How to Handle a Cowboy (19 page)

Sierra looked down and realized with a start that Ridge had reached out with his damaged hand. The fingers wouldn't curl around hers, but she did that for him, lacing her fingers through his.

She'd seen shame in his eyes when he'd first shown her his injury, and since then, he'd kept his bad hand under the table where she couldn't see it. But now he'd handed it to her, quite literally put himself in her hands. She felt like Androcles in the old fable, holding the lion's injured paw.

The last time she'd visited the ranch—now there was a euphemism for you,
visited
—she'd been drawn by Ridge physically, and her libido had crashed through all her boundaries like a rodeo bull breaking down a chicken-wire fence. But now, she felt like she'd peeled away the secrets of his past, layer by layer, and uncovered a man who'd been shaped by a fractured childhood, just like the kids she cared for.

She could only pray they'd do as well as Ridge had. He represented everything she hoped her boys could achieve—success, fulfillment, a place in the community. But with his injury, that success had been stripped away.

Men tended to define themselves through their work—construction foreman, stockbroker, teacher, rodeo cowboy. Ridge had lost that identity, and he needed to find a new place and purpose for himself in the world. And need was the one thing Sierra could never resist.

A ribbon of desire spun through her veins, spiraling into a tangle of feelings that was so dense and confusing she didn't want to even start to unravel it.

She was going to go home with Ridge. She'd slide into those cool sheets again, watch the lace curtains billow in the breeze from the open window. She'd feel his hands on her again, and she'd ease his pain. She'd kiss him and touch him and take him inside her, giving him and herself the simple gift of losing themselves in the rapture of making love.

She had the whole night off from Phoenix House—a treat she got twice a week, when Gil and his wife stayed over. So she had no excuse.

Or did she? Riley had the car, and she didn't feel right about going in the truck with Ridge. She had to get back to Phoenix House tonight, and she didn't dare leave that detail to anyone but herself. So she didn't just have an excuse; she had a roadblock.

She felt the dull thud of disappointment low in her stomach. There had to be some solution.

The van. She'd take the Phoenix House van. She had permission to use it as a personal vehicle when necessary, so driving it to the ranch wouldn't be a problem. She'd just have to park at the bottom of the dirt road and let Ridge drive her up to the house, but she had a feeling he wouldn't mind.

She could hardly claim momentary madness this time, though. She'd have to go back to the house, get the van, and drive all that way. She couldn't pretend she was going to all that trouble for Riley.

No, she was making this trip for herself. She'd have plenty of chances to stop, but she knew she'd keep right on going, straight to the heart of the Wyoming night.

***

Sierra followed Ridge's truck through town. Ahead of her was the ranch; behind her were Wynott and Phoenix House and the careful, rational life she'd planned to lead here.

She'd given up on love on her very first day. Sure, it had just been a computer dating profile, but the act had been symbolic, and she'd meant to stick by her resolution. So why had she gone to dinner with Ridge Cooper? And why had she followed him home?

On the surface, she and Ridge had nothing in common. They'd both had difficult childhoods, but his was much, much worse. And they'd overcome them in different ways. Ridge had gone country—or, more accurately, gone cowboy. He'd found a simple way of life that worked for him, one that fit his strengths and made him happy. Sierra, on the other hand, had escaped the poverty of her childhood by excelling in school, earning scholarships and using good grades and intelligence to fulfill the purpose she felt she'd been born to.

At some point in their lives—maybe about the time that picture had been taken of a sulky Ridge on the doorstep of the homestead with his new adoptive family—they could have been soul mates. They were two kids who'd been born into difficult situations, kids whose anger and resentment was about to propel them toward a solution, but they'd chosen different paths. Could those roads come together again?

She was starting to hope so.

Ridge pulled over in front of the old homestead, truck tires crunching on rocks and dirt. She pulled in beside him, and when she got out of the van, she took one look at him and found the answer to her question.

She was here because never ever in her whole life had she had the chance to make love to a man like this. And she'd probably never have that chance again.

In the fading light of evening, Ridge wasn't just handsome, like some of the men she'd met in the city. Sure, he looked good—but his appeal ran far deeper than that. He was masculine from the calloused palms of his hands to the righteous core of his heart, which was appropriately hidden in a hard, nearly impenetrable shell. Dogs and kids and horses got a free pass; he loved them without reservation. But people? Not so much.

And yet he saw something in her that he wanted.

He held open the door to the truck and waved her inside with a courtly gesture. Oh, yeah, the truck. She remembered how embarrassed she'd been as she'd scrambled over the shift lever, but now she just zipped right into her place.

“You ever think about getting the other door fixed?”

He rested his arm on the seat behind her while he turned to back up for a straight shot at the rough road.

“Don't need it most days.”

She didn't point out that most days he worked alone. If he wanted to start a foster family, he might want two doors on his vehicle. Heck, he might want a minivan, but she wasn't about to mention that idea. The very thought of a minivan sent most men screaming into the wilderness.

When they reached the ranch house, Sierra looked at the place with new eyes, imagining she was some strict state inspector looking for trouble. And she realized Ridge was right: the house needed a lot of work. It was amazing what a mess a bunch of men could make in ten years.

Women made a nest of a house, arranging everything to create a sense of comfort. Men, on the other hand, made their homes into offices, or workshops, or whatever else seemed useful at the time. In this case, the house had been made into a barn.

That was the only possible explanation for the fact that a hoof-pick was in the dishwasher or that the center of the kitchen table held a napkin holder, salt and pepper shakers shaped like cowboy boots, and a pair of pliers.

“Maybe we'll start with laundry hampers in the bedrooms,” she said, surveying the pile of laundry beside the front door.

“No way.” Ridge looked at her like she was crazy. “You want us tracking all our dirt into the house? We're not heathens. We always take off our clothes as soon as we walk in.”

Sierra choked back a laugh. There were women, lots of women, who would pay to help the men of Decker Ranch shed their Carhartts after a long day's work.

He showed her the family room next. Sierra opted not to comment on the well-worn saddle that sat in front of the fireplace, stirrups splayed toward the hearth. The two old rocking recliners that bracketed the hearth were more traditional furnishings, along with an old sofa along the wall behind them. It was draped with blankets and looked like it probably belonged to Dum and Dee.

“The state won't make us replace these chairs, will they?” There was a note of panic in Ridge's voice.

“I don't think so.” The furniture was worn and well-loved, but not dirty enough to condemn.

“Bill sat there.” He pointed to the one on the right. “That was Irene's. Now Shane uses Bill's, and I sit in the other one.”

“So Brady sits on the sofa?”

“Kid doesn't sit still long enough to need a chair,” Ridge said. “Most of the time, he's in that saddle, stretching.”

“How old is Brady?” Ridge always referred to him as a kid, so maybe he and Shane were raising a teenaged brother. That would make it a lot easier to argue that they were capable of caring for other kids.

“Twenty-two,” he said.

She laughed. “The way you talk about him, I thought he was fifteen.”

“The way he acts, you'd think he was ten.”

Sierra laughed. “I think I'm going to like Brady.”

“Everybody does—everybody female, anyways. You might as well join the herd.” Ridge rolled his eyes as he spoke, but there was a note of pride in his tone that almost overwhelmed the annoyance.

He showed her the pantry lined with canned goods and cereal boxes, and a quaint powder room off the kitchen. Then they climbed the stairs, and she felt her heart skip up to a happy, anticipatory beat.

Halfway up the stairs, he took her hand. Just putting her small hand in his big, rough one had made her feel warm and ready for anything, so she was almost disappointed when he kept up the pretense of showing her around the house. She barely looked at the upstairs bath, which was clean enough considering three men lived here on and off.

“This is Brady's room.” He opened the first door on the right. Sierra jumped backward and let out a little scream.

It wasn't a room; it was a cave. Jeans, boots, and tattered rodeo magazines paved the floor from wall to wall. The furniture was festooned with dirty laundry, and various discarded items, from gum wrappers to aftershave bottles, littered the floor. The bed was unmade and probably had been for some time. It looked more like the cave of some beast than a man's bedroom. Sierra wouldn't have been surprised to see the bones of deer and other prey tossed in a random corner.

Ridge shut the door quickly. “Sorry. Kid's a slob. One of the best bronc riders in the PRCA, though.”

“So you call him a kid because he's the baby of the family.”

Ridge laughed. “Don't let him hear you say that.”

She smiled. “Looks like he's used to having his big brothers pick up after him.”

“Don't remind Shane of that fact. He's a neat freak, and that's exactly what ends up happening.”

He opened the next room down the hall.

“I guess this one belongs to the neat freak,” Sierra said. The room was so clean and well organized it was almost stark. The bed was made with military precision, and every surface, from the old oak desk to the wide windowsill, gleamed.

“Yup. Shane's room,” Ridge said. “I was thinking this might work for Riley.”

“Well, duh.”

She'd been pretty sure the whole “I don't know where Riley should sleep” thing was a ruse to get her to the ranch. Now she was positive, and she couldn't help laughing.

He shrugged. “I just wasn't sure.”

“What about your room?”

Now it was his turn to smile. “I thought maybe you could sleep there. Tonight, anyway.”

She ducked her head to hide a smile and followed him down the hall.

Ridge's room faced west, so its rough plaster walls were blessed by the first hint of sunset. Sierra swept the curtain from the window to reveal a sky streaked with the colors of Black Hills gold, a shimmering pink with coppery highlights. The sun blessed the day as it died, bestowing a richer shade of green on the pine trees and a brighter glow on the aspens' bright gold leaves.

Ridge came up behind her and set his hands on her shoulders. The beauty of the scene seeped into her senses, along with the warmth of his chest against her back and the whisper of his breath on her neck. Somehow, his hands wound up clasped around her waist, but she couldn't have said when or how.

This place was magic. She didn't know what it was that made her feel so safe here—the peace of the prairie or the warmth of the evening sky. Maybe it was the ageless plains or the trees standing sentinel like soldiers at attention. Maybe it was the house: the well-worn floors, the old-fashioned furniture, and the faded linens, or just the feeling that generations of men and women had made this their home.

Maybe it was Ridge, but she didn't want to think about that. If she let herself believe for an instant she might be falling in love with him, she'd have to protect herself from the magic of this moment, and she didn't want to guard her heart tonight.

When she'd followed him home, she'd made up her mind to break through all her carefully constructed fences and promised herself she'd mend them tomorrow. Tonight, she was like a racehorse running wild, pounding past the finish line without slowing down, racing into the distance toward a future where she didn't belong. Her heart beat like hooves pounding on hard earth, pumping energy through her whole body.

She didn't know when she turned around or when Ridge's hands slipped beneath the gauzy shirt she wore. Come to think of it, she didn't know what had happened to her leather jacket. She must have shed it when they stepped inside. Maybe that's what had made her so vulnerable; maybe the jacket was her armor. She'd have to remember to put it back on when she left. Put it on and keep it on.

Right now, she wanted to take things
off.
Resting her wrists on Ridge's shoulders, she let him tug the shirt up over her breasts. She loved the way her skin glowed in the fading light, all gold and mellow peach. She heard his breath quicken when she lifted her arms over her head and tossed her hair back, giving herself to him without reservation.

As he slid the thin fabric up, up, and away, the slip of cotton and lace seemed to float in the air a beat longer than was possible, lofted by the breeze that billowed the curtains. It twisted and danced in a ray of the dying sun as it fell, and she swore she heard a sigh as it settled to the floor.

She sighed too, dropping her arms, draping them around Ridge's neck as he eased her gently onto the bed. With that long, slow sigh she released what little was left of the old, cautious Sierra. The new Sierra reached up and grasped the vertical posts of the big wooden headboard as he pulled off her boots then watched as he worked her belt loose and slipped off her jeans. The denim hung forgotten from his fingers as he stared down at her, his hot gaze licking up her body like flames, setting every nerve alight.

Just when she'd started to feel self-conscious, he sat down on the side of the bed and ran a cautious finger down the strap of her lacy bra with a touch so tender it soothed her fears.

“I had a Victoria's Secret catalog under my mattress when I was a kid,” he said in his low, gravelly voice. “Maybe that's why I like a pretty woman in pretty lingerie so much.” His voice dropped to a low murmur as he traced the edge of the fabric that cupped her breasts. “Pretty woman… in pretty… clothes…” He ran his fingertips down into the V of her cleavage then up the other side. “You're a fantasy come true.”

She didn't have the heart to tell him it was hardly lingerie, just underwear, bought from some regular place like Target or maybe Walmart. It matched, of course, but it wasn't up to her usual standards. She'd worn Hanes Her Way on purpose, thinking it might keep her out of his bed if she were to lose her mind and end up at the ranch tonight.

She said a silent farewell to her mind and let go of the headboard to reach for him, but he caught her hands in his and brought them back to the headboard.

“I like you this way.” He smiled a slow smile, and she felt pinned there, bound by his gaze as if soft rawhide tied her to the bed. Twining her fingers around the posts, she felt like a sacrificial virgin. She wasn't sure what it meant that he liked that, but she liked it too. As long as she kept her hands tight around those turned oak posts, she was at his mercy. None of this was her fault. It was him—either him or the devil—that made her do it.

Ridge was evidently dead set on becoming an expert on lingerie in one easy lesson. He took his time appreciating every seam and slip of lace. He traced the elastic of her low-cut bikini and her skin shivered as he swept over the soft dips by her hip bone.

She wanted him to take them off.

She wanted that even more as he traced the high line of her sternum and stroked the arch of each rib. Why did she have so many ribs, anyway? She made a mew of impatience but he kept moving slowly, journeying up over her breasts again and taking a slow dip into her cleavage. She shivered and twisted, still gripping the headboard.

Then he threw a leg over her and pinned her to the bed. Bending down, he kissed her, deep and wild, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, cupping her breasts, squeezing and teasing and moving, always moving, to her hips, to her thighs, to the V between her legs. He caressed her through the fabric until the panties he'd so admired were damp and she wished they would burn right off her body. She was smoldering inside, the heat of her body warming the room as she simmered with a desperate desire to give him everything—her body, her breasts, her bones, her lips, her heart.

No, wait. Not her heart. No.

The heat rushed out and panic coursed in to replace it, panic that left her fluttering and breathless. She let go of the headboard, pulling her legs up under her so she could kneel and put a hand to her heaving chest while she struggled to catch her breath.

“Sorry,” she said. “Wait—just—I don't know… Wait.”

Ridge sat up too, the heavy heat of his gaze telling her she'd caught him just in time. Another second and he couldn't have stopped. As it was, his eyes were wary, and he wasn't smiling. Not even close.

“What happened?” His hot gaze cooled to warm as he took in her panic—a warmth she remembered, the warmth of the man she knew. For a moment, their need had been so strong it was like they'd been two strangers.

He skimmed his hand down her shoulder. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I—I just need a break.” She was breathing like she'd just run a marathon. What the hell was wrong with her?

“What kind of break? You hungry? Tired?”

“Just—just a break.” What could she tell him? That she was overwhelmed? That he made her feel too much, too fast?

This was supposed to be a fling. They weren't supposed to
mean
anything to each other. But one minute she'd been herself, savoring the pleasure of his touch, and the next she'd melted, and they'd blended together into one, like honey stirred into ginger tea or cream billowing into coffee and blending, inseparable.

If she let that happen, she'd be part of him, and she'd be something less than whole when she left. Jumping fences was fine as long as the racehorse remembered where she belonged when the wild run was over.

And Sierra didn't belong with this cowboy who sat patiently beside her, watching her for signs of skittishness, wondering if she'd try to bolt. She didn't belong in this room, spare and masculine, infused with the scent of cedar and leather and that indescribable blend of clean linen, candle wax, and dust that defined old houses.

She belonged—she belonged…

Had she ever belonged anywhere?

She hadn't. Not really. She'd always been so set on creating her future, she'd never paid attention to the present. She'd never made herself the kind of home she was so set on creating for the boys. Maybe she needed a hometown too.

Funny, she'd never thought of that. But it would have to wait, because tonight she couldn't think.

She'd lost her mind, after all.

Ridge lifted one hand slowly to her face, as if he was afraid she'd shy and run, and gently traced her hairline. That forced her to look at him, and looking at him—well, looking at him forced her to kiss him.

He kissed her tenderly, coaxing her out of her panic. His tongue tangled with hers and they sparred; sometimes he was winning, sometimes it was her, but there was a sweet humor to it that made her rise on her knees and kiss him harder, deeper, and he answered with a kiss that rocked her right out of all that foolishness about running and belonging and what she should and shouldn't do.

***

Ridge didn't know why Sierra had needed a break, but she'd evidently gotten the rest she needed to think things through because she went from willing to wanton in 3.5 seconds. A moment ago she'd been lying there, letting him touch her, responding and reacting. Now she was taking things into her own hands, literally tearing at his shirt and laughing when a button flew off and pinged against the wall. She was throwing off sparks like tinder struck by lightning, and he stood and shed his clothes quickly, before she burned them off.

Then it was his turn. Victoria's Secret be damned; the lacy bra was off in seconds, the panties even faster, and then she was naked, rolling beneath him, twisting against him like she was a cat and he was catnip. The first time they'd made love they'd barely known each other, but now he knew what she liked and he put every bit of that knowledge to use, stroking the secret spots that made her moan and kissing her full on the way she liked it, giving and taking, tangling tongues with no reservations.

But he wasn't fully in charge.

She'd learned a few things herself, and when she reached between his legs and stroked him there, right
there
, he thought he'd die if he didn't take her right that moment. But he closed his eyes. He held back.

The words he planned to write formed in his head:
Find
partner.
He was surprised he was capable of conscious thought, but the words were as clear as if plan B were pasted to the headboard of his bed.

Equally clear was the knowledge that he could cross the words off his list because he'd found her. Now he had to win her.

He was winning her body, but he wasn't sure that was supposed to be the first step. He was supposed to win her heart first, but he didn't know a darned thing about women's hearts.

Hell, he wasn't even sure he had one of his own.