Bucking the Rules (9 page)

“Morgan!” Bea called from across Peyton. “You can solve a little argument we're having here.”

“Sure thing.” His attention was immediately riveted to Bea.

Bea leaned to the side and held up one leg straight in the air, looking like a ballerina stretching before a routine. The skinny jean tapered at the ankle, showcasing a pair of killer high heel sandal things with so many straps Trace wondered how long it took to actually put the shoe on. “Are these jeans?”

Morgan looked like he wanted to pass out. He nodded dumbly.

Peyton rolled her eyes and gagged a little to the side.

Bea shot him a dazzling toothpaste-ad smile. “Thank you, sweetie. I appreciate a man who understands these things. Really, I just appreciate anyone who agrees with me.”

Morgan nodded again, then sat down with a thump when Peyton grabbed his wrist and tugged.

Trace could see “lovelorn” written all over his old friend's face. He debated for a moment taking Morgan aside and warning him off—not for Bea's sake, but for his friend's. Bea would chew him up and spit him out like he was a piece of fat on one of Emma's chicken thighs.

But some things a man just had to figure out for himself. And hell, who was he to lecture anyone about getting in over your head with a woman? Wasn't he the one planning on using his next night off to go catch Jo in bed again?

The woman who would rather call him cowboy than by his name.

He shook his head in self-disgust and headed for the stairs.

“Little man, when you're old enough, I'm gonna write you a manual about women. We'll just call it a survival guide.”

 

“You look like shit.”

Jo flipped Stu the bird and poured herself a Coke. Three cups of coffee hadn't done a damn thing for her, so maybe a different form of caffeine would do her some good. The first sip had her gagging. Too sweet for the morning.

She would commit several different kinds of felonies to get a good espresso in town. Despite her own efforts, she'd never fully mastered the art of making a good jolt herself. No point buying her own beans and grinder if she couldn't even produce results worthy of the time and effort.

But on days like today, the added punch would have been more than welcome. Hell, she would have just chewed straight espresso beans if they would have helped.

Her lips twitched as she remembered exactly why she was so exhausted. And his name was Trace.

Mentally, she wanted to cross his name out and insert “cowboy.” Make it less personal. But something about the way he'd commanded her to use his name in bed had it sticking.

Damn it. Either that was the most interesting trick of the subconscious ever, or he was a sneaky bastard.

She wouldn't rule out either until she'd had more time to think about it.

“Wanna tell Stu all your troubles?” The cook sat down at the bar in front of her and motioned for her to serve up a Coke.

“Hardly. I think we'll just keep what goes on upstairs separate from what goes on down here.”

Stu snorted before taking his first sip. “Sure. Right. Let me know how that goes. If whatever kept you up was actually a who, it'll get around. Sooner or later, it always does.”

As he disappeared back into the kitchen, Jo drummed her fingers on the counter. It didn't have to get around. Not if they were careful. If Trace waited until after all the customers and servers were gone for the night, then slipped into her place and back out again . . .

Wait. Was she considering a full-on affair? Not just writing it off as a one-night thing. How very unlike her....

But when the sex was as good as it had been . . . how could she blame herself for running in that direction full force?

Her servers trickled in one by one, smiling and waving. Of course, Amanda couldn't ignore the chance to shoot the breeze. She wandered over after clocking in, tying her server apron around her waist.

“You look like hell. What's up?”

Jo threw her hands in the air and let her forehead fall to the bar top. After a few quick raps on the wood, she sat up. “Why am I surrounded by people who care when I look like hell?”

“Because we love you, naturally.” Amanda grabbed a dish tub of clean silverware and sat across from her to roll napkins. “Something wrong?”

“Not at all.” Jo dismissed the conversation easily. She wasn't about to do the exact opposite of what she'd asked Trace and start talking to Amanda about their night together. She liked the girl, a lot. But she had a mouth on her and God knew what she might spill in a moment of weakness.

Amanda finished up her rolls and grabbed a piece of chalk to write the day's beer specials on a blackboard above the back of the bar. “You know, you might start opening up to people,” she said casually while concentrating on looping her B just right for Blue Moon.

“And do what with them?”

Amanda laughed. “Typical.”

Opening up meant getting hurt. Being dragged around—physically or emotionally—with no say in your own future. Thanks, but no thanks.

“So how's your own cowboy?”

Amanda beamed, since someone else had brought up her favorite topic: herself. “He's awesome. I mean, there's no future there. But he's adorable anyway. He brings me flowers when we meet up.” She scrunched her nose. “I told him he didn't have to, but he said he likes doing that sort of thing. So I guess that's just his way of handling a lover.”

Jo debated sharing her opinion on the matter—that Amanda's mystery cowboy wanted to be more than lovers—but bit it back. Not her place.

Amanda finished underlining the advertised price on the last special and dusted her hands off. “Now, to the bathroom to wash up and then open the doors.”

“I'll open the doors. You go wash up.”

J
owas pouring her second cup of Coke, and making a face at it, when someone sat down at her bar. She turned and smiled genuinely. Not her
you're a paying customer and I'm in a bad mood, but I'll pretend I'm not
smile, but the real deal. “Hey, Jeff. Back for lunch today?”

He grinned and put his worn Marshall High ball cap on the bar in front of him. “Couldn't help it. You convinced me to come back. Service can't be beat. Plus, you're one of the only people in this town who remembers to call me Jeff.”

“Benefits of being a newbie. I don't have to forget embarrassing childhood nicknames. Drink?”

“Just a Coke. I'm out running errands for my mom today.” He made a face.

“Aw, that's cute,” Jo teased and passed him the drink. When he scowled, she patted his shoulder. “It's nice. A man who is good to his mother makes the women look twice.”

“Yeah?” He sipped his drink and looked over the top of her head, like he was considering the statement, weighing its truthfulness.

He was a cutie. With his dark brown hair a little shaggy, thoughtful brown eyes to match and quick smile, he was going to slay the co-eds in law school. She imagined he already knew that, though. He seemed to carry an innate boyish charm that told her he'd gotten his way more often than not by flashing that dimple. But in a good-natured sort of way, not a sleazy way.

He didn't dress like a lot of the other young men around town. Both times she'd seen him, he'd been in a collared shirt. Today a polo, last time an Oxford button down. His jeans today were fresh, and he had simple Adidas running shoes on rather than the crease-worn denim and scuffed work boots she was used to. But then again, not everyone who lived in the area was a rancher.

Jo sent his food order back to the kitchen and wiped down some more glasses to place on the top shelf, ready for the real rush.

“Quiet in here this time of day.”

Jo nodded. “Not many people are hitting the bottle this early, and while I think we've got a kickass menu, the diner still wins the lunch race by a long shot. But since they don't serve alcohol . . .”

“You make up for it with the dinner crowd,” Jeff finished. “I like your style, Jo.”

She winked at him. “I like yours, too, Jeff.”

The lunch hour passed rather quickly, thanks to Jeff and his company. When she mentioned once that he should get on with his errands, he waved it off and said his mother wasn't going to be home until later anyway. “Miranda Effingham is a busy lady. She's one of those committee people,” he said in a deadpan whisper.

Knowing exactly the type, Jo laughed. “You lucked out, then, only running errands instead of being roped into going to a meeting or setting up a cakewalk or whatever.”

“Can't argue there.” He set some bills down on the bar—way over-tipping, by Jo's quick estimation—and stood. “But you're right. Eventually the chairwoman will be home and I should have all the things put away like a dutiful son.”

He was adorable. The girls at school were goners. “Off you go, then. Shoo. I can't be responsible for the chairwoman bringing down the law on you.”

He stared at her a moment, and she almost wiped a hand over her face to see if she had something stuck there. “What?”

He replaced his hat and shook his head. “Nothing. Have a good day.”

“See ya.” She bussed his area and took the bills to the register. Yup. Over-tipped by a long shot. She shook her head and hoped he didn't see their conversations as a reason to have to go so far over the typical fifteen percent. Maybe she'd dial back the friendliness a little.

But something about him just struck her heart. He was almost like the little brother she'd wanted when she was younger.

“Cutie pie gone?” Amanda walked by with an armful of dishes and deposited them for the dishwasher to handle.

“Cutie pie?”

“J. J.”

“Oh. Jeff,” Jo corrected. “He's going by Jeff now, as he informed me.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “That'll stick, like, never. He's been J. J. since he was born, and J. J. he shall stay, if anyone in this town has something to say about it.”

They shouldn't, but Jo didn't bother saying anything.

Amanda cocked a hip on the edge of the bar and surveyed the dwindling lunch crowd. “I know you have this thing about gossip, but if it's about another business, it's more like industry news, right?”

Jo raised a brow. “Sure, I guess.”

“Gimmie's is closing.”

Jo's hands nearly dropped the tall glass she was hand washing in the bar sink. “Run that by me again?”

“Gimmie's, down the street. It's closing.”

“I know where Gimmie's is,” Jo said softly, eyes staring straight ahead. Gimmie's was one of the other two bars located within town. Though neither of her competitors offered a selection of food like hers, they did have their own draw. Gimmie's was the nicer of the two, in her opinion, with decent flat screens and far more room for dancing and more pool tables than she carried. Her space was taken up with more tables.

“I think the glass is clean,” Amanda said dryly.

“What? Oh, huh.” Jo turned the water off and set the glass in the side rack to dry. “Any reason why they're closing down?”

Amanda pursed her lips. “Now would this be more of that industry news, or gossip?”

Jo swatted her with the bar towel.

She laughed and danced out of the way. “All right, all right! Don't bruise me. I've got another date with my cowboy!” She held up her hands in surrender. “From what I hear, Meldon—that's the owner—is getting too old to handle the place, and he doesn't have any kids to pass the business on to. He's willing to sell, but I guess he's been looking for a buyer for a few months now on the DL, and no nibbles. So he's packing up shop and heading to a retirement villa in Arizona. His brother's there.”

“That's specific, all right.” Jo mulled it over. One less bit of competition. One more step up in being recognized by this town as a staple. An institution. An insider. “Maybe I should send him a fruit basket or something. I'm sorry to see him go.”

“Sure you are.” Amanda's smug smile said it all.

“Hey, a little competition never hurt anyone. And besides, it's hard to close up a business you put your soul into, I'm sure.”

Her friend watched her for a moment, and Jo realized she'd gotten too emotional. Time to get back to work. “Okay then. Thanks for the heads up.” She shot Amanda a serious look. “But no more gossip.”

“Industry news,” Amanda sang as she headed back to bus her remaining tables.

“Industry news,” Jo muttered again, but smiled. One more step. One more very important step.

 

Trace saddled one of the brood mares currently not pregnant and led her toward the main house. After loosely looping the reins around a column, he headed in the front door. “Emma?”

She poked her head out from the kitchen, with Seth in the Bjorn in front of her. “Your boots off?”

He took one giant step back onto the entry mat. “Just wanted to take Seth out for a bit.” But he couldn't help smiling at the picture of the housekeeper and toddler. Two peas in a pod, that duo. Seth adored his Emma. “If you can spare him, that is.”

Emma rubbed a hand over Seth's head and the boy giggled. “He's quite the help. He spent the morning tearing through a laundry basket of folded clothes.”

Trace winced. “Sorry about that.”

“Just as well you're taking him out. He needs the fresh air. Not to be cooped up in the house with an old lady.” Emma slipped the carrier from her shoulders, expertly keeping one supportive arm under Seth.

As she handed him his son at the door, Trace bent down and kissed Emma's cheek. “Where's this old lady you speak of? I only see you, the awesome Emma.”

“Go!” She swatted his arm and shooed him out the door. “Bring him back in one piece!”

Trace lifted a hand in acknowledgment and undid the reins of the mare. Then he stared for a moment. How the hell would he get up in the saddle without dropping the kid?

“Need a hand, big brother?” Bea walked out in a pair of bright pink pants and a cropped top.

“Hold him while I hop up.”

She still grimaced, but willingly accepted her nephew without complaint. Improvement.

“He's drooling.”

Okay, one minor complaint.

“They do that sometimes. He's getting another tooth.” Trace swung up easily into the saddle and reached down for Seth.

Bea handed him up willingly. “Okay, you two up there are adorable. And you know I don't use that word lightly. I'm taking a picture. I'm sure Peyton would love it for the website.”

“Hear that, son? We're adorable. Watch out, ladies under two. Seth Muldoon comin' at ya.”

Bea reached around to her back pocket and pulled out her phone. A quick snap later, she waved as they walked sedately toward the hot walk area.

Trace settled one arm comfortably around Seth's middle as his son clapped with glee. The rocking of the horse was soothing, while the elevated height and forward motion provided entertainment. Plus, they were on a horse. It was a natural progression for a Muldoon.

As they entered through the open gate of the hot walk area, Steve tipped his hat back. “New hire?”

“You know it.”

“Looks a little green. Maybe we should start him mucking some stalls.”

Trace smiled. “Soon enough.”

He realized after a moment, the entire picture was laid out perfectly. His son, a few years from now, helping him clean stalls. Learning how to take care of his tack. Groom a horse. Fix a thrown shoe.

All on Muldoon land.

For once in his adult life, he could look years down the road and mentally picture himself in the same place.

Was that supposed to be frightening, or exciting?

He let the horse do her thing in a slow, plodding circle. The horse knew what to do, and if Trace hadn't held his son, he could have put the whole thing on autopilot. While the pace would have bored Trace by age three, Seth's not-quite-one-year-old self was thrilled with the action. And Trace remembered all over again exactly why he'd fought to keep his son, rather than walking away when Rose came to him to tell him she was pregnant.

And no, her husband wasn't the father.

He'd been so close to losing Seth altogether....

His hands tightened on the reins, and he loosened them again with effort. Going back there was not where he wanted to be. Seth was with him, where he belonged, and that was the end of it.

Seth was a Muldoon, and he belonged at M-Star.

Why was it so hard to remember he did, too?

 

Trace stretched his back, wincing at the twinge. But he manned up and grabbed his saddle, ready for a workout.

“Freeze.”

Red walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I think after the spill you had, you should take a day or two off.”

“I've already been up once today.”

Red snorted. “I'm sorry, but a breeding mare walking in a circle at point-two miles an hour while you've got your son does not exactly count. Rest up. The work will be there tomorrow. Stretch, heat, the whole deal. I'll ride Lad for a while.”

Trace made a face. “You shouldn't be doing my work for me.”

Red sighed. “I hate admitting this, but it's been too long since I've done the workouts on an experienced animal. I want some time. Give me the excuse, will ya?”

His lips quirked. “Is this another ‘Please do me the favor of going out for a beer with Red' moment?”

“Not at all,” Red lied easily. Trace wasn't fooled. He patted Trace's shoulder and grabbed his own saddle. “If you insist on working, I have a few errands you could run.”

Errands. Trace rolled his eyes. “Pass.”

“Ah, well. Thought you might like the chance to catch some lunch in town, but hey. No skin off mine.”

The idea of grabbing a quickie with Jo during a lunch lull appealed too much to resist. “I—wait. Why do you think I want lunch in town?”

Red stared at him with disappointment. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“I'd say very, just to piss you off, but right now I'm in no shape to defend myself so I'll just let you go on.”

“I see the way you watch that cute bartender. The owner. Jo? Every time you've gone in there and I've been with you, you track her like you're on a hunt and she's the game. So I'm guessing you wouldn't mind a chance to do a little more hunting.”

No point in mentioning he'd already technically bagged the game. And wasn't that just a horrible metaphor? “Yeah, well . . . fine. Whatever.” He jabbed one finger at Red. “But this isn't about lunch, or hunting. I need to pull my weight. And if you're not going to let me up on a real horse today, then I'll run your damn errands.”

“Suits me. Peyton's got the list at the main house. She's in her office.”

Trace heard Red chuckling as he left the stables, but he ignored it. He paused to remove his boots at the front door, freezing a moment to see if he could hear Seth. But then, noticing the time, he knew his son would be down for his morning nap.

A quick knock on the office door was all the warning he gave before walking in. “I'm informed by Lover Boy you have some errands for the gimp to run.”

“Yup.” Without looking up, Peyton held up a sheet of paper. “This stuff is piled in a corner of the storage barn. Grab one of those big boxes and fill it up, then run it to the animal shelter. If you make a quick pit stop to the feed store for the things at the bottom of that list, I'd appreciate it.”