by Drake, Laura
They didn’t notice his approach. Their focus was on a pint-sized bull, chewing cud in the center of the paddock, looking bored. A mixed-breed, charcoal gray with black spots—so many that they smeared together in places, lending it a mottled, unbalanced look. One short horn tilted skyward, the other at the ground.
Max tipped his hat back. “What the hell is that?”
Luis said, “That’s Fire Ant, boss. Bree’s new buckin’ bull.”
He snorted. “That little thing?” God help us. She may know business, but we’re going to have to keep her away from the sale barn.
Armando stood, arms draped on the top of the fence, one boot on the bottom rail. “I don’t know, boss. Some of the best bulls in the PBR are small.”
Max shook his head. “Maybe, but I’ve seen horseflies bigger’n that.”
The men chuckled.
Armando said, “There’s Little Yellow Jacket. He retired the best in the business.”
Luis broke in. “Yeah, but give me a big, slab-sided bucker like Mudslinger. He looks scary just standing there.”
“Standing ain’t what they’re paid to do,” Armando said. “PBR isn’t a beauty contest.”
The clang of the dinner bell ended all conversation. Max followed the crowd that hustled up the steps and into the mess hall.
Bree stood at the top of the porch steps, hand on the bellpull. “Well, Max? What do you think of my bull?”
He opened his mouth to tell her, but seeing the pride shining on her girl-next-door face, he didn’t have the heart. His hesitation gave him away.
Bree sniffed and lifted her freckled nose. “Well, you haven’t seen him buck.”
Dang, she’s cute when her back’s up. “And you have?”
“Of course.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Well. Not in person, but I watched video clips, and he’s got potential.”
“Oh. Well. In that case…” He climbed the steps and ducked his head to hide a smile.
“I’ve got a couple of big three-year-olds coming that you’ll like the look of.” She raised her chin. “But I’m telling you, Fire Ant is going to sire a famous line of PBR bulls.”
“Hey, lady, you say it, I believe it.” His stomach growled. Ignoring it, he added, “I’ve been thinking on your idea. Wyatt and I talked, and we’re ready to sit down and meet when you are.”
Her face lit up like a little girl at Christmas. And it made him feel like Santa. Well, a younger, randy Santa.
“How about if I cook you two dinner at the main house sometime next week? That way we wouldn’t be interrupted.”
“You can cook?” He dodged a slap. “Sounds good to me.” He opened the door and held it for her, but she hung back.
“You go ahead. I’ve got to make a call.” Bree waited until the screen slapped behind Max, then reached in her pocket to pull out her cell phone.
She hit speed dial. “Mom? I need some help.”
At her mother’s anxious reply she said, “No. No, Mama, I’m fine. I didn’t mean to scare you. Everything’s great.” She walked to the end of the porch, out of earshot. “I need some emergency recipe therapy, Mama. What do cowboys eat besides Mexican food?”
Bree dragged another bale of alfalfa from the outside door of the hayloft to where Max was stacking them against the wall. She’d objected when he offered to help, but looking at the growing pile, she knew there was no way she could have put away the latest delivery without him. She put a fist to the small of her back as she straightened. “Unh.”
Max dropped the bale on the rising pile and turned. “Let’s take a break.”
“No, I’m okay—”
He caught her arm just above the elbow and led her to the doorway, where a blessed breeze lifted the wet hair off her neck. “Your face is beet red, and you’re sweating. You sit here. I’ll be right back.” He strode to the hayloft, snatched up the bale she’d struggled with, and tossed it on the pile as if it weighed twenty pounds rather than a hundred twenty.
She admired the way his Wranglers pulled taut over his backside when he bent. She appreciated the heavy muscles of his shoulders and back when he lifted. But when he turned and walked toward her, she treasured one of his rare smiles even more.
“You and Wyatt. Take the gloves off. It’ll help with the blisters.” When she pulled off her gloves, he sat on the bale next to her and examined her palms.
“It’s all right. I need to develop calluses. They’ll make me look tougher.” She tried to ignore the tingle that spread from her palms up her arm, as if his touch had mainlined into her blood.
Max snorted. “His boyfriend will probably have a fit about it.”
She studied his face, gauging his mood. “Would you mind a piece of well-meaning advice?”
His expression was hopeful, but there was reserve in his dark eyes. “Bill Cosby says, ‘A word to the wise ain’t necessary—it’s the stupid ones that need the advice.’ ” He dropped her hand and heaved a sigh. “All right. Hit me with it.”
“Do you love your brother, Max?”
“What do you mean? Who told you I don’t?”
“Then why do you make those little offhand remarks about him?”
He shifted on the bale, and his eyes skittered away. “We always pick on each other. It’s just how we are.”
“But it isn’t loving if it hurts.” She smiled to soften her words. “Can’t you see on his face that those jabs hit home?”
Max’s face got red. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Instead, he looked out the window at the view of the meadows and the foothills beyond them. Slowly, the taut muscles in his jaw relaxed. Still, he said nothing.
Bree sat in the quiet with him, waiting.
“I don’t know how to deal with it—his gayness—if that’s even a word. It’s one thing to know about it when he’s in Boston, but now that he’s back, it’s impossible to ignore. I can’t help but imagine him and his boyfriend…” He flushed even redder.
“But, Max, it’s like your Cheyenne blood. He can’t change it.”
He got to his feet and looked down on her. “Save the lecture. I know the facts. It’s living with them that I’m not so good with.” He stepped to the door and leaned a forearm against the edge, staring out. “I’ve never known how to handle that part of him. It’s like someone telling you to get used to someone walking around with no skin. You know you shouldn’t stare, but it’s so foreign to you, you can’t help it.” His words came out tortured in spite of the fact that his face showed no emotion. “I don’t want to react that way. I know it hurts when I tease him about it. I think I do it to try to find a way around the elephant between us.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, leaving tracks. “I don’t know how to get past it.”
She stood, walked to him, and ran the backs of her fingers down his cheek. “You just love him, Max. That and time will make it better.”
“Your mouth to God’s ears,” he whispered, and he turned to look out the doorway again, shutting her out.
CHAPTER
13
Thursday evening, when Max met Wyatt at the head of the stairs, they both stopped short and looked each other over. Max wore tan dress pants, Wyatt’s were blue, but they both had on white, collared dress shirts. Wyatt raised an eyebrow.
Max shrugged. “Hey, it’s a business meeting.” They started down the stairs. “I sure hope Bree can cook. I could eat two-day-old roadkill right about now.”
“In that case, it really doesn’t matter how well she cooks, does it?” They turned into the front hall, boots loud on the wood floor. They jostled at the door to the kitchen, both trying to get through first. They burst in to find the table in the nook bare, pans bubbling on the stove.
Wyatt shrugged. The swinging door between the kitchen and the formal dining room opened, and Bree swept in.
Wow, Max thought, what a difference a day made. Their stable hand had morphed into a businesswoman, and by the look, one to be reckoned with. Her hair was up in a
fancy French twist, and she wore an ivory silk blouse and a camel pencil skirt. She was all business. His fingers itched to mess her up a little.
Wyatt looked down. “Nice shoes.”
“Thanks. They’re last year’s Jimmy Choo’s, but I love them.”
Jimmy chews? Max looked down. He didn’t know about shoes, but he sure could recognize a great pair of legs in silk.
“Dinner will be served in the formal dining room, gentlemen.” When she smiled, Max glimpsed his Bree under the makeup. Well, not his Bree. Not yet anyway. Before he had time to herd that stray thought, Wyatt stepped in front of him and bowed, offering her his arm.
“May I escort you, jeune fille?”
Max was left to follow.
The dining room appeared a combination of board room and high-class restaurant. The lace-covered table was perfectly set with what he recognized as Wyatt’s mother’s china and sterling silver. A flip chart on a stand took up one corner, and a pad and pen lay next to each place setting. Wildflowers spilled from the silver-plate centerpiece, and the sunset tinted the room in amber.
“Have a seat. I’ll be right back with the salads.” She disappeared through the door to the kitchen.
“Wow, that’s some groom you hired, Wyatt,” Max said, pulling out a chair. “Doesn’t mean she can cook, though.” He chuckled.
“You’re such an ingrate, Max.” Wyatt took a seat, but they both jumped up again to help when Bree came back through the door, arms laden with salad dishes. When her arms were empty, she reached for the sideboard to retrieve an open bottle of red wine.
She grinned at Max’s long face. “I know you’d rather have a beer, but push the envelope a little, dude. This is a 2006 Sonoma Coast Failla Pinot Noir, one of the best reds around.” She poured them each a half glass, crossed the room to the flip chart, and tossed back the cover to the first page of marching numbers in neat rows. “Here’s the plan.”
Max tasted the wine, managing not to wrinkle his nose as he put it down. “I figured it out. You were Madoff’s personal accountant, weren’t you?”
Back to him, she froze, arm half raised. The marker in her hand shook.
It was quiet enough to hear the clock in the kitchen ticking. She lowered her arm, then turned. “No. I—”
“All right, Max, that’s enough.” Wyatt threw his napkin on the table and stood. “I’m not going to let you bully a lady anymore. You were brought up better than that. You either trust Bree enough to go into business with her, or you don’t. And if you’ve let her cook this big dinner with the intent of turning her down, you and I are going to step outside.” Shoulders squared, hands fisted, he loomed over Max. “You’ll kick my ass, but then you’ll have to feel bad about that, too.” Wyatt’s soft, reddened cheeks and pursed lips made him look like a sulky five-year-old, but Max wasn’t about to tell him that. Besides, Wyatt was right.
“I apologize for my lack of manners, Bree.”
Her face went still like she was waiting for a “But.”
“I would much rather go into this venture with all my questions answered, but I guess you have a right to your privacy.” He looked up at Wyatt. “Sit down, John Wayne.”
Wyatt sat.
“I do have one requirement. It’s a deal breaker for me.” Max wiped his lips on the linen napkin. “High Heather is not part of the deal. We can have a partnership, or a corporation, or whatever, but the land stays in Jameson hands.”
Bree turned back to the chart and circled points as she made them. “I have no problem with that, Max. It makes the startup more even. I’ll contribute my three head of bucking stock, which will bring in working capital. You throw in your breeding stock. We’ll all contribute whatever money we can spare for hauling expenses and to fund a trainer, who we’re going to need, at least in the beginning.”
They discussed the budget over a roast that had been marinated in something wonderfully spicy, mashed potatoes with rich brown gravy, and flaky biscuits that melted on the tongue. An hour later, they sat drinking coffee, the table strewn with crumpled paper and pages of notes. Max sat back and unhooked the massive silver belt buckle that dug in his gut. He’d even tasted the after-dinner cordial. A sissy drink, but one that packed a surprising punch.
Bree said, “I’ll handle getting the articles of incorporation drawn up and filed with the state. There’s only one more thing to agree on.” She tossed her napkin on the table and stood. “What are we going to call this venture? It should be catchy. Something that relates to what we do, but something that people will remember.”
Max spoke up. “High Heather Bucking Bulls.”
She walked to the easel and turned to a white page. “I thought more along the lines of using our initials.” She wrote, W-A-M. “Wyatt, Aubrey, and Max.” She drew a flourish beneath it. “As in Wham! Get it?”
“What’s wrong with High Heather?” Max grumbled.
“High Heather’s not part of the deal, remember?”
“Well, yours is just dumb. It sounds like a name a girl would think up.”
“You’re just mad because your name comes last. We could change it to M-A-W, but that is really stupid. If you’d get your ego out of it—”
“Oh, now, that’s total bull.” Max glared across the table at her.
“No, it’s fact.” Chin stuck out, she glared back.
Wyatt jumped in. “That’s brilliant!” They both blinked at him. “Total Bull. That’s the name.” He tipped his chin to Bree. “It’s catchy.” Then at Max. “It’s manly.”
“I like it.” Bree beamed.
“I can live with it,” Max grumbled.
Wyatt dusted his palms together. “Now, wasn’t that easy?”
Bree tossed a dish towel over her shoulder and stood. “I’m glad that’s settled. I’ll get dessert to celebrate.”
“Oh good,” Max said. “What are we having?” He took a sip of coffee.
She smiled sweetly. “Orgasm pie.”
Max choked. He slapped a hand over his mouth and scooted his chair back.
Bree tossed him the dish towel. “You’d better not ruin Tia’s company tablecloth. She’ll wear your guts for garters, cowboy.” She turned on her heel and sashayed out the door.
Max caught his breath and laughed. “I don’t know if this venture is going to make money, but it sure won’t be boring.”
In moments, Bree was back with a gooey plateful of chocolate heaven. Those legs, a businesswoman’s brain, and she cooks, too. Max couldn’t help but stare.
When Bree poured another cordial, Max raised his glass. “Beauty is worse than wine. It intoxicates both the holder and the beholder.” He tossed back the contents of the tiny prissy glass. “Aldous Huxley.”
Bree flushed prettily.
Wyatt beamed. “There may be hope for your black soul yet, brother.”
Max lowered the chair back on four legs. “Stick around, little brother. I may teach you a thing or two.”
Bree held up a hand. “You’d best quit while you’re ahead, Max.”
The next morning, saddled ponies milled in the corral and cowboys lounged against the fence awaiting orders when Max and Wyatt walked up.
“Mornin’, boss.”
“Mornin’, Armando, men.” Max shot a glance at Wyatt, then began. “The Heather is taking a lead change. You all know the beef market is in the toilet. We’ve seen ranches around Steamboat failing, one by one.
“That’s not happening to the Heather if we can help it.” He slid his hands into his back pockets. “We—well, Bree—came up with the idea of raising bucking bulls. Wyatt and I have put a lot of decidin’ into it, and it just might work. Bree has two more bulls on the way, but we’re gonna need more.
“So today I need you to go up to the west pasture and bring down the bulls. Even the one and two-year-olds that didn’t go to market.”
Wyatt shifted next to him and mumbled out of the side of his mouth, “And the cows.”
Max turned and stared him down.
“And the cows,” Wyatt spread his arms and shrugged. “You know what Bree said. We’ve got to find out which ones will buck.”
Max looked skyward. Lord, I know you’re testing me, but can’t you leave me just a bit of dignity? He’d been a bull rider in high school. No self-respecting cowboy on the planet would be caught dead riding a cow. It just wasn’t seemly. He sighed and turned to face the men. “And the cows.”
“Have any of you ever ridden a bull?” Wyatt asked.
Armando leaned forward to look down the line of raised hands. “Pedro, mechanical bulls in a bar do not count.” The cowboys laughed and elbowed the youngest hand.
Max said, “We’re gonna have our own buckin’ contest, just like the PBR. Any man that can go eight seconds gets an extra day off and a little cash to take to town.”
CHAPTER
14
A week later, Bree hesitated in the aisle of Walmart, eyes on a skein of hot-pink eyelash yarn. Tia wouldn’t find a taker for that on the Heather. She’d have to knit something for herself.
Bree put two skeins in her basket and walked to the checkout line. Families crowded the aisles. Kids darted around their parents’ shopping carts like hummingbirds around a feeder. She relaxed, leaning her forearms on the cart. Today was the first day that a crowd hadn’t made her feel jumpy.
Wyatt walked up and dumped an armload of jeans, work shirts, and socks in the cart. “I ran into my high school English teacher in the underwear aisle! You have to love small towns.”
“This place is a zoo. Are they giving away free beer?”
“It’s like this every Saturday,” Wyatt said, unloading the cart onto the conveyor. “It’s like the old town square—as much a place to socialize as a marketplace.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Bree caught a flash of gold on blue serge. She stiffened and whipped her head forward.
Behind her, two policemen stood in line.
