Going Cowboy Crazy (22 page)

“On it?” An image of her straddling the barrel with petticoats flapping in the breeze flashed through her mind.

“I meant beside it.” Shirlene patted her arm.

“Here, Hope.” Darla handed her a small paper bag, and when Faith looked confused, she added, “It’s candy to toss at the kids. Although you need to be careful how hard you throw it. Two years ago, Rachel Dean almost put Tommy Wilcox’s eye out with a watermelon-flavored
Jolly Rancher. Which was ironic since his father is a rancher and wasn’t at all jolly about it—him and Rachel Dean almost came to blows.”

“I did not almost put Tommy’s eye out,” Rachel Dean defended herself. “I hit his cheek, and the scar is barely noticeable now.”

“Okay, ladies,” Cindy Lynn directed, “let’s get this show on the road.”

To emphasize Cindy Lynn’s words, the new queen blasted the horn two more times. Then suddenly, Faith was being hoisted up on the float by some guy. And before she knew it, she was standing on the very top tier with a brown paper bag clutched in one hand and a barrel of a gun in the other.

“Just smile and wave,” Shirlene directed from her safe spot beneath the trees. “The stadium’s only a mile away.”

The words soothed Faith until the truck jumped the curb and the platform wobbled, along with her towering Joni Tail. She grabbed on to the gun with both hands as the truck bounced back down to the street accompanied by Lou Ann’s giggling apology. Then the speakers that were attached to the top of the cab clicked on, and the theme song blasted out.

“Welcome to the jungle, we’ve got fun ’n’ games
…
”

A mile was a lot longer than it sounded, especially when the truck barely hit ten miles per hour. A block from the town hall, Sheriff Winslow’s car pulled in front with lights flashing, and for a split second, Faith enjoyed closing one eye to take dead aim at the tail end of the squad car.

Within a few blocks, people appeared along the sides of the street, sitting on the tailgates of their pickups or
reclining in camping chairs with cans of beer in holders. When they saw the float, they hollered out, but it was hard to hear what they were saying over Axl’s screaming lyrics. She was surprised to see a lot of familiar faces, including Jenna’s and Burl’s. Jenna waved enthusiastically while Burl only lifted a hesitant hand.

Faith relinquished the death grip she had on the gun and waved back. When nothing bad happened, she plastered a smile on her face and continued to wave to the beaming crowd. But the thought of scarring a kid for life kept her from throwing the candy.

By the time they got to the stadium, she had listened to “Welcome to the Jungle” a few times, and still didn’t know the words. Thankfully, the song cut off mid-scream when the truck jumped the curb again and stopped in front.

It looked like the entire student body was standing in the parking lot, the band in their purple and gold uniforms with tubas gleaming and the football players suited up with helmets in hand. Unable to stop herself, she scanned the crowd looking for Slate. The other coaches were camped out by the entrance to the locker rooms, but Slate wasn’t with them.

“Look, the homecoming queen’s got a gun,” some smart-aleck teenage boy yelled.

Everyone laughed, and then the drum section tapped out the count as the band fired up the fight song. Faith released the barrel of the gun and would’ve attempted to climb down by herself if strong hands hadn’t reached up and encircled her waist. It wasn’t until her feet touched the rose-covered trailer that she realized that the hands didn’t belong to the same stranger who had hoisted her up there.

“Hello, Scarlett.”

The honey-drizzled voice sounded nothing like Rhett Butler.

It was sexier.

Faith tried to pull away, but her knees had been locked for so long, they finally gave out. She stumbled against Slate’s chest, and his arms came around her, his hands gliding over the tight satin at her back. For a moment, she indulged. Gazed into his eyes. Breathed in his scent. Absorbed his heat.

His fingers tightened, and his eyes glittered in the fiery rays of the setting sun. For a second, she thought he was going to kiss her. Not just a peck, but an honest-to-goodness “Gone with the Wind” kiss, the kind that swept a woman off her feet and took her breath away.

And the funny part about it was that she probably would’ve let him. Because no matter how much she tried to tell herself it was wrong to lust after your sister’s boyfriend, even if it was past history, she couldn’t stop wanting him. And what really scared her was that it felt like so much more than lust.

It felt like deep, soul-twisting longing.

“Let me go.” Faith released the stranglehold she had on his shirt.

He blinked; then his eyes darkened. “I’m trying,” he whispered right before his hands dropped away. A smile slipped over those perfect lips, a smile that didn’t resemble the charming grin she was used to. This smile looked forced and uncertain.

“Nice hair.”

“You like it? It’s a Joni Tail.” She tried to keep her voice steady.

“It looks more like a phony tail to me.” Slate jumped down from the float and then grabbed her waist to lift her down. But his hands didn’t remain there for long. “And no, I don’t like it—or the color.”

“That’s shocking. I thought you liked long dark hair.”

He crossed his arms and stared down at her. “Not on you.”

She didn’t know what that meant, and she didn’t care. She just wanted to get away from the man before she did something stupid—like dive on him and beg him to kiss her.

“Well, it’s growing on me.” She shrugged. “So who knows, maybe I’ll dye my hair dark brown and grow it out.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Well, I do. Are you going to the dance tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at six.” He turned and took a few steps before she found her voice.

“Excuse me?”

He turned back around. “You want me to pick you up earlier?”

“No. I don’t want you to pick me up at all.”

One golden brow arched. “Too bad.”

“For you.” She didn’t know what it was about the man that turned her from a passive woman into a belligerent liar. “I already have a date.”

The other eyebrow joined the first one. “A date? As in a male escort?”

“That would be the kind.”

His steely gaze wandered from the top of her head to the tip of her cowboy boots. “Have it your way, sweetheart.”

As she watched him walk away, Faith tried to remind herself that it was for the best. Even without his past relationship with her sister, she and Slate weren’t compatible. His life was here in Bramble, while hers was back in Chicago. But if that was true, then why did her heart feel like one of Darla’s ugly purple roses crushed beneath the tires of the semi?

“Good Lord.” Rachel Dean came up behind her. “What got into him? Slate don’t ever get mad.”

“I guess he didn’t like my hair,” Faith whispered, and was shocked when a tiny sob slipped through her lips.

“Awww, honey,” Rachel’s big hand came around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Don’t worry none about that. Take my word for it, when men get you in bed, they ain’t worried about your hair.”

Faith cried even harder.

T
HE HOMECOMING GAME WAS A NIGHT
from hell that began with Faith’s rejection and went downhill from there. Before the game even started, Slate’s best running back sprained his ankle when he broke through the “Beat the Cougars” paper banner and ran into Dawg, the mascot. The football player was taken off the field on a stretcher while Dawg only suffered a rip in one fuzzy gray knee of his costume.

The incident set the tone for the game, which was one freakish mistake after another. Their first punt was blocked and run in for a touchdown—the first of three touchdowns that would be scored in the first half. At halftime, Slate was so upset he yelled at his quarterback, who then went back out in the second half and threw three interceptions, which resulted in two more touchdowns.

Slate would’ve loved to blame the 35–17 loss on his team, but he hadn’t exactly been the most attentive coach. Numerous times during the game, he caught himself looking back at the stands for the spot of bright yellow satin in the first row. It was a sad state of affairs when a woman took precedence over football.

Although that was nothing compared to the way he felt when he arrived at the homecoming dance the following night and discovered Faith
had
brought a date. If that’s what you could call the gangly sixteen-year-old in the ill-fitting pants and dress shirt. He looked more like a slobbering puppy. And it didn’t help that he was slobbering all over Faith. Of course, if Slate had been dancing with her, he’d be slobbering, too. The ugly hairpiece and dress of the night before were gone, replaced by her short sexy hair and a little red number she wore that clung to every curve of her body. Paired with those red high heels, she looked like a shiny candy apple just waiting to be bitten into.

And if the kid tried it, he was dead. Sixteen or not.

“Hey, handsome.” Shirlene walked up and handed Slate a paper cup of punch. He started to refuse, but she flashed him a wink. “I added a little something.”

He took a sip, and the warmth of whiskey slid nice and smooth down his throat. “You added whiskey to the punch or punch to the whiskey?”

She laughed and leaned back against the wall. “For you, punch to the whiskey.” She shot him a glance from the corner of her eye. “You looked like you could use it.”

“You got that right.” He leaned a shoulder on the wall next to her and took another sip.

For a few minutes, they silently watched Austin and Faith gyrate in some weird rock dance to a country polka. Slate wasn’t complaining. At least the kid wasn’t touching her, although his eyes looked like they were about to bug out of his head.

“Tough game,” Shirlene finally said.

“Yeah.”

“Jared is a nice kid, but he stinks as a quarterback.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Austin plays quarterback.”

He glanced over at her. “I realize that. He was on the team the first week.”

“Bad attitude?”

“To say the least.” He watched as Austin took Faith’s hand and spun her under his arm.

“Attitude aside, is he any good?”

Pulling his gaze from the dance floor, he asked, “What’s your point?”

She pushed away from the wall. “My point is that if the kid is better than Jared, why isn’t he still on the team?”

“Because he’s a smart-ass who didn’t want to follow the rules. And because he would rather be anywhere but here. And I don’t need that kind of aggravation.”

Shirlene laughed. “Maybe that’s exactly what you need, Calhoun.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means your life has been too cushy. Maybe you need to have things shaken up a little.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or are you scared if things get shaken up, you might lose your cool? And if The Great Slate Calhoun loses his cool, maybe the town wouldn’t think so highly of him. Maybe they’d think he was just like everyone else.”

He downed the rest of his drink. “And I think you’re nuts.”

“So prove me wrong.” Shirlene nodded out toward the dance floor. “Give the kid a chance. If I remember correctly, when you first came here you weren’t exactly happy about it.”

She was right. The first few months he’d been one
angry kid. Of course, his aunt and uncle had gotten the brunt of it. Luckily, his uncle Clyde had had the exact opposite of his mother’s high-strung nature. He was calm and patient and rarely raised his voice. He allowed Slate to vent, and then he would take him outside and toss the football with him for hours. He wouldn’t say anything, just toss the ball back and forth, back and forth, until the chill of twilight settled in and the smell of cooling earth drifted on the air. Until all the anger and resentment Slate felt for his parents fizzled out. They had done that almost every night until Slate went off to college. It had been a kind of therapy for him.

One he sorely missed when his uncle died.

“I’m not telling you how to coach your team,” Shirlene said.

Slate snorted. “I don’t know what else you’d call it.”

She flashed a sly grin. “Okay, maybe I am.”

“Well, join the club. Everyone in town thinks they know what will fix the team. Why should you be any different?”

“All right, I’ll shut up. But if I can get the kid to apologize, will you at least listen to him?”

Slate looked at the dance floor where Austin and Faith were attempting a country swing. “He’s not exactly doing things to get on my good side.” He crumpled the paper cup and shot it at the tall trash can a few feet away. It ricocheted and landed on the floor, followed by Shirlene’s bright laughter.

“So are you telling me you’ve got designs on Hope’s sister?” she asked.

“Had, maybe.” He walked over to dispose of the cup in the trash. “I don’t have them anymore.”

“You are such a bad liar, Slate Calhoun.”