Luck Of The Draw

by Candace Schuler

  Eve stood frozen in his embrace, unable to respond, unable to move, unable to do anything to save herself from his overwhelming, overpowering show of sexual dominance. She’d brought it on herself; she’d told him she was willing; insisted she was ready to be his wife. Knowing she had no right to cry foul now that he was taking what she had offered, she tried to clamp down on the frantic whimpers that rose in her throat. She failed. Miserably.

  The pressure on her lips eased instantly when she made the soft sound of distress. His mouth became coaxing rather than demanding. The hands on her bottom gentled. The forceful grind of his hips became a slow, seductive invitation to a dance as old as time.

  She moaned softly.

  Her head fell back.

  His hands came up to her nape, cradling her, and he took the kiss deeper, moving his tongue in and out of her mouth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that turned her mind to mush and her blood to heated wine. She melted against him, willing him to do with her what he would.

  Travis groaned. Tearing his mouth away from hers, he bent and scooped her up, striding toward the bed with her arms locked around his neck and the skirt of her voluminous nightgown trailing down past his jeans’-clad knees. He stopped by the bed and kissed her again, thoroughly, expertly, hotly, then pulled back to look at her.

  She returned his stare, unflinching, determined and indisputably aroused. Still, he could see the fear and uncertainty lurking at the back of her vivid blue eyes. There was something she was holding back from him, an unwillingness to be a full partner in their passion.

  With a filthy, furious oath, he tossed her onto the bed. “You’ll find me out in the bunkhouse when you’re ready to be more than just accommodating,” he snarled, and stalked out of the bedroom.

  7

  GUS WAITED until nearly nine o’clock the next morning before sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. “You ‘bout ready to tell me how you ended up out in the bunkhouse with me on your weddin’ night ‘stead of snuggled up all nice and cozy with that pretty little wife of yours?” he asked.

  Travis didn’t even look up from the halter he was mending. “Hell, no,” he said rudely, as if he expected that to be the end of it. He knew full well it wouldn’t be. Gus was as persistent as a drunk with a story to tell, and as nosy as a tabloid reporter.

  “She kick you out before or after you consummated your weddin’ vows?”

  Travis lifted his head and glared at Gus, refusing to dignify the question with an answer. The gesture would have been more effective from under the brim of his hat, but he’d left it hanging on the bedpost after his grand exit and nothing on God’s earth would have made him go slinking back into the bedroom to get it. At least, not while Eve was in there. He’d left his best spurs behind, too, dammit! And, even worse, his favorite boots. The pair he had on now were beat-up old roper boots he kept out in the barn to wear when the corrals were especially muddy. One of them had duct tape wrapped around the instep to keep it from falling apart. Hell of a way for a rodeo champion to be dressed!

  “Judgin’ by the way you’re lookin’ daggers at me, I’d say she gave you your walkin’ papers before the deed was done,” Gus ventured. He put his foot on the end of the hay bale where Travis was sitting and leaned over, balancing his forearm on his knee. Seeing that the old cowboy had settled in for a spell, the black pig who’d followed him into the barn put his snout to the floor and began rooting for stray oats and spilled pig chow. “Stands to reason, I guess,” Gus mused. “A fine, educated woman like Miz Eve is bound to have certain standards. Not like them women you usually take up with.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Travis growled.

  “Just what you think it means. You’re used to a certain kind of woman.” He plucked a long stalk of alfalfa out of the bale and stuck it between his teeth. “Miz Eve ain’t that kind.”

  “Sure she is,” Travis drawled nastily, feeling called upon to defend himself. “She didn’t find that baby of hers under a cabbage leaf, you know.”

  “You see, that right there is just the kind of thing I’m talkin’ about. What kind of thing is that to say about your lawful wife?” Gus shook his head sadly. “No wonder she kicked you out. Wouldn’t surprise me none if she was havin’ second thoughts about some of them promises she made yesterday.”

  “She didn’t kick me out, dammit,” Travis snapped, stung into finally answering Gus’s question by the unfairness of the accusation. “I’m the one who made the decision to postpone things. And she’s not having any second thoughts, either. It’s too late for second thoughts.”

  “It ain’t never too late for second thoughts,” Gus warned him. “Especially where women is concerned.” He repositioned the piece of alfalfa, shifting it to the other side of his mouth. “Looks to me like you got some fences need mending,” he scolded, “and some real serious courtin’ to do if you hope to see this marriage of yours last beyond the end of next week.”

  Travis slapped the halter down on the bale of hay, causing the leather to whistle as it whipped through the air. “When I need your advice about how to handle my own wife, I’ll ask,” he rasped thorough clenched teeth. “Until then, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your opinions on the subject to yourself.” He stood. “I’ve got chores that need doing,” he growled, and stomped off toward the corrals. “And get your damned pig out of my way,” he snapped when Slik darted forward to bite at a loose piece of the duct tape that flapped off the side of Travis’s boot.

  He didn’t have any chores to do. He’d been up and about before dawn, filling water troughs and hay racks, portioning out grain, eyeballing the livestock for any illness or injury while he tended to them. Except for Hurricane, who’d brought his misfortunes on himself through sheer bovine stupidity, all the stock was in prime shape. And even ol’ Hurricane was mending rapidly.

  Travis had spent a few lengthy minutes checking him over before deciding the young Brahman hadn’t done himself a permanent injury. Which was real fortunate because Hurricane had all the makings of a rank rodeo bull; another year and another five hundred pounds or so and he’d be out there on the circuit, bucking off the best cowboys the PRCA had to offer.

  Travis felt a brief glimmer of regret that he wouldn’t be one of those cowboys, then sloughed it off as he moved across the hard-packed ground to the corral containing his current crop of two-year-olds in training. There was a young chestnut gelding he had especially high hopes for as a roping horse. Sangria was fast, smart, able to stop on a dime, and had that special added something known as “cow sense.” The horse seemed to know ahead of time which way the cow was going to turn.

  Travis rested his forearms on the top rail of the fence, stacked his hands one atop the other, and rested his chin on top of them, watching the horses jockey each other for position at the trough. All things considered, he decided, business was damned good. In three years-five at the outside—the Rocking H would be known as one of the prime suppliers of rodeo stock, with the rankest bulls and broncs, and the best-trained roping horses to be had anywhere.

  If only his personal life was in such good shape!

  He knew most of what had happened, or rather, failed to happen last night was his own damn fault. He knew better than to spook a nervous filly. But she’d made him so damned mad! I’m willing to accommodate you. What kind of thing was that to say to a man? It was enough to put him off the idea of romance altogether!

  “Almost,” he murmured to himself, reaching down to adjust the front of his jeans.

  It seemed that just the thought of that curvy, redheaded woman could make him as hard as a hickory fence post. And the worst of it was, he knew she would accommodate him—his lip curled at the thought—if he pushed it. But he didn’t want to be accommodated, dammit! He wanted…

  He had to stop and think about that for a minute.

  What did he want from the woman he had married? Sex, certainly. That was a given. But he could have had that last night. Passion, then? Yeah, that, to
o. He was reasonably sure he could have had that last night, as well, if he hadn’t gotten all pissed off and indignant over what boiled down to a matter of semantics. His wife was a more sensual woman than she knew; her response to his kisses proved that to him. If he’d spent the night in that big four-poster with her, she might have still called it “accommodation” but he’d have gotten all the heat and passion he wanted from her.

  So, what did he want?

  A mother for his nieces? Certainly.

  A helpmate? Absolutely.

  A passionate lover? Without a doubt.

  But he also wanted a woman he could talk to and laugh with, someone who would stand by him in good times and bad, a partner who would help him build their future together. He wanted what his parents had had. What Josh and Carolyn had had. It might not be possible to have all those things with the woman he had married, he didn’t know her well enough to tell. Same as she didn’t know him well enough to trust herself to him in bed, especially when he’d gone at her like a man with only one thing on his mind.

  Damn! Gus was right. If he was going to have the slightest chance at the kind of marriage he’d always wanted, he had some serious courtin’ to do.

  EVE WOKE just a little after sunrise, drawn out of un easy, restless sleep by the sound of her son cooing contentedly to himself in his crib. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the tan Stetson hat and pair of glittering steel spurs hanging on the bedpost.

  Last night hadn’t been a horrible dream, after all.

  After promising herself she’d act like the wife she intended to be, she’d acted like a complete idiot instead, and sent her husband storming out of their bridal bower in a towering rage. Why couldn’t she have just kept her mouth shut? If she’d pretended to be overcome by passion right from the first, he wouldn’t have known the difference. But no, she had to open her big mouth and tell him she would just be going through the motions.

  And what man’s ego could take that kind of straight talk? Especially when the man in question was a reck less cowboy with an ego as big as Texas?

  The only question now was, had he already called up his lawyer to initiate annulment proceedings on the grounds of nonconsummation, or was she going to get another chance? And did she even want another chance?

  Suppressing a sigh, she pushed back the thin sheet that covered her and got out of bed, heading first for the bathroom and then to the crib for her son. “Good morning, sweetie pie,” she crooned, leaning over to pick him up.

  He gurgled happily, eager for company after the long night. Eve cooed back at him, answering his nonsense syllables with a bright, singsong flow of words as she changed his diaper.

  She wanted another chance to make her marriage work, she decided. Of course, she wanted another chance. And the reason was staring up at her with a wide toothless smile and dark chocolate eyes.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she assured her son as she settled into the rocking chair and put him to her breast for his morning feeding. “Your mama will bat her eyes at the big stud and make everything all right. I hope,” she added, then glanced nervously at the hat on the bedpost.

  She dressed with particular care, donning a pair of slim-fitting jeans and a feminine white eyelet camisole with a narrow ruffle at the top that made the most of her full breasts without actually flaunting them. She didn’t own a pair of cowboy boots—a lack that would definitely have to be remedied in the near future—so she slipped her feet into a pair of flat, strappy leather sandals and hoped she wouldn’t be called upon to traverse any ground where livestock might have recently trod.

  Scooping her son up against her shoulder, she left the bedroom and headed down the hall toward the kitchen. The girls were there ahead of her, all three of them gathered at one end of the kitchen table, their tousled blond heads close together in earnest discussion over what turned out to be a cookbook. They looked up as she entered the kitchen.

  “We’re making breakfast,” Gracie announced, brushing her bangs out of her eyes as she spoke. “French toast. It’s my favorite, except for blueberry pancakes, but Amanda says pancakes are too hard. So we’re gonna have French toast as a surprise ‘cause we got married yesterday.”

  “Wedidn’t get married,” Amanda corrected her primly. “Uncle Travis and Aunt Eve did.” She smiled shyly at Eve. “Would you like some coffee? I made it myself just a little while ago.”

  “Yes, please,” Eve said, a bit taken aback by Amanda calling her Aunt Eve. But so she was. For some reason, her actual legal status in relation to the girls hadn’t occurred to her before this moment. As the only child of an only child, she’d never thought about being someone’s aunt before. And Travis had only talked about her being a mother to the girls, which, on reflection, they might well have resented. But Aunt Eve…That was something they could all live with. She liked the sound of it.

  “Is it okay?” Amanda asked, watching anxiously as Eve took her first sip of coffee.

  “Wonderful,” Eve assured her, forcing herself not to grimace at the taste. The brew was strong enough to strip paint.

  Amanda smiled with relief. “Uncle Travis usually makes it before he goes out to do the morning chores. I guess he forgot this morning because, uh…” She blushed slightly, looking away in preadolescent em barrassment, obviously making an assumption about why.

  “Well, I’m sure he couldn’t have made a better cup of coffee than this,” Eve said briskly. She took another appreciative sip of the coffee, then set the cup down on the tabletop so she could settle Timothy in his infant seat, giving Amanda time to get over the mortification of having sex nearly brought out into the open like that.

  “I’m sorry I spoiled your surprise,” Eve said, then smiled at Gracie, silently granting permission for the little girl to slip her finger into the baby’s waving hand. “Don’t let him put your finger in his mouth,” she warned, and reluctantly picked up her cup of coffee again. She looked at the other two girls. “I guess I should have stayed in my room until someone called me to breakfast.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Laura assured her breezily, speaking over her shoulder as she climbed on a wooden step stool to reach the kitchen cabinets. “It wasn’t a real surprise, like a birthday party or anything. It was just a little surprise.” She pulled open a cabinet door and turned her head to look at her sister. “Which bowl?”

  “The big yellow one,” Amanda said, tossing her thick blond hair behind her shoulder as she bent her head to consult the cookbook. “We need eggs and milk and vanilla,” she said to her sister. “And bread,” she added as Laura moved to get the ingredients for her. “And cinnamon.”

  Eve watched her, amazed that such a young girl was so competent in the kitchen, and more than a little sur prised that Amanda was allowed to use the stove without adult supervision. She’d have to talk to Travis about that.

  And then Amanda frowned, biting her bottom lip as she studied the recipe. “This says it serves eight,” she said fretfully, “but there’s only six of us and—” She looked toward the back door, out toward the barn and corrals. “Uncle Travis usually helps me measure if there are fractions.”

  Eve glanced toward the back door herself, nervously, realizing that Travis might be striding up the back steps right this moment. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or alarmed to see that he wasn’t. “I’m pretty good with fractions,” she said to Amanda. “Would you like me to help you? Just until your Uncle Travis gets here?”

  But neither Travis nor Gus appeared by the time they’d figured out the fractions and mixed up the eggand-milk batter. Nor were they anywhere in sight when the thick, batter-soaked slices of crisp, golden fried bread were ready to be taken off the griddle.

  “Maybe Hurricane didn’t get better from the medicine Gus put on him,” Laura said, offering up a possible excuse as to why neither of the men had appeared for breakfast. “I should go see.”

  Eve put a hand on the nine-year-old’s shoulder, stopping her. “I think we should sit down
and eat our breakfast before it gets cold,” she said, asserting her authority over them for the first time. “We’ll put Gus and your uncle Travis’s share in the oven so they can have it when they come in.”

  She held her breath for a moment, fearing the girls might object to what they could conceivably perceive as her interference. To her relief, they simply nodded in agreement, as if she had every right to direct their actions, and sat down to eat.

  Well, that was certainly a piece of cake, Eve thought as she took her place at the table. Too bad their uncle wasn’t as easy to handle.

  To her delight, breakfast turned into a girl gab-fest with shared confidences—shyly offered at first—silly jokes and lots of giggling. They discussed the mysteries of womanhood, why boys so often acted like jerks, and the age at which a girl might reasonably begin wearing makeup. When the dishes were done and a pot roast had been set to marinate in the refrigerator for the evening meal, Eve suggested, tactfully, that Gracie might like to get her bangs cut.

  “I know it doesn’t look like it,” she said, lifting a hand to her own riotous red curls, “but I’m really pretty good with hair.”

  “I think your hair is beautiful,” Laura said enviously, sighing in a way that only another girl with stickstraight hair would understand. The other girls nodded their heartfelt agreement.

  They set up their makeshift beauty shop in the yard behind the house, using a tall kitchen stool as a stylist’s chair and a large blue bath towel as a smock. When Timothy was safely ensconced in his infant seat on top of the wooden picnic table beneath the oak tree in the backyard and Bear had flopped down under it, Eve hoisted Gracie up onto the stool and draped the towel around her shoulders. While Amanda and Laura watched intently, she carefully trimmed their little sis ter’s overgrown bangs, then plaited her fine blond hair into two long braids that she looped up and tied with bright red ribbons behind each ear.

  “Okay, take a look,” she said, holding up a hand mirror so the squirming child could view the results.