Calder Pride (7 page)

“Count me out,” Debby Ann said. “I’m bushed after working all day. I’m heading home.”

“Me, too,” Babs echoed.

“Why? What time is it?” Kinsey peered at her watch. “Good grief, girls, it’s only eleven o’clock. The shank of the night.”

“It may be the shank of your night, but not mine,” Debby Ann told her and turned to give Cat a good-bye hug. “I can’t believe you’re not coming back. It isn’t going to be the same without you.”

“I’ll miss you guys, too,” Cat said in all sincerity. Cat felt positively maudlin when the two girls walked away. She knew at once that she’d had too much to drink. She wasn’t drunk yet, just enveloped in a warm, fuzzy glow that felt kind of good.

“Come on. Let’s go to the Longhorn.” Kinsey linked arms with Cat and started down the street.

“Not me.” Cat pulled back. “It’s time I found myself a hotel and called it a night.”

“This isn’t right.” Kinsey eyed Cat with unexpected poignancy in her expression. “We can’t break up like this. Not without a final farewell drink.”

Cat hesitated, the same emotions tugging at her. “All right,” she said finally. “But only one drink.”

“Only one,” Kinsey promised and took her by the arm again. “Come on. There’s a bar here in the Stockyards Hotel.”

Low laughter and lively music played by a country combo greeted them when they entered the comfortably crowded bar. Cat spotted an empty table near the small dance floor where couples two-stepped to an old George Strait tune about a fireman. They trooped over to it and sat down facing the dance floor. When the gum-cracking waitress arrived, they ordered a round of margaritas. The waitress returned with their drinks on her next sashay through her section.

Kinsey picked up her glass, then turned her sad eyes on Cat. “Honey, I can’t think of a single toast to offer. I guess there isn’t one for good-bye.”

Silently they touched glasses above the table’s center. For an awkward moment, no one said anything. Then the band struck up a rowdy and fun-filled Cajun
song that had Cat tapping her toe to its infectious beat.

“This place is something.” She glanced up at the pressed tin ceiling where the blades of a belt-driven fan turned slowly, circulating the smoky air.

J.J. looked around. “I think the decor is what they call ‘cowboy baroque.’”

“And you know the old saying,” Kinsey said, grinning: “If it ain’t baroque, don’t fix it.”

Cat laughed. “Kinsey, that is bad.”

“That’s what I like”—Kinsey slapped the table in emphatic approval, then nodded at Cat—“a happy drunk.”

“I am not drunk,” she corrected, then added with a naughty twinkle in her eyes. “A little tipsy, maybe.”

“A
little
?” Kinsey hooted and nudged J.J.

J.J. spoke up, changing the subject, “Hey, did you guys notice the barstools? They’re saddles.”

“Forget the saddles. Get a load of that guy at the bar.” Kinsey pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, be still, my lascivious heart.”

“Which one?” Cat asked before turning to look.

“The tall one on the end. You can’t miss him.”

“Oh, yes!” J.J. emphatically agreed when she located him. “You know, when my granddaddy really liked someone—I mean,
really
liked him—he used to say, ‘He’s not only a good man, he’s a
man.
’ You knew it was the highest compliment he could give, but I never really understood what he meant until now. That guy is a
man
?”

It took Cat a second longer to spot the man at the bar. When she did, she went still, her breath catching at the sight of him. For a moment, it was like seeing a ghost. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, trimly muscled with wide shoulders and slim hips. The hair showing below the dark brim of his cowboy hat was a deep blue-black.

“He looks like…Repp.” Cat stared at his face, strong and lean like the rest of him.

“If he does, honey, then your pictures of Repp didn’t do him justice,” Kinsey murmured dryly.

On a closer look, Cat was forced to agree with Kinsey’s assessment. The only things this man had in common with Repp were his height and build, the jet darkness of his hair and the impression of strength in his features. But the physical resemblance was enough to quicken her heartbeat and awaken all the old longings.

“It doesn’t look like he’s with anyone,” J.J. observed. “And he isn’t married, either.”

“How do you know?” Kinsey challenged her.

“He isn’t wearing a ring.”

“There’s proof for you,” Kinsey scoffed.

“He’s looking this way, Kinsey. He’s looking this way.” J.J. pounded on Kinsey’s arm, almost squealing the words.

Cat had the distinct feeling he was looking directly at her. For a moment it was as though there was nothing and no one else in the crowded bar except the two of them.

“I think we’ll need to draw straws for this one,” Kinsey began.

“I’ll check him out.” A surge of irrational jealousy pushed Cat to her feet. However briefly, the stranger had reminded her of Repp. For that reason alone, she couldn’t bear the thought of either Kinsey or J.J. flirting with him.

Never breaking eye contact with the stranger, Cat cut across the dance floor, ignoring the couples who circled it. As she drew closer, she saw that the man looked nothing at all like Repp. His eyes were a smoky gray color with incredibly dark centers that seemed able to bore deep inside and unlock all her secrets. There was a saturnine quality to his face, a
leanness accented by high, prominent cheekbones, features that were chiseled in hardness and bronzed by the sun. His mouth was the only soft thing about him. Cat found herself focusing on it as she walked up to him.

Only at the last did she lift her gaze to again meet his. She recognized at once that telltale gleam of a man’s interest in a woman.

Men had looked at her that way before. But this was the first time she had ever reacted to it. Cat didn’t know if she should blame this quivering excitement she felt on the tequila she had consumed or the fact that she had initially mistaken him for Repp. Whatever the case, she didn’t question it further—or the boldness with which she returned his look.

“My friends and I are on a manhunt,” she announced, conscious of her pulse tripping all over itself.

Instantly his eyes narrowed with a piercing sharpness. Cat had the sudden impression that he had gone on high alert even though his stance hadn’t changed. One booted foot was still propped on the bar’s brass foot rail, and an elbow still rested negligently atop the bar’s tall counter. Without moving his head, he shot a glance at the table where Kinsey and J.J. sat, then came back to her.

Just as suddenly as the sharpness came to his eyes, it turned to a glinting humor. His mouth quirked in a near-smile. “Someone out there is a very lucky man.”

His low-pitched voice was lazy and warm, but it was the absence of a drawled delivery that caught Cat’s ear. “You don’t live in Texas, do you? Where are you from?”

“The Dakotas, originally.”

Her glance went to the glossy black of his hair, its length neatly trimmed. Curious and way beyond
being conscious of it, Cat reached up and traced a sharply defined cheekbone with her fingertip.

“Are you part Indian?” she wondered, idly liking the sensation of his warm skin beneath her finger.

“Quarter Sioux.”

“With gray eyes?” she murmured idly.

“There are some who claim Crazy Horse had gray eyes.”

“Really.” Cat found herself once again trapped by his compelling gray eyes.

It was suddenly impossible to look anywhere else but into them. Needs too long repressed began surfacing, leaving Cat little room to question the judgment of her actions. She ached to be held, to feel a man’s arms around her.

“Tell me, Dakota,” she whispered, feeling oddly breathless, “do you dance?”

“You mean, other than a war dance?” he murmured, a faint glitter of amusement in his eyes.

She laughed with a reckless enjoyment of the moment that she hadn’t felt since Repp died. “Or a rain dance, or a sun dance,” Cat added, carrying his thought further. “Just a plain and simple dance, that’s all I want, Dakota.”

But it wasn’t really
all
she wanted.

“I think I can manage that.” He took the margarita from her and set it on the bar next to his long-necked beer bottle.

Spell or attraction—whichever it was—Cat readily surrendered to it when he shaped his hand to the small of her back and guided her onto the dance floor. The song was a slow one, an old standard that mirrored too closely her feelings, except she had no ribbons that he could take from her hair. It was already down, lying against her shoulders. She closed her ears to the song’s words and turned into his arms.

She slid a hand onto the slope of his shoulder and felt the banding of solid muscle beneath the white fabric of his shirt. His arm circled the back of her waist. It was the first time in months that a man’s arm had gone around her for a reason other than comfort and sympathy. The warm sensation of it nearly dragged a moan from her throat. Until that moment Cat hadn’t realized how much she had craved a man’s touch.

He didn’t draw her close to him. To Cat, it was like being thirsty and given only a small sip of water. Wanting more, she moved closer, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder. The enveloping warmth of his body heat was like a healing fire, restoring awareness to senses that had been numbed by grief’s pain. Eyes closed, she began to notice the mix of scents clinging to his skin: the heady fragrance of aftershave, the clean smell of soap, and his own earthy odor, all tinted with traces of bar smoke and liquor’s sweetness. She felt the brush of his legs against hers as they moved to the music, her hand clasped in the smoothness of his while she listened to the strong, solid beat of his heart.

His hand tightened their grip on her fingers. He tipped his head down, the warmth of his breath fanning her cheek. “You never told me your name.” His low voice rumbled from someplace deep inside him.

“Cat.” Her answer was instinctive and honest. Instantly Cat knew she didn’t want an exchange of names. Names led to a discussion of backgrounds and family histories. The man was a stranger to her; she wanted to keep it that way. Drawing back, she tilted her head up to look into his smoky gray eyes, then took the truth and twisted it. “Maggie the Cat, that’s me.”

Amusement glinted in his eyes, giving them a quicksilver gleam. “The one on the hot tin roof?”

For the blink of a second, Cat didn’t make the connection. Then she laughed at the irony of her choice. When she had innocently paired her name with her mother’s, she hadn’t given a thought to the character in the Tennessee Williams play. But she remembered her now—how very sensual she had been—and how very desperate and frustrated, aching to love and be loved, and denied that need. It seemed singularly appropriate.

“That is exactly the one I am,” Cat declared in a suddenly reckless mood. “You would have recognized me straight off if I’d been wearing my slip.”

“Ah, yes, the famous slip,” he said with an easy nod. “I knew something was missing.”

“That’s it.” Her glance drifted down to study the lazy curve of his lips.

His mouth was close, close enough to kiss. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted that and more, much more. She wanted all that the fates had denied her with Repp. Rising on her toes, Cat leaned closer until only a centimeter separated their lips. Her breath mingled with his and shallowed out, the sensitive surfaces of her lips tingling with the nearness of him.

“Should I be looking over my shoulder for Paul Newman?” When he spoke, she felt his lips form every word, though they barely touched hers.

“Silly,” Cat whispered. “You are Paul Newman.”

“Is that why I have the feeling I’m being seduced?” This time he made deliberate contact, touching her lips in a brushing nuzzle.

“Do you mind?” she murmured, straining closer.

“No. But I’ll never understand how Paul Newman managed to resist you the way he did.” His husky comment struck a painful chord in her memory, sharply recalling all the times Repp had refused her.

Reeling from it, Cat lost her balance and stumbled against him, her lips grazing his jaw. Drawing back, she tried to cover her shattered composure with a careless toss of her head, only to discover she was fighting tears. Her glance ricocheted off his face as she dipped her head and forced a laugh. “That’s what comes from having one too many margaritas,” she lied.

“So I’ve heard.” But Logan Echohawk didn’t buy that as the reason. In his line of work, being a trained observer was essential; too often a person’s reaction told him more than words could. That glimpse of pain in her eyes had been brief, but a glimpse was often all that he ever saw.

When she had first approached him at the bar, it had seemed the typical come-on, less subtle than most with a unique opening gambit, but not that much different from the normal. Truth to tell, he had welcomed the advance—a stranger in a strange town, discovering the loneliness that can be found in the midst of a crowd.

He had noticed her the minute she walked in. An awareness of all that went on around him was vital in his profession; over time, it had become as natural to him as breathing. But he would have noticed her anyway. “Maggie the Cat” was the kind of woman who stood out in a crowd. Part of it was her natural beauty—the sculpted fineness of her features, the glossy blackness of her hair, the slenderness of her build with all its womanly ripe curves, and the unusual green of her eyes. But part of it, too, was the proud tilt of her head, the confident stride of her walk, and something else less definite—something vibrant and volatile, some fiery spark that blazed with life.

Initially, she hadn’t struck him as the type who picked up men in bars; she didn’t look like the type
who needed to. Then she had come up to him, and that impression had undergone an instant revision.

Now, holding her while they swayed to the music, her head nestled against his shoulder, her face hidden from him, he found himself wondering about her again. Something didn’t ring true. Something more than just her name.

If he were smart, he’d leave after this dance, call it a night, go over the testimony he would need to give at tomorrow’s trial, and forget he had ever met Maggie the Cat. But he kept remembering that glimpse of pain, of utter vulnerability.