Tough. Taciturn. And a fool for letting her go…
A Wild Ride story.
Wyoming rancher Quinn McKay thought he’d only have to bide time until his levelheaded wife came to her senses and called a halt to this “trial separation”. He never believed the marital rough patch would drag on for a coon’s age.
Libby McKay knew when she married the gruff, laid-back cowboy that he wasn’t prone to blathering about his feelings. But three months have passed and her stubborn-as-a-mule husband is still living by himself in the horse trailer. It seems he’d rather hold onto his pride than hold onto her.
Quinn realizes Libby is determined to move on if he doesn’t loosen his tongue and he’ll lose the only woman he’s ever loved. In a last-ditch effort to keep her in his life, he offers her one weekend of uninterrupted sexual decadence.
Reigniting the passion is easy. The hard part comes after the sheets have cooled and they find out if what remains is strong enough to survive past mistakes.
Warning: Old-fashioned groveling leads to smokin’ hot sexual encounters—steamin’ up the truck windows, rockin’ the horse trailer—proving even an old married dog can learn naughty new tricks.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Strong Silent Type
Copyright © 2009 by Lorelei James
ISBN: 978-1-60504-521-4
Edited by Heidi Moore
Cover by Scott Carpenter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2009
www.samhainpublishing.com
Strong, Silent Type
Lorelei James
Dedication
For all couples who’ve held on through the bumpy spots in marriage…
Chapter One
“Get your goddamn hands off my wife.”
Quinn McKay was in a rage. A red rage. An aneurysm-inducing rage. A going-postal rage.
And the worst part? His wife, his helpmate, his lover, his partner, his…everything—goddammit, Libby was his everything—didn’t give two shits about his foul mood.
Not. Two. Hot. Shits.
Which enraged him further.
“Walk it off, Quinn,” Libby McKay tossed over her shoulder, letting the young buck lead her deeper into the crowd on the dance floor. The last thing Quinn saw was the sassy head shake of her sassy new hairdo.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him. See how goddamn happy his hands are after I break ’em off at the wrists.”
“Jesus, Q, will you sit the hell down? People are starin’ at you.”
“Let ’em look.”
His brother Ben hissed, “Screw that. Get your dumb ass back to the table or I’m leavin’ and you can hoof it home.”
“Be worth it to punch that sonuvabitch in the face.”
“I ain’t bailin’ you outta jail neither.”
Quinn scowled, reluctantly following Ben back to the booth. He drained his cup of beer and poured another from the pitcher. Mostly foam. Didn’t it just figure even the beer wasn’t cooperating with him tonight?
“You gotta stop doin’ this, man.”
“Doin’ what? Drinkin’?”
“No.”
“Oh, you mean quit comin’ to Ziggy’s to watch my wife dance with every good-for-nuthin’ loser in this place?”
“Bingo.”
“Fuck that.” Quinn slammed his empty cup down. “It’s a free country. I live in this goddamned county. I got just as much right to be here as she does.”
Ben jerked the pitcher away before Quinn dispensed a refill. “It’s been three months since you and Libby separated, Q. Face it. Maybe it’s time you moved on. Looks like she has.”
“Wrong. If Libby is so all fired up to ‘move on’ then why the hell hasn’t she hired a lawyer and filed for divorce?”
“Probably waitin’ ’til school gets out and she has more time.”
His answer resembled a growl.
“I don’t know why you’re so surprised.” Ben poured himself a cup of foam. “You guys’ve been headed down this road for a while.”
“The hell we have.”
“You tellin’ me you were just rollin’ along, mindin’ your own business and wham! Her demand of ‘I want a trial separation’ came from left field?”
Quinn hated—hated—talking about this kind of touchy feely crap with anyone. “All married couples hit rough patches. I thought it’d blow over. It always has before.”
“Before?” Ben choked on his beer. “This ain’t the first time?”
“It’s the first time she’s kicked me outta my own damn house.” Three fucking months he’d been living in tin, eating out of tin and sleeping alone in absolute misery.
“So you been goin’ to counseling and shit?”
“Nope.”
“Why not? Did she ask you to?”
Sort of. Quinn knew he and Ben weren’t talking about the same type of professional help Libby had suggested. He hedged. “Yeah.”
“What’d ya say?”
“No.”
“Jesus. You are one stubborn sonuvabitch. I can see why Libby is tired of it and booted your ass.”
Stubborn sonuvabitch. A familiar phrase. His normally sweet-tongued wife had hurled those words at him as she’d hurled a suitcase full of his dirty clothes on the front porch. “Fuckin’ great. I’m glad you’re takin’ her side, bro.”
“Quinn, man, no offense, but you suck as a husband.”
Embarrassment flared. Libby’d said that much too. “How the hell do you know? You’ve been married what, zero times?”
“Don’t mean I can’t see when something ain’t workin’,” Ben countered. “Obviously your marriage ain’t doin’ so hot. I’d be more’n happy to offer you red-hot tips to fire it back up.”
“Tips from the guy whose last relationship barely passed the one month mark? This oughta be interestin’.”
“No skin off my nose if you’re too proud to accept help. But even as a single guy, I’m aware bein’ a good husband is more than bein’ a good provider.”
Yep. Quinn’s spouse had also tossed that phrase at him. But the irony was that street ran both ways. Libby ought to realize there was more to being a good wife than having supper on the table, maintaining a spotless house, and cramming his dresser drawers with clean clothes. Not that he’d say that to her, knowing how much it’d hurt her feelings. Why hadn’t Libby realized how deeply it’d cut him when she’d carelessly flung those same words in his face? He sighed. “Go ahead, Ben, wow me with your golden marriage tips.”
“First of all, you have to stop takin’ Libby for granted.”
“I’ve never taken her for granted. Never.”
“Fine then. You gotta show her how much she matters to you. You gotta…woo her.”
“Woo her?” Baffled, Quinn stared at his brother. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“Act like you did when you were dating. Bring her flowers, wine and dine her with candlelit dinners, take her to the movies. Sp
end time just makin’ out and tryin’ to cop a feel in the truck.”
Quinn leaned forward. “I’m reminding you I’ve been with Libby for fourteen years. We started dating when we were sixteen. I married her the month after she graduated from college. We’ve been man and wife for nine years. So I’m a little rusty on my wooin’ skills.”
“Then it’s past time to brush up on ’em, Q. Because if you don’t use ’em on her, you’re gonna need to use ’em on someone else.”
Shame burned and he dropped his gaze to the table. “Then I’m doomed. I never done any of that romantic crap with her.” Or any other woman. Libby was the first girl he’d dated. The first and only woman he’d had sex with. The only woman he’d ever wanted. The only woman he’d ever loved.
And I’m about to lose her.
“Never?” Ben prompted.
Quinn shook his head. “Libby’s always been practical. That’s one of the reasons I fell for her. She didn’t need any of the superficial junk other girls did. She didn’t expect me to be a rodeo star or go to trade school. She knew I’d never leave here because ranchin’ is in my blood. She was fine with that. She wanted that life…or so I thought.”
Things—no, Libby had changed in the last year. It had started out with small modifications. New furniture, repainting a room or two, hanging new draperies, trying out new recipes from faraway places. Then she’d started dropping hints about them doing “couple” activities.
When Libby had returned to her job as the school librarian after summer hiatus, she went on a diet and lost twenty-five pounds. He’d always loved her curvy body, but she seemed happier thinner. She’d tossed out her old duds and bought new ones. Gone were the long denim skirts, loose shirts, bulky sweaters, baggy sweats and oversized T-shirts she’d worn for years. Ditto for neutral colors.
No, Libby—his Libby—began wearing tight, low-cut jeans. Clingy blouses that accentuated her ample chest. Short skirts in vivid colors. Just as he was wrapping his head around those changes, she’d trotted off to Denver for a professional makeover. She’d chopped her long, honey-brown hair into a short, trendy cut and added blondish-red highlights. She’d never worn much makeup, so it’d shocked Quinn to see her freckles covered, her lips glossy red and black eyeliner emphasizing her blue eyes.
At that point he’d begun to worry, wondering if she’d met a man she was trying to impress.
When Libby asked him how he liked the “new” her, Quinn replied honestly: He’d liked the old her just fine.
A day later he was living in the horse trailer.
“Dammit. You aren’t even listenin’ to me, are you?” Ben demanded.
Quinn ignored the taunt and focused on Libby sashaying off the dance floor. The smile she allotted her dance partner didn’t reach her eyes like it did whenever she danced with him. Her shoulders were bunched up to her ears. Her normally graceful body movements were forced. Unnatural. She looked as if she were merely going through the motions.
Just like him.
The truth hit Quinn as viciously as a horse hoof to the head. He’d gone about dealing with this misstep in their marriage the wrong way, expecting Libby to come to him. He had to fix it, to man up, take the bull by the horns, grab the tiger by the tail, climb on the horse that threw him, reclaim what was rightfully his. Clichéd phrases, but truisms to lead him in the right direction—the only direction—straight back to her.
“Quinn? You okay?”
“Nah. I ain’t been right since she kicked me out, Ben. Dammit. I miss her something fierce.”
Ben froze. “Ah shit, Q, you ain’t gonna start with that, I love you man, kinda drunk talk, are you?”
“Hell no.” Quinn shoved the pitcher aside and propped his elbows on the table. “But I have been listenin’ to you yammer on, and you’re exactly right. I’ve gotta do something. And you’re gonna help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“Help me come up with a plan to win my wife back.”
Chapter Two
“Second shelf on the bottom row.”
The seven-year-old girl shook her head, bouncing her blonde corkscrew pigtails. “Huh-uh. I looked.”
“Look again.”
“But you’re the librarian. You always help me.”
“This time is different, sweetie, because your teacher wants you to find the book. It’ll improve your alphabetizing skills.” Libby resisted her impulse to smooth the girl’s puckered brow.
“I wish you were my teacher, Mrs. McKay,” she announced before flouncing away.
I wish I had a little girl just like you.
Libby briefly squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t go there. She had enough issues and failures to deal with, thank you very much, starting with the demise of her marriage to Quinn McKay.
Damn stubborn man. What would spur him into action? To get across this wasn’t a game? This was their life hanging in the balance.
Quinn hadn’t balked at her demand of a trial separation. He’d taken it in stride and blithely continued his day-to-day life on the ranch, content to hole up in the horse trailer until she “came to her senses”.
Three months had gone by and they were at an impasse.
It didn’t help Libby hadn’t spoken directly to her husband in that time frame. Her involvement with their ranching operation made their lack of daily communication a real dilemma. Being the efficient sort, she’d created a schedule for ranch business and bill paying, and for personal issues, such as when Quinn could use the shower and the washer and dryer in the house.
The system worked, but it forced them to leave each other notes. His were terse and to the point. Hers were polite and filled with detailed explanations. Which pretty much summed up their marriage in the last year or so.
But Libby still loved Quinn. She missed him like crazy. Yet after last night, she questioned whether love was enough. Why wouldn’t he fight for her? For them? Why was it solely up to her to enact the changes they both so desperately needed?
If you’re so eager for change, why haven’t you signed the legal complaint paperwork the attorney gave you that’s been in your desk for a month?
Good question.
But at least she’d made an effort to test her wings and gauge if walking away from him for good was a possibility. Bored and lonely, Libby had started hanging out with her single female coworkers at Ziggy’s, a bar which catered to a younger crowd than the other honky-tonks in the area. Getting hit on by eager, hot cowboys did wonders for her self-esteem, even when she’d only flirted, danced and accepted the occasional free drink.
Then Quinn began showing up. He’d hunker down in a booth, drinking beer, sometimes alone, sometimes with his brother. Quinn never approached her. He just watched her.
Until last night.
Quinn’s clipped, “Get your goddamn hands off my wife,” had instilled a tiny seed of hope. Libby secretly wished for Quinn the Barbarian to hoist her over his shoulder and cart her out of the bar. She fantasized her he-man would be in such a lust-filled state to have her, he’d fuck her against his dirty pickup, not caring who might see him staking his claim.
Afterward, he’d race them home and make mad, passionate love to her for days on end. In their bed. On the kitchen table. In the shower. Up against the corral. All the while confessing his undying love for her. Profess he’d been a fool. He’d do anything to keep her and guarantee her happiness for the rest of their lives.
That hadn’t happened. Libby had to face reality—it probably never would. Last night Quinn had simply muttered and walked away. Given up. Dashing her idiotic, girlish romantic dreams of reconciliation.
Tears fell as she reached for the file folder in the back of the drawer. She pulled out the sheaf of legal papers titled Complaint. Libby scrawled her name on the bottom line, dated it and crammed the whole works in a manila envelope.
The rest of Mrs. Rich’s rambunctious second-grade class barreled into the library. Libby hastily set the envelope on her desk and put the whole thing out
of her mind.
***
A sage-scented breeze stirred Libby’s hair as she exited the school hours later. Exhausted, she juggled a bag of books and her car keys, so she didn’t notice the man leaning against her car until the tips of his boots were within view.
Libby raised her chin. Her heart whomped when her gaze caught familiar blue eyes.
Quinn.
Even after fourteen years together, just seeing him set her pulse racing. Quinn was the stereotypical Wyoming rancher, more rugged looking than classically handsome. He’d maintained the same stocky build as in his younger years, although it appeared he’d dropped weight since being forced to cook his own meals. But it looked good on him. Everything looked good on him.
His face was smoothly shaven. The fresh scent of his aftershave, mixed with the aroma of his sun-warmed skin, drifted toward her, swamping her with longing.
Damn him.
To top it off, Quinn had worn her favorite shirt, the one she’d bought him for Christmas, navy blue with pearl-snap buttons and white stitching around the pocket flaps. The cut of the material showcased his wide shoulders and broad chest. The sleeves hugged his muscled biceps, every bulge earned the hard way from manual labor required to run a ranch. The dark fabric emphasized his coloring, his blackish-brown hair, the long, thick, sooty lashes surrounding his mesmerizing blue eyes.
Those intense eyes locked onto hers. Quinn gave her the unsure smile she hadn’t seen in ages. Her heart thumped harder.
“Hey, Libby. You, ah, look good. Real good.”
“Thanks. What’re you doing here?” A panicked thought crossed her mind. “Did someone die?”
“No.” He paused. Frowned. Seemed highly flustered. “It’s sorta sad you’d think that’s what it’d take to get me to come around.”
Libby shrugged. “You haven’t come around.”
“True enough. But last time I checked, the roads run both ways, darlin’ wife.”
She notched her chin higher. “What do you want?”
Strong, Silent Type_A Wild Ride story Page 1
