Kissed by a Cowboy

by Pamela Britton

  “You’ll show up and you’ll do your thing, too.” Mariah waved her fingers. “Vivian is counting on you.”

  Vivian. She missed Wes’s mother. A more down-to-earth woman she’d never met. Kind. Sweet. Genuinely concerned for her son’s happiness.

  “Surely Vivian doesn’t want me around any more than Wes.”

  “Are you kidding? She’s convinced you’re their secret weapon.”

  Secret weapon. Hardly. More like distraction. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “You’re leaving with us tonight and that’s that. We’re all staying at a hotel, you included. The competition starts at the crack of dawn and so we have to leave tonight in order to watch his go.”

  She knew when the competition started. She’d planned to get up early. Had cleared her day just so she could watch nonstop.

  “Mariah—”

  Her friend got up from the kitchen table. “Be ready to leave by five. It’ll take four hours to get there. We’ll pick up dinner on the way out of town. Fast food.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Mariah—”

  “Be ready by five.”

  She wouldn’t be ready. She wouldn’t even be home. She’d leave. Hide out someplace because she knew if she saw Wes again...

  Coward.

  She couldn’t avoid him forever. She would see him at Mariah and Zach’s wedding. Would she hide out there, too? And if there was a chance she could help, if she could help to soothe Dudley, shouldn’t she do it?

  Damn it.

  So it was that she found herself at the one place she didn’t want to be the next morning—an equestrian multiplex just outside of Sacramento.

  “I’ve never been to a cutting horse competition,” Zach, Mariah’s future husband, said as they slipped out of Mariah’s truck. “This will be a first for me.”

  “You fit right in,” Mariah said as she came around the truck and stood up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, but afterward she tweaked the black cowboy hat he wore, and the gesture, as well as the look they exchanged, made Jillian turn away. She was happy for her friend. Overjoyed that despite their different backgrounds, she and her dark-haired, blue-eyed Zach had found their happily-ever-after.

  You might have had one, too.

  Maybe, but it was too late now, and she refused to dwell on it. Instead, she studied their surroundings. It was the first time she’d ever been to one of the big cutting horse competitions, but it reminded her of the big hunter shows—without the over-the-top stall decorations. The horses all wore Western saddles, too, and this early in the morning their breath jetted out like twin streams of steam as they galloped around a covered arena. The place they were at seemed to have half a dozen of them. Jillian had no idea how Mariah knew where they were going, but luckily, she seemed to have a good idea of where Wes was hiding out.

  “Maybe I should head straight for the main arena. Find a spot for us.”

  They had just come around to yet another arena and there was no mistaking the sight of Vivian standing by the rail, a stroller out in front of her.

  “I didn’t eat very much at breakfast. Maybe I can get something on the way. I smell food.”

  “You—” Mariah hooked an arm through her own “—are not going anywhere. You need to take a look at Dudley. Tell us how he’s feeling.”

  It was too late. Vivian had spotted them. “You made it,” she called out.

  Jillian told herself not to glance inside the arena. Told herself, but she did it anyway. She recognized Dudley right away. It startled her seeing the little horse for the first time in a long while. He’d gained weight. And muscle. His head didn’t seem so big for his body anymore, and his tail and mane had caught the early-morning light; it turned the red strands gold. She didn’t look at Wes. She couldn’t. It was too painful.

  You could end that pain if you weren’t such a coward.

  Yes, end the pain now, she told that voice, but for how long? With her track record, not very.

  “He looks great,” Mariah said, her eyes on the sorrel gelding, too. “I can’t believe how much he’s improved.”

  “Zach, so good to see you.” Vivian smiled at Mariah’s fiancé, but that smile slipped a bit when she saw Jillian. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  Jillian glanced at Mariah quickly. Mariah had the grace to blush, something that was instantly noticeable with her fair skin and pink cheeks.

  “I thought I could help.” She would kill Mariah. “With Dudley, I mean.”

  At last she dared to look into Vivian’s eyes. She expected anger, disappointment and, most of all, disapproval. What she saw instead was sadness, patience and understanding. A lump lodged itself in her throat.

  “Of course you can help.”

  It took her breath away, Vivian’s kindness. She should have expected it. Wes had learned patience and understanding from someone, clearly his mom.

  “Wes,” Vivian called. “Look who’s here.”

  He’d been so busy working Dudley he hadn’t even noticed them standing by the rail. She waited for their gazes to connect, chickened out at the last moment and decided to peer into the stroller instead. Because it was so early, they had Maggie bundled up like a burrito, but she’d grown wisps of dark hair since the last time she’d seen her. She wore a pink hat and she obviously slept, but she couldn’t have looked more like a doll if she’d tried.

  “Precious,” she whispered.

  When she looked up, Wes had stopped by the rail, and his eyes weren’t filled with hatred or loathing or even surprise. They were filled with what could only be called delight.

  “They got you to come.”

  They. She glanced at Mariah and Wes. So that was why her friend had been so insistent. Surely she could have told her Wes wanted her there.

  “They said you needed me.”

  “I do.” He patted Dudley. “You’re the reason we’re here. I didn’t want you to miss it.”

  Her ribs seemed to shrink as her heart began to swell. The Landons would be the death of her. They would kill her with kindness.

  “Thanks.”

  She had to force her gaze away, but the image of him was etched into her mind. Beige cowboy hat, mint-green long-sleeved shirt, dark brown chaps over his denim jeans.

  “So what does he tell you?” Wes asked.

  It wasn’t so much what the horse told her as it was the look in his eyes and the way he stood there alongside the rail, ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring.

  “He’s ready.”

  * * *

  HE TOLD HIMSELF to keep calm. Strangely, seeing Jillian had done exactly that—calmed him. She was his talisman. His good-luck charm. And he needed her...in more ways than one. She might keep chickening out on him, but he would change her mind. Maybe. Eventually.

  Don’t think of that now.

  What he needed to do was focus. He was seventh in the go, which meant fresh cattle. That could be good, that could be bad. It also meant an early score. Sometimes judges tended to hold back a bit in expectation of the better horses that would compete later in the day. Then again, going early could work in his favor. Sometimes if a horse was truly spectacular, they would score them well to ensure they stayed on the leaderboard, sometimes too well. One never knew which way the wind would blow.

  All too quickly they called him to the staging area. The back-gate people could be fierce about making sure people were ready to go when their turn came. He would need to sit at that gate and wait, the worst part of the whole competition, standing there, his horse sensing the coming activity, his own body growing more and more tense.

  “Good luck,” his mom called.

  He was waved off by his support group, and his mom headed to the spectator area at one end of the arena. There was even a bar in the upstairs portion of the facility. Frankly, he wished he could run up the step and choke down a shot of whiskey. Instead, he headed toward the waiting area.

  The arena was st
ate-of-the-art. It was climate controlled, and riders entering via a narrow pathway that allowed a minimal amount of heat or cold to enter the building. At one of the short ends, the one to his left, a raised viewing area afforded spectators an unobstructed view of the riders in the arena. Actually, it resembled more of a restaurant with a snack bar and round tables and comfy chairs. The place was packed. As was the grandstand seating to his right. The judges were opposite the spectators, on a raised dais, their cowboy hats and neutral-colored pants and long trench coats the standard uniform for people in their position.

  “Wes Landon, you here?” the gate person called.

  Wes acknowledged his arrival, his palms beginning to sweat. Dudley, as if sensing his escalating tension, tossed his head.

  “There’s three in front of you.”

  He probably should have arrived earlier. Should have been there for the first couple of goes to watch the herd. He did his best to make up for lost time, tracking which cows looked slow, which cows seemed to be fast and which cows were too full of themselves. This was a fresh herd. Nobody on the show grounds had any idea how they would cut. That was one of the major drawbacks of going early. He wouldn’t have an hour to study which cows would give him the best run for his money.

  “You ready?” the gate person asked, a younger cowboy with a felt hat that matched his own.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  The last rider had had a good go. He nodded to the cowboy as the gate swung open. The scores were announced over the loudspeaker, though they lagged behind by one or two riders—most of the time—but Wes would be surprised if the guy didn’t mark a high score.

  His head began to pound. He rolled his shoulders, and Dudley’s head lifted as he nudged him forward. This was it. Make-it-or-break-it time. He had no idea how many entries there were. No idea how much first place would actually pay out at the end of the day. All he knew was that he had to mark a high score.

  “Let’s do it, Dudley.”

  His horse knew the game. Most of the time, he worked Dudley in a dry arena—meaning no cattle—so the moment he spotted the cows at the other end of the pen, Dudley perked up even more. That didn’t mean he lifted his head. No, his horse dropped it, like a jungle cat sighting prey, and that was an apt analogy because Dudley really did think of the cows as his prey.

  Baldy, black body. Where was it? The first rider he’d watched had had a pretty good run cutting it out of the herd. He spotted it near the back, just to the right of one of the two men holding the herd in place. Perfect. Competitors had to cut at least one of their cows “deep,” meaning no pulling a cow from the edges. Points were deducted if you gave up on a cow—or a miss—or if your cow ducked out on you and made it back to the herd.

  The black cow seemed to know the jig was up. The animal tried to move away, but Dudley knew his quarry, committing to the small black cow with a minimal amount of urging on Wes’s part. It couldn’t go very fast, surrounded as it was by other animals. Neither could Dudley. Too fast and he’d scatter the herd like a cue ball did a rack of pool balls. Dudley did just as he was supposed to do, walking near the cow’s hip, slowly edging the animal away from the back fence and out into the open. The moment the cow sensed freedom, though, it broke away. Wes didn’t have to do a thing. Dudley bolted after it as if there were carrots taped to its tail. In a matter of seconds they had the animal separated from the herd.

  Game on.

  It was as Jillian said. Dudley loved the audience. The claps. The cries. The calls. Wes didn’t know why he had a silly grin on his face. All he knew was a sense of awe as his little colt swung from side to side, ears pinned back, front end low to the ground as he held the cow away from the herd. Left, right. Left, right. One quick run toward the in gate when the cow bolted. Dudley cut him off, then held him perfectly in the center of the ring. He was having a good run, but inside his head a timer went off. He needed to cut a total of two cows, maybe even three if there was time. Wes picked up his reins, a signal for Dudley to quit. The black baldy sped off, happy to return to its pals, tail flicking, ears pinned back.

  Which one next? Wes drew a blank. Dudley made the decision for him. A brindle calf tucked off to the left. With little to no guidance his horse cut the cow out of the herd. Once again they held it on the opposite wall. Wes would remember nothing about that cow.

  His brain switched on for the third and final cow. There’d been a Charolais in the herd—off-white with some brown around the flank—easy to spot, and a real handful. If he could find it...

  There.

  He spotted it deep. Not necessarily a bad thing, but he might be running out of time. No way to look at the clock. He rode on pure instinct now. He would have to cut it from the herd quickly. No time for a mistake. No time for a miss. No second chances.

  The damn cow didn’t make it easy.

  He should have expected that. From what he’d seen earlier the cow had the potential to be either really good or really bad. Wes was on the verge of thinking he’d made a mistake, the cow rearing up in the middle of the herd at one point and switching directions. Dudley never missed a step. He had no idea how his horse knew which cow he wanted, but that was what it felt like, as though Dudley read his mind. He’d never experienced anything like it. Good thing, too, because that little cow took off like a house on fire the moment they pushed it away from its buddies. Dudley took off, too. One leap, two, three—his little horse cut the animal off, turning it back. This wasn’t good, Wes thought. They needed to hold the animal in the middle of the pen, not chase it around. Once again he wondered if he’d blown it, if perhaps he’d picked the wrong cow, but no sooner did he have the thought than the cow stopped. Dudley froze, turned, faced her, and there it was. The dance. The waltz. Like having an ice-skating partner or facing a mirror—that was what a good run felt like. Everything the cow did, Dudley did, too. Every duck, every run, every stop. When the buzzer sounded, Wes almost collapsed onto his horse’s neck. Instead, he bent and patted his neck so hard he could hear the clap of his palm.

  Wait.

  That was clapping from the crowd. As he came up for air, he realized everyone was hooting and hollering.

  For him. For Dudley.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “What happened?” Jillian faced her friends. “Was that good?”

  “That was remarkable,” Vivian said, standing up with a glance down at the baby in her stroller. “That last run was textbook clean. Amazing.”

  Oh, thank God.

  She hadn’t breathed the entire time—or so it seemed. “What did he score?”

  Mariah shook her head at her excitement. “We’ll have to watch a few more goes before we know.”

  Oh, yeah. That’s right.

  “I’m going to go see him,” Vivian said. “Will someone watch the baby?”

  “Zach and I will watch her,” Mariah offered. “Jillian, you go, too. After all, none of this would have been possible without you.”

  Should she? She’d done what she’d come to do. She’d watched Wes. She’d helped with Dudley, too, or so she hoped, but there was no way to know for certain if the calming thoughts she’d sent him while he was in the pen had done any good.

  “Come, dear,” Vivian ordered. “I want to catch him as he leaves the arena.”

  A glance toward the exit revealed Wes had ridden toward the out gate. The competitor replacing him said something as they passed each other. She couldn’t see Wes’s face, but the way he patted Dudley’s neck told Jillian Wes was pleased by whatever the man had said. She got up before she could think better of it and followed Vivian as she hopped down from the grandstands like someone half her age. Jillian watched as Vivian caught up with her son first. He had a grin on his face that stretched from ear to ear.

  “That was perfect.” She heard Vivian say, patting Wes’s leg so hard Jillian winced.

  “You think so?” Wes bent and gave his mom a hug. “It felt good.”

  “It was good.”

 
; “I can’t believe how great he was.” Wes’s gaze moved past his mom as if searching for someone. When he spotted her, the pride in his eyes and the smile on his face somehow grew even more. Her heart went plunk all over again.

  “You did it,” she said softly, wanting so badly to hug him, too.

  “We did it,” he said. “Although nothing’s for certain. The judges might think differently.”

  “Was it scary?”

  “Terrifying.” His eyes grew serious for a moment. “But overcoming that fear makes victory all the sweeter.”

  She swallowed hard. He was talking about her...talking about them.

  “Wes, I—”

  “Good job!” a voice boomed, Jillian just about jumping. A heavyset man with a straw cowboy hat stood behind her. “That was one amazing run.” The man reached out and patted Dudley’s sweaty neck. “Looks like a good little horse. Who’d you buy him from?”

  Wes seemed a little thunderstruck as he stared down at the man. “We found him at the bull-and-gelding sale in Red Bluff a few months ago.”

  “You’re kidding? Who was he trained by?”

  “Hadn’t had much training before he came to me.”

  “You a professional?”

  “I am, but I mostly ride for other trainers, and I have another horse. Been doing some winning on him this past year.”

  “That’s right,” the man said, snapping. “I’ve seen you riding a bay.”

  “Bugs in My Chex.”

  “That’s him.” The man laughed. “I remember the name. Funny. And another nice horse. Are you riding Bugs in My Chex today, too?”

  “No, sir.” He tipped his hat back. “He bowed a tendon over the winter.”

  “Aww, too bad. You interested in talking about selling this one?”

  Wes’s mouth dropped open for a second. “Well, I... Sure. I guess everything’s for sale.”

  “If the price is right, it usually is, and I’m not known for lowballing trainers. Mike McCutcheon.” He held out his hand.