, giving them an advantage. If it was bad, they could slip, fall, and splatter you.

  He passed a few maintenance people in the corridor, though the arena sat waiting, empty.

  Except for Buster and Katya. Buster stretched his bad arm in front of him.

  Katya wore tight dirt-swiped jeans, boots, and a camouflage T-shirt proclaiming “Army Strong” across the front. She looked strong. She looked like she had it together. She looked so damned beautiful it made his heart stutter.

  Neither seemed aware of him when he slipped into a seat on the bottommost row.

  “You’ve been working hard over the break. That’s much better than before.”

  He dropped his arm. “Yeah, a bit.”

  “Have you been getting on practice bulls, using your other hand?”

  He froze for an instant. “Yeah.” He didn’t sound sure.

  Katya’s head came up. “What is it?”

  He lifted the hem of his sleeveless T-shirt, and used it to wipe his forehead. His hand shook. “I’m thinking I shouldn’t ride.”

  “Why?” Katya stepped to him, and ran her hand under the brace on his shoulder. “Does that hurt?”

  “No.”

  She slid her hand to the front, bracing her palm against his back. “Does that?”

  “No. The brace works great.” He rubbed the back of his freckled neck.

  She dropped her hands. “Then what is it? You’re in the best shape we can get you into, given your injury. If you really can ride with your left hand, there’s no reason you shouldn’t.”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking maybe I should take the doc’s advice and sit this one out.”

  She looked like she was trying to process data that made no sense. “I don’t understand. You told me you wanted to win Rookie of the Year.”

  He ran the edge of one shoe on the other to scrape off dirt. “I know. But now, I don’t know. I’m just—”

  “Scared,” Cam said.

  Both heads jerked up.

  “It’s just us, kid. You might as well say it out loud.” He stood, eased himself over the boards, and dropped into the arena. He forgot and landed on both feet. The knee ground, bone on bone. Katya winced for him. When he could move again, he hobbled over to them. “You’ve been training him?”

  “Well, somebody had to help him.” She thrust out her jaw. “And don’t you dare start in on him, either. He knows better than anyone whether he should ride or not.”

  “If his problem were physical, I’d agree.” He looked the kid over. Buster couldn’t meet his eye. “Say it.”

  Buster’s face went red, his lips pursing like a toddler fixing to throw a tantrum.

  “You leave him alone.” She tossed hair over her shoulder, then caught Buster’s elbow. “Come on, we’ll do some stretches to cool you down.”

  “You can’t save a man from facing himself.”

  Buster shrugged off Katya’s hand and stared him down. “Okay. I’m afraid. You happy? You can tell the whole locker room about it.”

  “Do you think I’d be telling those men something they don’t know? Something they don’t deal with every weekend?” He shook his head. “This is your first bad injury, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve been in wrecks before.”

  “You couldn’t have gotten where you are if you hadn’t. This is your first potential season-ending injury.” He didn’t wait for the answer he already knew. “I’ve watched you ride. You have amazing athletic ability. You have youth, strength, and a love of the sport.” He took a step closer to where Buster stood with his fists clenched. “But the question is do you have the balls?”

  “That’s enough, dammit.” Katya stepped between them.

  He glanced past her. “No, it’s not. You’re not a bull rider, you don’t know. After a bad wreck, you have to heal more than your body. The recovery time is to heal your brain to get over the fear, too.

  “Course, you know you can get hurt bad every time you straddle a bull. But you lock the fear in a strongbox in your mind, and you go to work. Each ride reinforces the idea that you’re invincible. That’s good, because it gives you confidence.”

  He could see the kid’s hackles lay down.

  “Then the inevitable happens and you get hurt… bad. You have to get back on a bull, remembering what happened last time. You have to stand nose-to-nose with what you’ve managed to lock away. You can die.”

  He felt the heat of Katya’s intense regard, but he stayed focused on the kid.

  “No one would question it if you skipped the finals. In fact, a smart man probably would.” He glanced to the empty chutes across the arena, already feeling the ache of missing bull riding. “You only have to decide one thing. You have to ask that guy in the mirror, even knowing you can die, do you love it enough to do it anyway?” He put his hands in his pockets. “Because if walking away won’t hurt you more than getting stomped, you’re never going to be a champion.”

  Katya watched Cam hobble away, knowing that the worst of his pain wasn’t in his knee. He’d loved riding enough to die for it. And after this week, he’d never do it again. He was giving up more than his livelihood. He was giving up the time of his life.

  She’d wanted to know how these men had the courage to risk everything to ride bulls, thinking maybe she could face down her own fears, if only she understood. Well, Cam had just laid it out, simple and plain. She was going to need more than understanding.

  Her feet took a step to follow him, then she made herself stop. Cam was right about something else. No one could help her with this decision. She wanted Cam. Even if she could turn her back on the army, she wouldn’t have anything to offer a strong man if she wasn’t equally strong. She’d end up a Candi clone, tagging along, hand in his back pocket, wanting something from him he couldn’t give, didn’t know how to give, because it just wasn’t in him.

  A golden sliver of hope sliced through the thundercloud over her head.

  No one could give her courage if she didn’t have it inside herself. The bomb had blown that up, along with her healing. Well, today she had out gate duty, another chance to search for c
ourage and her healing.

  Cam’s speech had been for Buster, but he’d inadvertently given her something. Something she hadn’t known was possible. He made her want to try.

  He really would make an inspiring coach. I hope he will.

  She made herself turn to Buster. His eyes followed Cam, his choice showing clear in the steel of his eyes, his jaw. Apparently she wasn’t the only one inspired by the beat-up hunk of a rider.

  She smiled. “Come on, cowboy. If you’re getting on a bull in a couple of hours, you’re going to need a massage.”

  Two hours later, Cam flashed his badge to the attendant at the locker room door and was granted admittance. He’d spent the past two hours sitting at a table surrounded by his sponsor’s logos, signing autographs and having his photo taken with fans waiting in a line that snaked down the hallway, disrupting the flow of traffic in the corridor.

  Normally this was a chore, but today had been different.

  The smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and livestock combined with the familiar scent of his home away from home. The babble of the fans, shouts, and laughter overrode the raucous country music blaring from speakers in the curved hallway circumnavigating the arena. The fans’ enthusiasm and the afternoon’s potential built until the air fairly crackled.

  His normally jaded attitude fell away and he felt like a rookie again, in awe of the big leagues. He was proud to be here. His cheek muscles ached from smiling. Funny that it took the end of his career to make him appreciate it.

  As he strode into the busy locker room, the atmosphere smacked him in the face—excitement like in the hall upstairs, only amped with testosterone. The guys stood dressing or prepping their equipment, almost shouting with frenetic tension.

  “Hey, Buster, you really going to get on a bull today?” Jody Hancock worked rosin into his rope.