Bucking the Rules (4 page)

He was almost back to normal when Red's mug appeared above him. “Nice work, Ace.”

Trace said nothing. Breathe in, breathe out. Deep and steady.

Red sat down beside him and waited silently, knowing the drill. When Trace finally shifted to his stomach, resting one cheek in the dirt, Red spoke.

“What the fuck were you thinking? You can't just let your mind wander with a horse like that. This isn't a kid's pony ride.”

“Bite me,” Trace wheezed. Though his breathing had returned to normal, residual adrenaline and the physical beating he'd taken kept his voice hoarse.

“I think the ground already did that. Anything feel off?”

Trace slowly flexed and relaxed the muscles in his arms and legs. “Nothing so far. Let me stand up.” Red held out a hand, but Trace ignored it. After dusting off the worst of the dirt, he twisted his torso and stretched his arms back. “Feels okay. Is Lad fine?”

“Yeah. He definitely won that round. You know the deal. Back up.” Red waved a hand and Steve walked by with Lad.

Trace took hold of the halter and gave Lad a long look. “Son? Not okay.”

Lad's eyes half-closed, as if ashamed of his behavior. Trace wasn't fooled. He'd do it again in a heartbeat if he could get away with it. Lad didn't mind a rider, but he needed one with a stronger head, stronger will than his own. Otherwise, he'd take the rider to Canada and back for fun, just because he could.

“If that's how you're gonna handle yourself in two weeks, my reputation is screwed.”

Trace rolled his eyes and settled one boot in the stirrup, hauling himself up and settling down to the comfortable sounds of creaking leather. “I think your reputation can take the hit.”

“Can yours? How about Peyton's?”

Instantly, Trace regretted the comments. “Sorry.”

“I know.” Red stroked a hand down Lad's neck, calming his excitement a little. “It's just too important to Peyton for me to not care. Everyone expects me to up and leave soon. But Peyton can't just take off. This isn't just a business you three own together. It's her home. Always will be. You're transient, Bea's here for who knows how long before she goes back to California.”

Trace snorted. “She said she would only be here a week. It's been months.”

Red smiled. “Yeah, well, as I'm coming to learn . . . that's Bea. But the fact is, this matters too much to Peyton. She's so used to going it alone. After you left—”

“I'm not talking about that.” Trace had enough guilt about having left home as soon after high school graduation as physically possible, leaving Peyton and Bea to handle their mother alone. But it hadn't been possible for him to stay. He just wasn't able to.

“Fine. Less talking, more working. I like it that way.” Red gave a final pat to Lad's flank and motioned. “Let's run him around the ring a few times, then we'll get back into it for the obstacle course.”

This time, as the horse circled the ring, Trace blocked all thoughts from his mind but becoming one with his animal and walking away from a great workout.

 

Trace was walking down the stairs, still rubbing at his damp hair with a towel, when he bumped into Bea.

“Hey, you. Coming out to admire my new place?” She grabbed his bicep and tugged, fluttering her lashes. “I've got a few more boxes if you want to help me carry them out while we walk.”

He knew her brand of “help.” He'd carry all of them while she walked beside him as an accessory. No thanks. “Nope. I'm going out.”

“Out?” She pouted a little, then scrunched up her nose. “Again? You just went out a few days ago.”

He had, and the reminder was eating at him a little. But still . . . “Yes, again. How often do you go out back in California?”

She waved that off. “Beside the point. In Hollywood, there are actually things to do when you go out. What are you up to tonight, cow tipping?”

“Exactly. Care to join?”

The look on his sister's face was comical, at best. “No. Absolutely not. That is beyond disgusting, Trace Muldoon.”

“Good thing I'm not actually going cow tipping. You're too easy, city girl.” He kissed her cheek and left her standing on the bottom step.

“So where are you going?”

“Probably just hit a bar a little later,” he hedged, heading to the kitchen for a bottle of water.

“Dressed like that?” Bea shrieked behind him. Her heels clicked a staccato across the tile as she raced to catch up with him, making him wince at the sound. It reminded him too much of their mother. “Absolutely not, I forbid it.”

He glanced down at his outfit: a clean button-down flannel shirt, a clean—if a little worn—pair of jeans, and his nicer pair of boots. The ones that weren't constantly covered in grime and shit. “What's wrong with this? I'm clean. I showered ten minutes ago, and none of this stuff was sitting on my bedroom floor or in the dirty hamper.”

“Well, isn't that encouraging.” Bea gave him a pitying look. “I don't have enough time to tell you what's wrong with the look. I mean, it's cute and all for the barn, but—”

“Listen up, Fashion Fanny. This isn't Hollywood, in case you didn't notice. I'm heading out for a drink. I'm not trying to land a modeling gig.”

Bea crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. “Listen up, big brother. In case you didn't notice, your social life sucks. And I'm just trying to help.”

God preserve him from sisters who wanted to improve his social life. “Yours is any better?” he shot back. He walked to the utility room beside the kitchen, opened the door and tossed the towel into the hamper situated there. Emma would thank him later for remembering and not leaving it on the floor like an animal. She'd raised him better. “You're always here. Or, well, not here, but now you're always in your little apartment looking at paint chips. You almost never go out. You leave once a month to do God knows what in whatever big city you head to.”

“Shop for things that don't have snaps and denim,” she said dryly.

“Fine. That. But it's not a social life, any more than me hanging out in the barn is a social life. So don't kid yourself. I'm not sure what crawled up your butt and decided it was Bug Trace Day, but it's not. Check your calendar. It's officially MYOB month.”

Bea's mouth fell open. “I'm not sure which is more disturbing. The fact that you think my social life is pathetic, or that you just used the term ‘MYOB.' It's 2013, in case you didn't notice.”

He ignored that and walked around her. Then an idea popped into his mind. “You want me to have a social life?”

“Yes. Because I love you. Though right now I'm wracking my brain trying to remember why.”

“And you want to help me.”

“Yes.” She smiled patiently at him.

“Then this is how you help.” He unhooked the baby monitor from his back pocket and thrust it at her. “Babysit.”

She stared at the monitor like it was a remote detonator to a bomb. “What the hell do I do with this?”

He sighed and reached over to turn it on. The green light lit up and the soft sounds of his son's snoring rasped through the speaker. “You just keep it with you. Go up and surf the Internet on the computer. Read a magazine. Watch TV. Cook a meal. I don't care, it doesn't matter. Just do something in the big house, and have that with you. And don't leave to go back to your new apartment.”

She started to hand it back, but he stepped out of the way. “I can't babysit. You know I don't do the kid thing.”

“He's asleep. He's been sleeping through the night for months now. There's no reason to think he won't do it again. So all you have to do is be in the house. That's it. If he doesn't make a sound, then you do nothing but stay in the house and do whatever it is you want to.”

She stared at the monitor again and he could see her starting to mentally draft an excuse.

“Bea, I need this.”

She watched him, and he could see her softening.

“I spent almost a whole year not leaving this house except for work. I hate relying on Emma—it's not her job after hours. And Peyton already watched him recently.”

She hesitated, and then her shoulders drooped.

And he knew he'd won a hard-earned battle for a night out.

“Fine.” She narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at him. “But those boxes? You're moving every single one of them when you get back.”

“Done,” he agreed quickly, in case she changed her mind. “Every one.” He leaned over and brushed a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks, Bea.”

As he headed out the door, she called out, “Don't be shocked if you come home and Seth's dressed in a sweater vest!”

Trace shuddered and wisely kept walking.

J
o sat down at the bar. The nonworking side, for once. She had a night off, and where did she go? Right back where she'd started. Her own bar. She'd be annoyed and disgusted with herself, if she wasn't so sure there was literally nothing else to do.

No movies to see. Nothing on TV. The nearest town had promise, but it wasn't like she was going to drive out there by herself, only to drive back in the morning. Waste of time and gas.

So she resigned herself to playing where she worked. It could be worse, though. Most people seemed to give her a decent berth. No married men hitting on her, hoping for an easy lay before they went home to their sweet wives. No weird underage kids hoping to score some beer. No CEO assholes who thought she'd be impressed by the size of their portfolio.

Nobody. She was still alone in the small town. Still an outsider. And it was starting to piss her off.

“Hey.”

She turned at the familiar voice, and before she could help it, she smiled. “Back for more?”

Trace gave her a friendly grin. “Can't resist your . . . selection.” He gave Jenna, the bartender of the night, his order and sat back. So fluid and easy in his skin. His hair was a little damp, like he'd just taken a shower. Because he was coming to the bar? Or because it was a long work day . . . ?

Didn't matter. She shouldn't be thinking about him like that.
Amanda, Amanda, Amanda.
Amanda has dibs, she mentally reminded herself.

Her sexual nerve endings were apparently not receiving the memo, because they were getting all fidgety just looking at him.

“Night off for you?”

She held up her almost-empty bottle. “Yeah, I get one of those every so often. Though when you're the owner . . .”

“You're never really off,” he finished. “Yeah, I'm coming to learn that myself with the ranch. Though it's Peyton's thing more than mine.”

He settled back a moment and watched the screen above the bar, breaking his silence only to thank the bartender when she set the bottle in front of him on a napkin. Jo watched from the corner of her eye, but his line of vision never wandered from the bartender's face, despite her low V-neck shirt.

Interesting. Maybe he wasn't there for women. Maybe he had a woman at home. The thought had Jo taking another mental step back. Shit. Did he? No ring, she could see that easily enough with his hand wrapped around the bottle. And no tan line or indents from a recently-removed band. But not all men wore wedding rings, especially if they worked with their hands all day.

This was one of the few times not listening to gossip would get her into trouble.

And why did she care? No. She didn't care at all. That was Amanda's problem, not hers. She finished off her beer and headed around the bar to dispose of the bottle.

“Working even when you're off.”

She smiled at Trace as she got a rag to wipe her place down. “I'm not one to leave a mess for others when I'm capable of handling it myself.”

“I'm capable of handling this.” He held up the empty bottle. “Should I go back there and toss it myself?”

She laughed and shook her head, holding out a hand for the empty. “No, but thanks for the offer.”

“My Emma raised me right,” he said with a smile.

“Your Emma?”

“Housekeeper when we were growing up. Mama was . . . not quite into the whole motherhood thing. Emma stepped in and did her best for us. Which was pretty good.”

But not the same as having a mom there. Jo understood. Hadn't she spent much of her life growing up wishing for a father? A real one, not the constant “new stepdaddy” types her mom brought around who seemed to change as often as the seasons.

“So, Jo from Jo's Place.” Trace balanced his elbows on the bar and gave her a focused look. “Tell me about yourself.”

She rolled her eyes. “Bad. Really bad, cowboy.”

He shrugged. “Wasn't a line.”

“Oh.” She busied herself with the rag, wiping down the already-pristine stainless-steel bar sink. “Not much to tell. I own a bar, I work in it, and I live above it.”

“Sounds tidy.”

“Easy,” she corrected. “Bars are rarely tidy.”

“Oh, I don't know.” He looked around. “This one's pretty good. And trust me, I've seen some shithole bars in my time.”

So had she, which was one of the reasons she prided herself on keeping a clean place.

“Where were you before here?”

“New Orleans.”

“Never been. Did you like it?”

She shrugged and tossed the rag into the hamper below the ledge. “It was a place to live and work. Nothing to get too attached to.”

“Before that?”

“L.A., Chicago, New York, Houston . . . I could go on. Should I?”

Jenna walked by and offered Trace another beer. He hesitated a moment, then nodded. After taking the bottle, he waited for her to elaborate.

Instead, she found something to do with her hands. She got out a cutting board and a knife and started slicing fruit for garnishes. He said nothing, just watched her. And, when she peeked from the corner of her eye, she was amused to see he watched her hands more than her face, or down her shirt.

“Got a hankering to be a bartender?”

“Nah. Tried it once, when I needed some cash. Didn't have the knack.”

She settled a sliced lemon in a container and closed the lid. “And what is the knack, exactly? Short pours and steady hands?”

“That helps. But a lot of it's got nothing to do with liquor. Good listening skills, or the ability to fake it. Pleasant personality. The ability to upsell.”

She smiled. Observant. “Am I really listening, or faking it?”

He looked her dead in the eyes. “I hope it's the real thing.”

The moment sent shivers down her spine, and she used finding a towel to wipe her hands on as an excuse to break the eye contact. There was nothing more keeping her behind the bar. Tuesdays were slow evenings. She had two choices. Either head to her apartment upstairs, or sit back down next to Trace.

The apartment was a safer choice.

She sat down and settled in for danger.

 

“Why a bar?”

Jo took her eyes off the screen and glanced at him a moment. “Why not? Every town needs a bar, right?”

“We have a few.” Not nearly as nice as this, granted. But the town did have two other bars, ones that did an okay business on the weekends. Probably did better before Jo came into town.

“I know bars. I practically grew up in them, and I'm good at the business. Some people have an eye for retail, others for selling insurance. I know my beer, and I know how to sell it.”

“No argument there.” He took another sip of the beer, reminding himself to nurse this one. It was his last for the night. “But some people might want to escape the family business.”

“Family business?” Her long black ponytail whipped him in the shoulder as she turned her head.

“You said you grew up in them.”

“Oh, right.” One hand lifted to rub her ear, the one with four studs in it. Damn, why was that hot? He'd never noticed piercings on a woman before. Never cared. But for whatever reason, the reminder she wasn't quite country revved his blood. “We never owned bars, really. My mom just worked in them my whole life. Once I was old enough, it was a natural progression to get a job there. It stuck.”

“But you didn't stick. You've moved around a lot.”

“Where Mother went, so did I. At least until I felt like I could strike out on my own. But even when I tried to go it alone, I wasn't finding anywhere that felt permanent.”

He shouldn't ask, but he did anyway. “Are you planning on sticking here?”

Her eyes grew hot. “Yes. I'm here to stay. And if anyone has a problem with it, they can—”

“Whoa, now. Easy.” He rubbed her shoulder in soft circles. “I wasn't asking you to pack up and get out of town. Just making conversation.”

She blinked, as if not even realizing she'd been so fired up. “Sorry. I'm just tired of people around here thinking I'm a flash in the pan. That I'm too city to stick.”

It hurt her, he could tell. To be thought so little of. To be thought less because she wasn't a native. “Who said that to you?” He'd kick their ass.

Wait. He'd what? No, no, he would not. He wasn't a hot-blooded teenager with raging hormones anymore. She wasn't the star cheerleader he wanted to impress more than anything. This wasn't high school. He was a father, for the love of God.

“Nobody.” She smiled a little and took a sip of the water she'd given herself before sitting back down. “You know people are too polite for that. But I have my ways of hearing things. Though I do try to ignore gossip. It can be ugly,” she added.

Definitely a story behind that one.

“Small town. Gossip is the course between dinner and dessert.”

She snorted. “I'm learning that. It's getting harder and harder to avoid it.”

He liked that. That she at least made the attempt to avoid it, even though it might make it harder for her to acclimate. Plus, he didn't have to wonder what she'd heard about him. A true blank slate.

A pretty brunette waitress walked by at that moment and cozied up to the bar next to Jo. “Hey. Shouldn't you be out doing something other than this?”

“Probably, but this is what I'm doing, isn't it?” Jo shifted ever so slightly away from him in her chair. Maybe it was just his imagination, or she was only getting comfortable. But it felt to him like she purposely drew away from him.

The waitress looked over, as if just noticing him. “Oh, hey, Trace.”

“Hi. How're things?” He wracked his brain for the name. He probably should know it. It was an A-something. April, Ashley . . .

“Things are good. You've been in town awhile. Planning to make it a permanent move?” Was it his imagination or did she really just jut her breasts out a little farther in that tight uniform shirt?

And did Jo scoot farther away?

“Amanda!” another server called from behind her. “Table nineteen is ready to cash out.”

Amanda. Right. He thanked his lucky stars he was saved from having to remember it himself. He sucked at names . . . which only made it more awkward when he would run into a woman on the rodeo circuit he'd slept with once, thinking he'd never see her again.

That only happened . . . always.

Amanda rolled her eyes in response, but she smiled brightly enough that he knew it was only for effect.

Jo swatted her arm. “Go make me some money.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She gave a demure nod of her head, which contradicted the twinkle in her eye. Then she scurried off to do whatever it was waitresses did behind the scenes.

Jo smiled as she watched Amanda hustle off. “She's one of the best. Despite the attitude,” she added with a laugh. “She's cheeky, but it's always in good fun.”

“The best kind of cheeky.” It wasn't his imagination. Jo's attitude toward him had definitely cooled off. What the hell had he done wrong?

After a minute, Jo stood and brushed her hands off. “Well, thanks for the company.”

“Yeah . . .” What could he say to keep her longer? “How about sometime we—”

She shook her head, the small hoops in her bottom piercings wiggling enticingly. “I think I know where you're going with that, and it's best we just not take that trip.”

He stared for a moment. “Why the hell not? You married or something?”

She snorted. “No. Not at all. But just because two people are single doesn't mean it's a good idea. There are other factors.”

“What other factors?”

Jo just shook her head again, maddeningly. “Thanks for thinking of me though, cowboy.” She said it lightly, almost mockingly, and it stung.

As she walked away, he wanted to just shrug. He'd been turned down before. But never when he'd felt so strongly about the woman. New territory for him, and he didn't care for it.

Not because of the rejection itself, but because it meant he didn't get Jo.

Not tonight, anyway.

 

Jo's night off, and she was closing up shop. Figured.

Her manager had pleaded an early night because of a migraine, and she'd relented. Though she was pretty sure “migraine” was code for “wanna have sweaty sex with my boyfriend,” she couldn't really argue. If she had a man in her bed, she'd want to be having hot, sweaty sex, too.

No, no, no. No thinking about sex. Or sweaty sex. Or Trace Muldoon . . . damn it! Did it again. Now her mind was mentally stripping him, one article of clothing at a time.

She'd have to start with the shirt. Snaps were so much easier than buttons. How convenient that cowboy fashion lent itself to the sweaty sex. The man had to be ripped, working with large animals all day. Plus, the loose shirts couldn't hide everything. Maybe he had a hint of a farmer's tan. Now that she could get into. She'd dealt too long with Big City assholes who thought dual manicures was a good way to spend quality time on a Saturday. Something about the thought of a man with a tan from working outside all day, using his hands, getting dirty, really dirty . . .

Glancing down, she laughed at herself. Instead of gripping the soft cotton of Trace's shirt to rip it off, she'd been squeezing the life out of a bar rag. Not quite the same. Definitely less satisfying results.

“I'm heading out!” Amanda breezed by and set her apron on the counter with the others to be laundered in the morning.