Good Time Girl

by Candace Schuler

  Roxanne poured herself a cup of coffee, and pushed open the screen door to the back porch. It screeched loudly.

  “Someone really ought to put some WD-40 on that,” she heard Jo Beth say to the two older women.

  She let it the door slam behind her—a petty gesture, but deeply satisfying—and strolled down the steps and across the struggling patch of lawn to where the Padre sat in a rocking chair under a copse of cottonwood trees, his trusty nurse by his side to make sure he didn’t overdo, supervising as Jared and Augie set up the barbecue pit.

  An entire side of beef—more raw meat than Roxanne had ever seen in one place before—lay on a tarp on top of one of the picnic tables, waiting to be hoisted onto the spit. She tried not to look at it.

  “You ever seen a more beautiful side of beef?” asked the Padre as Roxanne approached. “Raised right here on Second Chance.”

  “Beautiful,” she said admiringly, while privately thinking that she might never eat another steak for as long as she lived.

  The Padre caught the flicker of distaste in her eyes. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” he asked, as if it were a perversion of the worst sort.

  “I wasn’t,” she said dryly.

  He laughed and slapped his knee. “A real firecracker,” he chortled gleefully.

  Roxanne gave in to impulse and bent down to kiss his leathery cheek. “Try not to give your nurse too hard a time today,” she said.

  He caught her hand as she straightened. “Was that goodbye?”

  “No,” she said. “That was a deep and abiding appreciation for a good-looking, dangerous man. I’ll tell you when it’s goodbye.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, and squeezed her hand—just as Molly Steele came out onto the back porch with a pile of bright, checkered tablecloths over her arm.

  “Don’t you overdo, now, Hector,” she called, frowning when she saw the two of them apparently holding hands. “You mind what your nurse says and don’t get yourself too excited. And, you—Roxy, isn’t it?” She motioned her forward with her free hand. “I’d appreciate it if you would come on over here and help me cover these tables. We can chat a bit while we work and get to know each other.”

  Roxanne sighed. No way did she want a private tête-á-tête with Tom’s disapproving mother. Seeing no way to avoid it, however, she was about to do as she was bid, when she felt the Padre’s hand tighten on hers.

  “I need Roxy to help me walk down to the barn.” The Padre rose to his feet, using the support of Roxanne’s arm for leverage.

  “That’s what the nurse is here for,” Molly said. “And you shouldn’t be walking that far, anyway. It’s not good for you.”

  “It is, too, good for me. The doc said walking is the best exercise I could do right now. And I want Roxy to walk with me.” He waved the nurse away. “You go help Molly cover those tables. I’ll call if I need you.”

  “Thanks,” Roxanne said.

  “The thing you got to know about Molly,” the Padre said, his head bent companionably to hers as they slowly ambled around the side of the house toward the barn, “is that she means well. She’s just become kind of narrow in her opinions and strict in her ways, is all. Comes of her background, I guess, just like it does with most folks. She was kind of wild as a girl, with parents who were too busy to be bothered. She took off with the first cowboy who said he loved her when she was barely fifteen and came home six months later with a full belly and no husband.”

  “Yes, Tom told me some of the story,” Roxanne said, and sipped her coffee.

  “She tried to make a go of it on her own but, hell, you know the story…a young unmarried girl, no education, no health coverage, no access to good child care, forced to take one minimum-wage job after another to make ends meet. She pulled herself out of it, though. Admitted she couldn’t do it on her own, and did what she had to do to make it right for her boy.”

  “Tom said she saved him when she gave him to you.”

  “She did. She saved herself, too. She worked hard, got a college education, and a good job. The thing is, though, instead of being proud of how far she’s come, she’s ashamed of where she’s been. She has no sympathy for the girl she once was, and— Can she see us from where she’s at?”

  Roxanne glanced back over her shoulder. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then let’s set a spell, shall we?” He indicated the steps leading up to the porch. “I need to catch my breath.”

  “Are you all right? Should I call the nurse?”

  “No. No, don’t call the nurse. I’m fine. Just haven’t got my stamina back yet, is all. Now—” he settled down onto the top step, under the shadowed overhang of the porch “—where was I?”

  “You said Tom’s mom hasn’t got any sympathy for the girl she once was.”

  “No, she hasn’t. And she’s got no tolerance for anyone else who strays from what she considers the straight-and-narrow, either.”

  Roxanne looked up at him from where she stood at the foot of the stairs. “And I’m about as far off the straight-and-narrow as a woman can get, is that it?”

  “That’s certainly what Molly thinks.” He gave her a sly, knowing smile from under his bushy gray eyebrows. “I have my doubts about that, though. I’ll wager Tom does, too.”

  Roxanne shrugged. “I wouldn’t count on that,” she mumbled, and buried her nose in her coffee cup just as Petie came roaring around the side of the house, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Rooster’s here! Rooster’s here!” He danced past her, heading down to the barbecue pit under the cottonwoods, then spied the Padre sitting on the steps and made a sharp left turn. “Rooster’s here, Padre!” he trumpeted in his piercing little-boy voice, and then changed direction again, heading down toward the barn at a dead run. “Tom! Rooster’s here, Tom. Come see. Rooster’s here!”

  “I swear, that little fella has got more energy than ten bucking bulls,” Rooster said to no one in particular as he came around the side of the house. “Plum wears me out to watch him.”

  He came to a dead stop when he saw Roxanne, a wide smile lighting up his plain, honest face at the sight of her. “Hey, Roxy.” He reached out as if to hug her, then stepped back indecisively, a little red around his ears at his presumption.

  Roxanne set her empty coffee cup down on the porch step and solved his problem for him by stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Hey, pardner.” She gave him a good, hard hug. “Congratulations on the big win in Cheyenne,” she said, and planted a big, noisy kiss on his cheek.

  Rooster blushed to the roots of his hair.

  “If you’re givin’ out your kisses for winnin’ rides, I’d just like to say, I beat his score in Wichita and Oklahoma City.”

  Roxanne looked past Rooster’s shoulder to the man standing a few feet behind him. “My goodness,” she said, her accent as thick and sweet as honey. “Clay Madison. What are you doing here, sugar?”

  Rooster gestured toward the young cowboy with a jerk of his thumb. “Clay’s my new travelin’ partner.”

  “So,” Clay said. “Do I get that kiss?”

  Roxy grinned and went into his arms. “That’s for Wichita,” she said, and kissed him on one cheek. “And that’s for Oklahoma City.” She kissed him on the other.

  It seemed to be her day for kissing cowboys.

  Unfortunately, the only one she hadn’t kissed yet chose that particular moment to make his appearance.

  “You want to unhand that woman,” Tom said, “or do I have to rearrange your pretty face for you?”

  Clay grinned and tightened his hold on Roxanne, keeping her from stepping away from him. “You’re welcome to try,” he invited. “Any place. Any time.”

  “If you don’t let go of me, I’ll rearrange your face for you,” Roxanne said, and jabbed him in the gut. She was in too close to do much damage, but it was enough to surprise him into letting her go.

  Clay stood there, a half smile on his handsome face, his hand on his abused s
tomach, watching her as she walked back to the porch and retrieved her coffee cup.

  Tom watched Clay watch her, and contemplated the possible satisfaction to be gained in carrying out his threat.

  Roxanne sashayed up the porch steps, and sat down on the porch steps next to the Padre to finish her coffee, pointedly ignoring them both. Or pretending to.

  “You boys may as well stop pawing at the ground,” the Padre said. “She isn’t impressed. And we haven’t got time for it now, anyway. We’ve got company comin’ up the drive.”

  THE PARTY was in full swing by noon. The long gravel driveway was lined with pickup trucks and dusty ranch cars. The kitchen counters were groaning under the platters of fried chicken and baked ham, the fresh corn tamales and enchiladas, the molded gelatin salads and layer cakes and homemade pies that had been brought by the ranchers wives to supplement the side of beef that was slowly roasting to perfection on the spit outside. There was a wild game of tag going on in the backyard and an impromptu horseshoe tournament being waged in the specially constructed horseshoe pits beyond the cottonwood trees. The Padre was sitting on the back porch, where he could keep an eye on the barbecue, playing a fiercely competitive game of checkers with the surgeon who had done his by-pass operation. There were fiddlers on the front porch for those who cared to dance or to just listen. And down in the main corral, out by the barn, the junior rodeo was in full swing under the careful supervision of Tom and Rooster.

  Roxanne took it all in, enjoying it to the full, wandering from activity to activity like a child at a county fair, storing up memories in defense against the not-to-distant future when she would be back in her narrow, boring little life in Connecticut. She tossed horseshoes with a jovial white-haired man who turned out to be a county judge, offered unsolicited advice to the checkers players, cheered on the budding rodeo stars, ate more barbecue than she intended to, and danced with anyone who asked.

  At the end of the evening, after the fires in the barbecue pit had been carefully banked, and the mothers had gathered up their sleepy children, and the fiddlers had packed up their bows, and the Padre had gone to bed, exhausted after the long day, and Molly Steele had gotten into her little blue Honda and headed back to Dallas, Roxanne found herself right where she wanted to be—alone in the moonlight with Tom.

  She leaned back, resting her elbows on the step behind her, and looked up at the stars.

  “Tired?” he said.

  “Peaceful,” she countered, and turned her head to smile at him. “Do you think everybody’s actually gone home?”

  “I sure as hell hope so. It’s coming up on one o’clock.”

  “And everybody in the house is asleep?”

  “It appears that way.”

  “Then, do you think, if we got a blanket and went out to the barn, we’d be alone?”

  He gave her a slow, sweetly wicked smile. “I can guarantee it.”

  She leaned over and kissed him. “Meet in the tack room in fifteen minutes,” she said, and disappeared into the house.

  DETERMINED TO SET the scene for romance, Tom used his fifteen minutes to excellent advantage. It only took a few carefully selected props. A bale of hay spread out over the wooden floor for atmosphere, a pair of quilts on top of that for comfort. An electric lantern turned down low to provide the necessary candle glow. A bouquet of sweet peas in a jelly jar to show her that he cared.

  “It should be roses,” he said when she stepped into the small cozy room, “but we don’t have any in the garden.”

  Roxanne felt the sting of quick, foolish tears and blinked them back, determined not to ruin her last night with him. “Roses would be overkill,” she said, and kissed him.

  It was soft and sweet and utterly romantic.

  “Would you do something for me?” she whispered.

  “Anything.”

  “Would you take off your shirt?”

  “Just my shirt?”

  “Just your shirt.” She smiled. “For now.” She slipped her fingers inside the front placket, beneath the pearl snaps. “I’ll help you,” she said, and gave a little tug, popping them open in one quick motion.

  He stripped off the shirt and draped it over one of the saddles on the rack. “Now what?”

  “Now you just stand there and let me seduce you.”

  “You’ve already done that, Slim. All you have to do is look at me like you’re doing right now and I’m putty in your hands.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Putty?” she said, and cupped her hand over the fly of his jeans. “It doesn’t feel like putty to me.”

  “Really hard putty,” he amended. “Cement.” He pressed his hand to the back of hers, molding her fingers to the solid shape of him. “Concrete.”

  “I’m going to make you harder. I’m going to make you so hard you hurt.” She slid her hand out from under his and backed away. “But no touching.”

  Tom was already being to ache. “No touching?”

  She shook her head. “Not until I tell you. Until I tell you, all you can do is stand there like this—” she took his hands and placed them at his sides, palms flat against his thighs “—and watch.” She backed up, well out of reach, and flicked open the top button on her vest. “And want.”

  He realized then that she’d used her fifteen minutes to change clothes. She was not longer wearing the jeans and tank top she’d had on all afternoon. She’d changed into her ruffled white-eyelet skirt and denim vest.

  “Do you remember that night at the Bare Back Saloon, Tom?” She flicked open the second button. “The night when you made me keep my hands against the wall and wouldn’t let me touch you?” She worked the third button loose. “Wouldn’t let me move until I was nearly crazy with desire?” She lingered on the fourth and final button, playing with it. “Do you remember that night?”

  As if he could forget it! “Yes,” he said, and licked his lips to ease the dryness.

  “Now it’s your turn,” she said, and slipped the last button from its buttonhole.

  The denim parted slightly, revealing a thin slice of flesh between her breasts. She ran her fingertips up and down the opening, those long, red, man-killer nails of hers brushing against her skin, driving him crazy.

  “Do you want me to open my vest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes…please?”

  She smiled in approval and edged the vest open a mere inch, then two, revealing the inner curves of her breasts and the sleek flat line of her stomach.

  “More?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  She peeled the two halves of fabric all the way back, slowly, tucking them beneath her arms to display her breasts. And then she cupped her hands over them and began massaging herself, making little circles around her areola, drawing her fingers together to pluck at her own nipples.

  “Would you like to touch me like this?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She tilted her head, looking at him from beneath the tangle of her overlong bangs. “No,” she said, and smiled when his fingers flexed against his thighs. “Well…” she made a little moue, a suggestion of a pout “…maybe I can come up with something else.” She sauntered within reach. “No touching,” she warned him, and leaned in, rubbing the very tips of her breasts to his chest. “Do you like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I like it very much,” he said. “Come closer.”

  She leaned into him a bit, flattening her breasts against his bare chest.

  “Closer,” he said.

  She shook her head and backed away.

  “Have mercy, Slim. You’re killing me here.”

  She tilted her head, considering that. “Sit down,” she said. “There.” She pointed at a squat wooden stool.

  He sat. It put him nearly at eye level with her bare breasts.

  “You can’t touch them with your hands.” She came closer, putting her breasts within reach of his mouth. Barely. “But you can ki
ss them.”

  He strained forward, closing his lips around one tempting nipple, and sucked.

  Hard.

  She moaned and leaned into him, giving him more, turning her body slightly to subtly direct him to the other breast. He took the hint and transferred his attention, giving it the same treatment. She moaned again, and he could feel her shudder. Her hands came up to his head, her fingers raked through his hair.

  “Enough!” she said, and jerked his head away.

  He nearly howled in frustration.

  She stood there for a moment, panting, her breasts quivering with every shuddering breath. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright with arousal, and the knowledge of her own seductive powers.

  “Would you like to see something else?” she said.

  “Yes, please.”

  She backed away a bit so he would get the full effect, placed her hands on her thighs, and began gathering the fabric of her skirt into her palms. The hem rose, inch by excruciating inch, revealing the tops of her bright red boots, the lacy white stockings that sheathed her slender legs, the stocking tops…

  “Aw, Slim!” he groaned. “Don’t stop now.”

  “Remember, the last time, when you tore my panties off?”

  The skirt rose a half inch higher, revealing a slice of bare skin above the top of the stockings.

  He started to sweat. “Yes. I remember.”

  “This time you won’t have to do that.”

  “I won’t?” he croaked.

  The skirt rose another scant inch.

  Two.

  “Do you know why you won’t have to rip my panties off?”

  “No,” he said, but he could guess.

  “Because—” she lifted the skirt to the top of her pubic mound “—I’m not wearing any.”

  He came up off the stool in a rush and lunged at her like a maddened bull.

  “No touching,” she hollered, but it was too late.

  He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around, bending her over one of the saddles on the rack, and flipped her skirt up over her head. Holding her there with a hand on the back of her neck, he used the other to rip open his jeans and free his erection, then inserted one foot between her booted ankles and swept it from side-to-side in two quick, convulsive movements, widening her stance. Grasping her hips in his hands, he stepped forward and thrust into her, burying himself to the hilt.