Red picked up the tab the waitress had dropped off and passed her his credit card. Sliding their lists of names into a binder he’d brought along, he started to stand up.
“Hey, wait a minute, Red. I got another one for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Suze Carlyle.”
Cooter let out a big har-de-har laugh, slapping his thigh. “That stuck-up bitch? She won’t give a man the time of day. I think she’s a lezzy.”
Brady gave him a tight smile. “She’s not. Not that it should matter.”
“She’s not, huh? How do you know?” A slow smile spread across Cooter’s broad face. “You get a piece of that, Caine? Shit, nobody I know’s ever—”
Red slid across the vinyl bench seat and stood. “Shut up, Cooter.”
Cooter shut up.
Brady slowly unclenched the fist he’d been preparing to drive into the side of the picture-perfect face that fronted Cooter’s tiny brain, and took a deep breath.
“I’ve seen Suze Carlyle, Brady. I just don’t know if she’s got the look we want.”
Cooter started to speak, then glanced at Brady and shut his mouth.
“That’s because she’s an athlete, not a model. She’s a great person—just the kind of strong woman you’re talking about. She dresses kind of sloppy, but I’m sure she’d change that if you gave her the deal. And that would attract a lot of attention. I mean, she’s a two-time world champion, and she’s always worn baggy jeans and men’s shirts. If she started turning up looking great in Lariat’s clothes, people would notice. I guarantee it.”
“Hmm.” Red tapped a pencil on the table, then wrote “Susan Carlisle” on Brady’s paper.
“It’s Suzanne, with a z and two n’s,” Brady said. “And I think Carlyle is with a y. C-A-R-L-Y-L-E.”
“Geez, you gonna marry her, Caine?” Cooter asked. “Seems like you know a lot about her.”
Red ignored him. “Was her mother Ellen Carlyle?”
“Yup.” Brady grinned. “And when she takes off that old hat and dresses up, she looks exactly like her mom.”
Actually, he’d never seen Suze dress up. But he’d seen her naked, and he’d seen her happy.
Because for a little while, he had made her happy. And he’d discovered she had a beauty no other woman he knew could match.
Chapter 10
Brady was smack-dab in the middle of the best rodeo season of his life when he pulled into the Grigsby rodeo arena for a photo shoot two months later. It was nearly Independence Day, also known as Cowboy Christmas for the amount of money a cowboy could take in at all the big rodeos that weekend. If Brady was as successful at those competitions as he’d been this past weekend, he’d be on his way to the National Finals in Vegas for the first time.
Suze Carlyle might have thrown him out of her trailer, but she’d done him a big favor. He’d taken her advice and focused hard on his sport, and it was working.
Not that she’d noticed. Despite his newfound success over the past two months, she hadn’t changed her attitude. Every time she saw him, she flipped that long, blond braid and tossed him a scornful glare.
Tucking in his shirt, he adjusted his belt buckle and everything else down there, wondering who his dance partner was going to be on this bright, sunny day.
Yesterday it had been a big, hammer-headed horse named Boondoggle who’d put a twist in his buck that had almost, but not quite, unseated Brady before the eight-second buzzer blessed the ride. That had gotten him into the short round, where he’d ridden Lindy Hop to a score of eighty-eight, the highest of the day.
The night before, he’d ridden Bad Whiskey. The big paint had spun like the devil gone dizzy, but Brady stuck to the saddle and found himself at the top of the leaderboard.
His partner today would be from another breed altogether. No doubt Lariat had chosen some rodeo queen for the photo shoot. Those cowgirls were so polished and pretty, they made Brady feel like a dirty old bronc who’d shown up at a dressage competition.
And today was the day he’d find out who they’d chosen to represent their ladies’ wear line. According to Red, the company had run some focus groups and discovered that Brady did well with their female demographic, so they’d decided to have him do a few ads with whomever they’d chosen.
Cooter, fortunately, was out of the picture. Red had pulled his contract soon after the three of them had shared breakfast, and the word was that he’d made it clear Cooter’s crude comments were the reason why. Lariat wanted role models to represent their brand—another reason for Brady to clean up his act.
Despite his success with the female demographic, Brady was a lot more nervous dealing with women than with horses these days. The one-two punch of Suze Carlyle’s rejection and Cooter’s illustration of how crass a cowboy could be had made him rethink his lifestyle. He was still easygoing Brady Caine, and he still flirted with the girls—but he didn’t take it into the bedroom anymore.
Not much, anyway.
Women still went after him, even knowing they’d be a notch in his bedpost, but he knew now that they deserved a lot more than an eight-second ride and a tip of his hat. Maybe someday he’d meet one that made him want to give more than that, and when that happened, he’d want to deserve her respect.
Grabbing the shirt Lariat had given him, he glanced around the trailer the company had provided just for this shoot. They’d gone to a lot of expense, that was for sure. They’d rented a small rodeo arena between Wynott and Grigsby, and they’d pulled in dressing trailers for both him and his female counterpart. He felt like a danged movie star.
The trailer was wall-to-wall mirrors, which made it painful to put on the shirt they’d given him. It looked like a refugee from Roy Rogers’s dressing room, with six-inch fringe hanging off the front, plus pearl buttons down the middle and little bucking horses stitched on the pockets. Just in case some fool didn’t get the message, it said “Saddle Up ’n’ Ride” across the back in huge embroidered letters. If Lariat could have figured out a way to plug it in, they probably would have put neon lights on it.
He adjusted the collar and made a series of tough-guy faces at the mirror, but no matter how much he squared his jaw or squinted his eyes, he still looked like an idiot in the danged shirt. It was going to be a trial to walk the midway in it at Fort Worth, and worse yet to hit the beer tent. But his endorsement deal meant he had to wear their clothes in public, not just for photo shoots. He’d take the shirt with him and wear it at least three times in three different towns.
“You in there?” Stan Petersen, the photographer, stuck his head in the trailer and scowled. “You’re worse than a woman. Put on the shirt and get out here.”
“I’m coming. This thing’s got more snaps and straps than my saddle.”
Brady followed Stan out into the arena, tugging at the too-tight collar. The local 4-H team had been practicing all morning, so the loose dirt was rutted with swoops and swirls where horses had spun and turned. A few candy wrappers fluttered, trapped in the grass around the edge, and a young boy hurried around with a manure fork, cleaning up the inevitable mess the horses had left behind.
The late-afternoon sun was shining but the sky to the east was dark, making the white-painted bleachers and the cottonwood trees beyond them stand out in hard-edged relief. It was the kind of day that made the animals restless and gave the cowboys a sense of dread in their guts. There was no way to know if it was the threat of rain that charged the air or if it was something more—like a premonition of a ride going wrong. The possibility of life-altering injury always hung over the bucking chutes, making time spent in the arena stand out as sharply in a man’s memory as the sunlit trees against the storm-dark sky.
This place was close to home, and it called up a lot of memories for Brady—good memories. If he closed his eyes and breathed a little of the dust blowing across the ground, he could relive
the tight, tense moment when he tilted his hat down over his eyes, set his heels, and gave the nod to open the gate and start the dance. Eight seconds felt like eternity while a bronc leaped and snorted under your saddle. Meanwhile the crowd, so hushed and expectant just seconds before, churned and roared like a storm-stirred ocean.
It was a fickle ocean, though, with a nasty undertow. Everybody knew the spectators who cheered when you rode to the buzzer came as much for the wrecks as for the rides. A rodeo-goer could spin the story of a cowboy he’d seen crippled by a wild bull a lot longer than he could talk about watching some unknown ride to a high score.
“Where’s our girl?” he asked Stan, who was fooling with his camera lens. The photographer, who hailed from the great Wyoming metropolis of Cheyenne, had never spun a rope or shoveled a stall in his life. But he and Brady had worked together before, and the two had struck up an Odd Couple sort of friendship. Stan knew how to make Brady look good in spite of the ridiculous clothes, and he worked well with the women they used.
Although they’d never had a female face of Lariat before, they’d often used rodeo queens and other women in the ads for the men’s clothing. In Brady’s opinion, they really did use them. For some reason, the company thought more men would buy their shirts if the girls crouched at a cowboy’s feet like fawning dogs in their ads. Brady hated that part. It was undignified and disrespectful to women. He’d say something, but then there was a chance they’d cut off those fat checks that were filling up his special account—the cowboy equivalent of a 401(k).
At least Stan somehow managed to keep things light while he instructed bright, accomplished women to grovel at Brady’s feet.
“She’s late,” Stan said. “I guess there’s some problem with the makeup.”
Brady glanced skyward and said a little prayer. Most rodeo queens were pretty good people—emphasis on the pretty—but once in a while, they got one who thought the sparkly tiara on her Stetson made her the next heir to the Kardashians. “I thought we were using a barrel racer this time.”
“We are. And she signed a long-term contract like yours, so she’ll be in all the ads from now on.” He flashed Brady a warning look that was only half-joking. “So behave yourself. This girl’s a serious athlete. She won’t fall for your cowboy shtick like all those rodeo queens do.”
Brady couldn’t help remembering one particular barrel racer who had fallen for his shtick. He’d thought Suze was falling hard, right into the clean white sheets in that deluxe Featherlite trailer. But the next morning had sure proved him wrong.
Luckily, there was no chance Lariat would choose Suze. He’d tried talking to Red about her again, but Red had shrugged him off, and Brady wasn’t surprised. Suze hadn’t changed since the night she broke his heart. She still rode like an avenging angel and dressed like a barn bum. She hardly ever smiled—never at Brady, of course—and he knew it was a challenge to see the beauty hiding under her beat-up old hat.
They’d probably picked Jeannie Sommers. He and Jeannie had burned up the sheets once too, and she’d been wild as a woman could be considering they’d had to whisper so his brothers, sleeping in adjoining rooms, wouldn’t hear what was going on. Jeannie had walked away the next day with a wave and a smile, so he figured she was like him, a player. His brothers said she was trying to work some reverse psychology on him, but Brady didn’t even know how psychology worked when it was running forward. Maybe that’s why whatever she was doing to him didn’t work.
They might pick Brandy Lamar, though, or Trudie Banks. Both of them were unknown territory for Brady, but they both knew how to rock a short skirt and high-heeled boots on a Saturday night at the beer tent, and they knew how to smile, which was more than Suze Carlyle could manage.
Dang. He needed to stop thinking about that woman. He didn’t know why she’d stuck with him the way she had.
“So who is it?” he asked Stan.
“Not telling,” said the photographer.
“Jeannie Sommers?”
“Not telling.”
“Brandy Lamar?”
“Shut up and put your tongue back in your mouth.” Stan flashed him a grin. “I told you, this one’s not going to fall for your cowboy charms. I can just about guaran-dang-tee it.”
Brady grinned. There was nothing funnier than starched-shirt Stan trying to talk cowboy—and nothing Brady liked better than a woman who was a challenge.
Chapter 11
Suze stared straight ahead, willing herself not to cry while the stylist tarted her up for the second time in an hour. The stylist was a matronly woman who had announced, “I am Marta,” and gone to work with mind-numbing dexterity, chattering to herself in broken English as she worked. When Marta was done, Suze had taken one look at the final result in the mirror and burst into tears—stupid, messy tears that spoiled her makeup and reddened her nose. Marta had made Suze a cold compress to ease the swelling under her eyes and patiently started over.
Suze was grateful that Marta didn’t ask what the tears were about. Partly they came from hating the idea of posing for a fashion shoot. Partly they came from too much pressure at home, with her dad’s health problems getting bigger and the bank account getting smaller.
But mostly, they came from that glance in the mirror.
She hadn’t peeked while Marta did her work, but as soon as the stylist was finished, Suze had looked over her shoulder at the mirror and tried out a smile.
The image in the mirror smiled back, and it felt as if her mother had come back to life and was sitting across from her in some shiny, new looking-glass world. Suze reached out, but of course her hand hit cold glass, not warm flesh. Ellen Carlyle was still gone. And that was the real reason she’d cried.
That, and the realization that her father was wrong. She did look like her mother. Just like her mother once she was prettied up properly.
Now, as Marta made her repairs, Suze considered the results. Watching the eerie resemblance build up gradually somehow made it easier.
“I look so—strange,” Suze said. “Not like myself.”
She thought of the photos that dotted the walls of the Carlyles’ old farmhouse. There were dozens of them. Photos of Ellen running barrels on her famous horse, Tango. Photos of her posing with rodeo celebrities like Ty Murray and Trevor Brazile. There was even an oil painting of her and Tango some fan had painted. But the only photograph of Suze was a shot of Ellen holding a three-year-old Suze on Tango’s back.
By the time she was sixteen, Suze had figured out she’d never live up to her father’s exalted expectations or her mother’s extraordinary legacy. She didn’t like attention anyway, so she’d sunk into the anonymity of the plain-Jane look. She’d have stopped riding too, but she loved it too much to quit.
Now she realized that with a little effort, she looked eerily like her mother. What would her father’s reaction be if she walked into the house looking like this? And why couldn’t he see it?
It’s too bad you didn’t get your mother’s looks.
Adding a touch of gloss to Suze’s lips, Marta smiled encouragingly. “You ready?”
“Yes.” Suze tilted her chin up, her father’s voice echoing in her head, as usual. This time it wasn’t one of his put-downs, though; it was a Carlyle maxim: Carlyles don’t cry. “I don’t know what hit me last time. I won’t do it again.”
Marta spun the chair around and stood behind it, fluffing Suze’s hair so it flowed out from under her hat in a golden cascade of curls.
“You are beautiful girl,” Marta said. “You look like star, yes?”
Suze was sure people would see through her disguise, but she wasn’t about to say so, because she’d be criticizing Marta’s handiwork if she criticized herself. The last thing she wanted was a reputation for being hard to work with. She’d never expected anyone would consider her model material, but now that lightning had struck once, she wouldn’t mind
if it struck again. The money Lariat offered was a revelation. They could ask her to wear a clown nose and she’d do it.
“I look wonderful. Thank you so much.”
“Wait till you see with who you are sharing the shoot,” Marta said. “You gonna be excited.”
“Sharing the chute?” Suze felt a ray of hope cut through the clouds of dread. “Am I posing with a horse?”
It took a minute for Marta to understand, but she’d lived in Wyoming long enough to pick up a few rodeo terms.
“No, no, no. I mean the photo shoot, not the—what is it? The bucking chute?”
“Darn.” Suze dared a slight smile. “I’d rather pose with a mean old bull than some stupid cowboy.”
Marta laughed again. “He is quite a gentleman, and very handsome. Famous too. Trust me, you gonna be pleased. Any girl would be. And he asked for you special.”
“He asked for me?”
“He was the one who suggested you to Lariat. So you see, he likes you very much.”
Suze wondered who on earth it could be. She’d been worrying for days that she’d be posing with Brady Caine, since he was one of Lariat’s frequent models, but there was no way Brady would ask for her. They’d managed to avoid each other since that night.
“I wish you’d tell me who it is,” she said. “Give me some warning.”
“It’s a surprise. Now get out there and give him some swagger.” The advice sounded comical in Marta’s lilting accent. “Act confident and you be confident, okay?”
“Okay.” Giving Marta’s upraised palm a resounding smack, Suze straightened her shoulders and headed for the door.
“Remember,” Marta called after her. “Swagger!”
* * *
Brady watched the tall blond strut out into the arena and felt his heart do a double backflip as she rested her shapely self against the fence.
How to Kiss a Cowboy Page 7
