Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled) (17 page)

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Authors: Kat Murray

BOOK: Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled)
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After another minute of crying, the sounds slowly dwindled into soft whimpers. Red settled down on the couch and watched Peyton pace the same invisible track he’d walked earlier with the boy, murmuring things he was desperate to hear. Seth drooled peach juice over her shoulder, but she didn’t mind. And as the boy’s eyes slowly closed, his chest rising and falling in the sleep of the truly exhausted, she sat down in the armchair next to the couch.
“Is he asleep?” she asked.
“Yup.”
She sat silently for another few minutes, then stood and turned. “Grab the bag, if you can,” she whispered. When he managed to pry the plastic from the boy’s sweaty grip, she disappeared with the child through a doorway—presumably the nursery—and came out a few minutes later empty-handed.
She plopped down in the chair and covered her eyes with her hands. “Seemed so easy, so obvious after you said it. I can’t believe I missed something that simple.”
“You were exhausted. Sometimes the mind just locks down when you’re in a situation like that.”
When she didn’t say anything, he leaned over and did some fancy maneuvering until she slid onto his lap. Almost as if she were asleep, she curled into him and rested her head on his shoulder. He wondered if she even realized what she was doing. But then again, with the house deadly quiet around them, maybe she didn’t figure it mattered. Only Seth was there with them, and he was an unreliable witness.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
Red pressed a kiss to her messy hair. “You’re welcome.” In moments like these, when she wasn’t in her badass ranch owner mood, she was as sweet as a newborn kitten. He liked this Peyton. Warm Snuggly Peyton. Not that he disliked Badass Peyton. It was a good balance.
“What made you so against calling your brother?”
“Felt like I should be able to handle it. The kid’s twelve pounds and still poops in his pants. If I can’t handle that . . .” No need for her to finish the sentence. He knew where her mind was heading.
“Remember what I said before? You are not the answer to everything that goes on in this place. You are not your family’s sole strength. Give your brother and sister more credit.”
“With Trace, you might just be right. The business side doesn’t even remotely interest him. But he’s holding his own, both with the PR side, and with being a father. It’s miraculous how easily he’s taken to it. Not that it’s always fun. But easy in that he enjoys it, he likes it, he looks forward to time with his son. Not all fathers can say that. I see little pieces of our dad in him sometimes.”
Red wouldn’t argue there. He was a prime example of a father-son dynamic that failed.
“But Bea?” She snorted, air softly brushing against his neck. “She wants nothing to do with this place. Every time I try to pin her down to talk about the realities of the will, she runs off somewhere
important
.” Peyton used air quotes for the last word. “Important for Bea usually implies a manicure or haircut.”
Red didn’t know her, so he wouldn’t jump into that family issue. But rubbing Peyton’s back, relaxing on the couch after she’d put the baby back down to—he hoped—sleep for a good long while, any tension he’d been carrying from the long-ass day, the shitty conversation he’d had with his father and the stress of wondering if his dad was a threat to his job . . . it all melted away. And for a moment he could seriously imagine his life like this. Having the quiet, contented moments with Peyton Muldoon every evening after a good, long day’s work. Recharging his system, and hers, both in bed and out.
Too bad he knew for sure she would rather slap him and push him out the door head first than even contemplate it.
Peyton shifted, taking care to not squash the family jewels in her movement—a consideration he appreciated—and stood up. That, he assumed, was his cue to make his excuses and head home. But instead, she held out a hand and pulled him off the couch, led him to another bedroom, and closed the door behind her.
Well. Red might just be a slow country son of a bitch from time to time. But even he wasn’t dumb enough to turn down this kind of opportunity.
Chapter Fifteen
B
ig mistake. Big mistake. Big mistake.
And she didn’t give a flying Frisbee.
Red had been there, majorly, when she’d been ready to collapse. It burned to call him for help, not because of who he was, but because she needed help, period. But better to call him than her brother. The teasing he would have given her over not being able to handle a baby, she never would have lived down. And he’d been a quick thinker with the frozen peach trick when her own mind had been too exhausted to function at full speed. She wasn’t going to forget that.
But it wasn’t gratitude that had her pulling him into her room and closing the door. She knew how to say thank you and mean it. She wouldn’t use her body when words would work just fine. No, this was pure desire for the man he was. The kind of man who would drop everything and come help a woman take care of a screaming infant. An infant that wasn’t his, who he had no prior knowledge to or relation with. And wouldn’t use that moment as an opening to tease, to mock, or to hold over her head.
Redford Callahan was a good, honest man. And she needed him like she needed air.
But just for tonight, she reminded herself as she reached for his shirt. Purely to unwind from the baby stress. Just for now.
Even as the shirt came loose from his waistband, she was calling herself a liar. But if she needed the lie to take what she wanted, so what? It didn’t hurt anyone.
Except me.
Shutting down her inner monologue, she concentrated on running her hands over warm male skin and feeling the delight when he shivered and flexed beneath her touch.
“So is this what you always wear to bed?” He reached for and grabbed onto the bottom hem of her ragged sweatshirt. Trace’s sweatshirt, actually, but she’d stolen it from him close to fifteen years ago, so she was pretty sure the statute of limitations had long since passed.
“Maybe.” Did he wish she wore sexy lingerie to bed every night, just in case of a booty call?
“Hmm. I have to say, as much as it shocks me, seeing this whole oversized shirt, tiny shorts combo on you is massively appealing. Makes me wish it was my shirt you were wearing.” He took a nip out of her neck, a possessive bite.
Now she was the one shivering.
Reaching between them, she undid his belt buckle and pushed with frantic hands to lower his jeans. He stepped back and kicked off his boots—no socks . . . he really must have hauled ass to get to the house when she called—and stripped down to his birthday suit.
God, he was beautiful. Though he’d likely disagree. The man wasn’t free of blemishes or marks. No, he had scars upon scars. She could easily guess what they were from, too. Ranch work, working with horses, didn’t leave you without a few permanent souvenirs. But those marks only made him more beautiful in her eyes. A real man who used his body daily for real work. Not lifting weights in some sterile gym, going through the motions looking for definition. No, these were muscles toned by his job, developed from necessity. Not bulky, but cut all the same.
“I seem to be the one lagging behind this time.” She reached for the hem of her sweatshirt but he stilled her hand.
“Let me.” She waited, but he didn’t strip her shirt off. Just stared at her for a long moment, before scooping her up and tossing her on the bed. She laughed as she bounced and he pounced on her, playfully growling and nuzzling into her neck, working his way down to her breasts, still covered by the shirt. As he nipped, the thick fabric muted the worst of the sting. But she still felt every bite, every bit of contact. And loved it all.
Her hands went instinctively to his hair, fingers gliding through the golden brown locks. It was longer again, like he’d forgotten to bother with a haircut. Not out of any sense of style. Just out of sheer lack of time. The strands felt like little silk threads, like the sort of important material she’d never be able to wear. All that rich, impractical texture just begging to be touched and caressed.
He lifted the bottom of the sweatshirt a little, enough to reveal her stomach, and kissed around her belly button. Then he eased down the shorts she wore until they were completely off. As he pressed her legs wider apart, she clamped them back together.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. “Get back up here.”
He smirked, or at least she thought he did in the dark of the bedroom. She wasn’t about to turn on a light now just to check. Not while his face was down there. Hell no.
“I’m exploring. Got a problem with that?”
“Maybe. Can’t we just do what we did before?” Not the most mature of descriptions, but she was sort of limited in this area of living. She motioned for him to climb his way back up her body, but he didn’t budge.
“You’re directing again. What’d we talk about last time?”
“That was then. This is now. And Peyton says get back up here.”
“Red says no.” He pressed a kiss to the crease between her inner thigh and her . . . oh for the love of God. Peyton’s head flopped back and she bit her lip to keep from screaming out. In shock, in pleasure, in confusion, she had no clue. Maybe a mix of all three. But she soon realized Red’s tongue was good for more than just that sweet drawl he played with.
Dammit. Another moment to add to the catalog she flipped through in her dreams.
All too soon, or maybe not soon enough, she was riding the crest of a seriously intense orgasm. And before she could even lift her hands to play with his hair again, he was sliding up her body and into her. Or almost into her . . .
“Christ. Condom?”
“I . . . oh. No.” She didn’t have condoms in her room. And why the hell would she? It wasn’t like she brought men back to the house she shared with her brother and her housekeeper. This was sort of a first for her. “Hold that thought.” Before he could say a word, she slid out from under him and darted into Bea’s room. Her uberworldly, super-chic sister would surely have some in her bathroom or bag. But after coming up surprisingly empty, she dashed across the hall to Trace’s room. In one of the drawers of his bathroom vanity, she struck gold. After her inability to tear just one off, she brought the whole strip and hustled back to her room, tossing the condoms at Red.
He stared at the strip, holding it up so they all fell out of their folded position. “You know I can only wear one of these at a time, right?”
“Shut up. They wouldn’t come apart, so you get to try.”
He used his teeth to open one packet without even removing it from the rest of the strip and rolled it on. Then he dragged her back into position under him and entered her with one smooth glide.
They both sighed with relief, though Peyton’s heart was doing a jittery dance of its own thanks to her world-record-setting sprint around the house.
“Let’s try this a little differently.” Before she could ask what that meant, he rolled so she was on top. “Private riding lesson.”
She cocked a brow at him, though he likely couldn’t see it. “Private lesson, huh?”
“Yup. We’ll concentrate on your . . . form.” He slid rein-roughened hands up from her ass to her breasts, molding over the flesh and back down again.
She rocked back and forth, loving the instant feedback from his body. The breath that hissed between his teeth, the way his abs tightened under her hands, his own hips surging up as if he couldn’t help it.
“My form. Hmm. I’ve always been told I have such good form. You know, from previous . . . instructors.” Was that really her? Flirting like that? Making those not-so-veiled innuendos?
Bea would be so proud.
“Previous instructors, hmm?” His tone thickened. “Gotta tell you, I might have a few tricks up my sleeve you haven’t seen yet.”
“Maybe so.” She was more than willing to let him show her.
And so he did.
 
With it being Emma’s weekend off, and Trace gone as well, and Bea coming home God knew when, Peyton didn’t feel all that bad about drifting off after Red returned to the bed from cleaning up. Plenty of time to get him out the door before people were up and around in the morning. And it wasn’t as if he had a truck outside that would just scream “booty call, master bedroom.”
“That little bit about instructors,” Red started, hand running from the top of her bottom to her shoulders and back again. “That was a joke, right?”
“Joke. Sure.” She snuggled closer to his heat. He’d stripped her sweatshirt off after the deed was done, saying he wanted skin contact. And now she needed the extra warmth.
“I mean, I know you had some, um, lessons before. And I’ve had my own share of, uh, students . . .”
“Lovers, Red.” Time to put the poor guy out of his misery. She patted his stomach affectionately. “We’ve both had lovers.” Though her last one was, well, a while ago. No need to mention that though.
He sighed with relief. “Yes. Thank you. But I just wanted you to know . . . there’s nobody now. Nobody but you.”
Oh damn. Shit. Damn. Son of a . . . “Red . . .”
He tugged playfully on her hair. “This is the part where you say, ‘There’s nobody else for me either, Red.’ ”
Tread carefully, and watch for road apples. “Red, I’m not . . . I’m not seeing anyone else right now.” He deserved that much, and it was the truth. She wasn’t about to lie on that one. Plus, too easy to verify. “But that doesn’t really matter much, since—”
“It’s enough.”
“Well, it’s not, actually, because this is the last night we’re doing that.”
He smirked. “You said that the last time. You’ve got a strange habit of repeating yourself, Peyton.”
“This time doesn’t count,” she said defensively, sitting up and pulling the sweatshirt down over her knees. “It was an emergency.”
“The baby screaming bit, I’ll buy that. But after?” He shook his head. “Don’t do this.”
“This what?”
“Don’t cheapen this. It happened, we liked it, and I’d like to do it again. I’m guessing you would, too. And we get along.”
“We bicker constantly.”
“Well, yeah, that’s what I mean. You’re not afraid to tell me to go fuck myself, and I’m not afraid to push you right back. It works.”
Peyton sighed and dug her face into her knees. “Your definition of the term ‘get along’ is sick.”
“Couples that never fight are doing something wrong,” he said cheerfully. “Not only are they not growing, but if you ask me, they’re missing out on the best part of fighting.”
“I’m scared to ask, but what would that be?”
Red’s smile turned from simply happy to carnal and a little evil. “The making up, of course.”
And even though they weren’t really fighting, Peyton thought a little making up wouldn’t hurt. Just a little, until she had to roll him out of bed.
 
Red slid his cart over toward the checkout. “Bill, go have them start ringing the order up, put this on my account, okay? I want to check one more thing before we’re done.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Callahan!” Bill, whom Red had brought along for his trip to the feed and supply store, raced off with the cart like a NASCAR hopeful.
“It’s Red!” he shouted after him, but chuckled. The kid was more eager than anyone else he’d seen. And twice as grateful for the opportunity as kids who were handed their first pony simply for existing. When Billy had realized he’d be shadowing Red, learning and all-around playing personal assistant rather than spending his mornings knee-deep in manure, the kid had all but spun himself dizzy with gratitude.
Red scanned the vitamins, realized they still didn’t have the ones he wanted in stock, and resigned himself to ordering online. Though he preferred giving local stores his business whenever possible, he wasn’t about to lower his standards on what he gave his horses.
“Son.”
Speaking of lowered standards . . . Red turned slowly and stared into the face of Mac Callahan. The year since the last time they’d come face to face had aged the man considerably. He was still handsome, but now showing his age more than he used to. His dad’s behavior and constant penchant for finding the next pile of trouble was finally catching up to him.
“So. Found me.” Red leaned against the shelf. “I thought I told you now wasn’t a good time for a visit.”
“Visit? Shit.” Mac scratched his belly—a belly just a little rounder than the last time—and shook his head. “I’ve been working here for over a month now.”
It was worse than he’d thought. “Here? The feed store?” Red swiveled his head around as if that’d give him answers.
“Nah, I meant here, in town. I’m down at the tack shop. Good gig, though I always prefer working straight with horses if I can. But work’s work.”
Red let his hat fall to his side in his hand. “You’ve been here a month and I never knew. Didn’t think to tell me.”
“Not like you would’ve given two shits. Your old man doesn’t mean jack squat to you anymore.” The heat behind the words petered out before he could finish the second sentence. He shifted weight from one foot to another.

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