Back Where You Belong (2 page)

Lacy LaRoche had survived many things in her twenty-four years, but nothing akin to what just happened. A black Stetson over dark collar-length hair, broad shoulders in a navy Western shirt and tight, worn Wranglers scuttled away from her in one tall, muscled package.

My God, what was that all about?

She pursed her lips and exhaled a long, shaky breath before collapsing onto her chair at her friends’ table. Not a minute too soon the way her legs trembled. Even so, she glanced over her shoulder for one last glimpse of the kissing bandit as he shoved his way through the door to the parking lot. When she looked back at her friends, her gaze collided with three pair of shocked eyes.

“Who was that?” Tessa leaned in and winked. “You certainly threw yourself at him. ’Course we could all see why.”

She never knew how to take Tessa. Megan and Carrie Jo were old friends from high school, but Tessa never lowered herself to associate with them during their teenage years. Now, six years later, the snobby young woman seemed somewhat bitter, almost as if she were mad at the whole world. Something about the way Tessa watched her made her uneasy, too.

Megan jumped onto the question train. “Did you know him when you tossed the dart into his neck?” She gave an evil smile. “Or were you merely trying to get the hunk’s attention. Did you girls see how he filled out those jeans?” Her gaze swept around the table before she lifted a longneck to take a drink. “Girlfriend, I’d be all over that.”

Lacy nearly had been, right here in the bar where everyone could see. Her hand trembled when she brought a can of soda to lips still tingling from his heated, almost brandishing hot kisses. Wow, did he know his way around a pair of lips. She ran fingertips over her upper lip. Even if his mustache did tickle.

Thanks to the raucous requests by patrons, the Rattlesnakes sang a second rendition of their sultry ballad about a lovesick man telling the woman in his arms she was back where she belonged.

Darned if she hadn’t felt as if she belonged in that stranger’s arms, too. She exhaled a long, slow breath. What on earth had come over her?

“Lacy?” Megan leaned across the table and raised her voice to be heard over the music. “Do you know him?”

“No. I mean something about him seemed familiar, but…no.” She shook her head and took another sip of her soda. What was it about the man? She didn’t remember him from college. Maybe she’d simply seen him in here before.

“By the way you kept talking to him, I thought he was a long lost friend.”

Tessa stood when a man asked her to dance. “Or an old lover,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Lacy was ready to change the subject to something other than the wayward dart and the resulting kiss.
Why did he kiss me anyhow?
Men, they could be such a mystery.

She drank the rest of her soda and, hoping to get her mind on something else, leaned toward Megan. “Is your aunt still looking for a part-time job? I need someone to do billings and accounts receivable. It would only be a day a week to start, but with the four new clients I took on recently, I really need the help.”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Aunt Becky and have her call you.”

“Sounds good.”

Lacy’s hand slowly uncurled and her gaze settled on the dart. Who knew a night out with the girls could end up like this, with whisker burn above her lip and her body humming a slow, sensual beat?

****

Tyler leaned his head against the headrest in his truck and willed his body to stop trembling with need. What had possessed him to kiss that babbling lunatic?

His fingers flexed as they had in her soft curls. Something tightened around a digit, and he looked down to find a strand of her hair binding one finger. He pulled it off and rolled it between his thumb and fingers, its silkiness fascinating him. He scooped his Stetson off the bench seat and, for some ungodly reason he didn’t want to examine, slipped the blonde curl under the plain hatband.
Damn fool.

That’s how he’d acted in the Lonesome Steer—like some besotted fool. Somehow, in the blink of an eye—or the flap of her jaw—he’d gone from mad male to speechless simpleton. God, the woman was like a vocal hurricane.
But, oh, that sweet mouth of hers
. She surely could kiss. He hardened again.

In his younger, foolish years, he rarely gave the more voluptuous females much attention. Boy, had he been wrong. Damn if all her curves didn’t fit mighty fine against his body. The feel of her in his arms was something he’d not soon forget. His gaze swept to the large neon star on the roof of the honky tonk. A single flashing steer rode away from it.

“Know just how you feel, buddy.” Tyler started his truck. “I’m going off alone into the darkness, too. Puts a fella in a pissy-assed mood, doesn’t it?”

He glanced at the clock on the dash as he peeled out of the parking lot. Nine-fifty-one. Would Olivia still be awake? He slipped his Bluetooth in his ear and speed dialed her number.

“Hello?”

The sound of his daughter’s sweet voice calmed him. “Surprised I didn’t get your voice mail. Musta caught you between calls.”

“Oh, Daddy. You know I’m not like all the other girls. I’ve got better things to do than hang on the phone.”

There was a note of sadness in her voice. She’d been sullen at times since school started; hormones, he supposed. The teen years were never easy. His hadn’t been.

Olivia’s introversion bothered him. To his knowledge, she only had one or two close friends. At her age, she should have a busy social life, but she much preferred reading or playing the piano to texting.

“Hungry, Angel?”

“Pizza?”

“You got it.” He was about to end the call when her typical question reached his ears.

“Did you meet any women, Daddy?”

“Why do you keep trying to marry me off? Aren’t we fine the way we are?”

“You living a celibate life isn’t good for your hormones. I read that in a human sexuality book. I’m afraid it’s going to impair your prostate.”

“My what?” he bellowed. “You just leave my…my…” God, he was not going to discuss his prostate with his daughter, even if she was thirteen going on forty-nine. “I see I need to keep a closer eye on your reading material.”

An exasperated sigh floated through the sound waves. “You know I’ve got a genius I.Q.”

He responded with a grunt. What her I.Q. had to do with this conversation, he hadn’t a clue. But then, after the one-sided dialogue he’d just had back at the Lonesome Steer, feeling clueless seemed the modus operandi of the night.

Those big blue eyes and blonde curls came instantly back to mind. The feel of dart demon in his arms warmed him in many places, and his body responded again.

“Well, did you meet someone? Oh, you did, didn’t you?” An ear-piercing scream made him wince. “Details. I need details, Daddy. What’s her name?” Olivia’s pleasure was obvious. She’d been trying to match him up with someone since her momma moved out three years ago.

He smiled and ran a finger over the hair pressed against his Stetson. “Dart Demon.”

“What?”

By the time he finished telling her about the dart fiasco, both of them were laughing.

“That’s just too wild. Wait ’til I tell Cassidy.”

“Why don’t we hang up so you can call her? I’ll phone in our pizza order. Onions and anchovies, right?” His smile broadened, and he slipped the Bluetooth off his ear.

“Da-a-ad! No.” Her voice screeched from the earpiece on the seat. “Ham and pineapple. You know that’s my fav.”

He laughed as he ended the call.
God, I love that kid
.

Chapter Three

Dealing with old Frank LaRoche was difficult on a good day, but throw in the old codger’s rheumatism and the man was like a two-inch splinter in the ass.

Tyler lifted his Stetson and resettled it on his head, his finger protecting the blonde strand. “Can’t go that high, Frank. You got quality cattle, no doubt about that. But we need to meet somewhere in the middle between my offer and your counteroffer.”

Frank rested his forearms across the top rail of the wooden fence and stared off in the distance, no doubt doing some math while one hand rubbed the gnarled knuckles on the other. The old man’s collie, Honeybun, sat at her master’s feet, gazing at him. Tyler leaned a hip against the fence, crossed his arms and waited.

His gaze swept around the outbuildings. The roof on one needed replaced. A window was broken out of another. Odd since, in the past, Frank always took great pride in the Double-L. Grass grew almost as high as the tires on a cattle truck, as if it hadn’t been moved in a long time. One couldn’t say the ranch was rundown, but it teetered on the edge of the definition. Was the bad economy hitting the Double-L, too?

Tyler had worked here for a few years in his early twenties, learning the cattle breeding business. At that time, the Double-L was a big-time outfit; the ranch ran like a finely tuned race car. There were a lot of memories here.

He worked two jobs back then, trying to make ends meet for his family and sock away money for their future. On the weekends, he’d competed in rodeos, riding bulls for the ultimate eight-second high. The prize money he’d won brought his dream to fruition earlier than expected, and he’d bought his own spread, the Star-D, putting to use what he’d learned from this old man standing next to him.

“How you been feeling, Frank?”

Hardened eyes peered at him. “Like an old man who’s spent too many hours in the saddle.”

Frank quoted another figure not near the halfway point Tyler was hoping for, still, for quality stock, it wasn’t bad. He pressed an open hand over his heart. “You’re killing me here.”

The old man smirked. No doubt he could smell a sale and a healthy profit.

Tyler extended his hand to shake on the deal. “Okay, I’ll meet your price, but I want delivery by the end of the week.”

“Delivery?” Frank grabbed his hand and shook to seal their agreement. “For that price, you come get ’em yourself.” He yanked off his Stetson and wiped a red handkerchief over his nearly bald head. “Hot as hell for October, ain’t it?” After settling his hat on his silver fringe of hair, the old rancher turned and strode off. “Come on into the house, and we’ll settle our business. Hope you brought your checkbook.”

“I’ve got it. Got a pen, too.” Tyler followed him to the back door. “Hell, you’d probably charge me to use one of yours, you damn skinflint.”

Flowerpots full of vivid blossoms lined the back porch, and he wondered who took care of them. Certainly not Frank. A porch swing looked inviting with a cushion seat and a book lying on it. Honeybun turned around twice and gracefully stretched out in the afternoon sun.

The old man stepped inside the mudroom and hung his hat on a peg. “Want some coffee?”

“Not gonna charge me for it, are you?” Hanging his Stetson next to Frank’s, he followed the older man into a large kitchen so clean, it shone. A vase of flowers sat on the round oak table. Who was looking after the house? Frank’s wife passed on several years ago. His granddaughter moved away shortly afterward.

Frank chuckled. “Might charge ya, at that.” He lifted the carafe from the coffee maker. “Empty. Girl’s done dumped it out. Have a seat while I hunt ’er down.”

Tyler nodded and pulled out a chair, taking this opportunity to call his ranch foreman.

“Pete, got those cattle Frank LaRoche had for sale. Hundred head. Prime stock. Yeah, well, we’ll have to come get them ourselves on Friday. Call Lone Star Rentals and rent another truck and trailer. You’ll drive the ranch’s and I’ll drive the rental. Oh, have Slim check the holding pens to make sure they’re secure. I’ll be back before long.”

His mood darkened as he snapped his cell shut. This purchase was getting more expensive by the second. Frank raised strong, healthy stock. The bloodlines of his cattle were peppered with prize-winning steers. He was happy to make the deal for cows he planned on artificially inseminating with his prized Brahman bulls’ sperm. What he wasn’t happy about were these additional costs eating a hole in his eventual profits.

Frank’s booming voice followed by a softer one filtered through the house. Footsteps drew closer.

“Here she is. My granddaughter will have coffee made in a jiffy. Tyler, this here’s little Lacy. You remember her? My state barrel-racing champion?”

Damn good thing he was sitting down.
Little
Lacy, as Frank called her, was the blonde from the Lonesome Steer. He’d thought of little else since their encounter five days ago. After much soul searching, he attributed his impulsive behavior to a combination of the beers he drank and too many nights without a woman. No doubt if he ever saw her again, she’d have little effect on him.

He’d been wrong.

Damn, dead wrong.

Her eyebrows rose to kiss the blonde curls covering her forehead. Those blue eyes of hers, opened impossibly wide, were nearly turquoise in the daylight. A man could lose himself in them. She wore a pink tank top with a red bra underneath, if the strap peeking out was any indication. He hardened as soon as his mind snagged on the visual of her in a sexy red bra. Long, shapely legs grew out of the tight denim shorts she wore. But the thing that did him in was her bare feet with toenails painted alternately red and hot pink, as if she couldn’t make up her mind which color to use.

She was a sweet, amusing piece of work.

“Yes, I remember Lacy.” She wasn’t the kind of woman a man soon forgot. Nor could he forget the horse-crazy teenager she’d once been. Only back then, she’d been skinny as a fencepost. His gaze swept over her. Now she was every man’s fantasy—or at least she’d been his the last few hot, sweaty nights.

She opened and closed her mouth twice, and then pursed her lips.

Knowing full well what was about to happen, he covered his mouth with his hand to hide his grin.

Holy crap!
The guy from the bar was sitting in her kitchen and looking at her as if he couldn’t believe this crazy quirk of fate any more than she could. Now, if she could only get through the next few minutes without prattling and making a fool of herself—once more.