Loving That Cowboy

by Victoria Chatham

  With a sigh of resignation she took off her hat and placed it on the counter, turned on the tap and let it run until the water was just warm. Scooping it into her hands she splashed the dust away before grabbing a towel and blotting her face dry. But she couldn’t wash away the burning memory of being in Cameron’s arms, a memory that colored her cheeks as she remembered the gentle pressure of his fingers on her face and the flare of passion she saw in his expression.

  The expression on her own face as she looked into the mirror again surprised her. Sure, her eyes, nose and mouth were right where they should be. But how could her eyes be so deep a green? Could thoughts of Cameron have caused her pupils to dilate with arousal? Why did her lips look so full and plump as if they’d been thoroughly kissed?

  Her skin tingled and a delicious quiver rippled through every muscle at the recollection of his hands on her body. Her breasts tightened and her lace bra chafed her hardened nipples into tight buds. Cameron filled her mind and she no longer denied how much she wanted him to fill her body.

  Her breath shortened and she gasped in surprise as pressure built between her thighs and tightened in her lower belly. With a deep groan she sank onto the edge of the bath. Using the cool curve of the porcelain for balance she pressed a hand against her chest as if to slow the crazy rhythm of her heart. She could not be having an orgasm in a stranger’s bathroom. She just could not.

  At last her pulse slowed, her breathing became more even, huffing in little puffs between her lips as it returned to normal.

  Normal. What was that anyway? And what the hell had just happened to her? How could her body so inexorably betray every resolve she’d made? And if every nerve could be shredded just by thinking about Cameron, what would it be like if ...?

  No. She couldn’t go there. She stood up and ran the tap again.

  Cold water this time. Really cold water to cool her still hot face and neck.

  Now she had to go back outside and face him. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him see the effect he’d had on her.

  She pulled her shoulders back, stood up straight and ran her fingers through her hair to straighten it before replacing her hat.

  Feeling anything but confident, she made her way back outside.

  * * *

  Cameron leaned against the veranda post. She sure was taking her sweet time. But that gave him the chance to try and figure out why she ruffled his feathers so. Just as he was thinking he should check on her, she came out of his bedroom, strolled along the veranda and leaned against the post opposite him.

  “That’s some bed back in there.”

  Her eyes glowed green-as-moss in the late afternoon sunshine, highlighting her pink cheeks and moist, puffy lips. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Ms. Watts had been well and truly bedded on it.

  “Another of my specs. Think that was after Abilene.” He tried to not think of them together in that bed. His groin tightened and he crossed his legs. Now was not the time to let a boner get the better of him. He saw her eyebrow lift and his heart lifted with it. “Yeah, won the steer wrestling at the rodeo there a few years ago.”

  He pictured another kind of wrestling now.

  “So that’s what you meant when you said your house came together in its own good time. You used your winnings to build it.”

  Cameron took a deep breath, knocked sideways at the appreciative light in her eyes and nodded. “I did.”

  “Do you still steer wrestle?”

  He couldn’t ignore the slight huskiness in her voice. It played across his tingling nerves and made him picture rumpled sheets and gentle candlelight but he pushed that thought away as he attempted to answer her question.

  “It’s hard to give it up.” How could he convey the adrenaline rush that came from chasing a steer and having a good horse beneath him? How could he explain all the elements of those few crucial seconds between winning and losing? The words seemed beyond him. He shrugged and scratched the back of his neck. “Depending on the weather you’re covered in dust or mud for hours. You sleep in your truck or trailer or the handiest hotel and swear by every bruise and aching muscle you’ll give it up. But there you are next go round, waiting to chase the dream of a big win all over again.”

  “You’re competing at the Calgary Stampede?”

  Damn. Why did her eyes have to be so darn intense? He took a deep breath.

  “That’s the big one everyone wants to win. Besides, it’s the best advertisement for my horses.” His gaze settled on her face again, but she turned away as if avoiding his eyes. What didn’t she want him to see? “Hey, are you hungry? We could go into town and grab a bite.”

  Going to town was not back to Calgary as he knew she expected but a thirty minute trip in the opposite direction. Once they hit the small town’s limits he slowed down and drove past a row of stores fronted by false facades and boardwalks.

  “Does this even qualify as a town?” Trisha asked. “It looks like it could have starred in some old western movie.”

  He laughed at that. “Actually it has. The garages and feed merchants on the other side of the street have played their part, too.”

  He pulled up in front of a diner with the name ‘Tumbleweed’ in faded lettering above the door, assuring her it was better than it looked as they got out of the truck.

  An old fashioned bell above the lintel announced their entrance. Large overhead industrial shades spilled light over the counter and onto the plank floor, creating shadows that made it impossible to see anything clearly. Directional lighting fixtures around the walls illuminated a ceiling dark with age and the remnants of cigarette and cigar smoke.

  Cameron waved to the pony-tailed waitress behind the counter and headed for an empty booth. The banquette, upholstered in tired red leatherette, gave a small sigh of protest as Trisha sat down. Perched on stools at the counter, a few customers turned to watch her with undisguised interest. Her cheeks flamed, even though she realized any newcomer would probably receive the same attention.

  A waitress hurried over and handed them menus. “Hi, Cameron. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Hey, Star. Been getting ready for Stampede,” he offered. “I’ll have my usual steak and a coffee.”

  “What about you, hon?” Star’s voice sounded scratchy and tired, over used from asking the same question a hundred times a day.

  “What’s good on the menu?” Cameron watched Trisha run her finger down the list. He nearly laughed at the puzzled expression on her face when she stopped and asked, “What, exactly, is a Denver sandwich?”

  “That would be eggs scrambled with ham, onion, green pepper and served between two slices of toasted bread,” Star explained. “Guess you don’t have them in England, huh?”

  Trisha shook her head and grinned. “No, we don’t. So what would you recommend from this menu?”

  “Honestly?” Star tapped the end of her pencil against her chin. “Depends what mood our chef Tank’s in. Today he’s good, so pretty much anything.”

  A shout from the far end of the counter caught the waitress’s attention and she frowned at the man propped up beside an antique cash register. Light glinted off the ornate chasing on its back and side panels and the last purchase of $2.99 showed clearly under the glass dome.

  “You mind your manners, Brodie,” Star called back. “I’ll be with you when I’m done here.”

  “Doesn’t matter what mood Tank’s in.” Cameron explained. “He can always grill up a perfect steak. That’s why it’s my usual order.”

  “Then I’ll have steak, medium well done, with a baked potato, please.”

  “You got it, hon.” Star took the menus back, scribbled on her pad and went to talk to the man she called Brodie.

  “Brodie can be a bit rowdy, but he’s a pretty good guy,” Cameron said. “He’s always hustling the wait staff. I think it’s kind of a sport for him now. He used to rodeo, but got busted up one too many times.”

  “Are you afraid that will happen to you?” T
risha placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her intertwined fingers. She sat facing the door. The last of the afternoon sunshine played across her face, highlighting her interested expression.

  Cameron swallowed the groan in his throat. There it was again, that slow surge in his groin that now swelled uncomfortably against his jeans. He shifted on the banquette, tried to ignore the signals his body sent him and shook his head.

  “Calgary will be my last rodeo.” Finally admitting it out loud cemented his decision. “I’m thirty five going on sixty eight. At least that’s what it feels like some mornings. If I hit the big one I can go out on top. The winnings will get me the quarter horse stud I have my eye on. Then I’ll concentrate on my horse business.”

  He stopped talking as Star arrived with their orders and placed them on the table, topped up their coffees and left them to it.

  “And no-one knows about this yet?”

  Cameron knew the journalist in Trisha would sense a story he wasn’t quite ready to tell. “Only you and my hazer, Larry.”

  “What’s a hazer?”

  He caught his disbelief before he opened his mouth. Of course she wouldn’t know the term. “When a steer comes out of the chute, the wrestler is on one side and the hazer on the other to keep it straight for the wrestler to catch. A good hazer is as priceless as a good horse.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Did she? He hoped she’d missed the regret he was unable to keep out of his voice. Giving up the rodeo life still didn’t sit well with him but at least he’d been able to make the decision for himself. When she’d done eating, she laid her knife and fork down and looked up.

  The intensity in her green-eyed glance made Cameron’s blood buzz like traffic on a freeway but the noisy jangle of the bell over the door saved him from making a fool of himself.

  “Well, hell.” He waved a hand at the newcomers filing into the diner. “Looks like tonight’s going to be a Howlin’ at the Moon jam session.”

  The men in the group carried guitars, a double bass and microphones to the back of the diner. Two girls, with the help of another two men from seats at the counter, made short work of setting up a five-piece band in the corner. Once the mics were set up, the guitars tuned and a drummer warming up on his cajon box drum, couples began to take to the floor.

  “Local group.” Cameron’s voice rose above the music. “Every chance they get they come here and play. It’s their way of saying thanks to the folks in town who supported them when they first started.”

  One of the girls stepped up to the microphone and began singing in a pure, clear voice. When the number came to a close the diner echoed with appreciative applause. Surprised at the intensity of it, Trisha looked around to see that as well as the people inside there were as many more crowding around the open door.

  There was more applause as the band started up again, this time with one of the men leaning in to share the mic with the girl. They sang a tender duet of lost love and broken hearts, of stars and moonlit roads. Trisha found her foot tapping to the beat and joined in the applause when the number ended.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  She hesitated but the warm look in Cameron’s eyes made her want to melt into his arms. He couldn’t know what he was asking of her but she nodded her agreement. “If you don’t mind your toes being trodden on. Dancing isn’t one of my talents.”

  “The boots can take it and the two-step is easy.” Cameron stood up and held out his hand.

  For a moment her hesitation persisted then she slid out of the booth and put her hand in his. His fingers closed gently around hers. The heat and strength of that tenuous contact made her feel precious and protected. How could that be? Her pulse quickened as he led her towards the dance floor.

  “Can you quick step?” he asked as his left arm circled her waist.

  “Yes,” she whispered as he turned her expertly into the corner of the floor.

  “So you know the quick step rhythm is slow-slow, quick-quick slow?”

  “Yes,” Trisha whispered again, her tongue thick against the roof of her mouth.

  “The two-step is the reverse.” Cameron’s breath, warm in the shell of her ear, raised goose-bumps on her arms. Her knees weakened. “It’s quick-quick, slow-slow. Quick-quick, slow-slow.”

  Under his expert tuition Trisha followed him with ease. He spun her around and twisted her under his arm. How long had it been since she’d been so relaxed and enjoyed herself so much?

  The tempo changed from the speedy two-step to a slow waltz. Cameron held her closer and she rested her cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt. The solid muscles of his chest pressed against her breasts, his firm thighs nudged hers as he continued to guide her around the floor. His arm tightened about her and she relaxed into him, a smile lingering on her face as his fingers tightened around hers.

  A tremor ran through her. Yesterday morning she had wished to never see him again. Today she wished she wasn’t so attracted to him. His muscles weren’t built in a gym nor did his tan come out of a bottle. What she felt went far beyond his physicality. She knew she could trust him with her life. He’d already proved that. But if she let her guard down, would he judge her? Or would he, instead, help her to forget, help her past the nightmare that still haunted her?

  The girl with the clear voice sang something about breathing and Trisha did just that. She breathed in the muted notes of his cedar and sandalwood cologne, his faint musky body smell and beneath all that the lemon of laundry detergent. The thought of Cameron doing something as mundane as laundry brought a new smile to her lips. She closed her eyes and just swayed with him.

  “Uh, Trisha ...”

  She looked up with a start. The music had stopped and the floor had cleared of dancers. One of the onlookers, with an amused grin on his face, started slow clapping then stepped up and punched Cameron lightly on the shoulder.

  “Time was the ladies fell at your feet,” the man said with a chuckle. “Seems like they just fall asleep on you now. You losin’ your touch, or what?”

  “Oh, I’ve embarrassed you.” A blush rose up Trisha’s neck and heated her cheeks. Her hands flew to her face to cover her dismay.

  “Take a lot to do that.” Cameron gently took her elbow and steered her back to the booth. “Looks like you’re tired, so I think it’s time I took you home.”

  Home. Such a simple word but she knew it took more than four walls and a roof to make one. It took people to make a home, people who loved one another, who argued and fell out with each other and then made up again. Looking around the diner she saw honest faces filled with genuine appreciation of the place they were in and the people they were with.

  Not at all like her home where life seemed to revolve around horses not people. She knew her parents loved her, but her mother had paid more attention to a horse’s scratched knee than to any injury Trisha might suffer. Her father spent time away from home training riders or, if they came to him, they littered the house like wayward kittens. Between them all she grew up almost undetected until her father, recognizing her potential, gave her his undivided attention. Attention that she at first relished and then became bound by and resented.

  Thinking about her family and what might have been, brought unexpected tears to Trisha’s eyes. Right now she missed her parents, the horses, the dogs and all their staff. In a word, she felt bereft. The bleakness of it washed over her and she had to blink away the tears as they said goodnight to Star.

  “It got a bit warm in there,” Cameron commented as they walked outside into the rapidly cooling night air.

  Trisha said nothing, not wanting the reality that was her life to break the magic of the evening.

  They walked without further conversation to his truck. Cameron unlocked the door and helped her in, then reached behind the seat and pulled out a blanket.

  “You might need this,” he said as he draped it over her shoulders. “The truck’ll take a few minutes to warm up.”

 
; He slid into the driver’s seat, fitted the key into the ignition and turned it. Trisha couldn’t take her eyes off each movement he made.

  The engine caught, turned over. Cameron waited until the motor ran smoothly before reversing carefully out into the street. He slid a CD into the tray in the dashboard and soft country and western music filtered through the cab.

  Trisha snuggled deeper into the warmth of the blanket, relaxed as the heater kicked in wafting warmth over her feet. As the truck gathered speed, the lights from the store fronts they passed blurred in her vision until she gave in and closed her eyes. Lulled by the throb of the motor and hum of wheels on the hard-top road, she soon drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  Cameron looked across at her. Her head rolled loosely against the headrest with the motion of the truck. He didn’t want her jolted awake, but neither did he like the other option that came to mind.

  He’d risked enough tonight by asking her to dance. He liked the feel of her in his arms way too much, and what he now considered would put him on a slippery slope to things he shouldn’t think about at all.

  “Hot damn,” he muttered. There was no way he could drive her all the way back to Calgary tonight.

  Her head bumped again and he muttered another curse. She needed to be in bed, and the closest one around was his. If he tried hard enough, he might even buy that reasoning. He glanced across at her as he slowed for the turn into his driveway. She barely moved and only grunted slightly as he came to a stop.

  Both dogs were on the veranda but he shushed them as he went to open the door to his bedroom. In a few strides he was beside his bed and turned back the comforter. He returned to the truck and lifted Trisha, blanket and all, up into his arms. Her head drooped on his shoulder but he could hear her snoring softly. That strangely intimate little sound made him hold her closer as he carried her to the bed where he carefully laid her down.

  He wanted to lie down with her. Wanted to hold her close against his body. Hoped she wouldn’t be scared when she woke up and would return his kisses when he offered them. But he wouldn’t risk it, couldn’t. She looked so frail but he sensed she struggled to maintain a balance between hard-nosed edginess and near panic. What had happened to her? She knew how to handle a horse however hard she tried to hide it. The way she sat into the saddle spoke of an old familiarity, yet her fear of mounting Jack had been as obvious as if she’d screamed at him.