Every Second Counts (24 page)

“Hi.”

“Hi, sexy. I sure was dreading this layover until I found out you’d be here.” Claire smiled as she ran her fingers through Ryder’s newly cropped hair. “I love it. It makes you deadly cute.” Her hands fell to the buttons on Ryder’s shirt. “In fact, you look so dangerous, I’m afraid I’m going to have to strip-search you.”

“Don’t forget to pick up our dresses from the dry cleaners before noon,” Lydia said, adjusting the hang of a canvas for the hundredth time. “The woman said they close early today. Who ever heard of dry cleaners closing early on Saturdays?”

“This isn’t New York City. Everybody who lives here knows what time they close. Mr. Early has to get over to the high school to referee intramural basketball on Saturday afternoons.” Bridgette pulled her eyes from the stormy abstract displayed in the studio. “I thought I told you the paintings from the small studio were not for sale.”

“That’s the only one. It’s not up to you. William, uh, Dean Blanchard thinks we should include it. The agreement specifically states we can sell any painting we found in the house.”

Bridgette pressed her lips together. This one was too private for public eyes. She walked over to her purse and pulled out her seldom-used checkbook. She scribbled out an amount and signed it.

“I’m exercising my privilege as chairwoman of the committee and claiming this one pre-auction.” She handed the check to Lydia.

“Holy shit! That painting shows promise, Bridge, but twenty-five thousand dollars? It’s only worth ten or fifteen max.”

“Just give the money to Jonathan Frank. He’s the treasurer for this fund-raiser.”

She avoided Lydia’s penetrating stare, taking the artwork she’d just purchased from the wall and substituting one of her own in its place. She’d been up most of the night painting it. She preferred oil over watercolors, but she needed something that would dry fast.

“You went after her, didn’t you? That’s why I couldn’t get in touch with you until yesterday afternoon.”

It was useless to deny it. “Yes. I flew to Dallas to try to stop her.”

“Stop her?”

“She rides bulls in the rodeo.”

“No shit? I saw that once, on one of those cable sports channels. Damn, those chaps they wear are criminally sexy.” Lydia wiggled her eyebrows and grinned, then frowned. “Wait, I didn’t think women did that sort of thing.”

“That’s because most women are too smart.” She instantly regretted the venom in her words. It revealed too much, and Lydia’s expression made it clear that she’d noticed.

“Did she come back with you? She’s your date tonight, right?”

“Looks like I’m going stag.” She meant to sound flippant but failed miserably.

“Oh, honey. You really care about her, don’t you?”

She nodded. Her vision blurred with tears as Lydia’s arm slipped around her shoulders in a hug.

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and took a deep breath before dropping them. “I tried to reason with her.”

Lydia huffed. “Obviously, I need to remind you that, as a woman, you have much better weapons in your arsenal.”

Despite her distress, she chuckled. “Okay. First, I fucked her brains out.”

“That’s my girl. What else?”

She closed her eyes. She could see Marc standing in her condo, soft and sexy in faded jeans and a half-buttoned forest-green shirt that complemented her dark-chocolate eyes.

“I told her I’ve fallen in love with her,” she whispered.

“Oh, my God.” Lydia released Bridgette’s shoulders to take her hands and squeeze them. She was the only one who could possibly know how much this had cost her.

“Then I told her that if she gets on that bull she’s supposed to ride today, we’re finished.”

“And she refused?” Lydia’s brow furrowed. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I can’t believe she’d pick a smelly old cow over you.” Lydia didn’t question the ultimatum. She understood why Bridgette was desperate for Ryder to do something else with her life.

Bridgette stared at her feet. “I was too afraid to wait for an answer. I left.”

“You left? You told her to pick you or her job and then walked out?”

“Well, she didn’t exactly stop me.”

“Aww, honey. I’m sorry.” Lydia wrapped her in a tight hug. “What can I do to help?”

She returned the affection and stepped back, gathering herself. “Just help me get through this damned auction. Then clear some time for me when the semester ends next month. I want to go to a sunny beach somewhere for the holidays.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had in years. Count me in.”

*

Bach blasted from the Bose speakers in Ryder’s RV, filling her ears and her mind as she tried to drown out the voices that continued to argue in her head. She wouldn’t have any room for doubt when she lowered herself onto the back of the eighteen-hundred-pound bull she’d drawn and nodded for the chute to open. A few hundred pounds smaller than average, he’d be more agile and a fierce ride. She had to find her focus.

She stepped into the shower before the water had time to heat. She was tired and needed the cold jolt. Claire had been great. Really great.

Bridgette had changed everything. She filled Ryder with hope. And she filled her with fear. Ryder’s easy-come, easy-go life had belly-rolled like a bucking bull and was twirling her, tilting her, sucking her into a well of emotion she was afraid would drown her.

When she had knocked on that hotel-room door, part of her wanted to be swept away in the familiar dance of hot, no-boundaries sex. It felt safe. It felt easy. It felt wrong. Before Claire had reached the last button on Ryder’s shirt, she knew she couldn’t do it.

Claire was disappointed when she stopped her hands but respected her dilemma. She’d changed clothes and demanded, instead, that she take her to an expensive restaurant and tell her everything. Claire didn’t judge. She didn’t offer advice. She just listened. After they had eaten and she was talked out, Claire clasped her hand and held it to her lips in a brief kiss.

“If I was inclined to settle down with one woman, it would be somebody like you. But I value my freedom—a girl at every airport, so to speak. That may change one day if I meet the right person, but not yet. Apparently you have met a woman who has changed that for you.”

Claire had risen from her chair but motioned for her to remain seated. “I’ll grab a cab back to the hotel. Thank you for dinner.” She smiled. “And the best sex I’ve ever had.” Claire bent to kiss her cheek. “You’re so sweet. I hope you get everything you want, when you finally admit to yourself what that is. And if doesn’t work out, you have my number.”

They both knew she wouldn’t call again.

The water in the shower began to warm, and she flexed to loosen the muscles still sore from the bronc and her night with Bridgette.

She closed her eyes and visualized the upcoming ride. She breathed deeply as it played through her mind, and, when the mental ride was done, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower to begin her ritual.

She dried off, wrapped her torso, carefully taped her right arm and legs, pulled on her compression undergarments, then began to dress. With each layer to protect her body, she also pulled on her mental armor to sharpen her focus.

By the time she walked from the RV to the arena with the braided leather bull rope slung over her shoulder, she was barely aware of the fans who stopped her to ask for her autograph on a program or an article of clothing. She was almost surprised when the rodeo stockman took the bull rope from her and the announcer was introducing her as the next rider.

The bull she had drawn was young and restless in the chute. Hannibal was the grandson of Dillinger, one of rodeo’s most notorious bucking bulls.

“He’s pretty rank today. Better let me spot you while you get situated,” the old stock steward said.

She nodded and drew her new piece of equipment over her head—a hockey-style helmet with a full-face mask. Sweat trickled down her temple. She longed for her Stetson but couldn’t completely ignore the doctor’s warning about the consequences of another concussion. She tightened the chinstrap and swung over the top rail.

She braced her feet on the sides of the chute as the bull tossed his head and tried to buck in the small space. She waited for him to settle then stroked his back with her boot. He snorted and banged against the sides, so she waited again.

“Good thing she’s got two more rides after this one, folks, because it looks like this bull is in a particularly bad mood today and doesn’t plan for this one to beat the buzzer.” The crowd tittered at the announcer’s comment and then grew quiet as they anticipated the break from the chute.

Ryder slid onto the broad back and winced when Hannibal threw himself back and forth in an effort to crush her legs against the sides of the chute. Damn, that hurt. She yanked the bull rope tight around the animal’s chest and he stilled, tensed like a rattlesnake waiting to strike.

She slipped her fingers into the handhold and drew the braided leather tail of the bull rope tight across her gloved hand before looping it around and across her palm again. She curled her fingers down and pounded them into the rosin-coated rope with her free hand.

She sucked in a deep breath. The odor of sweat and bull filled her lungs, and she smiled. She didn’t have any doubt or residual apprehension over her last experience with a bull, the one that had sent her to the hospital. She could do this. She knew it, and in eight seconds this bull named after a serial killer would know it.

She raised her free hand and stared down at the bull’s horns.

No fear. Her confidence and anticipation swelled. She could do this.

The gate steward tensed for her nod.

Tuxedoed men and women dressed in a dazzling display of cocktail dresses milled about the house, still filling the large studio upstairs and all of the downstairs rooms even though the actual auction had concluded more than an hour earlier.

“Ah, the woman of the hour.” William Blanchard’s gray eyes were jubilant. He reached for Bridgette’s hand and squeezed it in an unprecedented display of affection. “My dear, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done here today.”

“I can claim only a small part of the credit,” she said. “The rest of the committee, our students, and so many others have worked very hard to make this happen.”

It was a huge success. In the end, catering and postage to mail out the catalogue of what was offered had been the only real expense. The auctioneer donated his time to the cause. Lydia and several other gallery owners, who regularly sold paintings by the contributing artists, funded the biggest expense—compiling and printing the catalogue. Art-department student volunteers worked as wait staff, parking valets, and auction assistants.

“Nonetheless, you steered it all. Jonathan has only preliminary figures, but he’s sure we’ve collected twice what we had hoped. It will be a more than adequate start on the endowment, and this auction also has put our little school in the international limelight. I’ve had to employ an administrative temp just to help answer all the inquiries we’re getting from prospective students.”

“I’m so glad, Dean Blanchard. I really love teaching.”

“Please, it’s William. I may be dean of the school, but you are its savior. I truly am in your debt.”

“I’m going to be in debt, too, when Laura adds up what she bought.” A tall woman with short, curly white hair and laughing blue eyes extended her hand. “Hello, William. I thought that was you standing here, grinning like the Cheshire cat.”

“Kate, so good to see you. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Greece, mostly. Laura and I are enjoying traveling now that we’re retired and have dumped our responsibilities on the kids. My new passion is sailing on the Mediterranean.”

“We’ve missed you at the club. It’s been rather quiet without you around.”

Kate Parker chuckled and held out her hand to a petite woman who was approaching with her arm linked in Jessica’s. “Laura’s itching for a round of golf, so you may see us there next week.”

Jessica greeted Bridgette with a hug. “I see Kate has found my favorite artist. I’ve been waiting all evening to say hello. Every time I could catch sight of you in the crowd, someone would whisk you away.”

“Sorry. I did see Tory and Leah earlier. Is Skyler with you?”

“No, she’s home with the baby. She insisted Leigh is too young to leave with a sitter, but it’s really that she hates these formal events. I let her get away with it, though, because I wanted to buy some art without her having a heart attack over the prices. Have you met my moms?”

“I’m so sorry. I haven’t had a chance to introduce her yet.” William frowned at his social blunder, but Bridgette smiled to let him know she wasn’t offended.

“Bridgette LeRoy, artist extraordinaire and the organizer of this event, these are my moms—Kate and Laura Parker.”

“Hello,” Bridgette said, extending her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you two. I’m pleased to at last meet you in person.”

“Don’t believe anything Skyler says.” Kate’s handshake was firm.

“I love the painting you did of Skyler,” Laura said. “She nearly had a heart attack, though, when Jess showed it to me.”

Kate’s laughter boomed. “I had to sit on her, just so Laura could go in their bedroom to see it.”

They were referring to a nude portrait of Skyler that Jessica had commissioned Bridgette to paint from a photograph.

“She’s not usually modest,” Jessica said. “But you have to admit it’s a little intimidating for your mother-in-law to see a picture of you naked.”

Bridgette winked. “I would think so.” She couldn’t tell Jessica that Skyler had called her about a new commission, a photograph she’d taken of Jessica breastfeeding their daughter. It was to be a Christmas present.

Laura turned to William. “Kate and I would love it if you and Martha could join us for a game of golf next week.”

William beamed. “I’m sure she’d like that, too. I’ll get her to call you to settle on a tee time.”