“Hello, Ms. Watts. Or should I say howdy?”
His high cheek bones and lean jaw would certainly make any girl look twice, but a hardness that she didn’t like lurked in his eyes.
“Hi, Brent. Enjoying yourself?”
“I’d enjoy myself more if I could be sure of your intentions.”
Still rattled from her recent shock of seeing Cameron, Trisha was in no mood to have Brent pump her for details.
“Brent,” his name hissed like a curse from but between her clenched teeth, “I have not long left Patsy Livingstone. If you remember she is the cover designer for Purple Plain Publishing. I’ll tell you the same as I told her. I have a week to make my decision and I have to be seen to be doing that. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to get to work.”
“Mind if I tag along and see how a professional photographer works?” He grinned unpleasantly.
“Yes, I do mind. I prefer to work alone.”
Brent moved closer and put his mouth to her ear. “Or maybe no one wants to work with you.”
In spite of the heat a chill wormed its way along her arms making her shiver. She drew away from him, knowing that Brent Heywood could make her life a living hell if she let him.
Brent tipped his hat to her. “Choose wisely, Ms. Watts. Remember, I have as much opportunity as you to make or break.”
She breathed a sigh of relief when he wandered away from her. He hadn’t gone far when she saw him lean in to whisper something to a motherly looking woman who laughed out loud as she swiped at his arm. There was no doubt the comment had been racy and in spite of her reaction the woman obviously loved it.
Trisha checked her camera again, screwing her face into a frown as she did so. Anyone seeing her might think she had a problem with a lens or had to adjust the settings. They wouldn’t see her inner turmoil. Few people connected Trisha Watts, photographer, with Patricia Somerville, three-day event rider. She liked the anonymity that gave her.
But Brent Heywood could blow that anonymity to smithereens if he so chose. She had worked so hard to put the past behind her. To believe the counselor when he told her it had been an unfortunate accident and not her fault.
How could it not be her fault? She should have pulled Delacourt up when he stumbled but instead she pushed him on. He’d jumped big, and she knew she would have to ask him to lengthen his stride between the two jumps to safely negotiate the second part of the combination. But Delacourt didn’t complete the jump, he simply crashed into the ground. She’d been thrown out of the saddle but the momentum of his thousand pound body drove her into the post and rails fence.
She put her hands over her ears to shut out the sounds of that day. The sharp crack like a pistol shot as her head hit a post, then the timber rails splintering as their combined weight demolished the fence, the shocked cries from the crowd. Someone threw a blanket over Delacourt’s head, and then she’d passed out.
Trisha blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. Her fault. No one else’s. She lived with it every day of her life, hoping and praying that Trisha Watts could bury Patricia Somerville forever. That Brent Heywood had connected the dots meant he’d searched for her on the internet. But now she either had to deal with the truth, however hard that would be, or allow herself to be blackmailed and that she could not do. Hefting the weight of the camera in her hands, Trisha put Brent Heywood out of her mind.
Happy crowds milled around her and the shadows lengthened as Trisha started taking photos of the Saddledome, aptly named for the shape of its roof, at the north end of the Stampede grounds. She snapped pictures of cattle and horses in the Agricultural Barn. Charmed by the sight of a curly-haired moppet asleep at the feet of a massive Clydesdale horse, she asked the mother’s permission she take a picture. Several shots later, she exchanged business cards with the mom and promised copies of the photos. Her shots of the kiosks, midway rides and the grandstand would be for general background cover; the real work would start when she began her interviews.
Lively music from the Nashville North tent drew her attention and she flashed her press pass as she made her way to the head of the line to gain entrance. Only a few people grumbled, most were happy to let her by. Once inside she watched the dancers spin their way around the dance floor and thought of two-stepping with Cameron at the Tumbleweed. She could hardly believe that it had actually happened and envy for the happy couples on the floor niggled its way into her mind.
When she’d taken as many photos as she needed she wandered outside again and headed for the Indian Village at the south end of the grounds. She stopped on the bridge spanning the Elbow River to take a shot of the sun dappled water rippling beneath it. Getting the light right took all her attention and just as she depressed the shutter button her cell phone rang. Intuition told her it would be Cameron.
How did he have the damn nerve? Her bruised ego yelled ‘ignore him’ but after taking her shot she leaned her elbows on the bridge railing while she reconsidered. The shimmering reflection of the water beneath her almost blinded her and she closed her eyes.
Ignoring him would not resolve anything. It would show her instead as being shallow and immature. But wasn’t that what she had already shown him? Being bowled over by his looks and his gentle ways didn’t excuse her falling into bed with him. And just why had she allowed that to happen?
Because you couldn’t help yourself.
Because you didn’t want to help yourself.
The truth of that fact rankled in her mind. Having now recognized her own fault, there could be only one way to resolve it. One thing she knew for sure, hiding from Cameron would solve nothing, just as he had said. She had to know now where she stood. Had he believed her this morning after all and decided to not wait until Stampede was over before moving on?
She ran a hesitant finger over the face of her phone before finally speed dialling his number. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t pick up, part of her hoped to hear his voice. All of her hoped she’d made a mistake.
“Hey, where are you?” He sounded happy and confident.
And why shouldn’t he be? He had it all, she thought bitterly. Two women should be enough for any man to swing between. Or were there more girls out there she knew nothing of? She drew her brows into a deep frown.
“Hey, Trish, are you there?” A note of concern crept into his voice.
Her senses homed in on that concern. Could she believe him? She swallowed her doubt. “I’m at the south end of the grounds on the bridge.”
“Stay put, I’ll be right over.”
She replaced her phone in her bag and wrapped her arms around her middle, uncertain how to face him. She could ask him outright about the girl but wouldn’t that be an opening for him to lie? She wanted nothing but the truth now, but how would she recognize it?
She knew he was there an instant before he put his arm around her waist. Damn, why did she have to be so aware of him? She stiffened.
“You don’t appear to be in the mood for the Ranchman’s,” he said, quickly sensing the change in her.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather give it a miss tonight. There’s still another week, we could try for another evening.” Trisha bit her lip. What was she thinking? She intended to not see him after tonight. Might as well get the hurt over with all at once. “Or not, as you seem to have someone else in your sights.”
“Someone else?” Cameron turned her to face him. “What are you talking about?”
“Where were you this afternoon, Cam?”
“Right here in the barns or around the infield all day with the rest of the guys waiting for my go-round. Why would you ask?”
“How did you make out?” She made her voice as casual as she could but her heart thumped uncomfortably as she waited for his reply. Could she have been mistaken? Could two men really look so alike? And come to that, had she really seen the guy’s face this afternoon? She’d seen a tall, broad shouldered man wearing a plaid shirt and a black, wide brimmed hat. She’d heard him laugh but she ha
dn’t actually seen his face. She brought her attention back Cameron.
“Nailed it with time in hand,” he said. “I’m hoping to keep my lead, but I’ve got two other guys leasing Anchorman and I have to keep him fresh. Now there’s a sport horse for you if ever there was one.”
Trisha continued to worry her lip while she considered what he’d said. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t have been in two places at once.
“Do you know any long legged blonde girls about my height with a penchant for pink cowboy boots?” she persisted, hating herself for not being able to forget that image.
“Pink cowboy boots?” Cameron shuddered. “If you think that appeals to me, you read me all wrong.”
Only slightly reassured, Trisha relaxed a little. It wasn’t his last remark that bugged her, but the fact he had been at the rodeo. He couldn’t have been in two places at the same time.
“So you didn’t go to the Western Art Exhibition today?”
He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Why am I getting the third degree here? I told you I’ve been at the rodeo all afternoon.”
Trisha looked away from him. Maybe he was right. Maybe she had got it all wrong. Heck, rumor was that everyone had a double somewhere and maybe his had been right here today. She turned to look at him. Confusion warred with query in his steady grey eyes and it cut her like jagged glass to know that she caused it.
“Put it down to lack of sleep and too much excitement. I must have seen someone who looked like you and laughed like you, that’s all.” Trisha looked away again and fell silent.
“Hey, it happens.” Cameron turned her to face him. “So how about a quiet barbeque at my place this evening and you can tell me why you photograph horses but don’t ride them?”
In spite of her doubts the small part of her heart that still wanted to trust him dictated that she could not refuse his offer.
* * *
Brent Heywood stepped out from the shade of the lottery booth where he’d been checking out the fancy home first-prize. That stop gave him the opportunity to watch Trisha Watts and her cowboy with them being none the wiser.
He tailed them through the crowds not at all concerned that they might turn and see him. From the way the guy hung his arm around Trisha’s shoulder and frequently bent his head towards her, they were too interested in each other to notice him.
From time to time he hung back as they stopped for the big guy to talk to someone or to look at something that caught Trisha’s attention. Then he could follow them no further as they passed a security point and crossed the racetrack, heading for the infield grandstand. He watched until they were out of sight. He’d got a pretty good look at the big cowboy attached like Velcro to Trisha’s side. A sudden thought prompted by the dust patches on the guy’s jeans and shirt sent Brent in search of a program.
Buying one didn’t feature in his scheme of things. He wandered through the crowds, looking about for what he needed and smiled with satisfaction when he found it. A group of teenage girls, chattering like monkeys, paid no attention to him as he strolled behind them. One of the girls had trouble keeping the straps of her bag on her shoulder. She hoisted it twice, but still a strap slipped allowing the bag to gape open showing the program lodged there. Brent slid his fingers inside the bag and lifted it without its owner being any the wiser.
He gradually fell back until the girls were out of sight then he found a bench in the sun where he made himself comfortable. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in the rodeo events themselves, only the pictures of the contestants.
The way he figured it, a guy had to be crazy to even want to get on any animal that didn’t want to be gotten on. He slowly turned the pages, looking at the photographs of the saddle bronc and bareback riders, the bull riders and steer wrestlers. He especially paid attention to the names printed beneath the photos until he found what he’d been looking for. He nodded his head with a satisfied grunt and flicked the page with his forefinger. He liked the finality in the snapping sound of his fingernail hitting the glossy paper.
“Gotcha,” he murmured. “Cameron Carter. Now to do some digging on you, buddy, and see just how much of a wrench you can help me throw in your girlfriend’s works.”
He left the program on the bench, got up and walked away.
Chapter Thirteen
Cameron watched Trisha from the corner of his eye. He’d rather be looking at her full on but needed to keep his eyes on the road. She’d been on edge since he met up with her at the grounds and was still quiet. He didn’t know if she believed him or was still mad at him.
Why was she so adamant that she’d seen him? There must be hundreds of six foot plus guys in and around Stampede. The tie-down ropers and steer wrestlers like himself tended be well built, not like the bronc and bull riders who were often lighter, wiry guys. He’d tried bull riding on a couple of occasions but valued his back too much to follow it through, much to his mom and dad’s relief.
What Trisha said about the laugh she heard bothered him some. Only one person could laugh like him, and that person was thousands of miles away. Her concern that he might go for a blonde girl in pink cowboy boots surprised him too. Blonde; at one time, maybe. Pink boots; definitely not.
They sped along the highway under an indigo sky shot through with layers of pink and orange as the sun dropped behind the jagged mountain peaks. A sudden rush of air in the cab carried on it the heady scent of wolf willow and made him turn his head. Trisha had opened the window and dropped her chin onto her arm where it rested on the frame. He heard her sigh and made no attempt at conversation, hoping the silence would give her time to sort out whatever disturbed her. He couldn’t know how her mind argued one way for him, then against him, or that she vibrated with awareness of him the whole time.
She heard him lift his hand from the steering wheel, sensed him turn his head towards her, knew when his gaze fell on her still form.
“Don’t you drive better when you’re watching the road?” she asked.
“Can’t blame a man for looking at the prettiest thing in creation,” he cracked back.
“Oh, you were looking at the sunset too? That’s even worse.”
She heard Cameron’s soft chuckle and the sound flowed over her as easily as a ray of sunshine. The truck slowed, she heard the change in the engine tone as the gears dropped when they turned into the driveway.
The sense of coming home, of being in the right place with the right person scared her witless. She didn’t even feel like this when she went to her parent’s house, the home she had known for most of her life.
As Cameron parked the truck, she sat up and looked across at him, drinking in the outline of his cheek and his slightly shadowed jaw. He turned to look at her and the smile that curved his lips warmed every part of her. She must have been wrong about seeing him in the exhibition hall that afternoon. He couldn’t possibly look at her with that gleam of pleasure in his eyes if he was involved with someone else.
Trisha got out of the truck as he swung out of the driver’s seat. The dogs rushed to greet her, as happy now with her as they were with their owner. They both flopped on the veranda when she followed Cameron into the house.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Well, you did mention something about a steak. Or are you now going to starve me?”
“That might make you good and hungry for something else.” He shot her a wicked grin as he went to the fridge and peered into it. “Could you rustle up a salad?”
“Oh, I think I could manage that. At least it doesn’t require actual cooking.”
He took a covered dish out of the fridge. “I put these in to marinate before we left this morning. They should be just about ready. I’ll go and fire up the barbeque.”
Trisha’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t remember seeing a barbeque on the veranda when I came in.”
“That’s because there isn’t one.” Cameron kissed her nose. “It’s out back on the patio. Come on, I’ll show you.”
<
br /> He took her out into the garage and opened a door in the back wall that led out onto a paved patio. She tried to orient the space outside with what she knew of the inside layout.
“This is behind your bedroom?” she asked.
“Yep. I figure to cut a door into that wall at some point so I can walk right out here in the morning.”
Cameron went to the brick built kitchen area where he set down the dish of steaks on the counter and turned on the gas barbeque. Trisha followed him, taking in the plexi-glass panels screening one side of the patio. Vines wound up and over the open beams above them.
“Are these grapes?” she asked, reaching up to touch the tight black globes hanging over her head.
“They are indeed, although I don’t think I’ll be making any wine in a hurry. Not sure what to do with them yet.”
She dropped into one of the easy chairs beside the fire pit.
“This is gorgeous. Samantha would die for a patio like this.”
“There, that’s the tone of the evening gone.” Cameron grimaced but followed his comment with a soft chuckle.
“Samantha actually has a heart of gold,” Trisha told him. “She just doesn’t like anyone to know it. She thinks it would interfere with her big, bad boss-lady image.”
Trisha hauled herself out of the chair and returned to the kitchen to prepare the salad. Cameron came in and loaded a tray with cutlery, crockery, buns, butter and condiments. When they took the makings of their meal outside, Trisha set their places at the table while Cameron dropped the steaks on the grill.
“Medium well, if I remember correctly,” he said.
“You must have a mind like a steel trap if you can remember that.” Trisha looked up through the beams at the darkening sky, marvelling at the multitude of stars that would only become brighter as the night deepened.
Loving That Cowboy Page 13
