The Cowboy and the Kid

by Anne McAllister

  Felicity slid forward, and he moved along the seat behind her until he was pressed against the passenger side door. Then he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her against him so that she was practically sitting in his lap. She snuggled back, pressing into his warmth. It felt so good. Not only the warmth, but the holding. It had been so long since she'd been in a man's arms.

  But it wasn't just that, either. It was the man. Taggart. Taggart holding her. Taggart's breath against the back of her neck. Taggart's hands tucking themselves around, cupping her breasts. She could feel his fingers through the jacket she wore. His thighs were warm and hard beneath her bottom. She shifted, settling in more completely, her body molding itself to his. Shifting again, wriggling. Accommodating.

  Taggart's arms tightened. She heard a swift intake of breath.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing." There was a faintly strangled sound to his tone. She twisted clear around on his lap to look at him. "You can't tell me you're all right," she said. "When we slid into the ditch … were you hurt?"

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. His mouth was only bare inches from hers. So close she could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke. "No."

  "Then—"

  He shifted then, too, shrugging against the seat as if to ease some discomfort, and suddenly she understood—and felt her cheeks burn. "Oh."

  Taggart grimaced. "Yes. Oh," he echoed, his tone now ruefully self-mocking. "Sorry. I told you—those laws of nature."

  "Do you want me to move off?"

  But when she tried, he held her fast. "Do you want to stay warm or not?"

  "Yes, but—"

  He shifted her sideways slightly, so that her feet rested on the other end of the bench seat and her bottom pressed firmly into him. Then his arms tightened again. "Tell me some more about your trip to Europe."

  She knew he was making small talk, but she obliged him. She talked—haltingly at first, but then with more ease, describing the hostel she and Dirk had stayed in near Lake Como. She told him about their visit to Venice.

  "Did you ride in a gondola?" He sounded almost jealous. She shook her head. "Too expensive. We took the vaporetto. Water bus," she explained. "We saw the same things—and just as romantically, really. The romance is within, I think."

  "Yeah." His breath caressed her ear, making her shiver, and all her small talk went for naught. She was intensely aware of him again.

  "Your turn," she said. "Tell me about … about…"

  "Cheyenne? Reno? The Cow Palace? All those romantic spots?"

  "Why not? I haven't been any of those places."

  So he told her. About the places, about the people—and the bulls—he'd seen. It sounded fun and grueling and exciting and tiring. "Do you miss it?" she asked, turning her head to get a glimpse of his face. "The traveling?"

  He looked thoughtful. "Some. Now and then. It gets in your blood, I guess. But I knew I couldn't do it forever. And with Becky I just had to quit a little sooner than I might have otherwise. I don't regret it, if that's what you mean."

  He didn't sound like a man who had many regrets—besides his marriage. She wanted to ask about it and wondered if she dared. The wind rocked the truck again, and Felicity felt Taggart's arms tighten around her.

  "Did your … wife travel with you?" she ventured finally.

  "Once." His voice was flat. "She didn't like it."

  "I'm sorry," Felicity apologized for asking. "It's none of my business."

  "It's history," Taggart said. "Not very pretty history, so I don't talk about it much. We were two people in the throes of lust. We should have seen it for what it was. I do now. I won't make the same mistake again."

  There was nothing to say after that. The snow buried them deeper. Felicity tried to imagine a woman who could only feel lust for Taggart Jones. It was so much less than she felt herself. She settled back more deeply into the warmth of his embrace. He shifted beneath her.

  "Sorry," she muttered again.

  "A little torture never hurt a guy."

  She smiled. "I didn't know you were a masochist."

  "I ride bulls, don't I?" He was smiling, too, but Felicity had seen the danger.

  "Don't you … get scared sometimes?"

  "If you concentrate on the fear, you might as well not do it. The fear is more likely to kill you than the bull. I'm not saying a bull can't kill. Some of the best riders have died in the arena. If it's your time, it's your time, I guess. But you can make it your time, if you panic. When you ride a bull, you have to trust your instincts and all that practice you did. It's just—you're there, the bull's there. Are you going to ride or not? If you are, you can't think. You just have to react."

  Felicity listened and understood. She felt like that herself. She was here. Taggart was here. She'd spent two years thinking. Hibernating.

  Now she just had to react.

  She kissed him. She couldn't help it. She was sitting on his lap, snuggled in his arms, her lips bare inches—ten centimeters, she would have told her kids when they did the metric system—from his. The temptation was too great.

  She had kissed him before and regretted it. She didn't regret it now.

  Perhaps because he didn't seem stunned; only eager, as if the fires, long banked, had suddenly burst into full flame and he was as desperate for her touch as she was for his.

  The first kiss had lasted less than a second. This one went on and on.

  Lips only at first, then tongues, tasting, teasing. Teeth nibbling, nipping. Mouths that hungered, that sipped and savored. Until just the touch of their mouths wasn't enough anymore. Felicity rubbed her cheek against his, loving the soft-rough feel of the day's growth of whiskers. Men's skin was so different from women's. She lifted a hand and smoothed it along his jaw, traced the curve of his ear. Her fingers crept up to ease his hat off and stroke his hair.

  Dirk's hair had been long enough to thread her fingers through. Taggart's was short, clipped close to the back of his head, trimmed above his ears. Long enough on top, though, to tousle. Felicity tousled it. She played in it, running her fingers over his scalp, brushing, combing, loving the soft silky feel of it.

  She felt his hands burrow in her hair, too. Not only his hands. His face. He pressed his lips to her ear, nuzzled her with his nose. And all the while, his hands wove themselves in and out, smoothing and teasing, raking and caressing. The simple feel of his fingers was so wonderful that she felt a shiver run right down her spine.

  "Not warm enough yet?" Taggart said. The ragged edge was still there, but she could hear a smile in his tone.

  "Warm," she murmured against his cheek. "Very warm. How about you?"

  "Hot. And you know it." She felt his jaw tighten and felt a moment's qualm. She didn't want to tease. She wanted to love. She kissed him again, tenderly at first, trying to set him at ease, to let him know how she felt. The response she got moved from tenderness to urgency in seconds. His tongue slipped between her lips, plunging into the heat of her mouth, delving, seeking. And Felicity met it with an urgency of her own. This, too, was a part of love, and if this was what he wanted…

  She twisted further to come around to hold him. He moaned, his hips lifting to press against her bottom. She felt the heat of his arousal right through her wool trousers and his jeans. She eased away from him slightly and reached between them, her fingers finding the buckle of his belt.

  He stilled suddenly, sucked in his breath. "Felicity." His eyes met hers, dark and desperate.

  "I can help."

  He gave a shaky half laugh. "I know you can. But—" he shook his head and let out a ragged sigh "—you shouldn't."

  "No?" She should have been embarrassed at her wanton behavior. He was the father of one of her pupils, for goodness' sake. He could easily get her fired.

  He wouldn't. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did. Taggart would never do anything to hurt her. She looked into his eyes.

  "No, Taggart?" Her breath was a whisper against his mouth.

>   He shut his eyes and dragged in a ragged breath. "Isn't the shoe supposed to be on the other foot?" he asked, a tremor in his voice. He sounded halfway between pain and amusement.

  "You mean, aren't you supposed to be seducing me?"

  He opened his eyes to meet hers again. "Something like that."

  She smiled. "Go ahead."

  He groaned. Then his hands, which had been still against her back, very slowly began to move, coming forward, sliding along her rib cage, thumbs inward as they came up beneath her jacket and, through her sweater, cupped her breasts, then stroked across them, the pads of his thumbs caressing her nipples, making her shiver. She bit her lip. She saw him smile.

  She bent her head, laying her forehead against his temple, letting her hair brush across his chin, his lips, his cheek. With her tongue she touched the curve of his ear. A shudder ran through him. She could feel it.

  He shifted, and suddenly she had more access to his belt. She didn't have a lot of experience with world championship belt buckles, but she couldn't think of a better time to get some. She fumbled with it, then fumbled some more, muttering and feeling a heat climb into her cheeks that had as much to do with embarrassment at her ineptitude as it did with arousal.

  For the moment, anyway. But then the hook gave, the belt opened beneath her fingers, and her hand lay against the soft denim covering him.

  His hands stilled against her breasts, each of her nipples caught between a thumb and forefinger. Slowly, carefully, not fumbling this time, Felicity undid the button and lowered his zipper, then slid her hand inside and touched him.

  He sucked in a sharp breath. His thumbs and fingers drew on her nipples, sending a shaft of desire straight to the core of her. Felicity's fingers tightened around him, moving slowly against the rigid column of his flesh. He trembled. He pressed his head back hard against the window. His whole body stiffened.

  "Felissssity!" Her name came out on a hiss of urgency. Taggart's hips surged, and then he shuddered and sank back down in the seat, his eyes closed, his jaw locked. Felicity pressed her lips against his cheek.

  He quivered and let out a groan.

  "Taggart?" She felt suddenly awkward, embarrassed. She didn't want to pull her hand away, not yet, but if she left it…

  "God. I'm … sorry. I've never—" He pulled one of his hands away from her and pressed it against his eyes. "Hell."

  "It's … all right." She hated the tremble in her voice. She wanted to sound calm, blasé, a woman of the world.

  He made a ragged sound deep in his throat. "Yeah, sure." He opened his eyes and looked at her ruefully. "I should never have let you touch me. It's … it's been a long time. Too long, obviously." His gaze slid away. "It's no excuse, but—"

  "It's a good excuse," she said softly. "The best."

  He looked at her. "But—"

  "I wouldn't like to think I'm just the next in a long line of women."

  He straightened. His brows drew down. "You're not."

  She leaned forward and touched his cheek with her lips. "I'm glad."

  "Yeah, well, I could've just told you. I didn't have to … to demonstrate." He gave her a rueful look.

  Felicity smiled. "Did you really think we were going to be able to make love in here?" Her gaze moved doubtfully around the narrow confines of the truck cab, then came back to him.

  Taggart sighed. "I wasn't doing much thinking, if you want to know the truth." He leaned his forehead against hers, then reached down to adjust his jeans.

  Felicity eased her hand away, but she didn't want to stop touching him entirely, so she slid her hand beneath his shirt to curve her fingers over his rib cage. Taggart zipped his jeans again and settled back against the door. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he slipped his arms around Felicity and drew her close.

  She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder, settling in. Loving the closeness. Loving him.

  She wasn't sure precisely when she realized this was love she was feeling. Maybe it was when she watched him teach the cowboys how to ride bulls. Maybe it was when she saw him ride one of his own. Maybe it was when he took her to dinner to tell her about Sam's parents even when he obviously didn't want to get involved. Maybe it was when he let her touch him, feel close to him, give to him. It didn't matter. It was enough that she knew. It was enough that she did. She sighed and turned her head into the curve of his neck and shoulder.

  "Are you … all right?" Taggart asked worriedly. "If you… I mean, I'd like … if you want…" His voice trailed off, a note of chagrin lingering.

  She touched her lips to the warm, slightly stubbly skin on his jaw. "It's fine. I'm fine. Better than fine. I haven't been so right in a very long time."

  * * *

  Go figure, Taggart thought.

  A guy makes a fool of himself, behaves with all the savoir faire of a high school kid on his first hot date, and a girl acts like he's done good, like she's pleased with him!

  Not all girls, he reminded himself. This girl.

  Woman, he corrected himself. Holding her, sharing the warmth of her body as it pressed into his, reflecting on her words—her generosity—he knew she was no child. She was certainly nothing like Julie had been. He could just imagine what Julie would have said about what had just happened! It wouldn't have been complimentary, that was for sure.

  "Taggart?"

  "Hmm?" He lifted his hand and stroked her hair. She sighed and snuggled closer. The truck shuddered, buffeted by another gust of wind.

  "Tell me about going down the road."

  "Nothin' to tell. A whole lot of miles in trucks and cars. A little bit of being jerked around on the back of this bull and that bull."

  "There's more to it than that."

  Not according to Julie. But he shifted, settling Felicity more comfortably on his lap, and said, "Well, yeah, I guess."

  She lifted her head, brushing her hair away from her face, turning so that her nose brushed against his cheek. "So tell me. Why do you love it? You must or you wouldn't do it."

  He shrugged, feeling self-conscious. "It's hard to explain."

  She drew a line along his jaw. "You explained lots of things to those cowboys in your school."

  He shook his head. "Not the same thing." But she was looking at him expectantly, and he knew she wasn't going to let him off the hook.

  "It's a challenge," he said slowly. "It's taking all you are—all your courage and your know-how and your desire—and putting them all on the line. It's focusing all your attention on one moment in time, demanding everything you've got. It's a risk. It's skill. It's—let's face it—partly luck. It's life. Life is skill and courage and know-how and desire—and luck—all rolled into one." He stared into the fogged-over, snow-covered windshield, trying to explain the sensation, the emotion, the essence of what those years of miles and seconds of rides had meant to him. "It's a distillation of what it means to do your best, to live your life to the fullest. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. But you always try."

  He turned his head back to look at her. The expression on her face, the way she was looking at him, made the heat crawl into his face. He gave an awkward shrug. "See, I told you I couldn't explain it. I'm no philosopher."

  "I wouldn't trade you for Aristotle." Her finger traced once more along his jawline, then she threaded her fingers in his hair, leaned over, and, with exquisite gentleness, she kissed him. She kissed him first on the forehead, then on each of his eyelids, then the tip of his nose, and, finally—he thought he'd die waiting for her—on his mouth.

  It was a tender kiss, a gentle kiss, and yet it spoke of hunger and yearning and a million things that Taggart knew were out there somewhere out of reach—both his and hers.

  If it weren't for Julie, he thought, the ache inside him growing, billowing, filling every inch of his being… If he hadn't failed so miserably once, he thought as need seared him… Not sexual need; no, it was more than that. It was emotional need, personal need. The desire to share, to be part of something larger, t
o connect. To love…

  He shut his eyes tightly. Inside his head he heard the word drumming over and over: If … if … if…

  Finally, slowly, he drew back and forced himself to look at her squarely. "Tell me," he said, "more about Dirk."

  It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

  * * *

  They awoke to the sound of banging on the window of the truck.

  Felicity groaned and stretched, stiff from the cold and from being cramped on Taggart's lap. She cracked open one eye. Someone was brushing snow off the glass. Embarrassed to have whoever it might be catch her in Taggart's arms, she hauled herself up, then struggled to push open the driver's side door. Through the cleared glass the early morning sunlight streamed in.

  "S'at?" Taggart muttered. He was moving stiffly, too. Barely awake. Felicity didn't know how long they'd finally slept.

  She fumbled with the door handle and felt it jerk out of her hand as the door opened and Noah peered in at them.

  "Thank God. You all right?"

  Felicity straightened and managed a smile, trying to run a hand through her mussed hair. She doubted it was helping. "We're fine," she said. Taggart didn't say anything. She could feel him moving behind her. "Taggart braked to miss a deer," she went on quickly, "and we went off the road."

  "So I see. No chains?" Noah looked over her at his buddy, an expression of disapproval on his face.

  "He lent them to some hunters who went off the road below Clyde Park." Felicity gave Noah a bright smile and eased herself toward him, blocking his view of Taggart who was, she hoped—judging from the movements behind her—buckling his belt.

  "You're out early," Taggart said gruffly now. He edged around and opened the passenger side door—belt buckled, Felicity was glad to see—and stepped down into a foot of snow.

  "Becky was worried."

  Taggart ducked his head. "You told her I was all right, didn't you?"

  "I told her I figured you'd decided to sit out the storm somewhere. I didn't know you were all right." Noah gave him an accusing look. "I wasn't saying something I had to go back on. You could have rung up."