by Lynde Lakes
His breathing grew shallow just thinking about the silky skin beneath the towel, the skin he remembered so well. He trailed a finger from the hollow of her throat to the top edge of the towel, and she let him lower the nubby fabric, exposing her breasts. He stroked the familiar cinnamon-colored mole on her left breast—a beauty mark he’d called it. She quivered under his touch.
He remembered every inch of her. Remember me, damn it, and how I abandoned you. And then forgive me. But she didn’t remember him, and as much as he wanted her, he had to wait until she did. And hope for a miracle.
Matt covered her breasts with the towel again. “Thanks for the kiss,” he said, trying to sound casual. He winked. “When you remember us, we’ll take up where we left off.”
****
Molly felt like he’d thrown ice water on her. She grabbed her jeans and a fringed shirt and retreated to the bathroom. She couldn’t fool herself into believing she’d let him touch her so intimately only to distract him from the open drawer containing the three mysterious coins. She had wanted to distract him all right but became lost in desire.
When she returned, Matt stood by the window staring out, looking grim. He faced her. “I need to tell you something.”
A shiver slithered through her. Fighting apprehension, she lifted her chin. “Okay. Shoot, cowboy.”
“The pilot and his passenger left on their own, and the sudden way they left looks mighty suspicious.”
“Then I was right to insist that we leave your ranch.”
“Not necessarily. I could have protected you there, but this place works, too, as long as no one knows we’re here.”
“What do you mean? Lots of people know we’re here—Tita’s husband, probably your brothers, and goodness knows who else.”
“Alfonso’s the only one. I didn’t tell my brothers.”
“They’ve seen Roberto practicing calf roping, and they know he’s singing on the rodeo’s opening day and how close you are with the boy. You think they can’t figure it out? Tita and Roberto are gone—we’re gone—just days before the rodeo. Your brothers may be boozers, but they’re smart enough to add two and two.”
“Maybe. But the strangers are gone. And my brothers’ drinking isn’t your worry.”
“It is if their behavior affects my baby’s safety,” she snapped with more ferocity than she’d intended. “Parker tried to force you to hire Webb. Besides, admit it, Matt, your brothers’ drinking problems are eating you up. And I care about that.”
Molly winced at a flash of memory—her dad lumbering into the house like a bull in a china shop, smelling of stale beer and urine, shouting curses at her mother. He had chipped away at her mom’s self-esteem, and after years of covering for him, her mom finally had no choice but to leave. Oh, God! Of course! Her wonderful dad, the reporter she’d tried to emulate, had been a drunkard.
“Damn it, Molly. I don’t want to discuss my brothers’ problems. Not with you—not with anybody.”
“Too bad. Your secrets are out of the bag, cowboy. Everyone knows you’ve been an enabler for your brothers. Always picking up the pieces, cleaning up their messes.”
“Enabler?” He snorted in derision. “Bull. I’m family! If I didn’t bail Luke and Parker out, they’d be living in some cheap motel drinking themselves into oblivion. At least this way, most of the time, they’re on the ranch. Safe.”
“Safe? Alcoholics aren’t safe. And neither are the people around them. Luke and Parker are grown men behaving like delinquent boys. Smoothing things over for them is the worst thing you can do. When they don’t have to face responsibility they can keep drinking.”
“Don’t tell me that by helping my brothers I’m making them worse. I don’t buy it.”
He bought it all right. His denial didn’t fool her. The deep hurt in his voice sent pain surging to her heart. She shouldn’t have said anything about his brothers, but a dam had burst inside, and she couldn’t stop the flow. Not now. “Have you ever put their jobs on the line and demanded that they go into an alcohol abuse program, or get out?”
“They’d probably leave, and that would break my parents’ hearts.”
“Their hearts are already broken, Matt. Besides, they left you to handle the problems.”
“How the hell did we get on this subject? The strangers are gone. And my family is none of your concern.”
Molly winced. If he’d slapped her, it wouldn’t have hurt any more. “You’re right. I almost forgot. I’m not really your wife.” She pointed to the door. “You’d better sleep in the bunkhouse.”
“How do I explain not sleeping with my wife?”
“You’ll think of something. You’re so good at lying.”
****
In the bunkhouse, on a rock-hard cot, Matt tossed and turned, his treacherous body throbbing and swollen with desire. Being unable to satisfy his physical need wasn’t the only thing bothering him. Molly had poured salt onto his festering sibling-rivalry wounds, and he’d responded by striking back with words that hurt. Regret shot through him. The more he thought about her assessment of the situation, the more sensible it sounded.
By morning, Matt had made two decisions—both were risky and possibly life changing. The first he set into motion with a call to Buck at the main house, the second with a bite-the-bullet call to Lone Star Retreat. The alcohol abuse center’s approach was a roughshod intervention and grueling, in-your-face twenty-four-hour sessions. The director couldn’t guarantee the treatment would work, of course, and forcing his brothers into therapy might kill any love they had for him now. But to save them, he had to chance it.
It dawned on Matt that Molly had gone through the same kind of hell—or worse—with her father, and had learned the hard way that without help an alcoholic was doomed. How could he have been so dense and nasty when she tried to help? Her concern about his brothers came from years of personal experience.
Years of experience? Saints be praised! Molly was starting to remember. What else had she remembered? And why had she kept her progress to herself? Lack of trust?
Damn it. Her doubt was his fault, and he had to bridge the confidence gap, because what she knew—and wasn’t aware she knew—could get her killed.
****
Carrying Sara Jane in one arm and the car seat in the other, Molly hurried toward the arena. She wished now she’d brought the stroller. She took a shortcut past the bunkhouse and told herself it was to save wear and tear on her back and not to catch a glimpse of Matt. Fighting disappointment, she cut through the barn. Halfway through, she froze.
A familiar voice echoed from behind a partition. “No one’s wise to me,” she heard Ramon say.
“No one’s wise to me” weren’t the words she wanted to hear coming from a man assigned to help protect her baby. Molly ducked into an empty stall and placed the car seat at her feet. From her new location, she could see Ramon’s silhouette and realized he was talking on a cell phone.
“Parker’s the weak link,” Ramon continued. “He’d kill to get his due.” A frisson of pure shock ran up Molly’s spine. What was going on? Before she could find out more, a group of cowboys entered the far end of the barn laughing and joking. “Gotta go,” Ramon said, “I’ll keep you posted.”
Molly remained hidden until she was sure Ramon had left the barn. Trembling, she shifted Sara Jane and glanced at her watch. The rodeo was about to open. Matt would be there. He needed to know about this right away. Especially the stuff about his brother.
She grabbed up the car seat and slipped out of the barn while watching for any sign of Ramon. With the coast clear, she hurried across the grounds to the entrance and past a parking area with a haphazard jumble of horse trailers, campers, pickups, and recreational vehicles. Rushing by the spouting fountain and through the gate, she flipped open a small plastic case and showed her pass.
Inside, Molly climbed the bleachers and searched for the section reserved for special guests. The stands held packed rows of rodeo enthusiasts in colorful
western attire. Over the aromas of hot dogs and popcorn, Molly smelled sweat, horses, cattle, and hay. She caught sight of Tita, Wanda, and Suzy. They all greeted her with big smiles.
“Glad you got here in time,” Tita said, moving down and making room for her and the car seat on the bench. “The rodeo’s about to start.”
Molly remained standing, her body tense. “Where’s Matt?” she asked, trying to catch her breath.
Tita searched Molly’s face. “Is something wrong, señora?”
Molly knew she’d gained her señora status back simply because Tita needed to help keep up the marriage deception in order to keep her and her baby safe. Knowing Tita, the lie was costing her. Molly hesitated, then shook her head. “I just need to talk to Matt right away.”
“Mas bueno to stay put, or you’ll miss each other in this crowd. He should be here muy pronto.”
Molly nodded and sat down, but she kept craning her neck and scanning the crowd for Matt.
The whine of a steel guitar rose above the din of voices, and the crowd stood. In the center of a small stage at the grandstand above the arena, Roberto strummed his guitar and sang the state song in surprisingly deep tones for a teenager.
Tita dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “Speck of dust in my eyes.”
Molly nodded, her mind on Matt. She would never find him in this crowd. She might as well stay put until the rodeo was over. She might be safer in the middle of the crowd anyway.
“Roberto is entered in two events,” Tita said, “barrel racing and calf roping.”
“My fingers are crossed for him.” She didn’t think she’d ever seen a rodeo before, and if she hadn’t been so worried, she would have enjoyed the prospect. She gave Sara Jane a bottle and held her until she went limp in her arms.
The rodeo started with a calf-roping event, and Molly watched the participants doing their best to beat each others’ times. When Roberto’s name was called, Molly squeezed Tita’s hand. “Here’s what we were waiting for.”
Amid whoops and shouts of encouragement, Roberto shot out of a chute on a shiny red quarter horse, chasing after a scampering calf. Reaching mid-arena, he leapt from his horse, wrestled the protesting calf to the ground and trussed it tight in eight seconds flat. Roberto slapped his hat against the dust on the seat of his jeans, and then looked toward the stands at the honey blonde standing next to Tita.
“Way to go,” Suzy squealed, jumping up and down in delight.
An amplified voice announced Roberto’s score, stating it was “an excellent performance by a promising newcomer.” When the crowd cheered, Roberto smiled shyly, clearly enjoying the attention, and then he climbed the fence and joined Suzy. Clowns began to shovel up manure to prepare the arena for the next event.
Molly hoped Matt had seen Roberto’s ride. Both Matt and the teenager had been looking forward to it. So why wasn’t Matt here?
Calves had been roped and bucking broncs had been ridden. In the grandstands around Molly, people were getting restless, some stretching.
The PA system screeched, and then a voice announced the bull riding competition. The crowd settled down immediately, as though this was the main reason they were here.
“Have you ever seen a bull riding competition?” Tita asked.
Molly shook her head.
“It’s the wildest, most dangerous event.”
“Yeah,” Suzy said with a horror-storyteller’s tone to her young voice. “Last rodeo I went to, one of the top riders was gored to death.”
Molly rolled her eyes. “Who thought up this so-called sport? A guy with a death wish?”
“I keep telling myself it’s not so bad,” Tita said. “Roberto wants to ride a bull in the junior division in Reno.”
“Cool!” Suzy said. “Maybe I’ll enter, too.”
“Go ahead,” Tita said, “if that’s what you want. There are no rules to keep girls out. But make sure your parents’ medical and dental plans are paid up.”
Suzy laughed. “Shoot, I’ve been training on my dad’s mechanical bull since I was six. And I’ve already been dumped in the dirt by sheep and calves.” She lowered her sunglasses with strong-looking fingers and peered over the top. “Besides, I’ve won enough calf roping events to prove myself. Riding a big, bad bull is the natural next step. It’s no biggie.”
Molly shook her head and hugged Suzy. “I like your style, kiddo. I wish I had your guts.”
Suzy winked. “You do. I can tell. You’re a lady who’ll go after what she wants—when you know what that is.”
Molly knew what she wanted. She wanted her baby to be safe. Ramon’s phone call replayed in her head. And she wanted to talk to Matt.
As each rider and his bull shot out of the chute, Suzy and Tita explained the events. “Although an eight second timer is used,” Suzy said, “bull riding isn’t a timed thing. It’s a scored event. Which means you gotta look good, too.”
The PA system screeched again and the announcer said, “Our last rider is a cowboy we haven’t seen around for a spell, folks—all-time champion, Matt Ryan. Wave howdy, Matt.”
Molly’s breath caught, and for an instant, her heart froze.
He was perched on the top of a chute fence, looking like every cowgirl’s fantasy in tight jeans and protective black leather chaps. Matt saluted with his black Stetson, and the crowd roared.
She’d seen Matt’s trophies, but she’d also witnessed a series of bulls throwing their riders—almost stomping them or goring them. Sometimes, the rodeo clowns were all that saved the thrown riders from imminent danger. Matt had admitted that he hadn’t ridden in a long time. Damn him! What wildness possessed him now to risk his neck? He wasn’t just risking his own limbs. All broken up, how could he protect Sara Jane? Molly raked her hands through her hair. Suzy’s tale about the cowboy who was gored to death echoed in her head.
Chapter Seven
The noon sun bore down through a cloudless azure sky and scorched the rodeo arena unmercifully. Livestock stench hung in the dead, sweltering air. Beneath his black leather protective vest, perspiration soaked through the underarms of Matt’s chambray shirt. His vest, or flak jacket as he called it, was hot as hell, but it could save his life if the bull tried to gore or trample him.
Although he understood the dangers, he was confident he could win. He’d learned early on that a man shouldn’t be a bull rider unless he believed he could succeed. And he knew the rules by heart—hold the rope with one hand, if his free hand touched the bull or the rope for even a second, he’d be disqualified, and he had to stay on for the eight-count.
While confident, he wasn’t without apprehension. His gut twitched with unnerving tension as he watched a bearded cowboy drop the gate behind the dangerous Brahma he’d drawn. He’d seen this bull gore and tear up a man like thoughts of Molly were tearing him up inside. Her image was branded in his mind forever: Molly naked beneath the burgundy towel, his fingers tracing the edge, lowering it, cupping her satiny breast as heat rose between their bodies, tightening his coil of controlled desire to the point of snapping.
Only a dangerous and all-consuming eight seconds on the fire-breathing Brahma bull kicking against the sides of the chute below could release him from his personal hell.
He rubbed his championship belt buckle for luck, then swung his leg over the top of the iron fence, and cleared his mind of everything except the Brahma bull with the golden hide. Dragon Fire, son of the champion bucking bull Bodacious, was known as a man-killer.
Matt took a deep breath. He had his work cut out for him. He eased down and centered himself on the two thousand pounds of romping, stomping fury. He checked his own bull rope of braided leather tied around the bull’s middle just behind its shoulders, then plowed his glove into the strap. Beneath the leather, a thin film of sweat coated his hands. Damn. He had only this instant to get his hold right. He flexed his hand and settled his grip into its spot. The bull skittered underneath him. Adrenaline shot through Matt. He dug in his muted spurs and nodd
ed at the chute keeper. “Let ’er rip.”
With a clunk, the chute gate opened and the Brahma bolted into the arena. Under Matt, Dragon Fire bucked and twisted with fury, doing its damnedest to catapult him into the bowels of hell.
Matt hung on. He might go to Hades, but this ugly beef on the hoof wouldn’t send him there. Dragon Fire whirled and kicked. The weighted cowbell hanging from the bottom of the bull rope clanged loudly and reassured Matt with the sound. However, the clang sure as hell wasn’t there for music—it was a basic lifeline, a weight to help the rope slide off the bull when he was ready to dismount, and avoid tangling his hand up in the rope again once he’d let go.
He saw flashes—fencing, clowns, color. The crowd roared. Going well…going well. He was in sync, merged with the snorting, thrashing power and counted the eight seconds in his head. He’d like to go for sixteen, but the longer he stayed on, the greater his chance of getting tossed—or stomped or gored.
A blaring horn declared the end of the eight seconds.
Matt’s heart pounded. Why not go for broke? Show the crowd what a world-class bull rider could do. More important, show Molly.
He counted eight more seconds, heard the crowd roaring its approval, then decided that was enough. Matt brought his free hand down to loosen the gloved grip on the rope and tried to leap free. But his glove was caught in the bull’s rope.
****
The crowd gasped and shot to their feet. “No!” Molly screamed. Her hand jerked to her throat, and her breath froze. She watched, horrified, as Matt struggled to free himself. He whirled and rode the wind on the twisting, kicking bull. His weight seemed to keep the rope from unfastening from the crazed animal. Matt’s black Stetson flew off and was crushed beneath the bull’s hooves. Oh, God, Matt could be stomped to death right before her eyes, and she couldn’t stop it. She wanted to squeeze her eyelids closed to block the horror, but she locked her gaze on him as if watching would protect him.
