by Drake, Laura
The lines on his brother’s face deepened. “What’s Boston like, Wyatt? Not the city. I mean…”
“You mean my life?” Max nodded. “It’s good. Juan and I have a brownstone in the North End, right in the middle of the nightlife.”
“Juan. That’s who answered the phone when I called to tell you about Dad?”
“Yes.” He glanced at his brother. A stranger would take Max’s stone face for disapproval, but he knew Max was just uncomfortable with the subject. “We’ve been together for five years, and I can’t imagine a life without him.” As if he’d walked into a fogbank of homesickness, the room seemed to recede. Home felt more real: the condo over the market street, the antiques, the dark man whose soulful eyes held Wyatt’s world. The fog leached into him, a cold, aching loneliness.
“What does he do?” Max shifted papers on the desk. “For a living, I mean.”
“He’s a stockbroker. When you can leave the ranch for a while, we’d love for you to visit, Max.”
Max worried a paper clip, twisting it. “Yeah. We’ll see.”
The fog dissolved in an acid bath of irritation. “Is it me that makes you uncomfortable, Max?” He stood. “Or is it that, living with Dad so long, his prejudice settled into your skin?”
He turned his back on his brother’s discomfort and walked to the wall, to the photos that had hung there forever. They were all of Max at different ages, showing sheep, on a horse, fishing. “It’s funny. I’m grown now, with a life of my own. You’d think it wouldn’t matter that he acted like you were his only child.” He turned to his brother, who sat motionless, listening. “But it does.”
Max opened the lap drawer, took out an old Polaroid photo, and tossed it across the table.
Wyatt stared at the picture, bent at the edges and yellow with age. “I remember this.” The photo was of him and Max astride their horses, opening a gate. He’d been five, Max nine. They both grinned into the camera, his smile minus a front tooth.
Picking up the photo, he struggled with the familiar sadness the past always brought with it. “A single picture of both of us, relegated to a drawer. That’s so typical.” He shook his head and turned to the door. What did I expect?
“Wyatt?” His brother’s voice broke into his brooding thoughts. “I’m sorry.”
Wyatt stopped but didn’t turn. “It’s not yours to be sorry for, brother.” He kept walking until he was in the privacy of his room, dialing Juan’s number and reminding himself again why this didn’t matter.
“If you hadn’t called today, I was going to call the Mounties, Wyatt.”
Juan’s deep voice soothed Wyatt’s rumpled emotions. He smiled. “Mounties are in Canada. We’re way south of that.”
“Well, the Lone Ranger, then.” His voice dropped to intimate. “How’re you holding up?”
“Things here never change, Juan.”
“It’s that bad? When can you come home? I was at the Quay last night, and everyone was asking about you.”
Wyatt smiled, imagining their favorite restaurant, eating chowder at their table in the upstairs dormer. “I’d be gone already, but there are more problems. Financial problems.”
“Sounds serious. Do you need money? I can wire you some. Can I come out, even if it’s only so you’re not the only queer in that backwater state?”
Wyatt chuckled. “Rural Colorado isn’t ready for me, and I grew up here. A gay Cuban? We’d be tarred and feathered. Nah, I’ll be okay. But it sure is good hearing your voice.”
“Then don’t wait so long to call me. I worry about you, you know.” He heard Juan’s sigh. “Now, let me tell you what happened with Toby and that dating service…”
After a few minutes of normal, Wyatt hung up, glanced around the bedroom that hadn’t changed since he’d been here last, and brushed a tear away. Just hearing about his old life felt like he’d been tossed a badly needed life preserver.
You’ll be home soon, he told himself. He imagined Juan standing, arms extended as Wyatt walked out of the Jetway. Soon.
CHAPTER
9
Bree pondered her dilemma as she washed windows. She sure as hell couldn’t go back to being an accountant. Felonies, overturned or not, tend to be a black mark on a controller’s résumé.
Getting into the bull business was going to take money—money she had, but swore she’d never touch. That “victim’s stipend” from the Feds was blood money. Her blood. The thought of using it made her want to throw up.
What if I used it to do something good? This simple refuge she’d happened upon was great for now, but she knew that long-term, it wouldn’t be enough. She needed to have goals.
Giving the window a last swipe, she stood back to check for streaks. A brush of pressure on her jeans made her jump, but not fast enough. “Ouch! Damn it, Charlie!” She whirled, slapping a hand to her stinging butt and glared at the dun-colored Shetland pony. He pawed the straw, not contrite in the least. “You’ve got to stop that.” She hefted the bucket of cleaning supplies, and limping to the stall door, slid it open. “Haven’t you heard about not biting the hand that feeds you?” Stepping out, she slid the door closed, still rubbing her backside.
“Looked to me like he didn’t bite your hand.” Max stood in the aisle, watching her with a lopsided grin.
A spear of sunlight from one of her clean windows highlighted a narrow slice of his stubbled jaw. Masculinity rolled off the guy like cologne off a So-Cal yuppie.
She ignored the twitch of desire low in her belly. “He needs to learn some manners.” She brushed past Max to return to the tack room.
“Hey.”
His low voice sounded the way sex felt. Languid Sunday-morning sex, with light slanting over a rumpled bed and a lazy day that stretched on forever. She turned.
“Do you want to go for a ride?”
His long legs in snug denim hugged all the right places as he stood leaning against Charlie’s stall, a cocky smile on his face.
Boy, do I. I’d love to throw a leg over you.
“I need to get out of here for a while, and you’ve been here three weeks and haven’t seen much of the ranch.”
Her heart took a happy skip. She’d been dying to ride, but had been hesitant to ask. “I’d love to.”
He stood frozen for a heartbeat, then strode to Trouble’s stall. “Why don’t you tack up Smooth? He needs the exercise and he’s a good mount.”
He must have read her mind. The big bay Tennessee Walker was one of her favorites. “Who does he belong to?”
Max slid the stall door open and caught Trouble’s halter. The stallion rushed to muscle him out of the way. “Whoa, big fella. We’re going. Hold your stockings on.”
She handed him a rope crosstie to snap to the horse’s halter.
“A dot-com exec left him in lieu of back stable fees. Dad took a shine to him and rode him most days. Said the gait was easy on his arthritis.” He ran a hand over the paint’s gleaming coat. “I should sell him. Last thing we need around here is another animal eating his fool head off. Just haven’t had the heart to yet.”
As she scratched under the stallion’s forelock, the horse grunted with pleasure. “Smooth. Is he named after the Santana song?”
“You didn’t know Dad. He’s named for Johnnie Walker whiskey.” He bent to run his hand down his horse’s foreleg, giving her a close-up of one damn fine rear end.
“Oh, I see.” She gulped, ducking under the crosstie.
Fifteen minutes later, she led Smooth from the barn to where Max sat astride his restless horse. He looked over her mount. “I should have told you. We don’t use the boarders’ tack.”
She yanked the stirrup on the English saddle down with a snap. “I didn’t. This is the saddle I used on Trouble that first day.” Rounding the front of the horse, she pulled down the other stirrup. “It was filthy, so I assumed it belonged to the Heather.” She touched the supple leather, shoulder aching remembering the hours of elbow grease it had taken to restore it. She ga
thered the reins, put a foot in the stirrup, and swung into the saddle.
Trouble danced and Max had his hands full. The paint lowered its head and crow-hopped across the yard, snorting and squealing. Max kept his seat, giving the stallion its head. When the horse had settled a bit, Max reined it to her side. Smooth stood calm, like the gentleman he was.
“He always does that.” Max straightened his hat. “It’s easier to just let him get his ya-yas out at the beginning.” Trouble took mincing steps, his rear swinging out as Max led the way to a well-worn trail leading out of the yard.
God, it felt good to have a horse under her again. She felt the flow of muscles beneath her and relaxed into Smooth’s rhythmic walk. “He wouldn’t be so fractious if you’d turn him out during the day. I’ve wondered why you don’t.”
“I should. It’s just that he’s so dadgummed hard to catch. It takes me a half hour in the morning and with the men waiting, it’s time I don’t have.”
“Do you mind if I try? He and I get on pretty well.”
“Be my guest. It’s your time to waste.”
The smell of sage wafted from scruffy bushes disturbed by the passing horses. The sun warmed her shoulders through the jean jacket. Delicate spring flowers sprouting from dusky green plants waved in the breeze. As she peered into the distance, a haze of lavender seemed to hover over the landscape like an aura.
Max pointed out Rabbit Ears Peak, standing at the gateway to the Yampa Valley. He put names to the plants they passed and explained their medicinal qualities. The stallion had calmed and they walked side by side in silence.
He looked even better astride than he did on foot. The Western saddle cupped his hips, and his wiry body moved as if part of the horse. In profile, the line of his chiseled face did something to her insides. Something good. Don’t even think about it. He’s the boss. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Depends.” The tilt of his hat shaded his face, making it unreadable.
“I just wondered. Is there something more between you and Trey Colburn?”
Cold brown eyes cut to her. “You mean besides the fact that he’s a philandering pig?”
With effort, she held his stare. “Yeah. Besides that.”
He broke eye contact first. “The Colburns have been here almost as long as my family, but they weren’t happy just ranching. Trey’s dad was in the Senate. His brother Merle went off to law school and is a big mucky-muck attorney back East. Brother Brian is the CEO of the family holdings, pulling the strings from Denver. Even his sister, Daphne, married the head of a hedge fund in New York and has a summer home in the Greek Islands.” Trouble threw his head up, spooked at nothing, and Max checked him.
“Trey’s always been the runt, running the home place. He wants more but doesn’t have the brains or mettle for it, so he set his sights on being the big fish in Steamboat’s little pond. He bought Rowdy Jackson’s ranch at the base of that mountain.” He pointed to a peak to the east. “Told him he needed it because he didn’t trust the government not to close grazing on public lands. Granted, Rowdy was broke and looking to get out of ranching, but Colburn didn’t own it a month before he sold it to a conglomerate to build a ski resort.” He glanced from the mountain to her. “They paid four times what he’d paid Rowdy.”
“Yes, but just because he—”
“Rumor has it that the conglomerate wants to open a guest ranch so they can make a profit in the off season. Colburn’s offered to sell them his land, but the Heather stands between his spread and the land they already own—and they don’t want his unless they can have ours. They say, ‘Character is what you are in the dark.’ I don’t think I’d want to see what Colburn looks like after the sun goes down.”
“I guess I see your point.” But where I come from, that would be considered smart business. She watched a muscle flex in Max’s hard jaw.
But this ain’t Kansas, Toto.
They topped a rise above a small valley. Herefords grazed in belly-high grass, and to the east, a stream bisected the pasture. Vivid color assailed her: deep green grass, rust-colored cattle, and the white snow on the mountains. “A high-priced photographer would make a killing in this state.”
Max would have to take her word for it. She should have looked silly in a baseball cap, perched on that English saddle, a rein in each hand. But she didn’t. Gazing into the distance, heels down, head high, back ramrod straight, she looked like she belonged here.
“Let’s give ’em their heads.” With just a touch of heel, Trouble laid his ears back and galloped down the hill. By the time they’d reached the bottom, Smooth had pulled alongside. Bree flowed over the horse’s neck, baseball cap tucked into the waist of her jeans, hair streaming. Laughing, she urged her horse on with her heels.
The little brat is trying to beat me! He leaned forward, and Trouble surged under him.
Cud-chewing cattle watched as they tore across the meadow. Max pulled up at the stream’s edge. Bree didn’t. She gathered the horse with her hands, and Smooth took off from the bank. The stream was too wide—no way she’d make it. Max’s brain registered the image: Bree, hair flying, a look of bliss on her face as the horse sailed over the creek in a graceful arc. His hands tightened on the reins as Trouble fought for his head, wanting to follow.
Smooth touched down on the other side without wetting a hoof. Max released the breath he wasn’t aware of holding. He dismounted as she cantered in a circle. Smooth splashed through the water at a sedate walk. Bree laughed down at him, her eyes shining.
“Did you see him? What a great horse—he sailed over that water like it was a puddle.” She reined in, kicked her feet out of the stirrups, and leaped from the horse to land beside him.
He was still breathing hard when he grabbed her arm above the elbow and yanked her to his chest. “That was the stupidest stunt I’ve ever seen. You could have broken your neck, you little fool.”
He looked down at her wide, bright eyes and her breasts, rising with her rapid breathing. “You don’t know the terrain, the horse…” Lord help him, he couldn’t take any more. He bent his head, his lips smothering her laugh. Desire hit him hard. When her mouth opened in surprise, he deepened the kiss. He’d wanted to do this since he’d first laid eyes on her, and the reality of those lips was even better than he’d imagined.
She tasted clean and tart, like lemons and chill wind. Once over her surprise, her tongue met his in greeting, then settled down to get better acquainted. This girl didn’t do anything by halves; when she kissed, she was there. Her soft mewling woke him like a slap. He hadn’t been invited, and she was an employee. He broke the kiss and backed up a step.
Bree’s face registered shock, her cheeks on fire with a blush.
Now I’m in for it. He tipped his hat. “I beg your pardon.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits as her gaze raked over his face. “I’d like to see you beg for something, Jameson.” Looking him straight in the eye, she snaked her hand around his neck, knocking his hat off as she pulled his mouth back down to hers.
Sweet Jesus. Max forgot his good intentions. He hauled her off her feet, flattening her breasts against his chest as her hair fell around them. He let her slide, slow, down his body. When she stood on her own feet, he fisted her hair in his hands and tilted her head to give him better access to that willing mouth. Hot. He reached down with one hand to cup her backside and snuggle closer. She shifted one leg between his and slid across him with a sinuous twist of her hips. Damn. She might look like the girl next door, but she sure hadn’t learned that move in the Girl Scouts.
Behind him, Trouble nickered and pawed the ground. The beast tossed its head and bolted, ripping the reins from his hand. Max tore his mouth free and turned, but it was too late. He stood, catching his breath, and watched the black-and-white rump retreat into the distance to the thumping cadence of hooves.
“That cayuse is dog food this time, I swear to God.” Dazed, he bent to pick up his hat.
Grinning, Bree tugg
ed her cap from her waistband and snugged it over her hair. She cocked her head and fluttered her lashes. “Need a lift, Cowboy?”
God, he’d love to do things that would wipe that smug smile off her face.
“I need to be getting back anyway.” She turned to check Smooth’s girth. “I’ve got this slave-driver boss. If he knew I was out here wasting time, he’d can me for sure.”
He chuckled. “Sounds like a real butt wipe.”
“He is.” Bree gathered the reins and mounted, throwing him an impish smile. “Sometimes.”
He ignored her extended hand, grabbed the cantle of the saddle, and vaulted up behind her.
Despite her casual words, Bree worried over the kiss on the ride to the ranch. She tried to ignore the wall of solid cowboy at her back: the hands at her waist, the muscled thighs bracketing hers, the prominent lump brushing her backside.
Where did he learn to kiss like that out here in the boonies? He’d made her want to pull him into the grass and do what came natural. It had been a long time since she’d even thought about sex, much less contemplated how to get it. She shook her head to clear the estrogen fog.
“I have an idea that might help the ranch, Max.” His fingers tightened at her waist. “I’ve done research, and I believe we could make good money raising bucking bulls for the pro bull-riding circuit.”
He was quiet a moment. “Hang on a minute. We?”
He would pick up on that part first. “Well, yes. My proposal is that you, Wyatt, and I incorporate.”
She rushed on before he could object. “You have the land and the know-how to raise cattle. I know how to run a business and I have some money to invest.” She snuck a glance over her shoulder. One raised eyebrow—not as bad as she’d feared.
