One Fine Cowboy (8 page)

The bunkhouse had been unoccupied for decades, unless you counted the dust bunnies that patrolled the floor beneath the iron-framed beds. Charlie was now liberating said bunnies from the confines of the bunkhouse in droves. They leapt to freedom as she wielded the broom like a weapon, creating a wide fan of dust that spread from the open door.

She hummed a line or two of “Born Free,” then set to work on the flimsy blue-ticked mattresses, dragging them out the door and draping them over the split rail hitching post by the door. Clutching the broom handle like a Louisville Slugger, she whacked half a dozen home runs into each one, venting her frustration.

Doris had snagged Nate the minute he returned to the house for supplies, and now he was out there playing host, showing the woman around the ranch like the lord of the manor. Charlie glanced over at the paddock, where the two of them stood side by side, each with one booted foot on the bottom rung, watching two of Nate’s mares munch the evening ration of hay.

She cursed under her breath. It was nice to see Doris getting her “cowboy time,” but Charlie had offered to help the guy, not be his slave. Giving the last mattress a final wallop, she dragged it inside and pitched it onto one of the old iron bed frames, then tossed herself on top.

She looked around the room, a cavernous space with rough paneled walls and an open-beam ceiling. Even in the half-light from the grimy windows, she could see silver-white cobwebs festooning the beams, with swaddled fly mummies dangling from them like ghoulish Christmas ornaments. Sighing, she lurched to her feet and grabbed the broom. If she was stuck here, she might as well make it livable.

Two hundred cobwebs and half a bottle of Windex later, the place was starting to look habitable. She set her fists on her hips and looked around.

Not bad.

Now for the girlie touches.

She opened a rickety old cabinet that leaned up against the wall in one corner and found a cache of mason jars—picturesque old blue ones with bubbles in the glass. She gathered up a half-dozen of them and carried them out to the yard.

Halfway between the barn and the house, a rusty spigot arched from a crooked pipe that jutted out of a concrete block. Charlie cranked the knob and water splashed out over the cement onto the grass. Humming to herself, she rinsed the jars, then filled each one with water.

Half an hour later the jars decorated the bunkhouse’s rough wooden windowsills and crude nightstands, each one filled with a bouquet of asters and daisies gathered behind the barn. They added a homey touch, and the flowers coordinated with the faded blue and white coverlets Nate had brought before he’d taken off to play tour guide.

Charlie puttered around a while longer, rearranging, perfecting. She folded the coverlets back in neat triangles, making the beds look uniformly welcoming, and fooled with the flowers, touching up the arrangements. She couldn’t wait for Nate to see what she’d done with the place. She couldn’t wait to…

Uh-oh.

She backed away from the windowsill, lifting her hands in the air like a hold-up victim.
Step away from the flowers
, she told herself.
Step away.

She was nesting, settling in, subconsciously making herself at home, like a dog turning in circles before lying down. It was her biological clock going off, she was sure. After four years of college and two of grad school, something inside her wanted to settle down. It also wanted to find a man, have babies, and shop at Dress Barn. Fortunately, she had her mother as an antidote, along with her own good sense.

She clasped her hands in front of her and resisted the impulse to move a daisy just a hair to the right. There would be no more nesting.

No more kissing either, or touching. The whole incident on the sofa came back to her in a rush of memory and she shoved it into the back of her brain. No more pressing her body against his, feeling her breasts yield to the solid muscle of his chest. No more breathing in the scent of him, clean straw and fresh grass, with that subtle hint of leather and sage. No more fantasies about what it might be like to share his bed, to light those candles on the dresser and strip off her clothes while he watched, his pale gray eyes sweeping down her body like his slow hand stroking her skin.

If she let that happen again, she’d lose herself—lose her purpose. She was supposed to be a dispassionate observer, a student of human and animal behavior.
Observe and report
. That was her job.
Eschew personal involvement.
If she didn’t stop this nonsense, she’d end up like her mother, sacrificing her dreams and aspirations for a man who could walk away any time he pleased without a backward glance.

It was a damn shame. Usually, a little casual sex would be a good thing—and with Nate, she had a feeling it would be a whole lot better than good. But there was something about the guy that made her wary. He made her feel something more than the zing of sexual attraction—something deeper. And she was definitely staying in the shallow end when it came to relationships.

Footsteps hit the floor behind her, and she turned to see the cowboy in question stepping through the door.

“Hey, this is amazing,” he said. “It looks great. Need any help?”

“No,” she said. “I’m done.” She injected a heavy dose of sarcasm into her tone. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Oh, you don’t have to thank me,” he said graciously. “All I did was get the comforters and stuff.” He looked around. “But it looks good. I think we’re going to be okay.”

Charlie looked right, then left. “We?” she said, cocking her head. “I didn’t see any ‘we.’ Not while all the work was going on.”

“No, I guess not,” Nate said. “Sorry.” He backed out of the room, looking at her like she was some kind of slavering wild animal he’d cornered by accident. “You’re right. There’s no ‘we.’ Just you and me, here alone with these…” He waved a hand around the room.

“These what?” Charlie asked.

“Beds.”

Charlie followed his eyes. The beds were set in a neat row against the wall, blankets neatly turned back in an almost irresistible invitation to climb inside. They could play “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” she thought. Test out each one. See if any of them were “just right.”

She looked back at Nate just as he glanced at her, and the room felt suddenly hot and close. His eyes darted away, flashing around the room in search of a new topic of conversation.

“Sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean—I won’t kiss you again or anything. I mean—never mind.”

***

Nate wiped a hand over his brow. The bunkhouse looked great, but it sure was warm. He glanced at Charlie. She was staring at him, biting her lower lip. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was disappointed.

Looking at her mouth made him remember that kiss, and he took an inadvertent step toward her. She glanced up at him, and despite the laws she’d laid down earlier, he could swear there was an invitation in her eyes.

Only one way to find out. But did he dare to take the chance? He needed Charlie—needed her to help him with the clinic. If he overstepped his bounds, she might take off. He was starting to think she was as flighty as Junior, ready to flee or fight at the slightest little thing.

But he needed her in another way too, and he was willing to take the gamble. After all, what was life without a little risk?

He stepped toward her just as she stepped back. The bed hit the back of her knees and she sat down hard. He was suddenly conscious of that stirring again, his body betraying him, and this time she noticed. She had to. His belt buckle was an inch from her face.

Flushing, he sat down beside her. The two of them stared straight ahead for a heartbeat, and then they turned—maybe he turned first, maybe she did, he really couldn’t tell—and she was in his arms, tilting backward onto the bed as he kissed her with all the fervor he felt. He didn’t hold anything back. When he finally took a gamble, he always went all in.

And so did Charlie. There was no mistaking the message in her kiss. She wanted him as much as he wanted her—maybe more.

It had never been like this with Sandi.

He felt the full length of her body yielding to his. There was no way she could miss his arousal now. He started to pull away, but she flexed her hips against him and deepened the kiss, pulling him closer.

He didn’t know how long it lasted, but for one long moment there was no clinic to teach, no angry ex-girlfriend, no troublesome ranch woman waiting for horse-training instructions. There was only him and Charlie, and all those beds.

Finally, he pulled away—or maybe she did—and their eyes met. He scanned her face, trying to read her emotions in her eyes. Was he only seeing what he wanted to see—or was that a faint hint of regret crossing her face now that the kiss had ended? He could sense the slightest hint of hesitation in a horse, but danged if he knew how to read women. He sat up, figuring he’d give Charlie a chance to escape, but sitting up only made his feelings more obvious.

She didn’t seem inclined to run away. In fact, she smiled up at him with a teasing light in her eyes, as if she was egging him on. Her face was flushed, her hair in disarray, and her shirt had somehow hiked up to display the edge of that tantalizing tattoo, along with a hint of black lace peeking out from the waistband of her jeans.

The panties. Without thinking, he reached down and stroked one finger across her belly, tracing the line of lace from one hip to the other. A tiny red bow peeked out just above her hipbone. He fingered it, watching Charlie’s face as her eyes eased closed and her lips parted.

He stroked her again, with two fingers this time, and tugged the bow playfully. To his amazement, it came undone in his hand. He expected Charlie to tense, to push his hands away, but she only opened her eyes, meeting his in a clear challenge, and reached down to unsnap her jeans.

***

Charlie felt a ripple of need cross her skin as Nate’s fingers gently traced her waistband. She needed more. She’d been holding back for some reason, resisting the weird connection between them, and for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why.

She reached down and undid the snap on her jeans, watching his face as he realized what she was doing, and what it meant. Bending down, he kissed her again, and this time it wasn’t an all-out, go-for-broke festival like last time. It was sweet, a gentle joining that made her ache with need. His hand slid lower, dipping below her waistband to stroke the sensitive skin where her lace-up panties had come undone.

She tucked her hands under his T-shirt and swept them upward, savoring the muscles that flexed under her hands, the warmth of his skin, the slight gasp as her fingertips brushed over his chest.

His lips left hers and he looked her in the eye.

“I don’t have anything,” he said. “I mean—you know. Nothing—safe.”

She felt like a swimmer surfacing from a warm ocean, fighting for breath, her limbs heavy. “We can’t then,” she said—but her eyes flicked over to her purse, perched on the nightstand. She had what they needed. She always did. Her mother made sure she always carried protection, just in case. She was determined her daughter would never derail her life with an unplanned pregnancy. “It’s okay. It’s—it’s just as well.” She didn’t mean it—she didn’t mean it at all. But what could she say?

“But could I just see…” He bit his lip and flushed.

“See what?”

This was different. He was no smooth Lothario, that was for sure. The poor guy could barely speak. The fact that he was trying told her how much he wanted her. Needed her.

He hooked a finger in the waistband of her jeans and tugged it down just an inch or so, revealing a matching red bow on the other hip. The ribbon seemed to call him like a red cape draws a bull, adding to his urgency and giving him courage. He tugged harder, revealing a swath of translucent lace.

“Your panties,” he said. “I just—I just want to see what you’re wearing.”

His face was red, and no wonder. Hers probably matched. It was an odd request. What, was the guy interested in
fashion
? And why did the fact that he wanted to see her panties make her so hot she could hardly breathe?

He was hardly Tim Gunn, but she suddenly wanted his honest opinion on the merits of her black Victoria’s Secret lace-up low-rise bikini briefs more than anything in the world. Fumbling with her zipper, she tugged it down and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her jeans, shimmying them down her hips. Nate had undone one side of her low-rise bikini, and it snagged on the denim and revealed the tattoo on her hip. It was a tribal-style image, a horse made of streaming flames inked in black on her pale skin.

Nate traced the image with one finger, stroking the arch of the horse’s neck and trailing down its spine to its flaming tail.

“Looks like someone I know,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “Junior. I thought so as soon as I saw him.”

He traced it again, slowly, but his eyes rose to meet hers. His gaze was as intense as it had been that morning, but she didn’t look away this time.

“Maybe you’re meant to be here,” he said.

She didn’t answer; she just lifted her arms and laced her fingers behind his head, pulling him down for another kiss. The moment felt serious, almost ceremonial, as if they were sealing some claim on each other. Something in the back of her mind blared out a warning, but the rest of her softened and gave way as he tugged her jeans away and dipped his fingers under the silky black fabric.

There was no hiding now. He had to know, the minute he touched her, how ready she was and how much she wanted him. She pulled him down for another kiss, partly to taste him again, partly so he’d close his eyes. Her body was telling him enough. She didn’t want him reading her mind.

His hands were rough, but his touch was so gentle she pushed her hips up off the bed, asking for more, and he caught on, stroking her harder, then faster, making her body hum as her heart quickened and need pulsed through her veins and fed her desire. Breaking the kiss, she tossed her head back and arched her back, opening herself to his touch. Through half-shuttered lashes, she could see him staring down at her—not at her body, but at her face, as if he was searching for directions, reading the flashes of ecstasy and changing his pace as he read her unconscious signals. His pupils were still dark, and his gaze was so enraptured she felt possessed, dominated, almost owned—but instead of being afraid or pulling back, she felt a flood of relief as she gave herself up to him, closing her eyes and losing herself in a whirl of sensation and emotion. That warning in the back of her mind was still sounding, but she’d made up her mind. She wasn’t going to listen. For once, just this once, she was going to do what she wanted and to hell with the consequences. Focusing on the thrill of his touch, she pulsed her hips and moved with his rhythm.