Wild West Weekend

by C. R. Moss

  “You’re going to make me blush if you keep staring at me like I’m dinner. What’s up, city girl?”

  She chuckled. “Nothing. Just enjoying the scenery I missed yesterday.”

  He pulled in a deep breath, tilted his head back. “It’s God’s enchanted country, darlin’. Or were you referring to me?”

  No doubt in her mind, his assumptions were right on. Both of them. And here she was with her very own golden angel trucking through God’s tundra. Could it get any better than this? But all good things come to an end for me. John is a perfect example. But perhaps, I should just enjoy the weekend. Accept the dynamic between us for what it is—a fling. Just let myself go for once.

  Turning slightly, Damon appeared to consider her for the third time since they left the cabin. He hadn’t said anything to her during the other assessments, but this time his mouth was opening. “Bristol, darlin’, are you sure that outfit you have on isn’t going to hinder you during ridin’, shootin’, and ropin’?”

  She did a once over of her attire for the fourth time. “What’s wrong with my outfit? This is a professionally designed western suit. A Vera Wang original designed just for me.”

  He bit back an obvious laugh, but continued to stare out toward the open road. “I have no doubt they wore that style in the eighteen and nineteen hundreds… when Annie Oakley was still breathin’. But this is the twenty-first century. Styles have changed. A lot.”

  She eyed her ensemble—a knee length dark brown suede skirt with matching vest, a white cotton blouse, white fringed cowboy boots. I don’t look that out of place. Cassie said to bring my A game to this vacation, so I did.

  Leaning her foot to the side, she studied the oversized silver spurs the size of half dollars adorning each ankle. Well… maybe the spurs are showy. Then, she gazed up at the white fringe hanging from her brown and white Stetson. The fringe may be a little outdated.

  “I look fine, Damon. Don’t forget I am a western woman five nights per week.”

  A trace of humor lit his eyes. “Yes, you are. The year is, from what I remember from the show on Broadway, around eighteen hundred. But hey, who am I to cramp your style?” A slow sexy grin played across his five o’clock shadow. “Of course, I’d prefer you naked, but I don’t want the others gawkin’ at you.”

  Simple instinct pushed her to slap his knee. “You’re so bad.” So, western man has been to Broadway. “You’ve actually seen Annie Get Your Gun?”

  “Yep. Years ago. Well before you took the lead it seems. And, you have no idea the extent of my bad self, but you will. Come to think of it every last one of us Dougan men are bad to the bone.” A low rumble brought on the refrain of George Thorogood and the Destroyers, Bad to the Bone.

  He has a good voice, too.

  Lifting the rim of her Stetson, she nuzzled back against the leather seat drank in the landscape one more time prior to their arrival at Camp Lakota.

  Chapter Ten

  Walking across the large campground, it was obvious she may have over-calculated the outfit slightly. Overdressed a smidgen.

  From the pictures of the wranglers Damon showed her in the truck, she recognized the handsome crew immediately. Kane happened to be standing closest to the make-shift grub station. Wide-eyed, he pinned her with a slightly lighter blue gaze then Damon’s, and then a strange look crossed his handsome features when he surveyed her outfit. It was when he dropped the coffee cup secured in his hand onto the grass that she did a double-take of her clothing. Again. Maybe Damon was right. I am overdressed.

  Damon shook his head in what appeared to be an unbelieving manner. “Oh yeah, now the fun begins.” He shot up a finger to Kane, as if he dared him to speak.

  Kane smirked, picked up his mug and poured another cup of java from the silver coffee urn beside him.

  She did another scourer of her attire. What was wrong with the people here? Didn’t they know fashion when they saw it? Even overdressed, she still considered herself styling.

  The further they walked into the campground, the more her outfit started to stand out from the other guests. Correction, scream. Blue Jeans, flannel shirts and boots appeared to be the clothing of the hour. So she had overdressed. But if paparazzi were lying in the scrub brush, at least she looked good. If she did make the cover of Broadway Today, she’d be styling in her ensemble, which included the man on her arm.

  A sandy-haired wrangler with stunning green eyes called Jake stood near the musician she had met last night. Jake helped Kent remove two twelve string mahogany Dreadnought guitars from their cases and secured them to the stands. Being in musical theater her entire life, she knew instruments. Kent tipped his dark brown Stetson at her followed by a slightly yellowed smile toward Damon.

  Damon raised another finger. His tactic for shutting up his ranch hands had become borderline comical. What was funnier was the way they responded to his threats.

  This time Jake chuckled.

  Damon halted at a clear patch of land, threw the neatly folded orange neon and blue nylon tent to the ground. “This is for shade and privacy, should we find we need some, darlin’,” he mentioned with a wink.

  It took his words and meaning a few seconds to register. And when they finally did, she was sure her eyes looked like they were bulging out of her head. “What? We… here? Outside?” What would people think? Not to mention, if the paparazzi snapped pictures of her in a tent with a strange man, well, that would be bad.

  His way too handsome face smirked. He considered her as if what he was requesting was no big deal, when in reality she’d thought he was kidding the entire time. Well, maybe not kidding, but definitely not fooling around in the middle of the campground for all to see. “Ah, yes. Remember we discussed this earlier. I told you to spend as much time as you wanted with your friend, but that when it came time to sleep, you’d be in my bed. Correction, sleepin’ bag. So, it might be here. It might be elsewhere. But it’s good to be prepared no matter where.”

  She gave a quick look around the area. All joking aside, what would people really think? Her friend, Cassie? The rest of the women? It was one thing to fool around with him in her private cabin, quite another out here in a tent.

  In front of the entire free world.

  “Damon, um, do you think that’s such a good idea? I mean people will talk.”

  “Let them. I don’t give a damn, sugar. Neither should you. Remember, we are exploring where our attraction will take us.” He pinned her in place with a stare. Desire, humor, and an emotion she couldn’t quite recall danced in his gaze. “End of story, city slicker. Now, let’s go ridin’.”

  ****

  Nothing or nobody could have prepared Damon for the scene about to unfold in front of him in mere minutes. Plenty of city slickers made their way to the ranch each year, but there wasn’t one who could hold a candle to Bristol Ashcombe.

  With her crazy-ass outfit still on his mind, he moved behind her. Damon chuckled silently as his sweet actress glared with what could only best be described as pure fear at his paint mare, Asia. Bristol attempted to pat Asia’s nose, but when the horse whinnied, she lunged backward stepping on his toe.

  “Ouch. That hurt, darlin’. Did Asia frighten you?”

  Bristol made a strange clicking sound with her mouth, spun around, placing her right hand on her hip, and leveled a look hinged with frustration. “I’m not afraid. I told you, darlin’. I know horses.” She turned back around, then yelled over her shoulder. “It was you breathing down my neck that spooked me.”

  I bet. He had a feeling the upcoming performance would garner her the Tony Award.

  His low baritone laugh sifted through the air. “Right. Get on the horse Bristol.” Or else I’m going to throw you over Asia myself… and the three of us will disappear. That thought was so tempting, he had to will his boots to stay put, and the temptation was killing him.

  ****

  I can do this. Mechanical horses are the same as living ones. The prop companies stand by the slogan,
Rides Like a Real Horse. She needed to keep telling herself that, perhaps eventually she would believe it. Seriously, how hard can it be?

  A cold fear gripped her body. She hiked up her skirt. Just as she was about to place her foot in Asia’s stirrup, the damn horse shifted to the right, made a grunting noise. Rough ground hit her butt so fast, it took her a full minute to register she lay spread eagle on the dusty ground.

  A wave of heat, traveling like a firestorm, thrust into her cheeks. The flush in her face an immediate reaction. After the embarrassment of her present situation passed, she opened her eyes only to find tall, blonde, and sexy, towering above her, his hand extended.

  “Are you alright, darlin’?”

  She huffed.

  Damon appeared to try hard to choke back the laughter.

  “I’m fine,” she barked, then sat up, shooing way his extended hand. “Minor mistake.” Standing, she eyed Asia. Damn horse.

  By this point, the suede of her outfit baked in the Nevada sun and in turn cooked her. Sweat dripped down her back. Hot as she was, she still needed her gloves. Yes, that was the problem. No traction without the riding gloves. That was the reason she couldn’t hold onto the saddle’s pommel.

  “Would you hand me my bag,” she asked him.

  Out of nowhere Marianne appeared and shoved Bristol’s purse in front of her nose.

  Where in the hell did she come from? Through her frustrated haze, she took in a better look at Blondie. She wore short denim Daisy Dukes, a yellow midriff a few sizes too small, enhancing boobs the size of steroid induced grapefruits. Bristol didn’t even look at her feet to check out her footwear. Who cares?

  She grabbed the purse, gentler then she anticipated, pulled out her gloves and put them on. More fringe. The additional fringe she had forgotten about. The brown suede continued to roast her. No time to complain, though. The show must go on.

  “I’m ready,” she announced, confidently stepping up to Asia. Again.

  Damon stepped around Marianne flashing her a strange look. He swept a gaze full of humor over Bristol. “As you wish, darlin’. Round two.”

  He moved closer in an attempt to assist Bristol, but she placed her hand, palm up, against his chest.

  “I’ll be fine, don’t need any help. I do this nightly.”

  She reached for the reins, clutched them tightly and then raised her booted foot. Just as her toe hit the stirrup, Asia whinnied and trotted sideways. Damn it.

  As she lost her balance, the fringe on the right glove tangled with the reins pulling her body forward. Her feet left the ground dropping her stomach first against Asia. Spooked, the horse panicked, slid sideways leaving Bristol helplessly dangling against its torso.

  Bristol screamed at the realization she may be trampled to death. That high shrilled sound spooked the horse, and it reared forward.

  Shouts from Damon and Marianne came first and then her world went black.

  * * * *

  Bristol’s eyes opened. Her gaze focused onto the nicest denim clad butt she’d ever seen.

  It was bent over in the compact space. She cocked her head to try and secure her surroundings. Blue nylon walls, small kerosene lamp on a small dark blue cloth folding table. Running her fingers across the soft material underneath her body, she recognized it as the same fabric of the sleeping bags she carried to the campsite. Damon’s tent.

  Then, like a bad dream, her earlier performance reared its ugly head. And just as quickly, the idea of gun shooting fragmented her thoughts. A muscle ached in her stomach. Nauseated by the thought of shooting a gun, she placed a hand over her abdomen. She could always claim sickness, headache, or a recent root canal.

  No, she couldn’t let Damon down. This was a special weekend. Speaking of that, where was her friend? Damon?

  “Oh no,” she whispered.

  The owner of the sexy jean derrière turned around. It was her man.

  My man? She was in serious trouble.

  “Well, looky here, Annie Oakley has risen.” Damon went down on bended knee next to her, grasped the stray black hair dangling in her face between his fingers.

  Excitedly, her stomach began its fluttering dance, and not thinking about the implication of her upcoming action, she licked her lips.

  Amusement titled up the sides of his mouth. “Is that an invitation, darlin’?”

  Reaching down, he kissed her nose, then hovered a moment. And she gazed—she was sure like a love sick puppy—into his unreadable pools of blue. At this range his eyes sparkled like the ocean in the Florida Keys.

  “Did I mess up my face?” That had to be the problem.

  His breath caressed her cheek. Smelled of a recent mint. “Meaning?”

  “When I fell, did I damage anything?”

  His expression was easily readable. Damon’s grin widened. “Besides your pride?”

  She ignored his question, made a comment. “I use my looks to make a living.” A pause filled the space. “A deformed Annie Oakley wouldn’t go over well with my employers.”

  “Darlin’, you look beautiful.” A mischievous connotation hung in the air. “Good enough to eat.”

  That’s all it took. Instant dampness and need settled between her legs. She readjusted her hips under his assessing behavior had even considered crossing her legs, but lying down made that feat difficult. Nearly impossible.

  His soft lips touched her cheek. “We could always enjoy a little afternoon delight, forgo the shooting.”

  Shooting. Forgoing the shooting would be an awesome idea, but she couldn’t do that to his expectations. No, even though she wanted to shoot guns like pulling out all her teeth, she wouldn’t back down.

  “Anybody in there?” A high pitched voice echoed outside the tent.

  “Shit.” Damon tried to huff under his breath, but Bristol heard it anyway. “Just a second Marianne. Be right there.”

  Marianne. What did she want?

  “Be back, darlin’. I need to take care of this.”

  This? What did he mean? Didn’t he mean Marianne?

  A frustrated then bothered look took hold of him before he turned and unzipped the tent. His toe inched out of the tent when, like a whirlwind Marianne barreled inside, her black cowboy boots missing Bristol’s head by mere inches.

  Damon shot out an arm, and gripped her wrist. “Easy, Marianne. What’s wrong?”

  Marianne attempted to survey her surroundings while Damon kept his hand on her arm.

  At the sight of Bristol anger flared in Marianne’s gaze then morphed into judgment. “Why are you in a guest’s tent, Damon?”

  A shocked expression landed on Damon’s face. “Excuse me?”

  From where Bristol lay, she could sense some unknown history lingered in the air. Suddenly, she felt like an intruder. A knot tightened in her stomach, and she held her breath as the tension moved through her limbs.

  “Excuse me a moment, Bristol. Marianne and I need to address a business matter in private.” With that he held the tent flap open, and the barely clothed blonde sashayed through. He followed letting the nylon close behind him.

  * * * *

  Once outside, Damon pulled Marianne away from the tent. “What gives, Marianne?”

  “When you didn’t show up at the stables after Bristol’s accident with Asia, I came looking for you. I thought we could try to talk again. See what develops.”

  Annoyed, but trying hard to harness his words, he pulled Marianne’s hands into his. “You know what, Marianne? I fucked up. What happened between us was great, but it was just sex and nothing more. I took advantage of your feelings for me, and I was wrong. Please try to understand, there is no us. The last thing I want is to hurt you, Marianne. You are like family to me—”

  Marianne turned her attention toward the woods and sadness swept across her face. “You want her, don’t you?”

  Damon felt like a schmuck. He had really hurt her. Never once did he consider her feelings and suddenly he hated himself for it which was not like him at all.
At least it hadn’t been like him in the past few years. Was he finally settling down, letting the sting of his past love-loss extinguish? Bristol was changing him. Somehow she was settling the reckless spirit in him that reared its ugly head after his friends’ betrayals. “Yes, Marianne, I do want her. More than I’ve wanted any other woman in my life. Including Kristi.”

  She sighed, then tossed her hair over her shoulder. “At least tell me you enjoyed our romp in the sack. It will make the fact that you used me easier to swallow.”

  “That should be obvious by the way I’d reacted to you, Marianne. Don’t forget, I did come back for more, didn’t I?”

  Satisfaction dawned in her eyes. “Yeah, you did. And now I have a confession, I knew you were still drunk when you came back for more, but it was so good the first four times I couldn’t turn it down the fifth time. We’ll keep those memories our little secret.”

  Both stood, gazes locked together for a few seconds, and then Marianne interrupted. “I think I better go. Although I’m jealous of her, I don’t want to see any harm come to her. She really is a nice person, quirkiness and all.”

  He turned to leave when she grasped his arms. “Damon, I’m glad we had this talk. I hope you realize I only want the best for you and your brother. You guys are like family to me, too.”

  Compassion spurred him to place his lips on her cheek. “I know you care about us, and if we don’t say or show it enough, we appreciate you. And I want you to know, although you think I used you, you helped me from contemplating suicide that night. Being with you kept me from wallowing in my sorrows. And for that I’ll always be grateful.”

  He had a feeling Bristol would share in the sentiment as well.

  Chapter Eleven

  He let Bristol rest for a while and sought out his brother at the training ring where Dak was working with a colt. His older brother took the news about Marianne much better than he thought he would. Big brother only dropped the F bomb on him a few times, and of course, brought up the night of Damon’s senior prom thirteen years ago when he snuck three girls back into one of the empty cabins. Then, Dak reminded him of how Grandpa Dougan walked in on that little fuck soiree. After the dreaded Marianne discussion with his brother, he stopped by the camp grounds to pick up Bristol before heading to the shooting range.