Shit! That must’ve been some raw liquor, she thought.
She remembered Trace Coleman having more points than she did and how disappointed she had been. She had taken a shower and changed for the rodeo dance. Someone had put a beer in her hands and she’d finished it quickly, then there had been dancing and another beer and that’s where everything came to a screeching halt.
There’s no way two beers put me on my butt. I can hold my own against three older brothers and I can outdrink my sister Colleen. How did I get home and into bed? Did I die and is this eternity? If I did, it has to be hell. But I can’t be dead. My head hurts too bad for me to be dead.
She wiggled her toes to find them still restricted in boots. She ran a hand down her side. She was still fully dressed. She opened both eyes even though the light hurt. Nothing. She was not at home in her trailer, so where was she? She didn’t recognize a single thing. A soft whimper on the pillow beside her caused her to turn her head just in time for a doggy tongue to lick her face from chin to eyelid.
Where did Sugar fit into the picture? Nothing made a bit of sense. She shut her eyes again against the harsh bright light coming through the window and tried to think. Doggy breath. The aroma of bacon and coffee. Someone humming an old George Strait tune “Famous Last Words.”
Holy Mother of God! She was in Trace’s trailer. He was happy and cooking breakfast and she was in his bed. What in the hell had she done?
And he’s humming about the famous last words of a fool? What did I say? Am I the fool?
She forced her eyes open one more time and looked down the length of the bed. He was putting plates on the table. He was every bit as sexy in those knit pajama bottoms as he was in tight-fitting jeans and chaps.
Shut up thinking like that! Try to think about what happened after that second beer.
He turned around and waved. “Good morning. I thought the smell of food might wake you up. I tried everything else but nothing worked.”
What all did “everything else” cover anyway?
Gemma eased to a sitting position and checked one more time. Yep, she was fully dressed, complete with her boots still on her feet.
Trace carried a cup of coffee to the bed and put two aspirin in her hand. “Something for the headache and to wake you. We’ve got more than four hundred miles to go before the end of the day.”
She popped the pills in her mouth and washed them down with stout coffee. “What happened?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Two beers.” He chuckled.
“Impossible.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I think someone drugged your beer. You left it sitting on a hay bale while you were dancing and when you finished it off, you passed out while we were dancing.”
She handed him the coffee and held her head with both hands. “Well, that was stupid. I know better.”
But you were watching me dance and your eyes made me all hot. Did I tell you that before I passed out?
“God, it even hurts to think. Who did it?”
“The last person I saw you dancing with was Chopper, but he wouldn’t drug you. I wouldn’t put it past Coby. He’s pretty wild and he’s had his eye on you.”
“I can’t remember anything after dancing to a fast song in a group of cowgirls. If that sumbitch doped me, he’s in big trouble,” she said.
Trace sat down on the edge of the bed. “You remember that much?”
“I remember dancing and waking up right here. What did I say or, worse yet, do?”
Trace chuckled. “You slept. I’d like to hold it over your head that you said something terrible or did something sexy, but you didn’t. You just slept like you were drugged. You finished that dance in the group and downed your beer. I asked you to dance with me and you barely made it past the end of the song before you were out. I would have put you to bed in your trailer, but it I didn’t know what might happen if I did, so I brought you here.”
She mumbled, “Thank you.”
He handed her the coffee and she sipped it. It did help erase the bitter, nasty taste in her mouth. If she ever figured out what sorry bastard drugged her beer, she fully well intended to repay the favor. Only he wouldn’t wake up fully dressed in a bed with a Chihuahua licking his face. He’d wake up staked out spread eagle and naked on a fire ant bed. If he wanted a hot bed, then by damn she’d give him one.
She slung her legs over the side of the bed. The room did a couple of fast spins before it slowed down.
“Need some help there?”
“No, I can do it,” she declared. She set the coffee on the end table and held on to the wall. Her legs were rubbery at first but they finally supported her and she took a couple of feeble steps toward the table.
Trace slung his legs over the bed toward the other side and followed her. Knowing he was back there to catch her if she fell gave her confidence and determination to make it to the table without help. She slid into the booth and sighed.
“This is miserable,” she said.
“Think you can drive? We could stay right here until tomorrow,” Trace said.
We could stay here? she thought. Where did that “we” business come from?
“This coffee and aspirin are helping. Once I eat something I’ll be fine,” she said.
“Your eyes still look dazed,” he said.
“It’s a crazy feeling not knowing what in the devil happened. I keep trying to remember something past the dance and I can’t,” she said.
He put a plate in front of her with three fried eggs, bacon, and two pieces of toast on the side and refilled her coffee cup before he carried a second plate to the table and joined her.
She picked up a piece of bacon with her fingers and ate it. It was crispy enough to crackle when she bit a piece off and it had been smoked to just the right flavor.
“I love breakfast food,” she said.
“Me too. Good breakfast starts the day out right. Good supper ends it. Dinner can be a quick sandwich or leftovers from the night before,” he said.
She cut up the eggs. “Just right. Over easy, whites done.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He grinned. “That proves it, Gemma. You were drugged for sure. If you had a hangover, you damn sure wouldn’t be eating greasy fried eggs.”
She looked across the table at Trace but didn’t nod in agreement. Moving her head still hurt. “You got that right. First time I ever got drunk enough to have a hangover, I didn’t even want to eat a piece of dry toast.”
Trace smiled again. He had a killer smile and dreamy eyes, and words could not begin to describe his body or his slow Texas drawl. He could ride a bronc and talk about horses, ranching, and rodeos, and could cook too. Why in the hell wasn’t he married?
“What time is it?” she asked.
He glanced toward the clock on the microwave and her gaze followed his. It was seven thirty. If they were on the road at eight, they’d pull into the campground at five that afternoon. That should give her plenty of time to cook the traditional holiday supper before the fireworks show started at dark.
“I’ll follow you today,” he said. “And I need your cell phone number so we can keep in touch about stopping for food and potty breaks.”
“You don’t have to. I can take care of myself.”
He chuckled.
She gave him the meanest look she could conjure up with a headache.
He raised both palms. “Hey, you want to go it on your own just say the word, darlin’. I’m just offering since you’re not runnin’ on all eight cylinders today.”
“It’s getting better,” she grumbled. “But I’ll take you up on the offer. And I’ll even make supper to pay you back for protection and breakfast.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You cook?”
She met his gaze without blinking. “You think I can’t?”
“You want a fight? I can deliver it.” He growled but his eyes were teasing instead of angry.
“No, I’m too messed up to fight. You’d win and th
en I’d hate myself. Yes, I cook,” she answered between bites.
“What are you planning?”
“It’s the Fourth of July. We’ll have steaks on the grill at the campground, corn on the cob, and maybe summer goulash if I can find a fruit stand along the way.”
“Summer goulash?” he asked.
“That would be potatoes, squash, onions, and tomatoes or whatever fresh vegetables I can find at a stand all put together in some foil and grilled with the steaks. And watermelon for dessert.”
He polished off the rest of his omelet and smeared grape jelly on the last piece of his toast. “Sounds like a meal fit for a king who just rescued the princess.”
“Darlin’, I’m not the princess. I’m the queen and I intend to have the crown in Vegas,” she told him.
He leaned across the table until their noses were only inches apart. “Miss O’Donnell, to get that crown you are going to have to get past me.”
“I can do it.” Her green eyes locked with his brown ones.
He slowly straightened his back and picked up his coffee cup.
She was disappointed. She was so sure that he would kiss her that she could already taste the coffee on his lips. She felt cheated and then she was angry at herself for wanting him to kiss her at all.
“I believe that you think you can beat me,” he said.
“I believe that you think I can’t.” She slid out of the booth. The room didn’t sway and her feet were on solid ground once again.
“I guess we’ll see what happens in the next five months.”
“And like I told you before, one of us is going to be very happy. Thank you for breakfast. I’ll be ready to leave in thirty minutes,” she said.
The room seemed smaller when he slid out of the booth. Six feet two inches of a bronc rider took up a lot of real estate, especially in a small trailer. “I’ll follow you. If you start feeling light-headed or sick just pull over and we’ll stop earlier than the campground. We’ve got five days to get to Colorado Springs. We don’t have to hurry.”
He opened the door for her and followed her out into the bright sunlight. “Going to be another hot one. Thank goodness for air-conditioning.”
She turned around and smiled up at him. “Amen.”
His arms gathered her close to him and she barely had time to close her eyes before his lips had found hers in a searing kiss that came close to frying her underpants.
Tongue met tongue in a fiery mating dance, and their bodies pressed tightly together as if closeness would ease the aching pain brought on by steaming hot kisses. One kiss grew to two with the last one lingering on and on. Yet it ended too soon, and when he stepped back she had to get her bearings quickly or she would have fallen forward into his arms again.
“See you when we stop for lunch.” He picked up her hand and wrote his phone number on her palm. “That’s in case you need to call me.”
He quickly disappeared back into his trailer.
Words would not come out of her swollen and hot mouth. And her hand was every bit as warm as her lips. So that first impromptu kiss hadn’t created an oozy feeling down deep in her gut because of an adrenaline rush; she really was attracted to the cowboy.
“Dammit to hell on a rusty poker,” she exclaimed.
With shaking hands, she fished her key from the pocket of her tight jeans and unlocked the door into her own trailer. Once inside, she threw herself backwards on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
She could not be involved with Trace. She couldn’t let him kiss her again. It would be like sleeping with the enemy, and she’d never know if he was playing her or if he was seducing her with those blistering kisses just to mess up her head so she’d wreck at every rodeo. Or was he as attracted to her as she was to him? Either way, she’d never know the absolute truth.
She’d leased her beauty shop and given up a year of her life for this circuit round. No matter how much her heart whined for more kisses and a taste of what Trace would be like in bed, the answer was no. Her heart could get over it. It could not have both, and there’d be lots of cowboys in her future. The glory of the Vegas win was a one-time shot.
“I mean it!” she mumbled as she reached down and undid her belt. Then she sat up, undressed completely, padded to the tiny bathroom, took a quick shower, and washed her hair. She slipped into panties and a bra, a pair of jean shorts with frayed edges, sandals, and a yellow cotton top with spaghetti straps.
She’d locked the door securely and was on her way to get inside her truck when she saw Trace bringing Sugar back from a walk. She’d never get used to seeing a big tough cowboy with a little bitty dog prancing along beside him.
“Ready?” Trace asked.
“Are you?”
“Soon as I get in the truck. You go on first and I’ll follow you,” he said.
She nodded and settled into the pickup seat, belted up, and started the engine.
How could he act as if nothing had happened between them? It must be a man thing. Her insides were a pile of mush and her brain was barely functioning. She wanted to follow him back into the trailer and finish what they’d started with that kiss and be done with it. Maybe a good romp in the sheets would put an end to the fire.
***
Trace settled Sugar on her pillow in the passenger’s seat of his black pickup truck, fired up the engine, and waited until he saw Gemma expertly back her trailer up and slowly pull away from the rodeo grounds. He fell in behind her and wished she was right there in the truck with him instead of looking at her license plate.
“Damn woman, anyway!” he said to Sugar. “Her lips are even softer than I thought they’d be, and the way she fit into my arms was like she belonged there. But I can’t do it, Sugar. We can be friends and traveling buddies, but no more of those hot kisses. Besides, she might be trying to mess me up so she can have her glory ride and be the second woman to win the title. She’s got two strikes against her. She’s way out of my league and I could never trust her.”
He was still arguing like a prosecution lawyer going after a guilty conviction when she signaled that she was getting off at the next exit. He was surprised to see that the whole morning had passed and it was lunchtime. He’d give her credit for one thing: she didn’t piddle around when it came to getting from one place to the next. They’d put in two hundred and fifty miles since they left the rodeo grounds.
She was out of her vehicle and jogging toward the door before he could get Sugar’s leash snapped and take her to the doggy section of the truck parking area. By the time Sugar had sniffed every blade of grass and chased a grasshopper out from under a rock, Gemma was back.
“Tell me what you want and I’ll order for both of us. We can eat while we drive.”
“Slave driver.”
“Yep, I am. Now give me your order. I only allow thirty minutes for eating and then it’s back on the road.”
“You really are a slave driver,” he said.
“Keep up or stay out of my way,” she teased.
“I want two cheeseburgers with everything on them, a double order of fries, a chocolate shake, and a cup of coffee,” he said.
She looked at her watch. “I’ll take care of the orders and then watch Sugar while you have a potty break.”
“Bossy as hell, ain’t you?”
“I prefer to think of it as highly acute organizational skills.”
“That’s just fancy talk for bossy,” he argued.
“Words are words. I’ll order and be right back.”
He watched her trot back inside. She looked just as good in those cutoff shorts as she did in tight jeans. It was going to be a long, long five months.
Chapter 5
The series of signs hung on the barbed wire fence like the old Burma Shave signs years before. Fruit Stand Ahead. Watermelon. Okra. Peaches. Squash. Tomatoes. Souvenirs. One mile. Don’t miss it. Exit now.
Gemma slapped on the signal for the exit, slowed down, and checked the rearview to be sure Trace was aware
that she was turning off. It was bigger than the roadside stands in Texas where someone threw a tarp over a couple of folding tables or else over the bed of their pickup truck. It was a permanent pavilion with rows and rows of fresh fruit plus souvenirs and homemade furniture.
Trace pointed as they walked toward the building. “Hey, look at that picnic table.”
“Howdy, folks,” the man behind the counter said.
“Hello. You mind if we bring the dog in?” Trace asked.
“Long as it stays on that leash or you carry it. Them little ones is meaner and faster than the big ones most of the time,” he said.
Trace held up the leash and the man nodded.
“Make you a good deal on one of them picnic tables. I’m trying to sell them before the new stuff gets here,” the man said.
“They are beautiful, but I’m too far from home to buy one now,” Trace said.
The man nodded.
Trace looked over his shoulder at Gemma. “I see a Coke machine over there. Want something to drink?” Trace asked.
“Cold root beer sounds pretty good.”
He started for the machine and Sugar pulled against the leash to go outside. “I’ll have to get it later. She’s getting desperate. I’ll let her run in the grass out by the trucks and then come help you carry your bags out.”
Gemma understood Sugar’s desperation. She looked around, saw a ladies room sign at the back of the place, and headed straight for it. It didn’t have a bit of air-conditioning and felt like a sweatbox inside, so she didn’t tarry to check her hair roots or her lipstick. When she went back out she found a small cart and pushed it straight to the watermelons. She thumped the ends of four before she found one that sounded right. Then she went on to the peaches, cantaloupe, green beans, onions, potatoes, and yellow squash. She was on her way to the counter when she looked up and saw a swinging sign advertising wind chimes at fifty percent off, so she made a turn and headed toward the back of the store.
She picked up one made of old silver spoons and shook it to hear the tinkling sound as they brushed against each other. She felt a presence and, expecting it to be Trace, she turned slowly. But it was a woman wearing a bright orange and turquoise caftan, sandals, and a turquoise turban on her head.
Just a Cowboy and His Baby (Spikes & Spurs) Page 6
