The Tycoon and the Texan (17 page)

“I hope so.” She dropped her head onto his muscular shoulder and kissed his warm skin. “Are you sure I can't talk you out of it?”

Nick shook his head. “Mac, I realize you've had trust issues in the past, but please, trust me . . . please.”

McCall kissed him lightly and left the room, softly closing the door behind her.

Nick felt like putting his fist through the wall. Something he'd never considered doing before regardless of how mad he had gotten. He wasn't mad at McCall, but at himself for letting Colt goad him into making the bet, but it was too late to back down now. He knew he could best the son of a bitch.

Nick damn well planned to keep his promise to McCall and would not get hurt. He couldn't help but laugh out loud when the thought ran through his head . . .
he could bet the ranch on it.

One corral over from where Nick stood, a half dozen wild mustangs pounded the dirt, leaving behind long ribbons of dust in their wake. The broncs snorted and bolted as a growing crowd of wranglers turned their attention back to the empty arena waiting for the match between Colton Jameson and Nicodemus Dartmouth to begin.

Spurs jingling, Colt ambled toward Nick, who pulled on his gloves. “Ready, cowpoke?” Colt hollered over his shoulder. “Luther, get 'um in the chutes while we draw for first ride.”

“I've been thinking, Jameson. Since I don't know the stock, you'll probably try to screw me over, so this is the way we're going to settle this.” Nick rubbed the back of his gloved hand across his chin. “Get two of those ornery devils over there.” He tilted his head toward the pen of mustangs. “The first to get his mount saddled up and aboard wins.”

“That's suicide, Dartmouth.” Colt plunged on carelessly. “But, it's your funeral.” He shouted over his shoulder to the ranch hand. “Luther, cut out two of those Slippery Elm stallions.”

“Jameson, they just got here and haven't even been evaluated. We haven't even had time to work with them. They're still madder than hell and wild to boot. Mesa is gonna be pissed. I think you should—”

“You don't get paid to think. And I don't give a damn what Mesa thinks. If she cared so much, then she'd have been here when they were delivered. Just get 'em.” Colt spoke to the wrangler but eyed Nick suspiciously before addressing him. “Better get outfitted. It's gonna be a long day.”

McCall came up from behind Nick and said, “Colton Jameson, it's gonna be your head when Granny finds out that you're using the land management mustangs for your own agenda.” She pointed a finger at him. “I'm warning you. I thought you had enough sense to use horses who are trained to buck, so I'd suggest you'd better call this off or all hell is going to break lose when Mesa finds out. These are her horses, remember.”

“You and Mesa are just alike,” Colt said.

McCall turned and looked Nick squarely in the eye. “And
you
know how I feel about it.” She stalked to the house.

Nick wanted to go after her and make it okay, explain that he was doing what a man had to do. He couldn't turn his back on a challenge—particularly one he could win. He had come too far in his effort to prove he was an ordinary guy capable of existing in McCall's world to turn back now.

The two men headed to the tack room.

After selecting a simple western saddle, along with an array of tack, including a bridle, lariat, and a few short pieces of rope, Nick snatched up a plaid flannel shirt from a peg near the door. He headed back to the corral.

Dropping the saddle and blanket on the ground, he tied the shirt loosely around the saddle horn.

Sizing up their chosen steed, roping and snubbing the stud to a post in order to fit a bridle was the easiest part of the competition.

A grueling, sweating, dusty, nerve-shattering morning commenced as Nick and Colt fought the wild-spirited, raw pieces of horseflesh in their efforts to tame the untamable.

Feet braced, Colt's captured horse plunged wild-eyed against the choking effect of the snubbed lariat. Bawling, the bronc reared and with one ferocious jerk the rope slipped, and the horse broke loose before being bridled, sending his tormentor sprawling in the dirt. Colt grabbed the rope, and began another assault on the frightened animal.

After being tugged around the arena, Nick wrangled his charge into a degree of submission and managed to get the horse bridled and cross-hobbled. None too happy about having his forefeet and one hind hoof linked together with rope and still full of fight, the sorry sunfisher ducked, resisting the saddle.

Not taking time to check on Colt's progress, and breathless from fighting with every ounce of energy in him, Nick considered his next move.

Counting on an old trick Jock had taught him, Nick twisted the ear of the animal and caused enough pain to distract the outlaw until he could heave the blanket over the mustang's back, followed by the forty-pound saddle. Hooking the stirrup over the saddle horn, he scrambled to secure the cinch.

The maneuver worked just as Nick remembered. He pulled loose the hobbling ropes and swung into the saddle. As a natural reaction to the added weight, the bay leaped savagely into the air, trying to send Nick head over teakettle.

Gut-jarring hell broke loose inside Nick's body with every angry jump, while the bronc pitched and bawled, trying to bathe the rider in stars. Pitching a good fifty yards, he smoothed out into a run trying to brush Nick against the fence.

Turning to his last tactic, Nick withdrew the flannel shirt from the saddle horn. “Good night, ears.” He quickly pulled the fabric over the horse's head, snuffing out unexpected sounds and motions, while hazing the mustang until he rode to a standstill near the rail.

Grabbing hold of the top railing, Nick vaulted off the stallion, taking the shirt with him.

As mad as a peeled rattler, the testy piece of rawhide bucked off across the pen, fighting the saddle as though Nick had left a porcupine behind.

Nick wiped sweat from his brow, not giving a rusty rat's ass if the ornery bastard spent the rest of his born days sleeping in the gear or not. He wasn't about to unsaddle him.

Looking around, he found McCall standing near the gate, appearing none too happy. Heading her way, he grimaced. His butt burned as though he'd landed in a hornet's nest, and his family jewels felt like they had been used as punching bags. The parts of his body that weren't numb hurt like hell.

“Good ride, Nicodemus.” Traces of displeasure remained on her face and he didn't fail to catch the note of sarcasm in the way she used his given name.

Colt approached.

“I'll see you at the house, Nick.” McCall directed her statement to Nick, but shot Colt a
go to hell
look before slowly retreating.

As Colt neared, dusting off his Stetson, he spit a stream of mucky tobacco. “Cowpoke, whether I like you or not doesn't matter. You proved yourself, honest to your word.” He pulled out a wad of money from his Levi pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

“I don't want your money, Jameson.”

Colt hemmed and hawed and shuffled dirt around with the toe of his boot. “I sure as hell don't need your pity or you to think that I don't have the money 'cause I do.” He shifted his weight to his other foot. “And, another thing, Dartmouth, if you hurt her, you've got me to deal with.” He moved his fingers forward as though offering a handshake, but quickly shoved them into his pocket.

“You got my word.” Nick extended his hand, knowing Colt wouldn't shake. “And I want your word that you'll stay away from McCall. I suspect you have something to do with some of the hurt she's still dealing with.” He looked Colt squarely in the eyes. “I can promise you if I find out it was you who is responsible for the hurt she carries around, a wild bronc will be the least of your worries.” Nick clenched his fist, just itching for his threat to be challenged.

“Dartmouth, you don't know jack about me and Mac.” Colton flashed Nick a look of disdain.

Apparently still within hearing distance, McCall turned sharply and returned. Putting her hands on her hips, she said, “Colton Jameson, I've only been home a couple days, and I'm sick and tired of you already.”

Then she turned to Nick and with eyes like summer lightning, she said, “You're not my favorite person at the moment, either. Both of you are acting like fool-headed jackaninnies.”

McCall stalked to the house.

Colt snickered. “Trust me, greenhorn, she'll cool off and be back in your bed before you know it.” He spit in the dirt. “And, she's a damn good lay, too.”

Nick's fist connected with the cowboy's chin, sending him butt over shoulders against the corral fence. “I've been waiting for you to prove you're an idiot.”

Coming up fighting, Colt took a wild swing at Nick, hitting him just below his left eye.

Hating to make a scene but knowing he couldn't let Colt get in the last punch, Nick took a more calculated uppercut to the cowboy's jaw, sending him over the top rung of the corral. He landed in a fresh pile of horse droppings.

Nick picked his hat from the dirt, dusting it against his thigh. “Next time, think twice before you open your trap, cowpoke. Otherwise, this flannel-mouth will kick your ass from here to the Mexican border and back. And, Colton, ol' pal, don't ever spit chewing tobacco anywhere near me again.”

Preparing himself for the tongue-lashing he knew he'd get from McCall, Nick took his time walking back to the house.

A SWAT team in full riot gear bombarding the kitchen couldn't have shattered the silence any worse than when McCall hit the back door.

Breathe McCall, breathe!
She inhaled deeply, swooshing out excess air.

What happened to pasts being pasts? She wasn't ready to discuss the problem between Colton and her with Nick. Not yet. She sure as hell didn't appreciate Nick bringing it up to Colt, either. And now they were duking it out.

To be truly honest with herself, she was more angry with Colton drawing Nick into his dangerous game than a good ol'-fashioned fight between two men. She was glad they'd be gone before her cousin got back home and found out what Colton had pulled. Maybe McCall could do Mesa a favor and kickbox his family jewels all the way up to his head and stuff them into the empty space in his brain he currently wasn't using for a think tank. Make him see the light, in more ways than one.

And she didn't even want to think about how mad Granny would be when she found out. Using trained broncs was one thing, but wild broncs not broke was altogether another. Luther was a loyal hand, so it wouldn't take him long to fill her in on Colt's risky antics.

McCall ripped a ponytail holder from her pocket, pulled her hair back, circled the twisty around the mass, and took a deep breath.

She smelled freshly baked cornbread, cooling in iron skillets.

Lola Ruth slid aside a tiny mountain of green peppers and onion on her cutting board as McCall entered the kitchen. “Who won?”

“The bronc ride or the fight?”

“I know who won the ride.” Lola Ruth lifted a questioning brow.

“By the time I got to the mudroom, Colt was sprawled out in a fresh pile of horse dooky.”

Taking her attention away from Colt and Nick, the scent of pinto beans seasoned with a healthy hunk of ham hock flitted through the air and provided a sense of comfort, chasing away some of her misgivings.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Lola Ruth asked.

“No. I'll just never understand men,” McCall responded before allowing her mind to wander.

Colt had issued the first challenge at the Texas Moon Palace, but why had Nick gone along with the craziness? He obviously knew his way around a horse, otherwise he wouldn't have known some of the tricks of the trade he used to even saddle the bronc, much less ride him.

It was nothing but ego. Unadulterated ego. At least, Nick hadn't killed himself just to prove a point. And the point was? He never loses. Not even in a fistfight!

She'd never understand men. Colt was like a Brahma bull going after a bullfighter . . . again and again until he finally caught him by the horn and tossed him six feet in the air just to show off. But she doubted he thought Nick would throw a punch at him.

Lola Ruth drew a forearm across her brow before wiping her hands on her apron. “Well, Missy, the way I see it, Nicky was only trying to protect you the only way he knows how.” She quickly changed the subject. “I'm fixin' your favorites. Barbequed ribs, cornbread, salad, and some of my famous Texas caviar.” She laughed as she scooped up a double-handful of peppers and onions, tossing them into a beige crockery bowl half filled with cold, drained black-eyed peas. “Your Granny wouldn't hear of not having a special dinner for you and that gorgeous man of yours.”

“He's
not
my man,” McCall protested.

“I'm not so sure about that, gal.” The older woman shook two hearty dashes of Tabasco into a mixture of vinegar, oil, and sugar. “Don't think you've told your heart that yet.”

McCall wanted to put her hands over her ears to drown out the lecture about Nicodemus's virtues from a woman who surely thought that the bottle of burgundy in the liquor cabinet was once water, before Nick turned it into wine.

Resisting the urge to comment, she watched her mentor blend the tangy dressing and drizzle it over the peas. Grabbing a tablespoon, McCall dipped out a serving of the mixture, steering clear of Lola Ruth's fluttering fingers.

“Some things never change. Like you sneaking a taste of my cookin'.” Lola Ruth shook her head. “Yep, not much at all has changed, including those scars on your heart.”

McCall swallowed a mouthful of peas. “I believe my heart is doing just fine, thank you.”

Yeah, if a heart shackled and chained to Nicodemus Dartmouth would be considered
doing just fine
. But Lola Ruth was right. Nick was trying to soothe away the scars on her heart and all she had been doing was fighting him tooth and toenail. She couldn't and she wouldn't allow herself to fall deeper in love with him. But it might already be too late.

Lola Ruth piped up, “If you tell me those scars are healed, guess I'll just have to say it's your story, girl, so stick to it.” Apparently, seeing that her point had been made, she switched topics. “In all my born days, I've never seen anything quite like the way Nicky was all over Colton Jameson. Just like stink on a skunk, he was. Yes, ma'am, I saw it all from the kitchen window and your granny's having a conniption fit. She headed for the bunkhouse like she had a hive of bumblebees in her bloomers.”

“No doubt Luther beat me to the house.” McCall exhaled some of her frustration.

Lola Ruth nodded then split open a jalapeno and scooped out the seeds. “He heard everything that went on at the corral. You know how he is.”

“Yeah.” The smell of jalapenos waned through the air. “Damn, the last thing I need is to have Granny on Nick's case.”

“Oh, she's not put out with
your
Mr. Nicky.”

A rich-timbred voice called from the doorway, “Sorry to disappoint you Miss Lola Ruth, but I'm hardly
her
Mr. Nicky at the moment.”

“How long have you been standing there?” Cocking her head and scowling, McCall challenged him. “Eavesdropping?”

Nick eased into one of his infectious
If You Only Knew
smiles.

All the frustration she felt rushed back. She walked to the sink and with a louder thud than she had planned her spoon hit porcelain. “I've gotta get some air.” Then she turned to Nick and said, “I just need time to think about everything that went on this morning.” She took a deep breath, knowing he deserved more of an explanation. “I don't cotton to being talked about behind my back.” She took two steps. “Nick, you're welcome to come along, but don't expect much conversation.”

“Nicky, don't forget dinner. I'm making homemade ice cream and apple cobbler,” Lola Ruth raised her voice two notches.

Boldly stepping out into the screened-in back porch, McCall retrieved a sweat-stained straw hat off a peg.

“Not so fast. I don't know exactly what you heard, but we need to talk,” Nick said to McCall's back, then, over his shoulder, he said, “And yes, Miss Lola Ruth, I promise we'll be back by dinner.”

A huff that could have staved off a flame-throwing dragon mushroomed from McCall's chest as she took off across the yard. How much of her conversation with Lola Ruth had he heard?

Taking long strides, Nick plowed his way in McCall's direction, closing the distance between them. Reaching her, he gingerly, yet firmly, caught her by the arm.

She pulled out of his grasp, retreating deeper into the shadows of a timeworn cottonwood. “To be hospitable to a guest, I said you could come along, but didn't you hear me say not to expect any conversation?” She glared at him. “I need some air, not conversation. But if it's conversation you want, I'm sure Lola Ruth would love to talk with you.”

Fairly quickly, she passed the corral and neared the barn, where she slid through a side door, which she pulled shut behind her.

All six foot three inches of his lean body collided with the barn door.

He wanted to think she didn't know he was behind her still, but he wasn't all that sure about his assumptions.

“Son of a . . .” He thrust the heavy pine door open with his palms in time to see her exit into the sunlight from the opposite end of the tack room. At her side, she swung an antiquated, rust-laden lard can and a short-handled shovel.

What in the hell was McCall up to? Murder crossed his mind. Maybe she planned to dig a grave, bury him, and shovel dirt in his face with the lard can. She wouldn't. Would she?