Saddled and Spurred: A Blacktop Cowboys Novel (12 page)

M
mm. The blanket felt soft and fuzzy against her bare skin, but it wasn’t very warm. Harper shivered and rolled over.

Wait a second. She shouldn’t be able to feel the blanket against her skin, since she never slept naked. Too many years of the fear that she would run into whatever bar rat her mom had picked up the night before if she went to the bathroom or the kitchen.

She opened her eyes and jackknifed in the middle of a kingsize bed. Clutching the blanket to her chest, she squinted at her surroundings. Wood-paneled walls. Two dressers against the wall with a small window. Sliding doors that hid a closet. A ginger jar lamp on the nightstand next to an alarm clock. The red numbers flashed 3:15, but that wasn’t right. It felt like early morning, but not that early.

The whole space was impersonal. Bland even. She inhaled a deep, slow breath and the scent of man, of the clean tang of aftershave filled her nostrils. Harper was in Bran’s bedroom.

But where was Bran?

She’d slept on top of the covers. The sheets weren’t mussed. Neither were the pillows. She scooted to the edge of the bed and set her feet on the floor. Her clothes were in a pile.

Good Lord. Why couldn’t she remember stripping and falling into Bran’s bed?

Shoot. That was definitely something she wouldn’t want to sleep through.

Harper shoved the blanket aside and dressed quickly, wrinkling her nose at the barnyard smell wafting from her clothes. She had a blurry memory of standing in front of the trailer door, waiting for Bran to let her in. Then . . . nothing.

She ventured out of the bedroom, passing the bathroom and two closed doors before she was in the living room. There he was. Warmth flowed through her when she saw Bran sprawled on the couch, his forearm across his eyes, the stubble of his beard darkening the angular lines of his face.

Although he was mostly covered, the lower part of his leg peeked out from beneath the fleece blanket. His sweatpants had slid up to his knee, revealing the dark hair on his leg and the muscled flesh of his calf. The muscles gave way to the stoutness of his ankle and the smooth white skin covering the top of his bare foot.

She’d never seen cowboy Bran without boots, or at least socks, on his feet. Seeing that vulnerable part of him—well, she wouldn’t have felt more like a Peeping Tom if she’d gotten a glimpse inside his boxers.

She purposely scrutinized his foot, from his heel to the tip of his big toe. Mighty long. Hmm. She wondered if foot size really
was
an indication of the size of his . . .

“If you’re done gawking at me, I’ll get up and make us a pot of coffee,” he said gruffly.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Were you planning on takin’ off without saying good-bye again?”

That was the first time he’d mentioned her sneaking out. She honestly thought he hadn’t noticed. Or cared. “No. I just . . .”

Bran moved his arm and she was staring into his eyes. Oh. Not fair. Why were his eyes more blue than gray this morning? A bottomless blue like the wide Wyoming sky? She could totally lose herself in his eyes.

“Harper. You just . . . what?”

Her cheeks flamed as she realized she’d been gazing at him like he personally hung the moon and the stars solely for her. “What? Oh, right, I’m, ah, still pretty confused. I just don’t remember anything from last night.”

A dark brow winged up. “Nothin’?”

She blushed harder, if that were possible. “I remember you opening the door. That’s it.”

He shifted until his feet hit the floor. “Not much to tell. I helped you get your outerwear off. As I was takin’ mine off, you disappeared. I found you in my bedroom stripped down to your very sexy underthings and passed out on my bed.” Bran locked his gaze to hers. “I threw a blanket over you. Then I came out here and crashed on the couch.”

Such a gentleman.

Get a grip. “I’m sorry if I was a problem.”

Bran grinned the wicked cowboy grin that fired every feminine molecule she had. “The only problem I had was walking away when I had a gorgeous half-nekkid woman in my bed.”

How was she supposed to respond to that?

Brightly, with a totally fake smile, Harper said, “I’ll make coffee.”

Was it her imagination, or was Bran . . . chuckling?

The coffee supplies were still on the counter from yesterday—had it really been only one day?—so she didn’t have to dig through his cupboards. She sat at the dinette table, surprised that Bran hadn’t changed out of his jammies.

Right. Like big, bad, tough cowboys called them
jammies
.

Silence. Complete silence beyond the gurgling noises of the coffeemaker. She couldn’t think of a blasted thing to say.

“Harper? Are you okay?”

“No. I feel like such an idiot. Not remembering what happened last night, not only after we got back here, but before that. Everything is blank after we pulled that last calf. I’m sure you’re used to hired hands who are tougher, able to go days without sleep. I just hit a wall.”

“Part of calving is bein’ completely exhausted, and that’s why I needed help. I can’t do it on my own. To be honest? I don’t remember a whole helluva lot from last week. It’s a blur. I’m fairly sure I didn’t do nothin’ stupid and endanger the cattle by falling asleep at the wheel and running them over.”

Harper smiled. It was really sweet of him, trying to make her feel better.

“We’re in the midst of the worst of it. About two and a half weeks from now, we’ll be back to regular ranch chores for the rest of the time you’re working here. It’ll seem kinda boring.”

“I doubt that.” The coffeemaker beeped. Harper made him sit while she poured them each a cup and brought it back to the table.

He leaned back in his seat and stared at her as he held the mug between his big hands. “Since you spent the night in my bed, should I be offering to make you breakfast?” he asked with a silky growl.

Her face heated to the point she probably could’ve fried an egg on it. “Bran.”

“Damn. Woman, I love to see you blush.”

Really? He did? “It’s dorky. All splotchy-faced like a fourteenyear-old girl.”

“It’s sexy,” he countered with another one of those rumbling growls. “Makes me want to find out firsthand if that pretty pink flush covers your whole body, not just your cheeks and your neck.”

Harper managed to look Bran in the eye. “Do you tease Les like this? Or are you doing it to me because you think I won’t fight back?”

“I give Les ten times more crap on a daily basis than I’ve given you.” Bran shrugged and sipped his coffee. “It’s just the way I am.”

“Is this where you tell me you wouldn’t tease me if you didn’t like me?”

“Yep.” He smirked. “But from what I’ve seen? You can hold your own. So don’t be afraid to call me on my shit if you think I’m full of it.”

“Bet on it.” Harper grabbed her purse and fished out her cell phone to check the time. After nine. Hopefully Bailey had hauled herself out of bed and made it to the bus stop. There weren’t any missed calls or text messages, so she took that as a good sign.

“Problem?” Bran asked.

She met his gaze. “No. If it won’t upset your schedule too much, I’d like to be at home today when Bailey gets out of school and stay with her until after we’ve had supper.”

“That’ll work. I doubt we’ll see too many births during the day, but I’d like to check the cattle before you take off. We need to ear-tag last night’s calves.”

“Okay.”

Both she and Bran were dragging as they split bales of hay. When ear-tagging the new calves, Harper distracted the mamas while Bran attached the tag to the baby. With some of the mamas she could walk right up to the calf and they wouldn’t fuss. But others, if she got too close, they’d paw the ground like a bull and charge. So far Bran had snuck in without getting knocked around. She felt safer being on an ATV, figuring she could outrun the protective cows on a machine faster than she could on foot.

They didn’t finish until noon. Harper had to leave the driver’s side window open and allow frigid air to blow on her on the way home to keep from falling asleep.

As she stumbled into the house, she realized that for the past three days her life had been a blur. Work, shower, sleep. Work, shower, sleep. She shed her clothes at the front door and made a beeline for the bathroom.

She couldn’t muster enthusiasm to put on anything except her robe, which reminded her that all her casual clothes were filthy. She filled the washing machine and flopped on the couch, planning to rest her eyes until the load finished.

The front door slamming brought Harper straight up off the couch. She blinked bleary eyes at her sister. Her angry sister.

“Fuck. I hate school. I can’t wait to be outta there. I’m gonna flip off every goddamn teacher right after I get my diploma and burn my goddamn uniforms.” Bailey’s backpack hit the floor with a thud. She threw off her coat, kicked off her snow boots, and stomped to the bedroom—a feat in stocking feet—and slammed the door.

This should be a fun afternoon.

Yawning, Harper tossed her clothes in the dryer before she took stock of the food situation. She had all the supplies to make lasagna—Bailey’s favorite—and it might coax her out of her room sooner rather than later. Bailey was pretty even-keeled, but when she got mad, she stayed mad. Through trial and error, Harper had learned not to force her sister to talk it out. Some days, being a parental figure to Bailey was overwhelming, especially when Harper still felt like a lost kid herself.

Cooking soothed her because it was one of the few things in her life she could control. Mixing the right ingredients, adding her twist to traditional dishes that allowed them to be unique yet familiar.

Harper had been cooking, or at least scrounging up meals, since the year she’d turned twelve and Liberty had left the family to join the army. Their mother had spiraled into a drunken rage, spending months in deep depression, forcing Harper to become the responsible one in the household. Since Mom tended to blow all her tips on booze, cigarettes, and lottery tickets, Harper had learned to keep cheap staples on hand so she and Bailey wouldn’t starve during the weeks when there wasn’t money for groceries. Over the years, Harper had gotten very good at budgeting food and money and trying to make whatever crappy rental they landed in feel like a real home.

How many times had she imagined growing up a normal kid? Where home was a two-story Colonial house in the suburbs with a manicured lawn, a tire swing hung from an old oak tree in the backyard next to a playhouse, or better yet, a tree house. She’d dreamt of birthday parties with layer cake and homemade ice cream and beautifully wrapped presents. Surrounded by friends. She’d wished for a bike for herself and a baby doll for Bailey to appear under the tree on Christmas morning. She’d imagined hot summers selling lemonade on the sidewalk and swimming at the lake. Winters sledding and ice-skating and coming home to a steaming cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows.

Around age thirteen she’d given up on hopes for a normal life, pushing girlish dreams aside. She just wanted to survive until she turned eighteen and could take off like Liberty had.

Except that hadn’t happened. With the way things always went in Harper’s life, it probably never would. Some people were born lucky, or at least with a sprinkling of cosmic goodness, and things went their way once in a while. Not her. Not ever. She’d gotten so used to picking herself up, dusting herself off, she wouldn’t know what to do if the universe ever smiled on her.

After sprinkling Mozzarella cheese on the top layer of sauce, Harper popped the lasagna in the oven. She washed the last of the veggies, which were looking a bit wilted, and chopped a salad, adding a sweet-and-sour dressing. She set the bread machine on the counter, dumping flour, oil, yeast, and a pinch of sugar and salt into the inner pan. Nothing in the world smelled as delicious as fresh-baked bread filling the house with a homey scent. Plus, it was a lot cheaper to bake her own.

She poured a glass of water and scowled at the postage stamp- size backyard covered in a layer of dirty snow. The hedge separating their house from the one behind it offered minimal privacy. In the summertime Harper hesitated to hang their clothes on the line, suspecting that snoopy Mrs. Johnston was peering through her blinds to see if Harper or Bailey wore stripper clothes or indecent lingerie.

And speaking of lingerie . . . could she just say a prayer to the underwear gods for being down to her last clean pair of underwear and bra yesterday? Forcing her to put on the nicest ones she owned? Thank God she hadn’t worn tattered granny panties and the underwire bra that actually had a wire poking out of it.