Cowboy Crush

by Liz Talley

  Cal would bear it.

  And as he kicked at the last wave on the white beach he vowed to do just that. Suck it up, forget about Maggie and ride. His goal hadn’t changed because he was stupid enough to fall in love. Or whatever it was he felt for Maggie. Eye on the prize waiting on him in Vegas.

  Cal packed up his gear and drove back to Mobile.

  Two days later, his shoulder hurt like shit, he’d slept like shit and he looked like...shit. Not the best way to feel before facing some of the rankest bulls in any event thus far. The promoter had done a good job lining up the best stock and all the regular guys were in the locker room when Cal strolled in.

  “Well, if it ain’t ol’ Hollywood,” Crank Daniels drawled, slapping Cal on the back. He managed not to wince. “You get tired of modelin’ and decide to start slummin’ again?”

  “Shut up, Crank,” Cal growled, setting his gear on a bench and unzipping it. “You act like you’re a durn redneck and we all know your mama’s eating squab and pâté back in River Oaks.”

  “Shiiit.” Crank laughed, plopping his skinny ass onto a chair and pulling out athletic tape to wrap the ankle he’d broken in Laredo.

  Antonio Morez cast dark eyes on Cal. “It’s good to see you, friend.”

  Cal managed a smile. “You, too.”

  Tony was serious and deeply religious, often taking time to meditate before each ride, whereas Crank could sub in for a rodeo clown at a moment’s notice. The number-two-ranked bull rider was as notorious for the pranks he played on his fellow riders as he was his ability to cover any bull on a given day. Both were talented riders and decent friends. One to pray with, one to raise hell with.

  “Who’d you draw?” Crank asked.

  “Raisin’ Cane.” Cal felt good about the bull he’d ride for his first true outing since the surgery. Cane had a mean streak and hadn’t been ridden in his past three outings. Which meant he could bring a good score.

  “That’s the sort they give old cripples like you, Hollywood,” Crank said with a twinkle in his eye.

  Cal gave Crank a choice finger and then started getting ready for his comeback.

  An hour later, Cal strolled out with his fellow riders to be introduced in the arena. Usually the strobe lights and the explosions amped him. He loved the roar of the crowd and the almost obnoxious behavior of the announcer—it was all part of the experience. But tonight he felt hollow. Nothing had changed, so he didn’t know why it all felt like a letdown. When had strapping up to ride the hell out of a bull felt more a job than a thrill?

  And the cold sweat dripping down his back didn’t help.

  He wasn’t scared.

  He was fearless.

  All he needed was to hang on for eight seconds and grab a good score.

  Three hours later he walked out of the stadium, smiled and signed autographs and accepted congratulations from the fans who’d waited in the light drizzle to take a picture with him. His shoulder hurt like hell, but the adrenaline still coursing through his body took the edge off. Cal should have been ecstatic, but he couldn’t get there. His comeback ride had been anticlimactic.

  And that sucked.

  As he waved good-night to his fellow competitors, he reached for his phone. No messages. Not from his mother. Or his brother. Or the woman he’d left in Texas wounded by his dumbassery.

  “Hey, Cal, come with us,” Crank called across the parking lot. “We’re heading to the Rocking C for beer and women.”

  Any other night and Cal might have joined Crank and some of the other rowdier bull riders, but he didn’t have the heart for it. He wouldn’t mind a beer but the noise and the chicks tipping drunkenly into his lap were so far off his menu at the moment, he might as well be in another restaurant. “Another time.”

  “Your loss, man. These Bama chicks are smokin’,” Crank said, parking his hat on his amber locks and grinning like a fool at the two blondes walking beside him. They gave the requisite giggle.

  Cal didn’t respond. Just climbed into his truck and fired the engine. Taking two pain pills from the bottle in his pocket, he popped them, swigging tepid water from the half-filled bottle in his cup holder. Then he headed back to his lonely motel room. Once there, he pulled off his boots and lay on the bed, trying not to cry.

  Seriously.

  Tears crept into his eyes as he tried to focus on the cheap light cover and not on the ache in his shoulder. Or the ache in his heart.

  Never had he felt so alone, so resigned to a life such as this. But it had been the life he’d chosen. Every time a woman got close, he pushed her away. And this time his controlled five-week love affair had backfired like Charlie’s truck did every time he pulled out of the Triple J.

  “Shit,” he said to the room. It, of course, said nothing back because rooms didn’t talk. At least not with words. This room, however, could tell the tale of a cowboy such as Cal. It would tell of wanderlust and fast-food dinners. It would share chapters on one-night stands and the hollow promise of a phone call. Chapters on cheap stolen towels, unused Bibles in the nightstand and coverlets that when hit with a blue light would reveal tales of horror.

  Who lived this way?

  Cowboys like him.

  Cal rolled over on his good shoulder, closed his eyes and went to sleep on top of the flowered bedspread still wearing his jeans and pearl-snap Western shirt.

  * * *

  CAL MADE THE finals and he was only one spot out of the big money.

  And he’d pulled Rasputin in the final round.

  The bull who had landed him in the hospital, under the knife and nearly three months off the tours.

  “You drew Razz?” Antonio asked, his husky voice over Cal’s right shoulder.

  “That’s called fate,” Crank said before Cal could respond.

  “That’s one thing I’d call it,” Cal said, trying to smile, trying to pretend his life was the same as it always had been. Thing was, what bothered him wasn’t his nerves. He’d ridden Sweet Baby Boy last night for an average score. Combined with his ride on Raisin’ Cane, he had enough to make the finals. Part of him felt relief at being able to strap on his chaps and jump right back into the arena, but the other half of him felt an emotional distance from the sport he’d always loved.

  Maybe he didn’t have it anymore.

  Not the physical ability. He’d proven that to himself whether he rode Rasputin or not. But it was the desire. Had it withered inside him or had he allowed the lazy lifestyle of eating fried chicken on Sundays at his mama’s dinner table paired with making love with Maggie as the sun came up to steal what had always burned so hot inside him?

  He didn’t know.

  But something was wrong with him.

  Thirty minutes later he stood near the chute. Rasputin had been loaded and Cal was ready as he’d ever be. The ache in his shoulder was small in comparison to the adrenaline surging through his body. The last time he’d climbed onto Razz, he’d been defeated. Today he’d not leave the same way. Conviction sat inside him.

  He climbed into the chute and slid his rope beneath the bull’s belly. Razz held still, the consummate professional. Crank helped him secure the rope and position the bells. Cal swung his leg over and settled onto the burly bull’s back, cinching the rope tight several times.

  At his nod, the chute opened.

  Rasputin was as wily a beast as his namesake and the bull knew how to buck a rider off first thing. He spun, bucked hard to the right, kicking up his back legs, catching air. Over and over the bull pounded the earth. Cal stopping thinking and fell into the ride, allowing his body to take over. The bull rocked, rolled and spun. Dirt kicked up, the faces of the cheering crowd nothing but a mottled blur as Cal tightened his legs, digging his spurs to lift himself and ride the monstrosity. Finally, after what seemed like forever the buzzer sounded.

  Cal executed an awkward dismount, scrabbling for the nearest fence because he knew the bull had a nasty temper. And sure enough, Rasputin came after him, head low. Cal made it to t
he fence and pulled himself toward the top. But his shoulder popped and sharp pain shot up his arm. He faltered, his legs churning against the advertisements of sponsors. He felt the bull and heard the bull fighters. One wicked horn grazed his waist, but the fighters were able to distract the bull and guide him toward the exit.

  Cal dropped down, breathing hard, clutching his shoulder. No sense in pretending like he didn’t hurt. No doubt his small tear was a large tear now. And it had nothing to do with the ride. He’d done it pulling himself out of harm’s way.

  He spit out his mouthpiece and waited for the score.

  His score flashed on the big screen: 89.7.

  The crowd erupted into cheers, and Cal waved his cowboy hat, acknowledging them. The score was enough to move into first. With three other riders left, he could drop to second or third, but it was a solid score that might move him up in the overall rankings once the weekend was done.

  Cal didn’t bother going to see Tubby and have him look at the shoulder. He knew he’d injured it again. Knew there was little to be done for it. He’d pop the pain pills and see how it felt in the morning. Once he reached the locker room, he thumbed the lid off his pills, popped a few and spent some time unwrapping his ankle and icing an old knee injury. He longed for a shower, but didn’t want to go back to the motel room alone. And he still had a contractual obligation to sign autographs after the event.

  An hour later with a check in his pocket, a sense of accomplishment at having moved up to third in the overall standings, and a manageable ache in his shoulder, Cal walked into the Rocking C Bar and Grill.

  The joint was rowdy with a jubilant crowd and two-for-one drink specials for anyone with a PBR ticket. Cal made his way through the crush to the bar, nodding at the people who called out “welcome back” and “nice ride.” Finally he pushed in beside Crank who was already two beers up on him.

  “Nice job out there, old man,” Crank said, with a gleam in his eye. He slapped the bar and a girl in a tight halter top came running. “A Bud Light for my man here, sexy.”

  The bartender whose name tag read Holly smiled. “Whatever you want, Crank.”

  “That’s music to my ears,” Crank said to Cal with a laugh.

  “I may be old, but I went three for three, snot-nosed brat,” Cal said, taking the ice-cold beer bottle from Holly who wore stars in her eyes for the cocky Crank.

  Crank clinked his bottle against Cal’s. “Touché.”

  Cal took a long draw, wishing he’d begged off. He’d wanted to get his mojo back, but all he could think about was what Maggie was doing at the moment. Was she popping corn and settling in to watch Netflix? Or was she watching over the barn cat due to give birth any day now? Or maybe she’d already gone back east.

  He wished he was in Coyote Creek with her...or even New Jersey or wherever else she planned to go once she ditched the Triple J.

  “You know what you need?” Crank said, interrupting his thoughts.

  Cal eyed the younger cowboy.

  “A cowgirl.”

  Shaking his head, Cal took another swig. “That’s the last thing I need.”

  “No, no. Me? I got tossed. You, however, need to celebrate your comeback. Like right down there is a pretty gal. Long dark hair, kick-ass rack, and she’s been watching you since you walked in.”

  “No, thanks,” Cal said.

  “But you ain’t even looked at her. And she’s prime real estate, my friend. I’m going to send her a drink.”

  “Don’t,” Cal said.

  “You don’t want her? Fine. I’ll take a crack.”

  Cal focused on peeling the label from his beer and wondered why he’d agreed to come meet the guys for a drink. He knew what went down after each event. If a guy didn’t get in a brawl, he spent all night weeding out which chick he’d take back to his hotel room. That a roommate might be in the next bed didn’t matter. Sometimes the after-rodeo party became a Roman orgy.

  Not his scene.

  Which is why he should take his ass back to the motel, load his truck and head back to Maggie. He missed the hell out of her and maybe this wasn’t love...or maybe it was. But either way, he couldn’t live like this anymore. He’d kiss her feet, lick her boots or whatever else she deemed appropriate for an idiot like him. He set his half-empty beer on the bar and prepared to leave Mobile and head home.

  Home.

  He’d called Coyote Creek home before but he’d never felt as if it was truly where he belonged. But now? Yeah. It felt like where he wanted to be.

  Please, God, let her still be there.

  “Thanks for the drink,” someone said behind him. Cal stiffened because her voice sounded so sweet and familiar.

  “No problem, hon,” Crank said, pulling away from Cal and shifting toward the woman he’d sent the beer to. “I can’t stand the sight of a pretty woman sitting by herself. Not very gentlemanly of me to not offer you a drink and some company.”

  Cal grunted at the lame comment. As if any woman would fall for that.

  Then he caught the woman’s scent—lavender and sunshine.

  She smelled like—he spun around on the stool—Maggie.

  “I’ve found most cowboys to be such gentlemen,” Maggie said, taking a sip of the beer Crank had sent her way. She looked right at Cal. “Some not so much.”

  Cal didn’t know whether to kiss her or run for the door.

  ’Cause she looked mad.

  “That’s right,” Crank said, leaning close and setting a big paw on her waist, pulling her toward him. “And you look like a lady who needs a gentleman tonight.”

  Cal curled his hand into a fist as Maggie gave Crank a smile. “I do.”

  “That’s enough,” Cal said, sliding off the stool and taking Maggie by the arm.

  Crank shot Cal a look that said “back off” and Maggie pulled her arm from his grasp.

  “What are you doing here?” Cal asked her, ignoring Crank.

  “I came to get a cowboy.”

  17

  MAGGIE WANTED TO kiss Cal. She wanted to tell him how relieved and proud she was of him for riding Rasputin to the buzzer. She also wanted to punch him in his big, fat, stupid nose.

  Total toss-up.

  The young cowboy who’d sent her a cold beer pulled at Cal’s arm. “Now see here, Hollywood, you passed. Step on, brother.”

  Cal’s gaze never left hers. “I understand, Crank, but this is a different situation.”

  “How so?”

  “Because the cowboy she wants is me,” Cal said with not the slightest trace of arrogance. No need to be. She had come for him.

  In a way.

  After she’d torn up the contract Hunt Turner had sent, she’d sat down at the kitchen table to think. So often in her life she knew automatically what had to be done, but this time she hadn’t a clue. She was keeping the Triple J, but she needed a plan. Without any experience at ranching and with so little acreage, she struck off the idea of raising cattle. The land wasn’t necessarily suitable for farming. She didn’t think. She knew nothing about farming, anyhow. For a good hour, she’d scratched a few ideas on a legal pad. A dude ranch? But was Coyote Creek too far from a major airport to sustain a successful tourist operation? A bed-and-breakfast? Maybe she could lease it to movie production companies? She’d racked her brain for an idea of how she could actually feed herself and the animals.

  But it was Wyatt who’d tossed out the most viable decision when he came to tell her good-night and ask if she’d talked to Cal.

  Thing was, in order to do what Wyatt suggested she needed the hardheaded cowboy who’d jumped to conclusions and skipped out on her.

  So she’d bought a used truck, locked up the house and driven across the South to get to Mobile. She’d made it in time to watch Cal ride Rasputin. She’d never seen anything like that man ride. Her heart had beaten hard in her ears and she’d felt nausea rise in her throat as he climbed on, but nothing had been more thrilling than watching him hold on to that bull. No, not just hold on. Ride
him.

  She’d thought to show up in his autograph line but what set between them seemed too personal to air out in front of fans. So she planned to follow his truck back to his hotel like some crazy stalker chick. But he hadn’t gone back to the hotel. Instead he’d gone to a bar. Which had hurt her feelings a little. She’d spent several nights crying into her pillow over the jerk and he was going out on the town? She chalked it up to a celebration and climbed out of the new-to-her, only-dinged-on-the-passenger-side-door Chevy truck and went inside to wait on Cal to notice she was there.

  Thankfully, after fending off a few too-interested cowboys, Cal’s friend had noticed her.

  Cal’s buddy frowned. “Bull to the shit. She ain’t here for no broken-down old fart like you.”

  Maggie smiled at the kid. “Actually this cowboy still owes me some work.”

  Crank looked confused.

  Cal nodded. “She’s my boss.”

  “What the hell?” Crank asked.

  “I’m his boss and he left without finishing some things. So I’m here to bring him back.” She looked at Cal when she said it.

  The cowboy with the boyish smile and too-long hair shrugged. “Whatever, weirdos.” And then he turned back to the bar, knocking his knuckles on the scarred wood.

  Cal was absolutely still, studying her as she stood in the middle of the loud, crowded bar, wearing her new jeans with the rhinestone bling on the pockets and the boots they’d bought at the Co-op. “You came to get me?”

  “Sorta.”

  Someone jostled her and she stepped aside so she didn’t get trampled. Country music blared and the roar of conversation made it hard for anyone to hear anything. “Wanna go outside?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Cal took her arm and wound through the bar, pushing out into the hot, humid Alabama night. A few people loitered in the parking lot, some kissing, some shooting the breeze. Night cloaked them in intimacy. Here’s where the road met the rubber...another saying she’d learned from the painters.

  They walked to Cal’s truck and he lowered the tailgate. Jerking his head, he invited her to sit. She shook her head. No way could she sit when she felt this keyed up.