by Susan Fox
As Ben collected his hat, his score came up. It was 91, which elicited another grin, along with more cheering from the audience. It was an exceptionally good score, and well deserved. No question he’d be in tomorrow’s short round.
Ecstatic for him and proud as all get-out, she realized her view of his departing back was blurred by tears. Blinking to clear her eyes, Sally pulled out her phone and texted him.
Congrats! An amazing ride and a wonderful score! Call me when you get a chance.
When she’d driven here, she hadn’t been positive she’d actually contact him. Now, whatever the outcome, she had to see him.
His phone would be in his trailer. He’d take his saddle back there, but would he check for messages? Even if he did, what if he didn’t call back until later tonight? Should she have said she was in the arena? If she didn’t hear from him in a couple of hours, she might text or call again.
Trying not to let nerves ruin her enjoyment of the rodeo, she watched the next events, but the only one that truly held her attention was the barrel racing. As each horse dashed into the arena, Sally’s muscles flexed and she leaned forward, her body attuned to that of the cowgirl, urging the horse on as it flew to each barrel, hustled around it, then dashed onward. It pleased her that the leader was one of her old competitors—not the bitchy Mandy Kilpatrick, but Emmy Crandall, a woman she’d always respected.
She was watching bull riding when her phone vibrated against her thigh. She grabbed it, saw Ben’s name, and answered. “You were fantastic!”
Ben, sprawling on the dinette seat in the open-doored trailer, an ice pack on his bad shoulder and a heating pad in the small of his back, beamed. This was a great sign, Sally caring enough to check scores on the Internet. “Thanks. I can’t believe you’ve seen the results.” He took a long drink from the glass of cold water on the table.
“That was one rank horse.”
Someone must’ve posted a video on YouTube. “Sure was,” he said with satisfaction. “That was the horse and the ride I’ve been looking for.”
“I bet. Can I buy you a beer to celebrate?”
Yes! That was a clear invitation. Wasn’t it? Trying to keep the jubilation from his voice, he sought clarification. “You’re inviting me to come visit after the rodeo’s over?”
“No, I mean I’m inviting you for a beer right now.”
Right now? That could only mean . . . “You’re here? Really?”
“I’m in the stands watching bull riding. I’d rather be drinking beer with you.”
Yes! “Meet you at the entrance to the beer garden in five minutes.” He was on his feet, unplugging the heating pad, going for clean socks. Thank God he’d washed up after his ride, and put on a fresh shirt.
Sounding amused, she said, “You must really want that beer, cowboy.”
“It’s not the beer I’m craving, Sally.” He hung up, pulled on the socks and his boots, and grabbed his hat.
He went to the back of the trailer where Dusty was cleaning Paddy’s bridle. “Guess what? Sally’s here. I’m gonna get a beer with her. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”
The other man studied him with a big, goofy grin. “Or if you’ll be back. Want me to clear out for the night? I can find a bed somewhere.”
“Uh . . .” He hadn’t thought past the need to hold Sally in his arms again. “I dunno. How about I give you a call or text later?”
“No sweat.” Having taken off his hat earlier, Dusty now tipped an imaginary one. “Y’all have fun now.”
“You’ll keep an eye on Chaunce for me?”
“You bet.”
Ben wasn’t going to do anything as junior high as run, but his strides were long as he hurried toward the beer garden.
There she was, waiting, glancing around. She hadn’t seen him yet, and he paused to drink in the sight. But only for a moment, because he needed to get his arms around her.
He strode toward her, she saw him, and her face lit up. He lifted her off her feet, wrapped his arms tight around her waist, and kissed her as if she was the only thing in the world that he wanted. Which, at the moment, was entirely true.
Her hat fell off; her thighs gripped his hips; she met his kiss full force. In fact, after she devoured his mouth, she planted breathless, laughing kisses over every square inch of his face.
Finally, she stopped kissing him and, with her arms circling his shoulders, leaned back in the cradle of his arms. “Hey there, cowboy. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” He eased her down until her boots landed on the ground.
She bent to retrieve her hat. Straightening, putting the hat back atop her copper-gold curls, she said, “That was one incredible ride. I’m so glad I saw it.”
“It felt pretty damned good. I’m glad you saw it, too.”
“So it’s okay that I came? I wasn’t sure if surprising you was a good idea.”
“Best surprise of my life. But damn, woman, you stole my idea. I was gonna drive to Caribou Crossing as soon as the rodeo was over.”
“Great minds think alike, I guess.” But she said it with a touch of uncertainty. Probably she was wondering what he’d intended, in planning a visit.
Just as he wondered about the reason for this surprise of hers. It had to be more than a hankering to see the rodeo, or she wouldn’t have given him such an enthusiastic greeting. Would she? “Let’s get that beer and catch up.”
“Let’s.”
They stepped toward the entrance to the beer garden, and an excited boyish voice said, “You’re Ben Traynor!”
He turned and saw a kid of thirteen or fourteen with a middle-aged couple, all of them in Western clothing. The boy’s eyes were wide with that “I’m a big fan” expression. Normally, Ben loved talking to kids who were into rodeo, but now all he wanted was to be with Sally. Still, he smiled. “So my mama tells me.”
“It’s so cool to meet you! That ride on Sidewinder was sweet! Will you autograph my program?”
“Sure, and it’s cool to meet you, too. You look like you’re a cowboy. Am I right?”
“I want to ride broncs like you.” The boy held out his program, saying, “Mom, you got a pen?”
The woman rooted in a large shoulder bag and said tolerantly, “That would be, ‘Do you have a pen?’ and Yes, I do.” She produced it and handed it to Ben. “Nice to meet you. We saw you in Williams Lake back in June as well.”
“That was a sweet ride, too,” the boy said with relish.
“Yeah, until the bronc tossed me.” Ben opened the program to the page with his photo and info. “What’s your name, son?”
“Dirk. But hey, you stayed on for eight seconds and you won! That’s all that counts.”
There was no reason to tell the kid about the fractured shoulder, pain, rehab, missed rodeos. It was all in a day’s work. As the boy would learn, if he got into rodeo himself.
Ben said good-bye to Dirk and his parents. He was turning back to Sally, who’d stood aside watching quietly, when another voice, female this time, cried, “Sally Pantages! Oh my God, it really is you!”
Emmy Crandall, one of the top barrel racers, caught Sally in a hug.
Sally returned it. “Emmy, hi! Nice to see you. And nice to see you ride this afternoon. That was a great run. You have a new horse since back in the day.”
“Yeah, I had to retire Jasmine. But Caballero’s a doll, too. Took us a while to find our rhythm, but we’re pulling in fast times now.” She flashed a cheeky grin. “Sure helps that you’re not competing. So what are you doing these days anyhow, you and that guy you married?”
“I’m in Caribou Crossing. He died and—”
“Oh, man, Sally, I’m sorry. That blows.”
Sally shrugged. “Stuff happens. Anyhow, I have my own place and I’m teaching riding and boarding horses. It’s fun.”
“Huh. Well, whatever fires you up, I guess. I sure never thought you’d give up rodeo.”
“It’s nice to be settled in a beautiful place rather than on
the road all the time.” Sally flicked a quick glance in his direction.
Emmy’s attention shifted from Sally. “Hey there, Ben. Good to see an old friend, eh?”
“Sure is.” Although he hoped that before long he and Sally would be much more than just friends.
Emmy refocused on Sally. “I’m meeting up with a couple of the other gals in the beer garden. Why don’t you come?”
“Actually, Ben and I were just going to”—she paused infinitesimally—“get a bite to eat.”
A bite to eat? Weren’t they getting a beer? This woman could get him so confused.
“Sure,” Emmy said. “Well, if you’re around later, or tomorrow, it’d be fun to catch up.”
“I’d like that.” The wistful expression in Sally’s eyes attested to the truth of her statement. Would she rather talk to the barrel racers than be with him?
But then she turned to him, and wistful was replaced by something sparkly and intense that sent a fresh jolt of excitement through his blood. “Ready to go?” she asked a touch breathlessly.
“Sure.”
He was all set to go into the beer garden when Sally caught his arm and tugged him in the opposite direction. Bewildered, he asked, “No beer?”
She dropped her hand from his arm and gazed up at him, amusement kinking her lips. “Are you that desperate for a beer, cowboy?”
Her. He was desperate for her. “Uh . . . I thought that’s what we’d planned.”
“Does it have to be here? Where it’s pretty clear we’re both going to get recognized, and we won’t be able to talk?”
Enlightenment dawned and with it relief and pleasure. “You want to be alone with me,” he teased.
Uncertainty flickered on her face. “If you’d rather stay here—”
“No way,” he cut her off. “We should definitely go someplace where we can be alone and, uh, talk.” Sex would be better. Or no, maybe it wouldn’t. Well, of course it would, but he did have things he needed to say to her. Maybe after she heard them, she wouldn’t want to make love with him. And that was a sobering thought.
Damn. Thrilled as he was to see her, he almost wished Sally hadn’t come. Wished he’d been able to follow through on the plan he’d been putting together in his head. About how he’d ditch Dusty somewhere—maybe put him up at the Wild Rose Inn—and drive out to Sally’s wearing his best clothes, with a bouquet of wildflowers, a bottle of champagne, and a rudimentary business plan for opening a rodeo school.
He’d wanted to get all his ducks in a row. He knew she was attracted to him, so he’d planned to look as good as he could, not like a guy who’d barely managed to put on a fresh shirt after getting sweaty and dusty riding a bronc. He knew her feminine side appreciated wildflowers and an occasional extravagance like good wine. He also knew she was a practical businesswoman, so he’d figured on pulling together the information he’d gathered, so he could show her a realistic business plan.
Now here he was, off guard and unprepared. Did he have any hope of winning his lady’s heart?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nerves jangling, Sally wondered what Ben was thinking as they walked to where she’d parked her truck. He’d seemed so glad to see her, but now he didn’t take her hand and he hadn’t said a word since commenting that they should be alone and “uh, talk.”
Had she done the wrong thing, coming here and catching him by surprise?
When they reached her parking spot, she said, “Do you want to drive?”
“It’s your truck. D’you want me to drive?”
“I’d rather you navigate.” She unlocked the passenger door. “I don’t know Armstrong.”
He climbed into the seat as she went around and took the driver’s seat. After finding her way out of the huge parking lot, she followed Ben’s directions to the small downtown area, which reminded her of Caribou Crossing with its heritage buildings and cute storefronts.
Suddenly, Ben said, “Hang on. Pull over when you get a chance.”
Half a block along, she found a spot and parked. Assuming he had seen a bar or restaurant, she was about to pull the key out of the ignition when he said, “Wait here a minute. I’ll be right back.” And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.
Puzzled, she settled back and tried not to worry.
It was more than five minutes until the passenger door opened again. A sizable bouquet of flowers was thrust inside.
“Oh!” Sally stared at the mixed blooms in all colors imaginable. A heady scent drifted toward her. “Those are gorgeous.”
Ben climbed in, juggling the bouquet. “The florist didn’t have wildflowers, so I had to go with second best.” He peered at her anxiously. “I figured you weren’t a dozen red roses kind of gal. Hope I’m right.”
“You’re so right.” A dozen red roses, that conventional gift, was what Pete had brought when he apologized for hitting her. “Thank you, Ben.” This was a good thing, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t give her flowers if he wasn’t glad she’d come. From him, flowers had never carried a mixed message. “Now, where shall we get that beer?”
“I hope you meant it about getting food, too. I asked the florist for a restaurant recommendation.”
“Great.” This was another good sign.
He recited the directions as she drove, and they arrived at a restaurant called Sundown.
They climbed out of the truck and he handed her the flowers. “Yours, my lady.”
Was she his lady? She sure wanted to be. Accepting the armful, she buried her nose in the sweet-smelling blossoms. “Mmm. I’ll ask the restaurant to put them in water.”
Clad in their Western garb but leaving their hats in the truck, they walked toward the door. Ben took her free hand, interweaving their fingers. Such a simple gesture, but it felt so good and meant so much. She squeezed his hand.
Sally had been expecting something akin to a Western bar, but instead, when they stepped inside, she saw that the place was fancier, with interesting art on the walls, pale yellow linen, and candlelight. It was actually pretty romantic. And, fortunately, not pretentious, or she’d feel out of place in her Western garb.
The young woman who greeted them smiled at the flowers. “Lovely. I’ll put them in a vase.” Then she led them to a quietly situated table for four in the half-full restaurant, and carefully scooped the bouquet from Sally’s arms. When Sally and Ben were seated across from each other, the waitress asked if they’d like a drink.
“We’ll take a look at the wine list,” Ben said.
When the woman had left, Sally said, “You don’t want that beer I promised you?”
“Not tonight. This is my treat, and I think we need wine. That okay with you?”
“I won’t complain. Just bear in mind that one of us has to drive.”
The waitress returned with the flowers in an attractive ceramic vase. She set them down on the unoccupied side of the table rather than between Sally and Ben where they’d have blocked their view of each other.
They both thanked her, then Sally opened the menu. While she perused the intriguing selections, she was vaguely aware of Ben pointing to something on the wine list.
She was still deliberating when the waitress returned with an ice bucket on a stand, the top of a bottle poking up from the ice, and two flute glasses. Sally’s mouth opened as the waitress deftly eased the cork from a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and poured bubbly golden liquid into both glasses. “Enjoy.” She departed with another smile.
Sally stared across the table. “Champagne?”
“Seems to me it suits the occasion.” Despite the words, his tone was tentative.
Champagne was for major events. The last time she’d tasted it was at her wedding reception, when Pete said she’d gotten drunk and foolish. Damn Pete, anyway. He wasn’t going to spoil her reunion with Ben. Unsure whether “the occasion” was his amazing ride or the two of them being together again, she raised her glass. “It does suit the occasion.” Hedging her bets, she said, “To your great r
ide on Sidewinder, and to seeing you again.”
He lifted his own glass. “To seeing you again, Sally. And to us.” There was something challenging in his chestnut-eyed gaze, almost as if he dared her to drink that toast.
Which she would, very happily. She clicked her glass firmly against his. “To us.”
His eyes softened, warmed, and he raised his glass to his lips as she mirrored the gesture.
The liquid slipped into her mouth, a chill fizz that exhilarated her, as did that warmth in Ben’s eyes.
When she put her glass down, the waitress reappeared to ask if they were ready to order. They gave her their selections, and then were alone again.
“Thank you for the flowers and champagne,” Sally said. “And for finding such a lovely restaurant.”
He gazed down and fiddled with his glass, the slim flute looking impossibly graceful and fragile in his large, calloused hand. “You never wanted to go out for dinner with me in Caribou Crossing.” His gaze lifted, and the challenge was back. “You didn’t want people thinking we were a couple.”
Had she hurt his pride? His feelings? “I was too touchy about privacy. I’m sorry if ”—no man wanted it suggested that his feelings had been hurt—“if I was obnoxious.”
He sighed. “I guess I understood. After what you went through with Pete, you were used to keeping your personal life to yourself. And you had your business reputation to consider.”
“Thank you.”
His gaze again dropped to his glass. Either the bubbles fascinated him, or he was avoiding looking at her. “But I wondered if you were, you know, embarrassed to have your name linked with mine.”
She cocked her head. “I’m not sure what you mean. I didn’t want the town gossiping about me, saying I was slutty.”
Now he did glance at her. “Why’s it being slutty to date someone and sleep with them?”
“It’s not. But that’s not how people were likely to view it. They’d just see me having a fling with a passing cowboy.”
