Going Cowboy Crazy (10 page)

Faith opened her mouth, then closed it. She sat there digesting the information as one upbeat song ended and another began. It was strange how determined the town was to hang on to the belief that she was Hope. Strange and kind of sweet. It must be nice to be loved by an entire town so much.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.” She glanced over at him, relieved that his shoulders were no longer so tense. “Since I’m leaving today anyway.”

He released a long breath. “About that…”

Her eyes widened. “Don’t tell me the sheriff still can’t remember where my car is!”

“I’m afraid so. Although he did say the town will reimburse you if you want to buy some clothes and personal items.”

“I want my car back!” She flopped against the seat and crossed her arms.

A grin split his face. “You in that big a hurry to get rid of me, darlin’?” Faith sent him an annoyed look, but it only made the grin bigger. “All right, we’ll find your car. It shouldn’t be that hard since in Bramble a foreign-made car sticks out like a hooker in church.” Slate stretched his arm along the seat and his fingers brushed her shoulder. “But first let’s go on down to the truck stop and have some breakfast. I can’t think real well with a hollow stomach.”

Since her own stomach growled, she agreed. “Fine. But no coffee or runny eggs or really hot red stuff.”

“Why, Hope,” he teased. “You used to love Texas chili.”

She smiled and relaxed back against the seat.

Faith might not love Texas chili, but she sure loved being with a certain redneck.

T
HE FRUSTRATION
S
LATE FELT AFTER TRYING TO
convince Sheriff Winslow that Hope wasn’t Hope—and that even if she was Hope he didn’t want to marry her—didn’t last long. It was hard to be upset when Kenny Chesney was singing about loose señoritas and stiff margaritas. And when it was a beautiful Sunday with only mild West Texas winds and enough sunshine to make up for what wind there was. And when a pretty woman spent the day with him. A woman with eyes that matched the very peak of the September sky and skin that smelled like the ripened peaches they sold just south of Austin.

Even a stubborn sheriff and loony townsfolk couldn’t ruin a day like that.

His enjoyment of the day was probably why Slate didn’t put too much effort into finding her car. He checked out a few vacant barns on the way back from breakfast—where he’d learned she liked veggie omelets and orange juice—then when the barns didn’t turn up anything, he made a few calls. It came as no surprise that not one person was willing to offer up any information about Faith’s car.

Satisfied he’d given it his best shot, or at least a mediocre one, he decided to give up the search for the rest of the day and work on getting Faith in bed. Which was almost as difficult as finding her Volvo. For some reason—probably lack of tequila—she wasn’t as accommodating as she’d been at Sutter Springs. In fact, instead of melting every time he touched her, she stiffened up like a pool cue. And it was starting to worry him. Especially since he’d spent his life surrounded by women who seemed to like his touch, if not downright loved it. Not that he’d touched a whole lot of them, but the ones he had touched always came back for more.

He figured Faith’s reaction had to do with the short time they’d known one another, which meant his best chance of getting those sexy-as-hell high heels wrapped around him was to spend the day becoming her friend. So he did his utmost to charm the hell out of her as he escorted her around town, buying toiletries, new sheets for Bubba’s bed, and clothing. He had never been much on shopping, especially with an indecisive female, but it turned out to be fun sitting in a chair in Duds ’N’ Such, waiting for Faith to parade out in her new clothes.

She listened intently as Justin Jr. filled her in on western wear—from pearl-snap shirts to button-down, Rockies jeans to Cruel Girl, western-style boots to square toe—before deciding on a couple of pearl-snap shirts, Wrangler jeans, and a flamboyant pair of red leather boots with chocolate stitching. The fetish she had for red footwear intrigued him. Especially when coupled with those baby blues that looked at everything in wide-eyed wonder as if it was the first time she’d ever seen it. It probably was. Few people got to witness a sideshow as freaky as Bramble.

The freakiness got even worse as the day progressed. Even though they referred to her as Faith, the insane townsfolk continued to believe she was Hope. The sly winks and mile-long smirks gave them away. Slate sat back and let them do their thing until they started in on stories about him and Hope; then he stepped in and steered them to another topic. Faith didn’t need to hear about his relationship with Hope. Even if it was mostly in their deluded minds.

After they shopped, he took her back to the trailer where he washed her clothes and the new sheets while she called her aunt and fussed over Buster until the dog hid under the trailer. He thought about taking her into town for dinner, but he’d had enough of the sideshow. So instead, he picked up BBQ and took her out to Sutter Springs, where they ate on an old Indian blanket beneath the cottonwood while Buster raced around chasing anything that moved.

Slate enjoyed talking with Faith. She was intelligent, interesting, and knew exactly when to laugh. Although it was hard to keep up a conversation when that sweet mouth turned a dinner of barbecue chicken and ribs into a hot sexual fantasy—every time she slipped those lips around a saucy piece of meat his body grew tighter and tighter. And by the time they were on their way back to the trailer, Slate felt as if he’d been ridden hard and put away wet. He couldn’t think of one more Hope story or any more clever quips. All he could think about was getting Faith beneath those nice crisp sheets.

Unfortunately, her mind was not on the same track as his.

“I think I should get a hotel room.”

The words brought his gaze up from the soft swells of her breasts.

“A hotel room? Now why would you want to do a thing like that when there’s a perfectly good bed back at the trailer?”

“I couldn’t impose again.”

“Impose? Why, it’s no imposition to give a bed to a friend.” He sent her the most whupped-puppy look he could muster. “Unless you don’t see me as a friend.”

“Of course, I do. I mean…” She waved her hand around in that cute flustered way of hers. “I just thought it would be better if I stayed somewhere else.”

“Well, darlin’, you thought wrong. My aunt would skin me alive if she thought I wasn’t hospitable to a friend in need.”

“Oh, well, in that case…”

Slate smiled and leaned back in the seat. He didn’t try to pull her back into a conversation. After talking all day, he was pretty talked out. So he popped in an Alan Jackson CD—because there wasn’t a woman alive who Alan couldn’t get in the mood—while his mind feverishly worked on his strategy. Unfortunately, by the time they got to the trailer, he had worked himself up into quite a lather.

“Here, darlin’, let me get that for you.” He reached over her shoulder to pull open the screen door, but instead tripped on the metal step and ran into her from behind, planting her face into the screen. His knee struck the sharp corner of the step, and it took a second before he could talk around the pain. “Y-you okay?”

“I think so.” Faith stood on the top step with a hand over one cheek.

“Here, let me take a look.” But just as he pulled her hand away, Buster nudged him in the back of the legs, causing him to poke Faith in the eye with her own finger.

“Dang it, Buster!” Slate pushed the dog away with his knee before he turned back to Faith. “I’m sorry, honey. Let’s go inside, and I’ll get you something to put on it.”

“I’m okay,” she said.

He shook his head to try and clear it. She might be okay, but he wasn’t. After twenty-four hours of suppressing his sexual urges, he felt like a Brahman bull penned in a chute with his flank strap cinched too tight—his entire body tensed in anticipation of the chute opening so he could release all his pent-up energy with some good, old-fashioned bucking.

Now all he needed was a rider.

Not just any rider, but the petite, stubborn woman who didn’t seem in any hurry to saddle up.

“Here.” He switched on the light and limped over to the kitchenette. Opening up the small refrigerator beneath the counter, he pulled out a can of Budweiser. He walked over to her and tipped up her chin. Her injury wasn’t as bad as it had sounded. The screen pattern embossed on her cheek would fade, and her eye didn’t look all that red.

As he held the can to her cheek, Faith stared up at him. Looking into her eyes was like fishing on a deep mountain lake. The view was just as nice as the catch. Although he was looking pretty forward to the catch. He ran his thumb over the smooth skin just below her bottom lip.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

She nodded, and he slid his thumb a little higher. There was no glitter pink on her lips, just a natural rose that made his heart beat faster. He stroked her lip, pressing the
supple plumpness first one way and then the other. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he lowered the cold can and bent his head.

The plan was to hook her with a few simple kisses, then slowly reel her in with deep, wet ones. Except the plan went to hell in a handcart when he touched those sweet soft lips, and there was nothing simple about the kiss he gave her. The can of beer fell from his fingers and rolled away as he jerked her up to her toes so his mouth could better devour her. For a few seconds, she answered him back, her mouth welcoming, her tongue hot and friendly. Then suddenly she slipped off the line and got away.

Faith pulled from his hands and stepped back, her breathing rushed, her eyes confused. “I-I really need to take a shower.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“I thought I’d take a shower.”

The image of her all naked and soapy almost brought him to his knees, but she didn’t seem to notice his drunken sway.

“I-I thought it would be a good idea if I took one tonight so there would be plenty of water for you in the morning.” Her eyes skittered down to the toes of her red high heels.

A better idea would be if they shared a shower in the morning after a long night of sweaty sex. Still, if she took a shower now, she’d be a lot closer to naked.

“You go right ahead, darlin’.” Slate made an attempt to even out his breathing. “I’ll be right here waiting when you get out.”

She looked kind of distressed by the notion, before she hurried off to the bathroom. If he didn’t know better,
he would think she was trying to give him the brush-off. But that didn’t make any sense. Not after the way she’d melted into his kisses the night before. Of course, she’d been pumped full of tequila the night before.

He hurried over to the cupboard to check his supply.

Thank God, he had a good half bottle. Of course, there was not a lime in sight and only one little packet of salt that he’d brought home from a fast-food restaurant. But he wouldn’t need all the frills when a couple of straight shots should do the trick.

After he arranged the bottle of tequila and two mismatched glasses on the bar, he turned on the clock radio on the windowsill and scrolled through the stations until he found one he liked. Since Alan hadn’t worked so well, he stayed away from country and chose the only classical station he could find. With Buster bouncing at his heels, he rushed around the room, trying out different lighting. He settled on the small light over the range. It was easier to get a woman’s clothes off in less light than more. And since she hadn’t bought any pajamas at Duds ’N’ Such, there would only be one thin T-shirt and a pair of panties between him and nirvana.

Slate glanced down at his jeans and boots. It would be a shame to slow things down. Hearing the water shut off, he bolted toward the bedroom. He toed off his boots and flipped them in a corner, then struggled out of his jeans. He didn’t wear undershorts—a habit he’d gotten into when he kept running out of clean pairs—so he grabbed some gym shorts out of the chest of drawers and slipped them on. He thought about removing his shirt, but he liked the way she’d ripped the snaps apart the night before so he left it on—although he unsnapped a few snaps, then,
not wanting to look overzealous, snapped them back up. Remembering the condom in his wallet, he retrieved the leather trifold out of the back pocket of his jeans and stuffed the little square package in the side pocket of his shorts.

By the time he got back to the kitchen, he’d worked up a sweat. Buster danced around his sock-covered feet, confused by his master’s behavior. Slate felt pretty confused himself. In all his born days, he’d never gotten this worked up over a female. It was pretty pathetic. Jerking up a dish towel, he mopped the sweat off his forehead as he moved to the door to let Buster out.

By the time the bathroom door creaked open, he was back at the bar, trying to look as nonchalant as a sweaty heavy-breather could. Faith’s head peeked out, her hair all towel-dried and spiky. When she saw him, her eyes widened.

“All squeaky clean?” He tried to act casual, but it was difficult when his nerves were nothing but a jangled mess.

Her eyes darted to the bottle of tequila and glasses, then back to him, then back to the tequila. He started to offer her some, but before he could, she darted across the hallway like a barn mouse to a pile of hay and slipped inside the bedroom.