The Cowboy

by Joan Johnston

  “Do you remember the last time we danced, Callie?” Trace asked as he moved her around the sawdusted wooden floor to the seductive country tune.

  Callie felt her heart skip a beat. She wondered if there was any significance to his question. The last time they had danced was in college, on Valentine’s Day. They had left the dance floor that night and driven out into the hill country to a spot along the Colorado River where they could be alone, with only the stars overhead and the cool grass beneath them.

  She remembered how much they’d laughed that night, how boyishly Trace had smiled at her in the moonlight, before he pulled her sweater up over her head, leaving her wearing only a plain white bra. It was the only time she had truly regretted being poor. She’d wished she had on some expensive French lingerie, something made of delicate lace that would make her beautiful for him.

  Trace hadn’t minded. He’d grinned and told her how glad he was that the bra clasp was at her back, because he had an excuse to put his arms around her. He’d made her feel beautiful without the need for rich, expensive things.

  That long, lazy night they had spent together on the banks of the Colorado, they’d loved one another with reverence and abandon and delight. She had become a woman in his arms that night. And they had created their son.

  “I remember,” she murmured.

  “I found you enchanting, Callie.” He turned her in a circle that forced their bodies close.

  Callie barely had time to register the fact that he’d phrased his compliment in the past tense before he added, “You look tired.”

  “It’s been a long day,” she said, aggravated that she could feel hurt that he no longer found her enchanting. She kept her eyes determinedly focused over his shoulder. She considered staying silent, but decided it would be safer to direct the conversation herself. “Congratulations on winning the bid on the number twenty-three animal. Smart Little Doc was a steal at $76,000.”

  “That colt you got wasn’t bad, either,” he said.

  “You mean the one colt you let me have.” Callie bit her tongue to keep from saying more.

  “I didn’t expect you to return after you left the stands,” Trace said. “Why did you?”

  “My father called me a quitter.”

  He hesitated, then said, “And you’re not?”

  “You left me, Trace, not the other way around.”

  “And now I’m back,” he said quietly.

  “You’ve been back nearly four months,” she said, her eyes flashing. “Today is the first I’ve seen of you. Am I supposed to fall at your feet—or into your bed? I’m a widow now, the mother of two children.”

  His jaw flexed. “I’m not likely to forget either condition. That doesn’t change the fact that I still find you desirable.”

  “But not enchanting?” Callie flushed as she realized what she’d revealed.

  “I never said you weren’t enchanting, Callie,” he said as he met her gaze. “I merely observed that you look tired, which you do. You’ve obviously been working too hard. I could make life easier for you, if you’d let me.”

  “More Blackthorne charity? I don’t need it, and I don’t want it.”

  “You may not want it. But you need it,” Trace contradicted.

  Callie refused to argue the point.

  “Since Dusty’s bum leg put him out of business, I need someone to train my new stud for the Futurity,” he said. “I’ll pay you a premium wage for your time and half the purse, if Smart Little Doc finishes in the top ten.”

  “I will never, ever work for you.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Callie.” He pulled her close so her breasts grazed his chest.

  She pushed at his shoulder, caught a neighbor watching with raised brows, and muttered, “Let me go, Trace.”

  “The dance isn’t over, Callie.”

  He might as well have said I’m not done with you. She’d gotten the message loud and clear. “We don’t know each other anymore, Trace. We might as well be strangers.”

  “I know you in every way there is for a man to know a woman.”

  “I’ve changed,” she said. “I’m not the girl who fell foolishly in love with you.”

  His eyes focused intently on her. “So much the better.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “That should be obvious.”

  His hand pressed against the small of her back, drawing her close enough to feel his hardness against her softness. A frisson of awareness streaked through her. She gasped, tried to catch the sound, but was too late.

  “Look at me, Callie,” he commanded.

  Callie tried to jerk free, but Trace tightened his hold. She raised her chin and glared at him. “Whatever we had between us is over and done.”

  “Not quite,” he said.

  She eyed him warily, her heart thumping crazily. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I haven’t had my fill of you.”

  She snorted derisively. “You make me sound like a bottle of beer you haven’t finished swilling.”

  His voice was low and seductive. “I was thinking of something utterly soft and incredibly sweet I haven’t finished sampling.”

  Callie felt the flush creeping up her throat, but could do nothing to stop it. “I don’t love you anymore, Trace.”

  “Who said anything about love?”

  She was startled into meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were icy and unfathomable. Ruthless and predatory. This was the merciless man who had so frightened her the first day she had spoken to him. Back again to haunt her. To hunt her.

  But she was no longer the naive girl of seventeen who had given him her virginity. Who had loved him with her entire being. Whom he had professed to love and then abandoned with a willingness mat had left her aching inside for years afterward.

  Callie lowered her gaze as she acknowledged the truth. She had never really gotten over the pain of losing Trace. Nolan had applied a balm to soothe it, but the anguish of Trace’s betrayal had been buried deep inside her, where it remained to this day. “This is not the place—”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He danced her out of the barn and into the cool, quiet night, then clasped her hand in his and dragged her behind him along the length of the barn and into the darkness.

  “Let go of me, Trace.”

  A moment later she found herself backed up against the rough wooden barn, with Trace’s hard body pressed against hers from breasts to thighs. His hands stapled hers against the weathered wood on either side of her head, and his face was so close she could feel his moist breath against her cheek, smell the musky scent of a man who had spent the day under a hot sun.

  “We have unfinished business, Callie.”

  She stared up into hooded eyes and felt all the heat and desire—and regret and anger—she had tried so hard to put behind her. She was tempted to give in to the moment, to taste him, to feel the passion and the frenzy of loving him just one more time.

  But she could never become Trace’s wife. And if she became his lover, they would be forced to hide their relationship from his family and from hers. She had long ago said farewell to the fairy tale. She had to live in the real world.

  “No, Trace.”

  “Yes, Callie.”

  Callie held her breath as Trace’s mouth lowered toward hers. She turned her face so his lips only caressed her cheek. She felt her throat swell with the loss of all that might have been.

  “I’m not going to let you turn away from me this time,” he said in a harsh voice. His hand grasped her chin and turned her face up to his as his mouth came down, devouring hers, hungry and seeking satisfaction.

  When he thrust his tongue into her mouth, her body began to tremble. He released her hands as his own went seeking. She put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but found herself holding on instead, as his hands sought her breasts and then moved down between her legs to the heat and the heart of her. Her cry of need was swallowed by his punishing kiss. />
  For an instant she let herself feel, and then she panicked, struggling against the powerful emotions that had surged within her. She shoved at his shoulders, as she made her body rigid. “I won’t let you do this to me again!”

  He lifted his head to look at her, his eyes glittering in the light from the doorway. There was no sign of the fascination that had once filled his eyes when he looked at her. No sign of tenderness, of love or caring. Only carnal desire.

  “I’ll fight you, Trace.”

  “Go ahead.” He lowered his head toward her mouth, then abruptly turned away. “What was that?”

  Callie froze. Oh, dear God. What if Luke had come looking for her? She shoved at Trace with all her strength, fighting to be free. And then she heard it, too. A woman’s cry for help.

  “Someone’s in trouble,” she said.

  But Trace had already headed in the direction of the woman’s voice, pulling her along behind him.

  Trace heard the sounds of the fight—the thwack of flesh hitting flesh, the oomph! of air being forced from lungs, the female screech of terror and rage—long before he and Callie reached the combatants. His adrenaline began to pump when the stream of yellow light from the open door of the barn revealed that his sister Summer was smack in the middle of the fracas.

  Summer had her arms wrapped around Bad Billy Coburn from behind, while he slugged away with both fists at a tall, skin-and-bones boy. It was Luke Creed.

  Another female had hold of the bloodied Creed boy—who was also swinging wildly with bared knuckles—trying to drag him away. The boy leaned to dodge a blow, and Trace identified the second girl as Emma Coburn.

  To his disgust, a half-dozen cowboys, including several Bitter Creek cowhands, were egging the fighters on.

  “Get him, Billy!”

  “Did you see that? Hit him again, boy!”

  “Jesus, Billy kicked him!”

  “Don’t let him get to ya, Luke!”

  As Trace scanned the crowd, he was disgusted to discover that Bad Billy’s father, Johnny Ray Coburn, was yelling the loudest.

  Bad Billy suddenly ducked, and a roundhouse punch from Luke intended for Billy’s chin ended up hitting Summer’s nose, causing it to spurt blood, and knocking her to the ground.

  “That’s enough,” Trace said in a voice that demanded obedience. He glanced at Summer and saw she had her hand cupped against her bloodied nose. He put himself between the two men and ordered, “Both of you take a step back.”

  Bad Billy held his ground, glaring insolently at Trace.

  Luke did as he was told, but tripped over Emma Coburn, who was standing too close behind him. Hands windmilling, he lost his balance and fell, taking Emma down with him.

  “Luke, you asshole!” Bad Billy slurred in a drunken voice. “That’s my sister you just put on the ground.”

  Billy kicked out savagely at the downed boy, but Trace knocked his boot aside and hit Billy once, hard, in the stomach. Billy grunted in pain as he fell to his knees, retching.

  Trace fixed a steely eye on the now-silent cowboys, and ordered curtly, “Hector, Slim, pick up the Creed boy and have Mrs. Monroe show you where her truck is parked. Johnny Ray, see to your girl.”

  Trace felt a hand on his arm and turned to find Callie standing beside him.

  “Trace, I … How can I thank you?”

  He almost let the moment pass without taking advantage of it. But he didn’t have time to be subtle. “You can be my date for the gala at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts next weekend.”

  She looked stunned. “I …” He saw the struggle that went on before she smiled and said, “I don’t have anything to wear to something like that.”

  He found himself smiling back at her. “No problem. We’ll go shopping first at Neiman Marcus.”

  “Trace, I—”

  “Señor Trace,” Hector interrupted, reminding him that his cowhands were still holding Luke Creed.

  “Your brother needs some attention,” Trace said. “I’ll pick you up Saturday at noon.”

  “I’ll meet you in town,” she countered. “At Bobbie Jo’s Café.”

  “Done,” he said.

  Once Callie was gone, Trace crossed to Summer. She was on her knees beside Bad Billy, who lay groaning on the ground. Trace could smell the yeasty stench of too many beers, and shook his head in disgust. “You’re fired, Billy.”

  “Trace, you can’t do that,” Summer protested, as she rose to confront him.

  Trace’s lip curled in disgust at his sister’s defense of Bad Billy Coburn. “He’s a drunken brawler. I don’t need his kind working for me.”

  “You don’t know a thing about him!” she cried. “Luke started it by insulting Emma. Billy was only defending his sister.”

  Trace’s gaze shifted to the tall, redheaded Coburn girl, who was being dragged away by her father. It was then he realized Johnny Ray Coburn had left his son lying on the ground without even checking on him. What kind of father was he, Trace wondered, to let his children get involved in a fight without interfering to save them from harm?

  Trace saw the older man weaving and stumbling away with his daughter and realized Johnny Ray’s son had grown up to be just like his father—a drunken, scrapping, care-for-nobody.

  He turned back to Summer. “Don’t defend that bast—” He cut himself off. Now she had him swearing in front of her. “Don’t defend Bad Billy Coburn to me, Summer. Any man who was a man, wouldn’t fight where women might get hurt.”

  “Don’t spout platitudes at me, Trace,” Summer retorted, jabbing him in the chest with her pointed finger. “You hit Billy with a sucker punch, showing off for Callie Creed.”

  “I was not—” Trace cut off his denial. Maybe Summer was right. He wanted Callie’s admiration. But he’d sunk pretty low, if he was reduced to fighting for it.

  Trace felt like hitting something. Unfortunately, his cowhands were keeping their distance. And Bad Billy Coburn was still flat on his back.

  Trace frowned as Summer knelt beside the fallen cowboy. His brow furrowed more deeply when she brushed the sweaty black hair from Bad Billy’s brow and pulled the bandanna from Billy’s pocket to dab at the blood streaming from his mouth and nose.

  He’d thought Summer had merely stumbled onto the fight and gotten involved in an attempt to help the Creed boy, who was younger and slighter and had less experience brawling than Bad Billy. But as Summer spoke in soothing tones to the downed man, it became increasingly apparent that his sister was somehow involved with the drunken cowboy.

  “Summer, it’s time to go,” he said.

  “Billy’s hurt. He needs medical attention.”

  “Leave him,” Trace ordered.

  “No,” she said flatly. “I’ve got to take Billy home. He can’t drive in this condition.”

  Trace looked around for someone who could take Bad Billy home, but all of his cowhands had slunk quietly away. “Dammit all to hell,” he muttered under his breath. He was tempted to leave Bad Billy lying in his own vomit, but one look at the obstinate tilt of Summer’s chin convinced him he wasn’t going to get away with doing that. At least, not without hauling his sister home kicking and screaming all the way.

  “Aw, hell.” Trace leaned down and grabbed Bad Billy by the arms and hauled him upright, then hefted him over his shoulder like a sack of feed. “Let’s go,” he said.

  He ignored Summer’s protest when he dumped Bad Billy into the bed of his pickup without a care for the bruises it would cause. When Summer started to climb in with the boy, he caught her wrist and said, “Get into the cab. We need to talk.”

  Her chin came up—when didn’t it?—and she stalked to the front of the truck and got in. Trace caught himself sighing and pressed his lips flat. It would be a cold day in hell before he allowed his little sister to be wasted on the likes of Bad Billy Coburn.

  The Coburn ranch was twenty-five miles in the opposite direction from Bitter Creek, which would give them plenty of time to talk. Trace held his tongue, wait
ing to see what Summer would have to say for herself. He wanted to hear what kind of defense she intended to mount for the jug-bitten cowboy.

  Her stubborn silence gave him too much time to think, and his thoughts were all about Callie Creed Monroe.

  Trace had told himself over and over since she’d walked away from him at the auction that the smart move was to keep his distance. He’d remained in the house with Dusty and Lou Ann in order to avoid seeing Callie, despite his taunt of claiming a dance. But she’d been in his head the whole time, the same way she was lodged in his heart.

  He’d tried to cut her out. He’d tried not to want her. But she was under his skin, and there was no getting rid of her without peeling himself away a layer at a time, until there would be nothing left. Trace knew what he wanted from Callie. He just wasn’t sure of the best way to get it.

  Maybe if he could get her into bed he’d discover that the memories he had of the time they’d spent together wouldn’t measure up. That what he remembered as pure gold would turn out to be dross.

  But merely kissing her against the rough wall of the barn had turned him inside out, so that all the pain of loss and the wealth of need were right there on the surface, aching and demanding. He’d wanted to possess her. Needed to possess her. Intended to possess her before he left this place once and for all and went back to where he’d come from.

  He’d made up his mind about that tonight.

  “Trace, you can’t fire Billy for fighting,” Summer said into the silence. “Especially when the fight wasn’t his fault.”

  Trace turned to survey his sister, whose nose looked dark and swollen in the light from the dash. “He was fighting. That makes whatever happened his fault.”

  “I told you he had no choice. Luke Creed told Billy’s sister Emma to get lost. He called her a bloodsucking leech.”