Almost a Cowboy (2 page)

Yesterday they’d buried Hollis Davies. The simple service had reflected the cowboy’s life. A horseshoe-shaped floral arrangement at the head of the casket and plenty of whiskey flasks slipped from jacket pockets. Afterward in the parking lot, someone cracked open a cooler of beer, and Hollis’s friends had laughed and talked about the man.

Caroline hadn’t spent any time with Hollis in ten years, but at one time, he’d been like her second father. Utah’s family had accepted her as one of their own. She’d spent a whole summer on the Davies ranch watching the muscled lines of Utah’s back as he pitched hay or worked with the cattle.

Then he’d flash her that perfect white-toothed grin, stomp toward her, and she’d practically quiver with pent-up passion. From day one, her love for Utah had been the strong sort.

Never like that with Jeremy.

She flicked off the bad feelings Jeremy roused and carefully removed Arial from her neck. Curling onto her side, Caroline spooned the kitten. It stretched out, front legs extended, and fell asleep in seconds.

Damn, she wished she could do that. Dawn came early, even on days she hadn’t spent all night thinking about how she’d done Utah wrong.

No, how she’d done
herself
wrong by not following her heart and eloping with him. So much heartache—and a few broken ribs—would have been avoided. Her drunk ex-husband Jeremy never would have entered the picture.

Jeremy latched onto Caroline shortly after Utah went off to college on his football scholarship. Jeremy came from a white-trash family with a history of alcoholism, but Caroline hoped he’d straighten up. Of course, she couldn’t fix stupid and eventually ended up supporting him, bringing home bottles of tequila after she got off her night shift at the grocery store.

It was impossible not to dream of Utah while despising her parents for talking her out of eloping—for telling her she was going to hold Utah back.

In the end, he’d fucked up his own life, and Caroline had done everything in her power to claw her way out of the hole she’d dug. Night school, double shifts at the grocery store on weekends, and a little nest egg of savings to help her escape Jeremy.

Eventually the worm at the bottom of his bad personality sent Caroline to the ER with broken ribs. Which was actually a blessing because she’d gotten the help and confidence she needed to leave.

She blinked into the darkness, one palm around Arial’s rounded tummy. Being with Utah’s brothers had walloped her with longing for those old days. Good spirits, hearty food, and pure lovin’. That summed up her time spent with Utah.

Sure, they’d been kids, but she’d never known such happiness.

For the millionth time, she daydreamed about her life if she would have shown up at the county line to elope with him. He’d branded her as his from the moment he gave her that bad-boy smile at Sara Gatesman’s party the summer before senior year.

Hell, if Caroline saw that cleft in Utah’s chin right now, she’d probably cream her panties. The dimple only showed when he smiled or chewed food.

She wanted to give him a whole jar of bubble gum just to see it again and again.

Tingles of awareness rushed through her system. Jeremy had spent six long years crushing her sexual desires, which she’d recently rebuilt by having a romp or three with a cowboy on a Friday night. And when she didn’t hook up with anyone, she took care of her own needs.

The throb between her legs called out for her fingers or one of many vibrating toys, but she clamped her thighs together and let the burn build.

It had built for a good nine months with Utah before he’d finally asked for her virginity, and she’d given it. Nothing sweet or awkward had followed—just pure carnal lust.

Yeah, from the beginning, they’d been meant for each other.

Love hard or go home.

In the end, she’d gone home, jumped out of the sweet waters of his love onto the cold, harsh bank of life. She still stood there, and the grass blades were stiffer than ever.

Even if she had a chance with Utah now, she’d changed too much. Journalism had given her a rough edge. At times she needed ruthlessness to get the story, needed a cold heart to interview pedophiles and murderers. Her ability to lock up her emotions had earned her a spot at one of the top newspapers on the West Coast. She worked from home and traveled when necessary, which kept her near her mother.

This week Ma was dying of a brain tumor. Last week it had been an ulcer, and the week before she’d had gout.

Caroline’s mother spent more time at the doctor’s office, hospital ER, and on the Internet investigating her own ailments than sucking air. As far as Caroline could tell, Ma had a few pounds too many and an inactive lifestyle, but not the medical problems she claimed.

Still Caroline loved sharing dinners and a hand of rummy with her afterward. Her ma had seen Caroline through the worst years of her life. The least she could do was keep her company.

But who would keep Caroline company when she got older? No lover, no children. Just a laptop, a professional camera and gear, and news stories. Oh, and a cat named after a type font.

In fact, she had a feature story due soon. Human interest stories were always fun to chase. She’d written about everything from poor conditions in hospices to dirty, behind-the-scene takes on amusement parks. Right now she didn’t have a topic in mind, but that was part of the excitement.

Poring over ideas, weighing the readership, plotting the words in her head. Accepting and then rejecting and jumping to a whole new story idea.

Trouble was, the wheels in her head were frozen right now. After the funeral, only her body revved with thoughts—for a dark-haired, dimple-jawed cowboy who knew how to strum the right chords in her core.

Who still plucked the strings of her heart.

He’d be returning to see to things on the Davies ranch. It had only taken Caroline one well-timed question to learn Utah—and Utah alone—could speak with the lawyer.

How interesting that Clinton and Gunnison weren’t included. Her sleuth’s nose sniffed a family secret.

She’d question the brothers’ parentage if they all weren’t blueprints of each other. Dark hair, snapping blue eyes, and deep voices that curled a girl’s toes. At the funeral, Caroline had barely kept her gaze off Clinton’s and Gunnison’s broad shoulders and sculpted chests under their white dress shirts. They were damn fine specimens, but really, she couldn’t help but wonder how Utah had filled out too.

In his youth he’d been lean and ropey—a good, strong young horse. But she’d avoided seeing him after his mother passed away, too embarrassed by her black eyes and the burden of her choices.

Word was he’d looked incredible—rugged and brooding with his hat tipped oh so low.

Caroline’s pussy throbbed at the thought of running into him this time. One look and tendrils of heat would whip her insides, and her nipples would pucker up tight. His direct stare had cranked up her need every single time, even as his humor and intellect had been fuel to her mind.

Yeah, Utah Davies was still
it
. But one thought plagued her.

What if he returned with a little country girl wife?

Utah’s throat closed as he drew up in front of the homestead. Six years had wreaked hell on the land. The once plush lawn was weedy, neglected. Fences sagged, and in some places the posts were missing.

He stopped in front of the mailbox. Half hidden by feathery grasses, it canted forward on a rotten post. If he opened the rusty door, any mail inside would slide onto the ground.

With a noise in his throat, he depressed the gas pedal and eased his pickup into the long drive leading to the house where he’d grown up. It was difficult to swallow what he’d missed—what he’d refused to help with.

But why weren’t Clinton and Gunnison keeping up the place?

Why aren’t I?

He dragged his teeth over his lower lip and let out the breath he’d been holding. As he trundled up the dirt drive on four brand-new tires, he drank it all in. When last here, the ranch had still employed a few hands, but those days had obviously long passed.

The white clapboard house was chipped and peeling, the windows dark with dirt. No one opened the front door to greet him, and not a single animal moved in the fields.

All gone.
Now he’d have to take charge of what he’d let go to ruin. As the oldest son—or was he?—he should have stepped up and taken over when his father grew too old to continue.

Instead he’d spent ten years in the Utah mountains, far from his home and those he’d once loved.

The knot in his chest tightened. Would he run into Caroline? South Ogden was no metropolis, and they’d surely cross paths if he stuck around.

Did he plan to stick around? Jeezus, his mind had already made a leap.

He’d come here with the idea to figure out what kind of mess his pa had left in the will and then sign the ranch over to his brothers and skip town. Back to his life alone.

By even setting eyes on his home, little heart-shaped bubbles lifted inside him, giving him false hope.

Caroline’s married.
He’d learned this years ago. She probably had a string of babies and a smitten husband. And hell, in the end she hadn’t chosen Utah, anyway.

Probably for the best, as he was a washed-up football star turned recluse. He often went so long without speaking, his voice croaked from disuse. What did he have to offer anyone?

A hundred fifty acres of dilapidated land and a hornet’s nest about to be stomped apart.
He dreaded the reading of the will. Those secret photos his father had sorted through meant Utah’s unknown siblings existed, and they probably each had something coming to them.

He stopped the truck in front of the house and cut the engine. For a long minute he sat there, listening to the world around him—birds, insects. And he swore he could hear the sun beating down.

He drank in a lungful of country air, ripe with the sweet reek of old hay and earth.

And wildflowers.

His gut dropped as if he’d been thrown off a bronco. Resting his head on the steering wheel, he drowned in memories of Caroline. The summer before he’d lost her, she’d worn those yellow blossoms in her hair, made chains out of them, and crushed a few with her rounded backside after a make-out session.

His cock jerked in his boxers, swelling against his zipper. She hadn’t been his first, but she’d been the only one he wanted even now.

“Hell,” he grated out and opened the truck door. He strode to the house and felt along the upper doorjamb for the sliver of metal always kept there. Sure enough, the key was in place.

The door swung sweetly on its hinges—still good after all these years. He stepped into the space and turned a circle, his boots thumping softly on the hardwood floors his pa installed the month before he’d brought their ma here as a bride.

How many floors had he laid down for other women?

As far as Utah knew, his father wasn’t a polygamist. He’d only had one wedding certificate, but unfortunately that didn’t keep him from dipping his wick in several someones.

The thought burned Utah the most. His ma was a good woman—sweet and hardworking. She’d devoted her life to Hollis Davies and raising his sons. She’d probably gone to her grave with no knowledge of her husband’s indiscretions. Utah prayed that was the case, anyway.

Everything inside the ranch was as he remembered it. Fieldstone fireplace and a few dusty knickknacks. Family photos of them with various dogs. He revolved through the space, touching a ladder-back chair, a handmade afghan. When he stopped in front of the mantel and stared at his parents’ smiling faces, that familiar guilt bloomed in his chest.

He’d let his ma down, more so by never coming back than by failing at football. But his pa…the man had never forgiven Utah for throwing stones into the smooth pond of his future.

Finally Utah had drained the pond of their relationship with one gigantic boulder. When his father revealed the existence of other Davies offspring, Utah had jabbed a finger at his chest. “You’re dead to me,” he’d said and walked out forever.

“Tryin’ to remember what they looked like?” The drawl came from behind.

Utah pivoted to face Gunnison. Four years younger, he hadn’t achieved his full height or size the last time Utah had seen him. But his brother still had the same face—trademark Davies blue eyes slanted from squinting into the sun, straight nose, and lips quirked into a smirk.

“Gunnison,” his brother said. “In case you don’t remember what
I
look like.”

Fuck, this was going to be harder than Utah thought. He peered at Gunnison from under the brim of his hat. “I know well enough who ya are. You plan to give me nothing but shit while I’m here?”

Gunnison shifted his weight to the side and hitched a thumb in his jeans pocket. “Depends on how long you’re stayin’. If it’s a few days, then yeah.”

Utah faced him and stuck his thumb in his pocket too. It took a minute to realize they stood the same, moved the same, and glared the same.

“And if I stay for five years?” he asked.

Gunnison gnawed his lower lip and then released it. “You’re looking at four years and eleven months of shit.”

“What’s that?” Clinton asked from the doorway. Utah’s middle brother had filled out. Muscles bulged from the sleeves of his shirt, and his jeans strained over thick thighs. But he wore a pair of high-priced Lucchese boots, so the hard work that had put the muscle on his body was obviously paying off.

“Clinton,” Utah said with a nod.

“Were you discussin’ how long you plan to stick around this time?” Clinton asked.

Tension rolled off his brothers. The Davies boys were obviously looking for a brawl.

They stepped closer to Utah, creating a wall of flesh he’d do his damnedest to shove through.

He looked from one face to the other.

“You like what you see around here, Utah?” Clinton drawled out the end of his name.

“Can’t say as I do.” He held his ground. If the ranch was rundown, it wasn’t all his fault. Maybe his brothers should have picked up the slack.