How to Kiss a Cowboy (15 page)

Brady got back to the Carlyle ranch well after lunchtime, but nothing had changed. Earl's truck still sat in the driveway. Standing at the front door, Brady could hear the television running.

He didn't bother to knock this time, just walked in, passing through the cluttered sun porch and into the front hall. Earl, alarmed, almost got out of his chair when Brady walked into the living room.

Almost.

“Suze needs some clothes and things packed up,” Brady said. “She needs you to bring 'em to her soon as you can.”

He needed to get Earl moving. Once he knew someone was taking care of Suze, he could start the search for Speedo in earnest. Anybody who owned a horse trailer and knew the way to the rodeo grounds knew how famous Speedo was, so they probably had the horse hidden somewhere. He planned to check a few abandoned barns in the area.

If that didn't work, he'd do some networking in the cowboy bars and tack shops. That would get the word out. Sooner or later, Suze would find out he'd been lying to her, and that Speedo was gone, maybe for good.

He didn't even want to think about how much that would hurt her.

Earl still had his eyes glued to the television. He seemed determined to ignore Brady, who sighed and headed for the kitchen. Lifting the dirty dishes out of the sink, he squirted in some dishwashing soap and started the hot water.

“She's there in the hospital with nothing but one of those cotton gowns they give you,” he called to Earl. “You know, the ones that open in the back.”

Earl didn't respond. Brady shut off the tap and tossed an assortment of glasses into the water. Glasses, then silverware, then plates, then cookware. That's what Irene Decker had taught him.

“Do you want to know how she's doing?” he asked Earl.

“I know how she's doing.” Brady could barely hear the old man's mumble.

“How?” Brady scrubbed at a glass with a sponge. “Did you call?”

“Didn't have to,” Earl said. “You just told me she asked for her clothes. Guess it can't be too bad.”

Brady set the glass down and rested his hands on the counter, breathing hard and deep. He'd had bronc rides that were a Sunday drive compared to a conversation with Earl Carlyle.

Rinsing the glass and placing it in the dish drainer, he headed back to the living room. “You want me to go up and pack your daughter's skivvies for her?” He took another step into the room. “You want me going through her things? Because I can tell you one thing: she doesn't want me doing it.”

Earl just waved him away.

Brady couldn't help himself. He strode in and flicked off the TV. Standing in front of it with his arms crossed, he tried again.

“I'm going to be going through her underwear, Earl. Her bras and panties. Private stuff.”

“I don't want to go through them any more than you do.” Earl picked up the remote and turned the television back on as if the matter was settled. Brady wanted to rip the remote out of Earl's hand and smash it on his hard old head, but instead he leaned over and unplugged the set.

“What the hell's the matter with you? How can you sit there in your damn chair and sulk while your daughter suffers? Your wife's gone. I'm sorry. I'm sure it was a terrible loss. But she left you a beautiful daughter who needs you.”

“I've done enough for that girl. I've given her a good home.”

Brady spun toward the stairs so fast he never knew for sure if he kicked out on purpose, but his boot hit the wall hard enough to hurt. He hauled himself halfway up the stairs before he turned to see if his words had had any effect.

Earl had apparently plugged in the TV, because he was sitting placidly in his chair, engrossed in some old Western as if nothing had happened.

Sighing, Brady started up the rest of the stairs. He knew Earl wasn't entirely to blame for his attitude. Folks said Ellen's death hadn't just broken his heart; it had caused it to wither up and die. Some people grieve a long time, but Earl wasn't really grieving anymore. It was more like he'd died when his wife did and was just waiting for somebody to haul him off and bury him beside her.

The stairway wall was lined with pictures of Ellen, arranged so that climbing the steps was like watching her life run backward. At the bottom were pictures from just before she died. There were photos of her rounding the barrels on her famous horse, Tango, and photos of her in full parade dress. There was even a picture of her riding side by side with six-year-old Suze.

As Brady climbed, Ellen got younger. Suze appeared in one picture as a toddler, but then she disappeared and it was all about Ellen. Ellen and Tango, running the barrels at dozens of rodeos, in dozens of towns all over the West.

When he got to the top, it was like going full circle. There was Ellen as a six-year-old, already running barrels; Ellen as a toddler on the saddle of a handsome quarter horse; and Ellen as a baby in her own mother's loving arms.

He couldn't help thinking those pictures should have been of Suze. She was every bit as accomplished as her mother, yet the only picture of her was one where her mom was also present. It seemed backward for a parent to be immortalized there, instead of a child.

Brady had never known what happened to his own mother. For all he knew she was still out there somewhere, but he'd entered the foster system at age five and barely remembered her face.

But he thought of Irene Decker every day. She'd passed away just two short years after she'd adopted him and his brothers, but they'd all loved Irene with the deep, desperate love of boys who'd been motherless too long. Bill, of course, had loved her most of all. He'd memorialized her in an aspen grove on the ranch, decorating it with the tiny wind chimes Irene had loved. Brady still bought trinkets for the Chime Grove on occasion. So did his brothers.

There were only a few photos of Irene around the ranch house, and almost all of them were from the two years she'd had the boys to love. They'd always felt they were the heart of the household. Wherever they'd come from, they were now the next generation of Decker Ranch cowboys, and that made them matter.

Brady snapped out of his reverie and stared at the door to Suze's room. It was a plain white door, the same as all the others that lined the hallway. But by opening it and entering, Brady felt like he'd stepped over a line—a line Suze wouldn't have wanted him to cross.

* * *

Although Suze had lived in the same house all her life, her bedroom was sparse and impersonal, as if she were only a temporary resident. There were hardly any pictures on the walls, and plain, sheer curtains hung limp at the window. The bed was neatly made, covered by a quilt that appeared to be the most personal thing in the room. It was made from squares of denim, probably taken from old blue jeans. Some squares were dark blue, some worn almost to white. Brady was glad it was there, figuring it probably warmed Suze's heart as well as her body as she slept.

The closet, which was standing open, contained a few clothes, neatly hung. In Brady's experience, women's rooms usually looked like war zones where a bomb had exploded, spraying shoes and scarves instead of shrapnel. But in Suze's room, everything was neat, everything was clean, and hardly anything was personal.

Well, that just made his job easier. The fact that the room had no more personal touches than the average hotel room made him feel less like an invader.

He didn't see anything like a suitcase, but there was a gear bag on the floor—the same kind he used for his own rodeo equipment. He removed a few horsey items—some brushes, a hoof pick—and then stared down at some knitting needles that trailed a length of neatly woven yarn. Somebody was obviously in the middle of a craft project. Suze?

She was hardly the knitting type, but who else could it belong to? If it was hers, it would give her something to do. He left it in the bag and opened a bottom drawer on her dresser.

Inside, he found a neat stack of nearly identical Wranglers. He grabbed two pairs, and added a couple of T-shirts from another drawer. The next drawer contained socks. He knew he was getting closer and closer to the skivvies. He threw a few pairs of white athletic socks into the zippered maw of the gear bag, then noticed a pair of fuzzy white socks with kitten faces at the back of the drawer. They must have been a gift from somebody, because he sure couldn't see Suze buying them. Grinning, he put them in the bag. They'd either make her laugh or make her mad. Either one would give her system a jolt, and that was probably a good thing.

The middle drawer held a neat stack of pajama pants and some cotton tank tops. That was what she'd need most in the hospital, so he chose one pair of pants with little horses all over them, and another pair with flowers he hoped would remind her of home. He did his best to match a couple tank tops to each pair of pants and shoved them in the rapidly filling bag, doing his best not to picture Suze in those outfits, her long legs curled beneath her, the tank top showing off the parts of her he was trying not to think about.

He knew what he was going to find in the top drawer. He reached his hand out to open it, then jerked it back as if he expected it to be filled with rattlesnakes.

It might as well be. Suze might dress like a farmhand on the outside, but he knew her baggy T-shirts and comfort-fit jeans hid a body fit for a Victoria's Secret model. He'd be reminded of that body, and the night he'd discovered it, as soon as he opened the drawer.

Ah, what the hell. It was just underwear. A little silk, a little lace—what harm could it do? Taking a deep breath, he opened the drawer and tried not to feel like a pervert.

The almost compulsive organization of the rest of the room didn't apply to this drawer. It was a festival of textures and temptations. Scruples forgotten, he buried his hands in the heap of silk and lace pretties, sifting the delicate fabric through his fingers.

He pulled out a strip of lace and found himself holding an electric yellow thong; he tugged at a bit of elastic and found himself holding a bright red bra that was clearly designed to lift and support the generous breasts he remembered. He missed those breasts—missed them with an ache that was just about killing him now.

He'd hoped to just grab something and run, but she wouldn't be wearing thongs and push-up bras in the hospital. She'd want something comfortable. Practical.

Maybe he should go shopping, because he wasn't finding anything remotely like that here.

He finally settled on a white bra and matching panties that would have been fairly conservative if they hadn't somehow brought the image of a naughty schoolgirl to mind. Rummaging around for a second set, he pulled out one tempting fantasy after another, but nothing fit for the hospital.

He lifted the last pair of panties out and held them up to the light. Not bad—blue with lace panels connecting two triangles of fabric. At least the triangles were big enough to cover something more than a postage stamp.

In fact, they were big enough to cover a photograph that was sitting at the bottom of the drawer. Brady picked up the old picture and stared.

It was a candid shot of Suze and a cowboy at a high school rodeo. She couldn't have been more than sixteen in the picture, and the cowboy was about the same age. Suze sat on the top rail of a fence. Her booted feet rested on a lower rung, and one leg of her jeans was hung up on the top of her boot. That always seemed to be the case with her. It was as if she was in such a hurry to get to the horse that she couldn't even dress properly.

It was an actual rodeo though, not practice, so she was wearing a regulation long-sleeved Western shirt and a white straw cowboy hat. The cowboy was dressed to compete too, in Wranglers and a bright, striped shirt. They would have looked like a couple of dudes except that the two of them were covered from head to toe with streaks and splotches of rich brown Wyoming mud.

Suze was smiling down at the cowboy, who had jokingly grabbed one of her legs as if he was going to pull her off the fence. He was grinning into the camera like a fool. Anyone looking at the photo would have known it had been taken on a good day, just from the smiles on their faces.

Brady knew it had been taken on a good day because he was the cowboy in the picture, and he remembered that Kodak moment.

It had been as good as a moment could be. Precious, like the lady in the hospital had said. It had rained on and off all day, but the sun broke through the clouds in that moment and made it feel blessed.

He looked at the photo more closely. Suze's face was in shadow under the brim of her hat, but her expression wasn't hard to read. She wasn't looking at the camera; she was looking at Brady. Her lashes, always surprisingly dark for such a fair-skinned blond, rested on her cheeks, and her smile was—fond. Affectionate. It was obvious that she was happy to be with the man in the picture.

Man, hell. That was a boy. A boy who was too stupid to know how lucky he was. Too stupid to know that heaven was right there, literally in his grasp.

The picture was taken Brady's sophomore year. He'd been so impressed by Suze's mad gallop the first time he met her that he'd joined the rodeo team first chance he got. He'd fallen as hard for Suze as he had for the sport, but nothing came of his boyish infatuation. Suze was focused on riding, not romance, and there were lots of other girls willing to take Brady's raging hormones for a test drive.

He covered the picture up with a few more pairs of panties. There had been a time when he and Suze might have stayed friends, even become lovers. Hell, if he'd dated her back then, they'd probably be engaged by now. Maybe even married.

Not too long ago, that thought would have given him the willies. But as he looked around Suze's stark, cheerless bedroom and thought of how sad and vulnerable she'd looked in the hospital, he wished he'd made some different choices since the day that photo was taken. Because he'd been telling the little nurse the truth: Suze was, deep down, a sweetheart.