Just a Cowboy and His Baby (Spikes & Spurs)

by Carolyn Brown

  “Momma would sell me before she would that horse.” The door opened right into the living room, which looked masculine with its soft leather furniture, plasma television, and hefty oak coffee table.

  “How much?” Trace whispered low enough for her ears only.

  Stairs went up off to her right and doors opened to her left. Another tall blond cowboy came out of the nearest door wiping his hands. “Hi, Trace, and you have to be Gemma. I’m Hill Coleman. Trace told us you were beautiful, but he didn’t do you justice. Come on in and set up to the table. Harper will be down in a minute. He had to go wash up a bit.”

  Like part of a country song on a continuous loop, Gemma kept replaying what Hill had said: “Trace told us you were beautiful.”

  Harper yelled from the top of the stairs, “I’m on my way. Don’t be startin’ without me. Trace will get all the best parts.”

  Boots made a rat-a-tat noise on the steps as he hurried down.

  Gemma looked up at still another handsome blue eyed, blond-haired cowboy and then back at Hill. They were so much alike that she couldn’t tell them apart.

  “Twins, remember?” Trace said. “Hill is an inch taller and Harper has longer hair.”

  “I do not, and he’s only half an inch taller.”

  “And there’s the way you tell them apart.” Trace chuckled. “Harper will always argue that point. I’ve known them since they were born and sometimes I can’t even tell who is who, but if I mention their height then Harper argues and I can tell them apart that way.”

  “It’s on the table,” Hill said. “And if you really want to tell us apart, then remember I cooked tonight. Harper does a pretty good job of simple things, but you won’t ever get yeast bread when he cooks. He and Trace, neither one could make a pan of biscuits that couldn’t be used for skeet shootin’.”

  Harper led the way to the country kitchen. “Come on now. Stop telling tales.”

  “So you all cook?” Gemma asked after Trace held her chair for her.

  Harper answered, “We take turns. Momma said boys had to learn to cook just like girls.”

  “You have sisters?”

  “No, ma’am,” Harper said. “Momma said after she had three boys she was afraid to try for a girl because she might get another mean boy. You got sisters?”

  “One sister, Colleen. Three brothers.”

  “Bless your momma’s heart,” Hill said.

  “She’s pretty tough and she believed in boys being able to cook and girls being able to ride a bronc or pull a calf,” Gemma said.

  “Wise woman,” Lester said.

  “Pardon me for changing the subject here, but how is Uncle Teamer?” Hill asked Trace.

  “Doin’ good. He’s ready to retire and I’m ready to buy him out soon as I get the money together.”

  “He’s been ready for a couple of years,” Hill said.

  “Little bit of history, Gemma.” Hill smiled. “There are three brothers in the Coleman family. Teamer, our father, and Trace’s dad are brothers. Trace’s dad didn’t take to ranchin’. He’s a lawyer in Houston and Trace is the only chicken in that nest. Teamer never married and didn’t have any kids, so he wants to give Trace the ranch, but Trace has a stubborn streak a mile wide and won’t take it without paying for it. My daddy and momma retired about five years ago and turned this place over to the three of us.”

  There Gemma sat with three blond cowboys that fit the fortune Liz told just fine and yet not a one of them made her heart do double time.

  “I can believe that about a stubborn streak.” She smiled.

  “Oh, yeah! He’s got the worst one of all of us,” Hill said.

  “Hey, now.” Trace smiled.

  “Okay, change of subject. We want to make another offer now that we got you here. How about staying on two weeks? Kids one week and senior citizens the next?”

  “Senior citizens?” Gemma asked.

  “I like the kids, but I love the old folks when they are here a week. The same ones have been coming the past five years. Youngest one is about seventy and they are a hoot,” Lester said.

  “You could drive up to Cheyenne for the rodeo and come back the next day. That’s when they arrive and they’ll stay a week. You’d have three days to go from here to Dodge City for the next one, and it’s only six hundred and fifty miles,” Hill said.

  Trace looked at Gemma and she shook her head. She’d had more than one major brain malfunction since she met Trace, but she wasn’t going to succumb to any more.

  “I’m going home between Cheyenne and Dodge City. I’m homesick and I got to tell you, this supper is delicious, but it’s not helping cure my homesickness. Every bite tastes just like my granny’s cookin’, and I swear these hot rolls are as good as Momma’s. Sorry, guys. Why would you need counselors for senior citizens anyway? Aren’t they considered adults?” she asked.

  Hill chuckled. “Well, thank you for the compliments. It don’t get no better than that, darlin’. We were just hoping to hang on to Trace another week. We don’t get together nearly often enough.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Gemma said. “Can’t stay away from Ringgold, Texas, too long or I get all melancholy, but you can keep Trace if you want. He doesn’t have to go where I go or even take me to the airport. I’m a big girl.”

  Trace snorted. “You? Melancholy? More like another M word.”

  “And what would that be?” she asked.

  “Mean. Don’t let her fool you, guys. She’s meaner than a junkyard dog.”

  “Are you calling me a bitch?” She accentuated every word with a poke of her fork.

  “No, ma’am. I’m not nearly that brave,” he said.

  Hill laughed. “Man, you done backed yourself up in a corner. You’d best do some sweet-talkin’ or we’ll have to call the undertaker when she kills you with that fork.”

  Gemma laid her fork down. “Darlin’, you’d best never get that brave or I won’t need a fork. I’ll take care of you with my bare hands. And I am homesick. I like getting away from Ringgold, but that’s where my roots are. I love traveling and the excitement of the rodeo, but what I really like is my chunk of north Texas dirt.”

  Trace felt the same way about Goodnight, Texas. He’d never want to leave there permanently. But hearing her say those words put a whole new spin on their relationship. She wouldn’t ever leave Ringgold. He’d never leave Goodnight, and there was two hundred miles between the two small towns.

  After supper the brothers shooed them out of the house.

  “Y’all got unpacking and settlin’ in to do. We’ll take care of cleanup,” Hill said.

  “He means I’ll take care of cleanup,” Harper teased. “But you do both need to check the agenda for next week to see if you want anything changed, so get on out of here.”

  “Thank you for supper, for the cleanup, and for everything else,” Gemma said.

  Trace nodded in agreement. “We don’t mind helping.”

  Lester shook his head. “You go on and get your beauty rest even though you don’t need it.”

  “Be careful, she’ll be accusing you of shootin’ her a line,” Trace said.

  “Darlin’, that’s the gospel truth. Ain’t no bullshit to it.” Lester grinned.

  “Thank you,” Gemma said.

  Trace looped her arm into his. “And now we are going.”

  Once they were out on the porch, he removed her arm and said, “I’ll walk down to your cabin. You can drive and then I’ll unload your baggage.”

  “Hey,” she called out when he’d gone three steps.

  He turned in time to see something flying toward him. He reached up and grabbed the keys before they hit him in the face.

  “You drive. I’ll walk. I need it after that meal.”

  By the time she arrived, he’d unlocked the door and her bags were sitting inside the door. She stepped inside to find a long rectangular room lined with bunk beds on either side. An open door at the very end showed a bedroom with a king-sized bed. She
headed straight for it. Trace followed her into the enormous room with a recliner, television, private bathroom with the big claw-foot tub that Trace had promised, and a stacked washer and dryer combination.

  “This is great,” she said. “And this bathroom is all mine? I don’t have to share with the girls?”

  “All yours,” Trace said. He laced his fingers in hers. “Come with me and I’ll show you the one that they use.”

  It was enormous with several stalls and five divided showers with pink shower curtains. Vanities had plenty of outlets for hair driers and mirrors above that stretched the length of the whole wall for primping.

  Trace led her back out into the main room where the walls were rough-hewn logs, and area rugs separated the living area from the bedroom space. Two deep leather sofas in a dark brown color, a plasma television, and a computer station took up space on one side. Comfortable chairs and a wall filled with books were on the other side. She wondered which area would entice her girls the most: books or entertainment.

  Between the sofa area and the beds there was a small kitchen area with a stove, cabinets, and a refrigerator. She pointed at it and asked, “Do we cook some of our meals here?”

  “No, three meals a day are served in the dining cabin. The kitchen is for night snacks or whatever you want to do with the girls, like craft projects or popcorn.”

  He picked up her laundry bag and carried it to the bedroom at the end, came back, and got her duffel bag and set it on the bed. “What do you want to do first?”

  She raised a dark eyebrow. “You’re asking and not telling?”

  “I am,” he said.

  “Then I’d like to take a bath in that tub over there. I’d like to lie back in it and not get out until I look like a prune.”

  Trace smiled. “Your wish is my command, darlin’.”

  “You’ve got a wicked look in your eyes.”

  “You think that big old tub would hold both of us?”

  She smiled. “Oh, yeah.”

  He slipped his shirt over his head and reached out to help her remove hers. “You ever had sex in an old-fashioned bathtub?”

  She shook her head. “Not any kind of bathtub. You?”

  “No. That makes us both bathtub virgins, but I betcha we can figure it out.”

  She kicked off her boots and peeled her jeans down over her hips while he started running the water. When he turned around she was wearing only bright red lacy underpants.

  “Nice outfit there, Miz O’Donnell,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Coleman. I wore it just for you,” she flirted.

  He started humming “Your Man” by Josh Turner as he pulled his shirt over his head and kicked his boots over next to the vanity. Her blood pressure shot up when the lyrics came to mind. It went up another ten points when he removed his jeans and wasn’t wearing underwear. One of those huge Mexican sombreros could have hung on what was behind his zipper.

  After three nights of glorious sex, it would be a miracle if she could even stay on a horse eight seconds at the rodeo. Was that what Trace was attempting to do—wear her out and give her too much to think about to win the purse in Colorado Springs?

  He dropped down on his knees and ran his hands up her legs from ankles to waist. She expected him to peel her lacy underwear in one long sliding swoop, but he kissed her belly button and then moved around to her hip where he latched on to the edge of the lace with his teeth and tugged them down a quarter of an inch at a time.

  Ripples of goose bumps rose up on her body and she shivered.

  “I thought you didn’t like kinky.”

  “Honey, this ain’t kinky. It’s just plain old foreplay. You like it?” he mumbled.

  “Mmmm,” was the only sound that would come out of her mouth.

  When she was totally naked, he picked her up and put her into the water and then crawled in the tub with her. She straddled him and picked up the washcloth from the chair beside the tub.

  “My turn.” She nibbled on his earlobe. “You have to sit perfectly still and let me give you a bath before the sex starts.”

  “You are killing me, Gemma.”

  “But what a way to go, right?”

  He reached up to wrap his arms around her and she shook her head. “It’s like a lap dance. You can’t touch, but I can.”

  He stretched an arm out on either side of the tub and gave himself over to her. She lathered his body with soap and then slowly rinsed it by squeezing the washcloth over him until the soap was gone. Then she rose up on her knees and washed his hair, massaging his scalp with her fingertips until he groaned.

  “You are so damn sexy,” she said.

  “Is that a line you use on all your boyfriends?”

  “Darlin’, I don’t shoot lines of bullshit. I state the gospel truth.”

  But the word boyfriend did not escape her. Was that what Trace was at this point? If so, how did she deal with it?

  “God, woman, I’m not going to even be up for a dash. Forget the sprint and the marathon,” he growled.

  “I’m so damn hot that I was thinking about an eight-second ride to start with,” she said.

  “That I think I can manage,” he said.

  She wrapped her legs around his body and lowered herself onto his wet erection. She measured the washcloth like a rein and then nodded as if the chute was about to open and they started the ride. He was the bronc and she only had to stay on for eight seconds. The buzzer should’ve sounded long before it did. Eight seconds soon grew to eight minutes with her meeting him thrust for thrust until it ended in a blast that came close to blowing her eardrums out.

  He wrapped his arms tightly around her and buried his face in her shoulder. “Many more nights like these past three and I’ll be dead.”

  “I’ll wear black to your funeral and take home the prize in Vegas,” she said breathlessly.

  “You are heartless,” he said. “But remember, after tomorrow night we’ll have separate cabins and a whole week of babysitting. Then a day of rodeo and a two-day trip to Dodge City and you are going home.”

  “Then we’d better make hay while the sun is shining. You ever had bunk bed sex?” she asked.

  “No and I don’t intend to lose my bunk bed virginity tonight when there’s a big old king-sized bed right in there waiting on us,” he declared.

  Chapter 8

  Gemma felt the horse’s muscles ripple in protest when she eased into the saddle and shoved the heels of her boots down into the stirrups. He was ready for action, but then so was she. She needed to win because Trace was ahead of her. Not that it was a given fact that one of them would win that night. Coby Taylor was a cowboy with a drive that could easily whip both of them if they didn’t keep on their toes, and Billy Washington was moving up the ranks pretty danged fast. She measured the rein, inhaled deeply, let it all out slowly, and motioned for the gate to be opened.

  It was a toss-up as to whether the announcer or the crowd was more excited when Dancer put both hind feet toward the sky and tried to send her into a long greasy slide into the dirt or when he bowed up in the middle and tried a new tactic. It was when he was doing another kick that a fat wasp lit on the knuckles of her rein hand. The stinging pain began and Gemma had to fight off the instinct to let go and slap at it with her free hand. Eight seconds became eight years as she tried to live through the pain tattooing her knuckle. She managed to stay with Dancer all the way to the end, but before the buzzer went off she knew her rhythm had been off and her scores would be low.

  “And that, cowboys and cowgirls, was Gemma O’Donnell, our only woman contestant in today’s bronc riding event. Give it up for a spunky lady from Ringgold, Texas, who just held on for the full eight seconds,” he said.

  She removed her signature pink hat and bowed for the screaming crowd in spite of the stinging, swollen knuckle where the wasp had worked his evil magic. Damn the bug anyway. She hoped a wild bull stomped the hell out of it in the next round.

  “Judges’ scores are
in for Gemma.”

  She held her breath and waited.

  “Seventy-eight points. Not bad for the lady beating Coby Taylor by one point! And she came in second behind Billy Washington who had seventy-nine points. Give it up for Gemma one more time,” the announcer said.

  She waved to the cheering crowd with her hat and disappeared back into the shadows. Granny O’Malley had taught her to make a paste of baking soda and water for bee stings and burns, and she had both in her trailer. She had started off in a jog when she heard the announcer telling everyone that Trace Coleman was up next. She stopped in her tracks and climbed up the side of a chute for a better view. No way was a damned wasp sting getting in the way of her watching Trace’s ride.

  ***

  Trace checked his spurs and climbed up the side of the chute. He slid into the saddle and shoved his boots down into the stirrups. He tested the rein and measured it to just the right length, lifted up on it, and nodded to open the gates. From the moment they swung open he was one with the bronc: legs right for the mark out, legs back and then forward like a dance until the buzzer sounded. Had it really been eight seconds? He felt as if he could have ridden the horse into total submission. He slid off the side with the help of the rescue rider to see a standing crowd whistling, screaming, and waving.

  “Now that was a ride!” The announcer’s voice was more excited than it had been all evening. “I can see why Trace Coleman from Goodnight, Texas, is the number one choice for this year’s bronc riding title. And the judges are already done with their tally sheets. That will be eighty-two points for Trace Coleman in the best ride of the night. Give it up again for Trace Coleman, who walks away from the rodeo tonight with an even closer shot at the finals in December.”

  He waved to the crowd and then headed to the chutes to claim his saddle. He’d barely made it out of the arena when he saw Gemma running, spurs jingling toward her trailer. He took off after her in a long-legged lope and found her standing in front of the small kitchen sink in a hot travel trailer with tears streaming down her face.