The Cowboy and the Princess

by Lori Wilde

  She had been naive, she realized now, feeling the heat of masculine gazes upon her body. She did not dare look around. Just keep walking, running the gauntlet, apprehensive to get to the door. Get out of here. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the rain.

  Not exactly the salvation she was searching for.

  Water flowed like a river from the sky. Lightning filled the darkness in periodic flashes. Thunder made her jump. She huddled underneath the awning, eyeing the big, rumbling diesel trucks pulling in and out of the parking lot. The heavy hiss of air brakes chuffed a perilous lullaby.

  She hunched her shoulders and another unsettling thought occurred to her. What if Chandler and Strawn were still in the vicinity and saw her out here?

  The spirit of adventure that had gotten her this far eroded in the face of reality. She was in a predominantly masculine environment and she was unprepared for it. In Monesta she was accustomed to having servants do her bidding. Whenever she wanted to go somewhere, a chauffeur drove her. Whatever she wanted to eat, someone cooked it. Whatever she wanted to purchase, someone bought it. She was never alone and now here she was without anyone to rely on, save for Lady Astor.

  Annie swallowed, shivering in the shadows. A side door opened and a man came out. He wore a brown cowboy hat, stiff black jeans, and a blue short-sleeved shirt. He fished a cigarette from his pocket, dipped his head to light it, stuck the lighter back into his pocket, and ambled over, blowing smoke from his nose like a dragon. “Hey, baby,” he said.

  It was the same man who had called to her inside the restaurant.

  She turned away from him.

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it, sister?” He shuffled closer. “Too good to talk to me, huh? Only going for those clients with a big wad in their pockets?”

  She wasn’t sure what this vile man was talking about, but he was quite unsavory and smelled both dank and astringent. “Take your leave, sir,” she said. “I am simply awaiting a ride.”

  “I got something you can ride.” He gave a crude laugh and grabbed himself inappropriately.

  No one had ever spoken to her in such a manner. Annie was taken aback but tried not to show it. “I do not want trouble.”

  “Now that don’t sound like any fun.”

  From inside the satchel, Lady Astor growled. The Yorkie was very attuned to Annie’s emotions.

  “Fun is not my goal,” she said.

  Which was a lie. Fun was precisely her goal when she embarked on this adventure, but this was decidedly not fun. She was going to go back inside. At least there were people around. She turned for the door, but the man moved quickly to block her escape.

  “Don’t be like that.” He reached out a finger to stroke her arm.

  Annie struggled to suppress a shudder. She didn’t want him to know how scared she was.

  “We were just getting to know each other. C’mon, I’ll give you a lift. Where you headed?” He grabbed for the satchel.

  Lady Astor poked her head from the bag and sank her sharp little teeth into his index finger.

  “Son of a whore!” he exploded. “That hairy rat bit me!”

  Annie cringed, drooped against the wall, praying hard that someone would come out of the restaurant or pull into the parking lot. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could get a sound out, he clamped a palm over her mouth, yanked her up tight against him.

  “C’mon girlie, no lot lizard is turning her nose up at me. I got cash and I’m taking what I want.”

  Relief rippled the tension from Brady’s muscles. Tonight, he might have broken his five unbreakable rules for leading an uncomplicated life, but it wasn’t too late to undo his mistakes.

  Well, except for the chili. It was too late to uneat the chili, but so far his stomach hadn’t kicked up a protest. Maybe that rule could be safely bent.

  The other rules he’d cobbled back together. He ditched the hitchhiker, simultaneously turning his back on a dangerous damsel in distress. He trusted his gut when it urged him to flee and he had told Annie the truth.

  He was free and clear.

  The road lay open. The simple path beckoned. After letting Trampas out to do his business, he put the dog back into the trailer, climbed into the cab of his one-ton dually pickup truck, shook the rain off his clothes and pulled around to the front of Toad’s. He had a straight shot onto the highway. No oncoming vehicles. All he had to do was drive.

  But then he made the mistake of glancing into his rearview mirror.

  There was Annie, satchel clutched close to her chest, shivering underneath the awning outside the restaurant.

  And she wasn’t alone. A mangy-looking cowboy had hold of her elbow and was dragging her away from the entrance and toward the shadows.

  Annie struggled, fighting to get away from the guy. Even in the darkness, Brady could see alarm in her eyes.

  She’s not your problem.

  Maybe not, but he couldn’t sit here and watch some guy accost her.

  How do you know he’s accosting her? He could be her old man, dragging her back home. You know better than to get involved in a domestic dispute. You’ll be the one losing your teeth over it.

  Annie opened her mouth to holler, but her outcry was lost in the noise of the storm. She dropped her satchel. Lady Astor was in there. Brady’s gut lurched and it wasn’t from the chili.

  The cowboy had his arm around Annie’s waist now. He had lifted her up off the ground and was dragging her toward a dilapidated old truck with Bondo doors. She was fighting him hard, kicking with the fury of a wild mustang, slapping at his head, knocking off his hat, but she was no match for the much larger man.

  Anger bulleted Brady from the cab and he hit the ground running.

  “Hey!” he shouted, but the wind snatched his voice up and threw it toward the stormy sky.

  The mangy cowboy almost had her to his truck. Brady ran full throttle. Good thing he took a three-mile jog every morning. Otherwise he might not have made it to them before the guy got her inside his pickup.

  As it was, Brady reached the truck just as Cowboy Mange got the passenger side door open. He’d been so busy struggling with Annie that he apparently hadn’t heard Brady’s boots slapping against the wet pavement. Brady seized the seedy cowpoke by the shoulder and spun him around.

  Letting go of Annie, the cowboy doubled up his fists.

  In the momentum shift, Annie lost her balance and stumbled to the ground. The man let out a growl and started swinging. He’d been drinking. Brady could smell whiskey on his breath.

  Brady was a lover, not a fighter. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to fight or that he backed down from one. He’d been raised in a nest of brothers. Of course he knew how to fight. It was just that he preferred nonviolent solutions, favored turning away anger with a joke and a smile, sidestepping the bullies with some dazzling comment that sailed over their heads.

  But in this situation, he had no choice. The dormant warrior in him came charging to the forefront. Chivalry, the thing that had gotten him into trouble time and time again, roared to life. He met the cowboy’s assault, punch for punch, his blows landing solid and strong.

  “Don’t pick on defenseless women.”

  “Ha! She was soliciting. I was taking her up on the offer when she got cold feet.”

  “I very much doubt that.” Brady belted the man hard in the face. Anger—that volatile fire starter—pushed hot against his fist, surprising him, but he hated hearing ugly things said about Annie.

  The man swore, swung at Brady.

  He ducked. The punch sailed over his head, and Brady hit him again for good measure.

  Then he heard a sound that chilled his blood, the hard slinking noise of cold steel. Saw the flash of silver in the light from the parking lot lamps.

  A switchblade. The son of a bitch had a switchblade.

  Fear pooled in his belly, liquid, quicksilver. His gut was saying, Get the hell out of here, champ. Live to fight another day.

  “C’mon,”
taunted the drunken cowboy, swinging the knife through the air. “Let’s see what the white knight is really made of.”

  Brady raised his palms. “Now, now, no need for bloodshed.”

  “Oh, I think there’s plenty of need. Guys like you think you’re so tough and strong, but you’re nothing but a pretty boy who likes to play hero. Try spending ten years in Huntsville. That’ll make a real man of you.”

  Huntsville was the biggest prison in Texas. It housed the worst offenders and it was where the state carried out the death penalty.

  “Put the knife down, mister, get in your truck, and drive away. That’ll be the end of this.”

  “You think I’m going to let a pretty boy like you tell me what to do?” the man sneered. “I’ll say when it’s over.” He lunged, knife outthrust.

  Brady jumped clear. “Annie,” he commanded. He couldn’t see her. She was behind him somewhere, but he could hear her breath coming in hard, startled gasps. He thought about the Yorkie in the satchel, hoped Lady Astor was okay. “Go back into the truck stop. Get help.”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” the knife-wielding ex-con snarled and moved to grab for Annie.

  “Sorry, scumbag,” Brady said. “I can’t let you do that.” He brought his leg up and kicked the man in the kneecap.

  The ex-con yelped like a cowardly coyote and let loose with a string of vile cusswords.

  Annie got away and was running across the parking lot, headed for the entrance to the restaurant, the satchel looped over her head, clutched it tightly against her. Relief rolled over him. At least she and Lady Astor were out of immediate harm’s way.

  Brady, however, was not.

  Grunting, the ex-con raised the knife and brought it down.

  Brady dodged just in the nick of time.

  No, not quite.

  He felt the stinging burn as the tip of the knife blade grazed the right side of his face cutting him from his ear to his jaw. He grunted, manacled the man’s hand. They tussled. The stench of whiskey and cigarette smoke blew over him.

  As the fight roiled on in the slog of rain, a pain-in-the-ass voice at the back of his brain kept up a running commentary.

  Great. Just great. Here you go and get your face all sliced up over a girl you don’t even know. Yes, you had to defend her. Of course you had to defend her. You had no choice on that score. You’re not about to let a helpless woman get dragged off by some Neanderthal ex-con rapist. That’s not what’s at issue here. The issue is you stuck your nose in where it didn’t belong. You had to play hero. You just had to break your own rules. Pick up a hitchhiker. Go for the damsel in distress. It’s not like you haven’t been warned. For godsakes how many times have you been in a fix like this over a woman? A smart man would have learned his lesson by now. But you? Oh no. Not the cowboy in the white hat. And for what? You don’t know this Annie character. She could be a pickpocket, a thief. She could be a lot lizard. She’s hiding something. You know she’s hiding something. That is the one thing that is clear about her. She’s harboring secrets. She’s a liar. And now you’ve gone and gotten yourself cut up over a liar. Smart, Talmadge. Real smart.

  In spite of the lack of cooperation from his own conscience, he managed to wrest the knife from the drunken man’s hand. In the distance he heard sirens. Saw people pouring out of the restaurant to watch the fight. He thought of having to stick around to fill out a police report. He had somewhere to be and he had a feeling that Annie, with her secret, didn’t want to get involved with the police any more than he did.

  Drawing every bit of strength he had left, Brady cocked back his hand and delivered a mighty blow to the man’s chin.

  The guy’s head flopped back. He was out cold.

  Brady shoved the ex-con off him and staggered to his feet. He looked up at the cluster of people watching slack-jawed. “Don’t let this guy leave. When the police get here tell them he attacked a lady in the parking lot.”

  The group gave a collective nod.

  He pulled a bandana from his back pocket, wiped at the hot, sticky ooze tracking down his face, and staggered toward his truck and gooseneck trailer. His vision was hazy. He couldn’t see through the rain soaking his eyelashes.

  An arm went around his waist. Soft and feminine. Annie. Immediately, his spirits soared and he felt better.

  The sirens screamed closer.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  She didn’t argue. Brady opened the passenger side door and she climbed in.

  “Are you okay?” Briefly, he put a hand on her shoulder.

  She nodded, wide-eyed, steely-jawed. Her dichotomy plucked at his curiosity. Her vulnerability tugged at his heartstrings.

  “He didn’t hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “How about Lady Astor?”

  Annie stuck her hand inside the satchel, petted the dog’s head. “She is fine.”

  Relief filled his mouth. He shut the door and walked around to the driver’s seat and swung into the cab. He took a minute to draw in a deep breath and then started the engine and drove away.

  “You’re bleeding,” Annie gasped as he pulled onto the highway entrance ramp.

  “Flesh wound. It’s nothing.” He kept the bandana pressed to his right jaw.

  “That man cut you because you were helping me.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “You are in pain because of me.”

  “It’s not the first time a pretty woman caused me pain.”

  “This is terrible.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve suffered worse.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have gone off and left you. I should have given you a ride. Leaving you alone back there was like ignoring a toddler on the freeway. I’m culpable.”

  “Pardon me?” Irritation tinged her voice.

  “What?” He winced against the pain. “You’re pissed off at me now?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “You compared me to a toddler.”

  “I don’t know where you’re from, lady, but you’re out of your league here. It might be nice if instead of giving me the stink eye, you might acknowledge that.”

  “What is this stink eye?”

  “The dirty looks you’re sending me.”

  “I am allowed to express my displeasure at your comparison.”

  “I did save your fanny.” He slipped a glance over at her.

  “You did,” she relented. “Thank you for protecting me. I am very grateful. I should have said that before.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “But I am not a toddler on the freeway. I have—” She broke off abruptly.

  “You have what?” he prodded, his curiosity whetted.

  “Never mind.”

  “You really like your secrets, don’t you?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “It is if your secrets keep getting me in trouble.”

  She said nothing for a long moment. “You are safe.”

  “You’re not going to tell me, huh?”

  “No.”

  Okay, he’d just been put in his place. She seemed to have a queenly skill for slam-dunking him. He couldn’t get over the paradox of her. She was at once supremely self-possessed, yet on the other hand she came across as innocent as a newborn foal. He’d never met anyone quite like her.

  “What is this term ‘lot lizard’?” she asked.

  “Truck stop term for a lady of the evening.”

  “A lady of the evening?”

  Brady shot her a look. Was she for real? “A professional.”

  “What kind of professional?”

  “A woman who exchanges sex for money.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You mean soiled doves.”

  “Huh?”

  “Is that not what Texas cowboys call fallen women?”

  “Maybe in 1875. Where did you get your information about Texas? Louis L’Amour novels?”

  She ra
ised her chin. “Actually, yes, and Zane Grey and Elmer Kelton and Larry McMurtry. I think the term ‘soiled dove’ is much more forgiving than ‘lot lizard.’ One should have compassion for a woman reduced to such desperate straits.”

  “Biscuits and gravy! You’re one in a million, you know that?”

  “Is that a compliment or a complaint?” she asked.

  “Take it either way you want.”

  “I am going to assume you are benevolent since you befriended me.”

  “I wouldn’t say befriended exactly.”

  “You came to my aid in my hour of need. That is the definition of a friend in my book.”

  “Is this the same book where prostitutes are called soiled doves?”

  “Yes.” She primly folded her hands in her lap. “You are making fun of me.”

  “Just a little bit,” he admitted.

  “I could make fun of you if I chose.”

  “Yeah?” He couldn’t resist rising to the bait.

  “Goll dern hell yeah,” she said in her comical version of a Texas accent.

  It was the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard, such archaic cowboy language coming from such a proper young lady. Brady burst out laughing. “You’re priceless, Buttercup. You made my night in spite of the assault and battery you just got me involved in.”

  “I never asked for your help.”

  “Don’t turn all high and mighty on me. I like you.”

  “I like you too,” she said grudgingly.

  “So where are you headed?” Brady asked, giving in to the inevitable. He’d picked her up. He was stuck with her, at least for tonight.

  “I will go wherever you are going.”

  “You have no destination?”

  “I am looking for a new way of life.”

  “And anyplace will do?”

  “Yes. Take me to Jubilee with you.” In that moment, with the tilt of her head, she looked like an ebony-haired Charlize Theron, cool, patrician, smoldering, and totally smoking hot.

  When Brady didn’t argue, that’s when he knew he was seriously screwed.

  Chapter Three