How to Kiss a Cowboy

by Joanne Kennedy

  “Shoot,” Brady said. “That would take all the fun out of it.”

  He knew he’d been lucky when old Bill Decker plucked him and two other boys from a group home for foster kids and gave them a home on his ranch, teaching them to rope and ride. Now that Bill was gone, they all lived on the ranch, except for Brady’s oldest brother, who ran a spread up north of Wynott. They shared expenses, so they didn’t have much to worry about.

  He and Suze slowed their steps as they crossed the parking lot and left the noise of the beer tent behind them. They were alone, and it was getting dark. Brady stopped and took her hand, and their eyes met.

  “You must get tired, trying so hard all the time,” he said. “Don’t you ever want something more? Something better?”

  She looked at him for a long time, the yearning in her face so strong it made him want to smooth her hair, to comfort her somehow. To kiss her.

  “Don’t I.” She said it in a whisper so soft and sad it made his heart ache. “Don’t I ever.”

  * * *

  Suze was surprised to feel the sting of rising tears in response to Brady’s question. She loved her life. Granted, she had problems and pressures, but everybody did.

  She didn’t want anything more than what she had—two national barrel-racing championships and a successful season building toward a three-peat. She had a great horse, the skill to ride him right, and a stable to keep him in. What else did a girl need?

  Brady Caine.

  No. He was the last thing she needed. He was a distraction.

  “I don’t need anything else. I love what I do.” She said it fiercely, so he’d know she meant it. “I love racing like nothing else. When Speedo’s prancing in the alleyway and we’re waiting for the start, I can hardly hold him back. All that power under the saddle, you know? I can feel the tension in him, how much he wants to run. And then I nudge his flanks, and bang.” She clapped her hands, pointing one up toward the sky as if she was tracing the course of a rocket. “It’s like being shot from a gun.”

  “But you must have to think about strategy and technique, right? Once you hit the barrels, you have to think through your turns.”

  “Not really.” She felt like she was bragging, but hey, he’d asked. “It’s muscle memory at this point.”

  “I guess it would be. How many times have you ridden that pattern?”

  “Too many to count.”

  No wonder Brady got any woman he wanted. Forget the dimples and the soulful brown eyes, the hard, sinewy cowboy muscles, and the wild bronc-riding courage. He listened—really listened—to what she had to say.

  “What are you thinking about when you’re out there?” he asked.

  “I’m not really sure.” To her relief, her thoughts about Brady shut down once she was focused on racing again. “Once we cross the line, Speedo and I are like water running, smooth and fast.” She spread her hand and made it tilt and turn. “The path between the barrels is a riverbed, and we’re just flowing.”

  He smiled. “Sometimes I get a bronc like that. The crowd sees a fight, but if you ride ’em right, it’s more like a dance.” He laughed. “The bronc definitely leads, though. It’s up to me to just counter his moves, move with him. Most times it ends up being sloppy and messed up, even when I make it to the buzzer, but once in a while, it’s like you said. Water flowing.”

  She glanced at him, surprised he understood so well. Brady never seemed to take anything seriously, and she had to admit he was right—a lot of his rides were a little on the sloppy side. He had courage to burn, but his technique could use some improvement.

  “Your mom raced too, right?”

  “Sure did.” Suze was surprised he had to ask. Not only had her mother had been a National Finals champion, she’d also been one of the most beautiful and charismatic cowgirls in rodeo. Everybody knew who Ellen Carlyle was. “She won Frontier Days twice,” Suze continued. “And Pendleton, and the Calgary Stampede. Plus she was a national champion.”

  “Impressive. You were a champion too. And you won Fort Worth twice, and Amarillo. And how many times did you win Prescott?”

  She smiled. “Three times. But I never won Frontier Days.”

  He was looking at her curiously, and she realized she might have revealed too much.

  “You know exactly which rodeos she won that you didn’t? That seems like a weird way to think about things.”

  “Yeah, well, tell my dad that.”

  “He does that? Compares you to her?”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “She was a tough act to follow.”

  She tossed her hair like it didn’t matter. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that her braid lashed out and smacked him on the cheek like a bullwhip.

  He laughed, and she would have gladly given money to hold on to that picture forever. The way he tossed his head back, the way his eyes lit up and his dimples flickered to life—there was something wild about him. Something joyous.

  Dang it, she had it bad. Brady just seemed so—real. The guy might be a player, but at least he didn’t pretend to be anything else. He probably couldn’t. He was honest to the core, even if that core was pretty badly flawed in some ways.

  Deep down, Brady was a good guy.

  That loud, annoying alarm bell was blaring in her mind again.

  Stupid thought alert. Warning. Warning.

  Good guys didn’t make it with a different woman every night, and walk away the next morning with a wave and a smile. Good guys didn’t break hearts from Fort Worth to Pendleton. Good guys weren’t players, honest or not. Brady might think he was just having fun, but a lot of the women he bedded were hurt by his casual rejection.

  They’d left the parking lot behind and were traipsing through a miniature model of a frontier town where various vendors hawked their wares during the rodeo. The little shacks representing saloons and general stores had closed up hours ago, and the wooden boardwalk sounded hollow under their boots. The silence and shadows surrounding them made her feel like they were walking through a ghost town.

  “I always wondered why barrel racing wasn’t more popular,” Brady mused. “It’s exciting, it’s easy to understand, and honestly, it’s amazing how pretty all you girls are. There’s nothing sexier than a woman on horseback, you know, with her hair flying and all. And for some weird reason, it’s like all the top contenders in your sport happen to be gorgeous.”

  She felt her face warming with embarrassment. She knew she was no great beauty—nothing like her mother or the other girls on the circuit. She never seemed to fit in with them, partly because she didn’t care about clothes or makeup. Unless they were talking about racing, she was always left out.

  Brady cast her a sidelong glance. “You don’t know it, do you?”

  She must have missed something. “Know what?”

  “You’re just as pretty as they are. Prettier,” he said. “You look just like your mom.”

  Suze hated it when people said that. She knew it wasn’t true, because she had the world’s greatest expert on Ellen Carlyle right at home—her father. He was always ready to point out how Suze came up short in comparison to her mother.

  “My nose is bigger,” she said. “And my mouth is…never mind.”

  She flushed. Why was she talking to Brady about this stuff? Or any man, for that matter? He flashed her a puzzled look and, to her relief, let the subject drop.

  They’d finally come to the Cowboy Corral, where contestants parked their rigs during the rodeo. Living quarters ranged from deluxe fifth wheels hauled by huge diesel pickups, to battered ranch trucks with a few cowboy bedrolls laid out in back. Suze had a Dodge Ram Super Cab and a Featherlite trailer that combined deluxe living quarters with a tack room, plus stalls for two horses. It was a gift from a sponsor, and sported a larger-than-life photo of her and Speedo circling a barrel, with dirt flying up from Speedo’
s hooves.

  As usual, she’d pulled out the frame that supported a little awning to create a front porch, but instead of unrolling the canvas, she’d strung chili pepper lights along the edge. They were glowing red, welcoming her home.

  Most of her temporary neighbors were back from the rodeo. Light spilled from trailer doorways, and cowboys sat on tailgates drinking beer, re-riding the day’s broncs and re-roping the calves that got away. The faint hum of conversation blended with the usual insect chorus to create a backdrop of sound that was as familiar as her own backyard.

  Stepping onto the lowest of the metal steps that led to her front door, she turned to say good-bye to Brady and thank him for walking her home. But her words stuck in her throat when those brown eyes met hers. The step had brought her face to his level, and he was close enough to kiss.

  He rested one hand on the siding. The screen door at her back opened outward, and the frame of the awning blocked any other escape route. She was trapped.

  Not that she wanted to go anywhere. Those brown eyes did something to her. She felt seen, just as she’d felt heard when they talked. If Brady focused as hard on his sport as he was focused on her right now, he’d ride every bronc to a standstill.

  “You’re every bit as beautiful as your mother. Only stronger. Like an Amazon.” He touched her temple again, but this time he let his fingers trail down the side of her face. “Your nose makes your face look stronger. And your mouth…” He traced a fingertip along the seam of her mouth, and she resisted the urge to flick her tongue out and taste. “Trust me, there’s nothing wrong with your mouth. Your lips…”

  The chili pepper lights warmed his skin and made his eyes shine. It took her a minute to realize he was going to kiss her. She leaned toward him, mesmerized and so ready, so very ready for that kiss.

  Then she fell off the step.

  She fell into him, and awkward as it was, it was romantic too, because he caught her and she slid slowly down his body to the ground. The hard planes of his body answered her curves, and she caught his scent—leather, sage, and the familiar combination of dust and sweat that spelled cowboy.

  And then he kissed her, and it was the only thing she’d ever felt that was better than riding a fast horse.

  Chapter 3

  Suze knew this kiss didn’t mean anything to Brady. He’d dallied with most of the other barrel racers, and there was no reason she should be special to him, no matter what sweet nothings he whispered. But after a while, the warnings in her head faded away, because he knew exactly, precisely how she wanted to be kissed.

  His lips slid over hers slowly at first, softly, in a sort of experimental way. Her knees turned to jelly, but then a plume of warmth rose inside her and she felt suddenly strong. Lacing her arms around his neck, she kissed him back and the night noises that surrounded them faded away.

  She’d wanted this kiss since the day she’d first seen Brady swaggering down the halls of Grigsby High. He and his foster brothers were from the group home in Wynott. It was the home where the bad kids lived—or so said the school gossips. Brady Caine, Ridge Cooper, and Shane Lockhart walked like men, not boys, and they could send a girl stumbling through a haze of hormones just by glancing her way.

  The girls whispered that they were so bad, their parents couldn’t handle them. So bad, they’d been sent to the foster home. So bad that when the place shut down, all the other kids got adopted and those three stayed.

  The other girls’ eyes glittered when they talked about the brothers, and they tossed secret, flirtatious glances at them from under their lashes. They seemed to think being bad was a good thing. Suze didn’t get it any more than she understood why her own eyes always sought out Brady in the hallway, or why she felt a strange flutter inside whenever he caught her looking.

  Tonight, Suze got it. Apparently, bad boys knew how to kiss a girl senseless, and Brady was no exception. She’d dated a few times, but she’d never been kissed like this. Brady seemed to be tasting her, testing her, drinking in her secrets and her needs.

  Then the kiss changed—the angle and the intent. It was as if the conscious part of kissing was over, and the two of them were lost inside a fog of sensation. His breath came hard, and she could feel his heart pounding under his shirt, because, oddly enough, she actually had put a hand on his chest to push him away at first. Not because she didn’t want him to kiss her, but because Brady was famous for teasing the girls and she was afraid it was a joke.

  This was no joke. Something about laughing, good-natured Brady had changed. His tongue tangled deliciously with hers, stroking, probing, exploring as if he needed to know every part of her.

  Suze knew a Sunday night affair with Brady wouldn’t last through Monday’s sunrise. But just this once, she let herself go. She felt like what they were doing was meant to be, as inevitable as the flowing of a river or the whisper of the wind in the trees.

  She knew she was feeling too much. Men like Brady didn’t want women to fall in love with them. Sex was a game to them, and if you took the game too seriously, nobody would ever pick you for a partner again.

  She broke the kiss, turned away, and walked smack into the side of her trailer.

  “You okay?” Brady took her by the arm and looked her up and down.

  Oh, those eyes. Hot fudge. Warm and sweet.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Just clumsy.” She laughed, and it came out a little too high. She sounded kind of crazy.

  Brady smiled, putting the killer dimples on display. “We’re all clumsy sometimes. I fall off horses a lot.”

  She laughed. “You do, don’t you?”

  He sobered. “Sometimes I’m clumsy about kissing too,” he said. “I hope you didn’t mind.”

  “No,” she said. “No, I didn’t mind. It was fine.”

  He looked so deeply hurt she almost rushed to reassure him before she realized he was joking. “Fine?” he said. “Just fine?”

  “More than fine.” She gave him her best smile, but she could feel it trembling at the edges. How could she tell him how much she’d liked it without sounding like a seventh grader? She needed to be honest somehow, without giving too much away.

  “It made my night.” She finally found the right, light tone. “Thank you.”

  She opened the door, flicked on the light, and turned to face him. Miraculously, she didn’t slam her face into the door or fall off the step.

  “Good night, Brady.”

  “Aren’t you inviting me in?”

  Another land mine. How was she supposed to politely refuse what he was offering? Because he wasn’t angling for an invitation to tea.

  She’d just say no.

  “No,” she said.

  “Oh.” He looked so disappointed, she kind of felt sorry for him. He’d ditched the three rodeo queens to follow her, after all.

  He strolled over to the folding camp chairs she’d put beneath the chili pepper lights and sat down. Slouching until his long, lean body was practically horizontal, he crossed his ankles and folded his arms behind his head, making himself very comfortable in her space.

  Her private space. She liked to sit alone outside her trailer in the evenings and listen to the conversations all around her. When it got late and the talk died down, she’d turn off the tiny lights and gaze up at the stars, feeling just as small as those faraway twinkles, lost in the vastness of the universe.

  “Come on,” he said, patting the other chair.

  “What?”

  “Dang, girl, is it that bad?”

  “What?”

  “My reputation. Is it so bad you’re afraid to sit out here and talk to me?”

  To her surprise, she realized she wanted that. Just to talk.

  It would be foolish to sleep with him, but there was nothing wrong with talking for a while. She could use a friend, and who better than Brady? He seemed to understand her
.

  “You want a beer?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She reached into the little refrigerator, which was only a foot or so from the doorway, and grabbed an ancient six-pack of Bud. She’d had it for months, and it had been in and out of the fridge. Probably tasted like panther pee by now, but what the heck.

  She stepped out of the trailer, letting the door slam behind her, and sat down in the second chair. She’d always wondered why she bothered to set up two when she almost always sat out there alone.

  Now she knew.

  Pulling two beers out of the plastic six-pack carrier, she handed one to Brady and popped the other one open for herself. She didn’t drink, but this seemed like a good time to start. She took a healthy gulp and nearly coughed it out.

  Yup. Panther pee.

  They sat silently, awkwardly, until Suze knew the time had come and gone for some sort of exchange. But she didn’t know what to say, and he seemed oddly content to sit there, staring out into the darkness. She’d parked at the edge of the Cowboy Corral, beside a line of scrub that bordered the dirt parking lot. The lot was empty now, and the darkness seemed to go on forever.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “Is your mother the reason you barrel race?” he asked. “To honor her memory?”

  “No. Not really. I mean, sure, it helps me remember her.” She stretched out her legs, crossing them at the ankles, and looked out at the sky. Sipping her beer, she felt dreamy for a moment, as if she could float up there and catch the stars. “But mostly, I do it so I can ride really, really fast on a good horse.”

  He smiled. “Escaping?”

  “Probably. I never thought of it that way.”

  “So are you running to something or running away?”

  She didn’t even have to think. “Running away.”

  Brady gave her a sharp, appraising look, and she wished she had thought before she’d admitted that. It didn’t sound like much, but it defined her life—and that was kind of pitiful.

  Time to change the subject.