Beauty and the Brit (35 page)
“Y
OU READY TO
try it?” David waggled his brows at her from his saddle, and Rio gave Tully’s neck a pat for courage.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” she replied. “I’ll break an arm and Hector can sign my cast tomorrow.”
It was the first she’d mentioned the meeting they’d set up earlier that afternoon. Since then, Bonnie had skipped off to Dawson’s, and David had kept Rio occupied by giving her an official cantering lesson on Tully. He’d helped make Irish Stew for dinner, then sent his mother and the others to town for a last party shopping trip. And now, Rio was about to test her newly learned riding skills.
They reached the start point of a long, straight galloping lane through some trees. When in her life had a day ever been so full of disjointed adventures? From baking pies and planning a police sting, to riding off across the hills on a dream horse.
“Ride the same way you did in the arena. If he picks up more speed than you want, straighten up, gather the reins, and squeeze your legs to slow him.”
Squeeze to stop. Riding was completely counterintuitive.
“Okay.”
“And no racing.” He laughed.
“Really? You think?”
“I’ll stay beside you. You’ll be fine.”
Her transition into the trot wasn’t beautiful, and her cues for cantering were so floppy she felt sorry for poor Tully, but the big gelding read her mind anyway and launched into the three-beat canter gait. For a moment she floundered, but after five or six strides she caught the rhythm, and she understood why people wrote that riding felt like flying.
David cantered Gomer along beside them and shot her a wide smile. “You look great!”
She fixed her eyes straight ahead but grinned. “It’s fun!”
“Best fun in the world.”
He rode in a Western saddle like hers this time, wearing jeans rather than breeches, cowboy boots rather than his tall boots, and a bonus—a pair of full-leg, suede chaps. No fringes, no fancy stitching, just utilitarian, form-fitting sexy chaps. Not even helmets could spoil the picture of her cowboy come to life.
They halted at the far end of the pasture just as they had the last time, and Rio let out a whoop. “Amazing!”
“Anybody ever tell you how sexy you look on a horse?”
“All the time.”
“It’s nice to see you having that much fun.”
They walked the horses along the fence line until they reached the familiar gate at the back of the property.
“You do know this is what I had in mind all along, right?” he asked.
Little sizzles ignited at the memory of the shack on the other side of the fence.
They untacked the horses, threw the saddles and blankets over the top board of the fence, and hung the bridles over the saddle horns. David grabbed a set of saddlebags from behind his cantle.
“Whatcha got?” Rio asked.
“A loaf of bread, a jug of wine. And chocolate, because I’ve heard it will release a woman’s inhibitions.”
“I have no inhibitions.”
“That bodes very well.” He kissed her but pulled away before she could deepen it.
The little cabin hadn’t changed. Rio fluffed her hair to get rid of the helmet flatness and walked the perimeter of the room, taking more time this visit to check out the shelves, the dusty window, the table, and the old stove. When she turned back, David stood with his back against the door, watching, smiling.
“Man, you’re pretty.”
Her stomach fluttered. “You aren’t too bad either. With your hair a little mussed like it is, that saddlebag over your shoulder . . . those chaps. If you took off your shirt you’d look just like the cowboy I used to have on my wall.”
Obvious pleasure pulled the corners of his lips upward. “We have the compliments well in hand. Excellent.”
“I know what you’re trying to do—keep me from being nervous about tomorrow. But I’m fine.”
“Not frightened?”
“Apprehensive, but not scared. We’re meeting in a safe place that Paul chose. He won’t do anything.”
“I think you’re amazingly brave. I’m quite proud of you.”
She didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t brave; she was desperate to be done with this and . . . and what? Go back home? Where was home?
“I’ve had a lot of help . . .”
She stopped midsentence and stared. David hadn’t moved, but he grasped the hem of his gray T-shirt with both hands and drew it up and over his head. It landed on the floor in a heap.
“Best I can do,” he said.
His best beat the lost cowboy from her old wall by miles. She didn’t speak. She barely kept drool off her chin.
“Not good enough, ’eh?” His teasing grin turned the flutters in her stomach into full-fledged trembles of excitement.
His hands dropped to the small buckle at the front of the chaps. Wordlessly he pulled the leather strap free of the buckle prong, then he bent forward and slid a zipper down the outside of the left leg. He did the same to the right. He pulled the chaps off with the slow flair of a Chippendale dancer.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rio whispered, her throat dry. “Are you
trying
to turn me on?”
His brows arched. “Is it working?”
“It’s been working for the past three days.”
He strode to her in three steps as if his patience had evaporated, hauled her against his bare chest, and sent his fingers diving into her hair. The heat of his kiss flowed over her, melting her will, her knees, and their kiss into delectable sweetness. She explored his back, kneading and stroking the broad muscles, then she smoothed down his tapered waist and gripped the seat of his jeans.
“Now who’s trying to turn whom on?”
“I do love your proper grammar.”
“Dukes must have it.”
“There’s no duke here. Just some hot American cowboy.”
He released her, stepped back slightly for balance, and lifted her into his arms. “We’re going to build a fire and then pretend it’s a campfire. If you want cowboy . . .”
“I don’t see anything to build a fire with.”
“Leave it to me.”
He did seem able to build a fire out of nothing. With one match, a piece of paper towel, and a pile of dry bark stashed behind the stove, he set the fire blazing in minutes.
“How
did
you learn all this? Really, I mean.”
“Mum started it. She was a fanatic outdoorswoman in her youth. And when we lived in Yorkshire when I was a boy, Mum took me into the woods and out onto the moors to hunt partridge and grouse and to hike. I was good at it, and I enjoyed pitting myself against the elements. I read everything I could get my hands on about survival. She put me in Scouts and I got chances to practice skills there.
“Then Da’ moved us to Kent, where he started his barn, and I met an old army man turned gamekeeper for our neighbors. Taft, we called him. Before he passed on he taught me more about navigation, tracking, and scouting than anyone else wanted to learn. I think he’s, perhaps, the smartest bloke I’ve ever met.”
“Did you ever consider making this your career somehow?”
“No. I had enough of survival living in Iraq.”
“Something happened there, didn’t it?”
“Lots of things happened.”
“But something that wounded you. As badly in your own way as Andy is wounded.”
“Hardly.”
“You can tell me anything, you know.”
“It’s not worth talking about so I don’t often. My commander in Basra learned pretty quickly I could find my way around almost anywhere a little easier than the average soldier. I became a night scout and a guide on the rare occasions we traveled from the main camp. It was no glory job. I wasn’t after glory. I just wanted to get out of there alive.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“One night, my lieutenant got us assigned to an important scouting mission into the desert fifty miles out of the city. He took eight men with him, me included. We’d got decent intelligence about an insurgent cell that had been terrorizing the city for six months. Once underway, I got a very strong sense of where the terrorist group would
not
stay overnight, because I’d studied the area as thoroughly as I could. But my gut feeling didn’t match the intel. When it came time to choose a bivouac, I completely disagreed with my CO.”
“What did you do?”
“Stuck stubbornly to my guts. Along with half the group I refused to follow the lieutenant. Rather a Fletcher Christian moment, or so the army decided. Dishonorable discharges for the lot of us. So you see, all my expertise did was get us into trouble. Now I stay out of trouble.”
There had to be more. The story ending had too much glibness, too much gloss from practiced telling.
“That’s not all there is, though.”
“Oh, that’s pretty much the story. C’mon, forget Iraq. Check out the saddlebags.”
He handed her the pouches, and she reluctantly let the discussion go, digging into the bags, producing a bottle of the Minnesota white wine they’d shared on the first trail ride weeks ago, two gourmet chocolate bars, and four scones from breakfast that morning.
“A feast,” she said.
“Yes. And as soon as I open this bottle, a toast to having it without benefit of my meddling family that means well but oftentimes have to be endured.”
“Why?” she asked, unwrapping a scone and stealing a corner with a lick of her lips. “I mean, why do you have to endure them? This is your place. They should abide by
your
rules.”
“You’ve asked that before, but it’s complicated. I’ve fought many a battle with my parents over the years, and I always lose. In truth I could have a stubborn temper when I was young. Cheeky was too mild a word for me. And it got me in nothing but trouble.”
“Carried over into Iraq?” she teased.
The teasing went over like a curse in church. “I do suppose,” he replied a little curtly and set to opening the wine.
She touched his arm. “David, I’m sorry. I was joking.”
The smile he offered lacked a few degrees of warmth. “I know. And it’s hard to understand, I’m sure. It’s just that, long ago I learned the best way to get ’round my parents was to appear I was doing what they wished. So, a few weeks a year I let them boss me around until they go home and then I do things my way.”
“But bringing in someone who offers to buy half your property? That’s not just a little meddling.”
“No. You are right.”
“But your dad backed off, right?”
“He did. You know, I had a long chat with him and that Maxwell chap today. He’s actually a pretty astute guy, old Carter. Had some good ideas. Some of his clientele would follow him back and forth to and from Florida, and turns out he could fill the barn without trouble.”
“Wait. You aren’t considering this?”
“No, not seriously. This place is my life. I don’t want to share it. It was merely interesting to listen to him. A couple of his ideas would certainly solve some issues around here.”
He popped the cork out of the bottle and pulled two hard plastic juice glasses from the bags.
“Ooh, elegant.” She held them while he poured. “You are a true romantic.”
He grunted. “Would you believe I heard those exact words from my father today? ‘You’re too much of a romantic,’ he said. ‘Nothing ever runs in a vacuum. We all need help.’”
“He’s right. But you have lots of help. People revere you, in case you don’t know. You’re a good guy. Sometimes too good.” She raised her glass. “I say, let’s drink to being a little not-so-nice. Like Fletcher Christian.”
He knocked his glass to hers with a bright, plastic click, but his eyes seemed focused. Far away.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He set his glass down and pulled her onto his lap as he sank onto a wooden chair. It creaked with the weight. “I’m always okay when you’re around.”
She feathered his hair through her hands. “Except, you’re suddenly somewhere else.”
“No. No. There’s just so much going on. Guess it’s hitting me.”
She snuggled her hips against him but massaged his bare shoulders, hard and slowly. “You’re truly worried. Things are even worse than you told me.”
“Needing eight thousand dollars to fix the barn doesn’t help. I already have a fifteen-thousand-dollar loan because of the arena.”
“It’s a gorgeous arena,” she offered.
It was. Wood interior, full wall mirrors, permanent bleachers—a premiere indoor arena.
“State of the art. Made to Da’s specifications.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer. Instead his brow furrowed and he pulled away. He looked slightly miffed. “The loan was dirt cheap with the disaster relief rates. I had minimal debt at the time, and it definitely enhances the value of the property. But I didn’t come here to justify my actions or my relationship with my father.”
Chastised, she tried to halt his deteriorating mood. It needed boosting fast or the reason they’d raced to this cabin would no longer exist. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to pick on you.”
“There’s just a lot of second-guessing of my decisions where my family is concerned.”
“You don’t have to let me bully you either, you know. You don’t have to be so nice to everyone. Ignore me.” She smoothed at his hair.
He caught her hand. “You really seem to have something against nice guys. You know that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Kate has the same problem. All those years ago she thought I’d lost my edge. Now
you
think I’m too nice.”
The last thing she wanted was to be compared to Kate.
“You’re wrong. I think your niceness makes you pretty close to perfect. I’d never known men like you existed. But I’ve just heard stories about what an amazing survivalist you are, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you apply it to your own life. You tell me to stand up for myself. You tell Bonnie to be strong. You say you even told your lieutenant in Basra to take a hike. But all I’ve ever seen you do is dance when your mother or father says dance. I was cheering inside when you told Carter no last night. Now you’re even waffling about that.”
He dropped her hand and stood, causing her to slide off his lap.
“First of all, I asked you to leave Iraq alone. Second, what would it matter to you if I did waffle? What if my decision changed and I thought it was a
good
idea to let Carter Maxwell buy into Bridge Creek?”
