The Junkyard Cowboy (Tall, Hot & Texan Book 3)

by Christie Craig

  Jennifer caught her breath. “She’d been going to pick up my shoes for the Homecoming dance. I’d insisted they had to be dyed. I was . . . I was the reason she was on that freeway.”

  “Fuck.” He rolled over. “That’s not on you.”

  “I know, and I’ve spent thousands of dollars in therapy to be able to say it and see it that way. But there’s this little pocket in my heart that holds onto the guilt.”

  He lifted up on his elbow. “I know exactly what you’re feeling, but you can’t think that.”

  A quick shake of her head sent some loose strands of hair on her cheek. “What if I hadn’t been so damn picky?”

  “Hey. Look at me. I know how guilt works. It’s like a cancer. It eats you up inside. You can’t let it win.”

  She met his eyes and nodded. “That shooting wasn’t your fault. He shot you and your partner first.” She rolled over and rested her hand on his chest.

  He placed his hand over hers, and something about that touch felt healing.

  “I was really good at my job. When that happened, I . . . not only felt guilty, but it ripped out my self-confidence. Somehow, everything I was seemed to be wrapped up in being a cop.”

  “You’re more than a cop.” She pressed her palm tighter to his chest.

  “I know,” he said. “We just have to keep telling ourselves that it’s not our faults.”

  She swallowed. “We’re two peas in a pod, aren’t we?” An almost sad smile touched her eyes. “But we’re survivors.”

  “Yeah.” He leaned a little more onto his side and brushed her hair off her cheek. Her skin was so soft. Her eyes so blue. Her lips so damn tempting.

  He stopped resisting. “Can you explain to me why we both thought kissing was a bad idea, because I’m trying to remember and . . . I’m coming up empty.”

  She bit down on her lip. “I’m a little confused, too.”

  “Good.” He pressed his lips against hers. It went from sweet to sweeter. Hot to hotter.

  She moved her soft hand up and down his abs, he let his hands move around her middle. But damn if he didn’t want to explore every inch of her curvy body, to throw caution to the wind, to make love to her right there under the blue sky and the bright sun. And damn if he wouldn’t have if the horses hadn’t started neighing and pulling at their ropes which he’d tied around the tree.

  He glanced up. His gaze caught on a snake about twenty feet from their blanket and moving toward them.

  It was a copperhead.

  “Shit!” He bolted up, snatched her to her feet, and pulled her back.

  Dazed and confused, she stared up at him.

  “Sorry, there was a snake.”

  “Snake,” she squealed. Her eyes rounded. Her complexion faded.

  Then bam, she leapt up. He’d never had a woman climb up him so fast.

  Her legs wrapped around his waist, she latched her arms around his neck, buried her face between his neck and shoulder and screamed, “Run. Run. Don’t drop me. Pleeese don’t drop me!”

  He spotted the snake now racing the opposite way.

  Jennifer, wiggling, brushing up against him in all sorts of wonderful places, pulled back, pressed her forehead against his again and yelled, “Run.”

  She smelled so good, felt so good wrapped around him, that he pulled her even closer, and laughed. The kind of laugh that felt as if it cleared out cobwebs of old hurt, old pain that had hung on for too damn long.

  He was still laughing when they rode back to the ranch.

  • • •

  That connection, and the risk-taker attitude, lessened a degree as the afternoon continued, but not by much. She remembered his kisses, the way it had felt to lie back on that blanket with him. How it had felt to tell him about her mother. To hear him talk about his own demons.

  Pete made iced tea and put on a pot of chili, and they brought out the folding chairs and sat out on the porch as Clay fixed a fencepost next to the barn. Every few minutes, she’d find her gaze whispering over to him. Admiring how he worked, how his muscles shifted and rolled, how when he looked up, his emerald gaze found hers.

  “He’s a good guy,” Pete said, as if he could read her mind.

  “I know.” And she did, but Johnny had been a great guy. And she’d thought Todd and Charles had been great guys. She’d spent over eleven years giving them her all, and getting goodbyes. Was it too much to ask to find someone to spend her life with, to have babies with, to grow old with? She wanted her forever guy, not her for-now guy.

  “I know he says he’s not looking for a relationship, but that could change.”

  The air she’d swallowed suddenly tasted bitter. She gaped at Pete. “He said that?”

  Pete shifted his butt around as if the seat had grown hot. “Well, yeah, but . . . I mean, all guys say that, and . . . they don’t really mean it. They’re just waiting for the right woman to change their minds.”

  “Right.” The floating feel-good feeling vanished, and she fell—slammed—smack-dab into the middle of reality. Clay Connors wasn’t a forever guy.

  Jennifer, remembering why she was here and her payment for his services, went in and found some paper and a pencil and started sketching out the living room and jotting down decorating ideas.

  An hour later, she ended up back on the porch, determined to prove she could be around him without melting. It was about five when Clay finished and joined them on the porch. He was sweaty. He found the water hose, pulled off his hat and shirt and held the stream of water over his head. She saw the water roll down his abs, into the waist of his jeans, but he didn’t seem to care. His grinned at her, and she knew he was remembering their water battle. Their kiss.

  And there she went. Melting again.

  Bare-chested and beautiful, he moved to the porch, readjusted his chair, then dropped into it. He was so close now that his forearm, warm and damp, kissed hers. The brief brushing of his skin to hers sent shivers of regret to her heart, leaving a wake of pain.

  Pain that did not make a lick of sense. She barely knew this man.

  “Is that chili I smell?” Clay asked.

  “Yup,” Pete said.

  Clay looked at her. “You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten Pete’s chili.”

  “It smells good.” She refocused on her paper.

  His arm brushed hers again, and needing to clear her head, she shot up and went inside. She felt him watching her leave.

  Standing just inside the living room, she heard him ask Pete, “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Pete said, but his tone seemed off. He knew what he’d done.

  And so did she. He’d stopped her from making a big mistake.

  She took several minutes before coming back outside. Needing an excuse for her departure, she brought Clay a glass of iced tea.

  He studied her, smiled, winked, and offered a sincere thank you before he downed the entire glass. The phone rang, and Pete went in to answer it.

  The second the screen door banged shut, Clay slipped his hand into hers. “You okay?”

  “Great.” She put on her best smile and pulled her hand free. She felt him staring.

  A few minutes later, Pete came back out. “That was Ralph’s grandson.”

  “Ralph?” Clay asked.

  “The friend I went to see yesterday who has a heart condition. His grandson’s been staying there, but the grandson’s wife’s been in a small accident, and he needs to go be with her. I’m gonna go stay with Ralph. Probably sleep there tonight.”

  “Yeah. Go,” Clay said.

  Jennifer realized what that meant. She and Clay would be alone.

  She remembered those warm kisses on the blanket. The hum of her body wanting more. The emotional echo of his hand squeezing hers when she’d told the truth of her mother and sister’s death. How odd that She’d told him something she’d never even told Charles.

  What the hell did that mean?

  Was there a chance, even a small chance, that Clay wanted the same thi
ngs out of life that she did? Or if she didn’t stop this craziness now, was she going to fall head over heels in love with another guy who would make her happy for the now, but never for the later?

  • • •

  Bundy had started at one side of town. He drove every neighborhood, every street looking for another black Chevy. If it took him all night, it didn’t matter. He’d find that truck. Find that junkyard guy.

  Sure, some of the houses had garages. But on a day like today, most of them had the garage doors open, working on the yard, or changing oil. He took mental notes of the streets with a lot of closed garage doors, and after going over every house in the fucking town, he’d come back.

  He found only one black Chevy truck, but was certain it had been an older model. When he’d covered the north and east side he headed south, back to the junkyard side of town.

  As he reached the junkyard, he slowed down. There wasn’t a truck, and the sign wasn’t lit. Where the hell was this guy?

  • • •

  Pete quickly gathered his stuff and kissed Jennifer’s cheek before he walked out. “Tomorrow’s my day to feed the stock, so I’ll be back early. How about I bring you some cinnamon rolls from the diner? They’re finger-licking good.”

  “Sounds great,” she said.

  “If you cook another pie, don’t let Clay eat it all.”

  She laughed and hugged him. He smelled like hay and chili and comfort. She gripped him for a few second, needing to hold on to something.

  When she pulled back, he studied her with aged gray eyes, and she sensed he was about to impart some kind of wisdom.

  “Even horses need to be broken in.”

  Yeah, but they always seem to break me first. A few minutes after Pete walked out, she heard him say something to Clay, who was still sitting on the porch.

  “Just use my truck,” she heard Clay say.

  A few minutes later, she peered out the window and saw Clay changing a tire on Pete’s old truck.

  She heard Pete’s words. “He’s a good man,”

  An hour later, Jennifer cut up a salad to go with Pete’s chili, while Clay made toast. Part of her felt the need to explain her change of heart, another part said it would be too awkward and make her look like some husband-hunting woman. How could she say, If you’re not promising me forever, I don’t have the time for you? It sounded messed up after only knowing him a few days.

  A lump formed in her chest. Did it just sound that way, or was it messed up? Was it her who was messed up?

  Dinner was big on flavor, shy on conversation.

  “I’ll do the dishes.” She got up.

  “I’ll help.” He stood up, too, no longer smiling. Grumpy and quiet Clay was back.

  She washed. He dried. When they were on the last dish, he finally let go of a gulp of air. “Can we talk about the elephant in the room?”

  She looked at him and went for her first line of defense. Humor. “You mean the one wearing a pink tutu?”

  He didn’t smile. “Look, I don’t know what happened. I mean, I thought we . . . I really enjoyed being with you at the lake, and then we came back, and we’re back to . . . this.”

  She nodded, the guilt on her shoulders felt heavy. “I enjoyed it, too. But I just . . . broke up and—”

  “Don’t lie!” he said. “You didn’t love him. This isn’t about him.” He looked hurt. “If this is about sex. Well, I don’t want . . . I mean, yeah I want it, but—”

  “It’s not that. Not just that. I want . . . I’m not sure if . . .”

  He tossed the dishtowel on the counter. “I’m not a funeral director, huh?” His tone rang hard and angry.

  “Who told you?”

  “What does it matter?” he growled. She’d heard him frustrated before, but never angry.

  He ran all ten fingers through his hair. “Do you know how screwed up that is?”

  She frowned. “You don’t understand—”

  “Stop,” he said. “You don’t owe me an explanation. You don’t want to even give me, or us, a chance.” He started to the bathroom, got almost there, then swung around. “And the whole small dick thing. It’s crazy and insulting. I mean, you take away the one thing a guy is most proud of. And you act like having a few extra inches is a bad thing! Do you know I actually found myself wishing my dick was smaller today? I mean, I know tons of women who liked the size of my dick!”

  She stood there as embarrassment roiled in her chest, heated it, then raced to her face. Then another emotion took over. Anger.

  She tilted her chin back. “Did you really just say that?”

  He ran one hand over his face, then scrubbed the other one down it. His gaze met hers. “Yeah, I did.” Gone was the cracking anger. “And right now, I’m internally kicking my ass for it. It was crude and . . . there’s no excuse for it. I’m going to take a shower.”

  This time he got to the door before he turned around.

  His gaze met hers. The deep emerald pools of his eyes reflected regret and a hell of a lot of hurt. She dug deep for something to say, but before she got it out, he started talking.

  “You see, the problem is that I like you. Do you know how long it’s been since I liked a woman? From the second you rested your head on my shoulder, I wanted to be the kind of guy who could . . . I wanted . . . I wanted . . .”

  He reached back and squeezed his neck. “It’s been a long time since I wanted anything. First it was from killing the kid, and then from Sheri bailing on me, and it stopped me from . . . from wanting anything. I slept with women just so I could feel something, then I stopped because it felt wrong. Cheap. And then you come along, and I feel all sorts of shit just standing next to you. And it didn’t feel cheap. It felt pretty friggin’ awesome.”

  He locked his fingers behind his neck. “Maybe we’re all wrong for each other, but it didn’t feel wrong today or even yesterday, or the day before. Damn it, I have no idea what this is. I can’t promise anything—we just met. But you managed to get under my skin. And as happy as I was about that this afternoon, right now, I want to go back to not wanting. And not feeling.” He let go of another deep gulp of air.

  “I didn’t. It’s not . . . I’m just . . .” Words danced on the tip of her tongue, too bad none of them made sense.

  He held up his hand to silence her. “That’s your choice. I don’t respect it, but I don’t have to.” He swung back around, but made the compete circle and stopped when he faced her again. “And I’m sorry about what I said. Believe it or not, I was raised better than that. If my mama was here, I’d be spitting up soap suds for a month.”

  He swung back around, and this time he went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  That soft click when the door closed rang so loudly it echoed in her chest. It sounded so final. So much like the end of something. The fact that she didn’t even know what that something was made this all that much harder.

  Tears filled her eyes. She stood there on shaky knees, hearing and rehearing his words. Knowing he’d saved her life, he’d been nice to her, he’d bought new sheets for her, he’d cooked her dinner, taken her horseback riding, listened to her deepest, darkest secrets and held her hand. He’d shared his own pain.

  He’d made her want things, too.

  She wanted him to be a forever guy.

  Ashamed, she started to her bedroom like a guilty teen. She got almost to the threshold then she swung around.

  A crazy idea hit. She tried to talk herself out of it, but everything she wanted was behind that bathroom door. And fearing something wouldn’t last was a stupid reason not to try. Even horses need to be broken in.

  She slipped off her capris and her shirt. Her panties and bra landed at her feet. She tilted up her chin, reached for the doorknob and took a leap of faith.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clay stood under the spray of hot water, his palms pressed against the shower wall, calling himself a fool. He heard a click, but ignored it to continue raking himself over the coals. He sh
ouldn’t have spoken to her like that. He shouldn’t have let himself want her. He shouldn’t have let himself care.

  Then he heard her voice. “I’ll wash your back if you’ll wash mine.”

  He swung around, too fast. His left foot shot up, his right followed. His ass landed on the old, cast-iron tub with a loud, wet thump. Crunching his butt cheeks, assuring himself nothing felt broken, he yanked the curtain back. Jennifer stood there, wearing nothing but an insecure and nervous smile.

  Not a word left his lips. He couldn’t speak. He tried not to stare, but it was hard not to.

  Wiping a hand over his wet face, ignoring his sore ass, he managed two words. “I’m confused.”

  Her round blue eyes blinked. “I’m scared.”

  Standing up, he continued to stare. She did her share of looking, too. He could have used the shower curtain to cover up, but he didn’t. She’d already seen it, anyway.

  “Is your butt okay?” Her shy, teasing tone filled the small bathroom.

  “It’s bruised.” He reached behind and rubbed it.

  “Sorry.” She smiled, but tried to temper it. “Do you want me to look at it to make sure it’s not too bad?”

  He lifted a brow. “You want to look at it?”

  “I probably should,” she said, her smile widening.

  Turning around, he glanced over his shoulder at her.

  “It looks fine,” she said.

  He faced her. The sound of the shower spray was the only noise filling the bathroom. Steam rose up. The sweet tightness low in his belly had other things rising.

  “You were right,” she said.

  “About?”

  “I wasn’t giving us a chance. I want to give us a chance.”

  “I like chances,” he said.

  She inched forward and stepped over the bathtub’s edge.

  The water hit her right in the face, and he turned and adjusted the nozzle. When he swung back around, she stepped closer.