Authors: Cindy Gerard
“Hell, I was ready to split anyway,” he lied, painting the picture he wanted her to see. “There was a song out last year. Something about being born dirt poor and dreaming about growing up and getting out of the rut.” He shrugged again. “That was me. All I wanted to do was leave. And I didn’t care if I ever walked that dead-end country road again.”
“Which explains why you came back and took care of your brother when your mother died,” she said with a knowing look and a contrary tilt of her head.
“Don’t go reading more into it. Somebody had to do it.”
“Somebody
didn’t.
You
did. Why do you always sell yourself so short? You didn’t have to come back.”
Uncomfortable with her probing eyes, he downed a swallow of coffee, then tossed the dregs in the bottom of the mug into the dust. “Yeah, well, I was at loose ends, anyway.”
She cocked her head. “Whatever you say,” she said, but her look said she wasn’t buying a bit of it.
“So, how’s Lana doing this morning?” he asked, wanting to change the subject before she got him singing like a snitch in a bad cops-and-corruption movie.
“She’s fine. In fact, she shooed me out of the kitchen and started breakfast. She sent me down here to make sure you and Tag get your ‘skinny cowboy butts’—her words, not mine—to breakfast.
“It’s not, you know,” she added as he opened the gate and joined her on the other side.
“What’s not?”
“Your butt. It’s not skinny. In fact, as butts go—and I’ve poked needles in my share of them—it’s a fairly fine butt. Actually, it’s better than fine, it’s—”
“Quiet, woman,” he growled, giving up his resistance and hooking an arm around her neck. He tucked her close to his side. “Before that mouth gets you in trouble again.”
∙ ∙ ∙
Her mouth got her in trouble later that night. The sweetest kind of trouble he’d ever known.
Every time they came together, there was more fire, more frenzy, more wild, thrilling excitement that left them panting and weak. Tonight, though, there was even more... a new element to her lovemaking, an urgency she initiated that sent him over the edge to oblivion.
“Sweet Lord, Sara,” he hissed through clenched teeth. Arching his neck, he knotted his hands in the silk of her hair and rode with the rhythm of her hot, hungry mouth surrounding him.
When he couldn’t take any more, he cupped her head in his hands and lifted her. Dragging her up the length of his body, he held her in a crushing embrace, laboring to catch his breath. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Not what I had in mind,” she murmured around a string of wet, biting kisses.
With a groan, he rolled her beneath him and entered her in one swift, electric plunge.
Then all he heard was her breathless cries and his own thundering heartbeat as he tangled his fists in her hair and filled her with deep, driving strokes.
He was a lost man. He couldn’t get enough of her. Couldn’t get deep enough. Couldn’t get close enough to her heat or her scent or her total trust and wanton acceptance of anything he asked her to do.
When he exploded inside her, it was with a series of hard, hammering thrusts that splintered into shards of blinding pleasure and bled him dry of every thought but one: What would his world be like without her?
∙ ∙ ∙
“How much longer did you say it would take?” Sara asked as she consulted the road map.
“Another hour or so,” Tucker said, checking his rearview mirror and pulling into the passing lane.
She still wasn’t sure how it had happened, exactly, but one day had shuffled into another until the weekend rolled around, and she was still at Blue Sky. Much to Karla’s dismay.
“Sara,” she’d lectured over the phone on Thursday night, “don’t you think it’s time you came back to Dallas?”
What she’d meant was “don’t you think it’s time you got away from Tucker?” but she’d been too smart or too sensitive to say it.
Yeah, it was probably time, Sara agreed as she cast a look across the cab of the pickup and covertly studied Tucker’s profile. It was probably past time, but she just couldn’t bring herself to give it up.
The bottom line was, she was in love with him. Hopelessly, helplessly and, in all likelihood, futilely. Yet he hadn’t sent her away. And the whisper of hope that he’d return her love refused to die.
Which was why, when Tag asked her to go to a competition with Tucker in his place, she’d agreed. Besides, there was the very real issue of Tag and Lana to consider. Tag didn’t feel comfortable leaving Lana to deal with the stock for the few days the competition would keep them away. Sara agreed that it wasn’t wise. It would have been different if they’d gotten a wrangler hired to take over the chores and keep an eye on things. To date, they hadn’t gotten a single call in response to their ad.
She suspected that was why Tucker hadn’t put the brakes on the idea of her going along. He, too, saw the necessity.
When they pulled into the show grounds an hour and a half later, she forgot about the whys and the why nots. She was too busy dealing with a rush of excitement.
“I didn’t expect it to be such a big competition,” she said, taking in the volume of fancy rigs and high-priced horseflesh being unloaded from various trailers.
“With a two hundred-thousand-dollar purse on the line, they’re guaranteed a good draw,” he said, climbing out of the cab.
“Two hundred thousand?” she exclaimed, scooting out her side, then walking to the back of the trailer with him. “I guess I’ve been away from competition too long. I’d forgotten what a hefty price came with success.”
“Yeah, well...” He unlatched the end gate, then reached for a lead rope. “Let’s hope we get a little piece of that pie.
∙ ∙ ∙
It was like the hush before the rise of the curtain, the quiet before the main event. The five-thousand-seat arena was filled to capacity with the rich and the confident, the wannabes and the hopefuls. And all eyes were currently on the three-year-old bay gelding and the lean, Hollywood-gorgeous cowboy settled on his back.
Sara sucked in a deep breath, her gaze straying for a glimpse of the clock before returning to Tucker and the bay. Two and a half minutes to glory—or defeat.
It was the final round of competition after a three-day culling in which the cream of the entrants had risen to the top. Mason’s black had been inched out in the semifinals by half a point. Still, she knew Tucker had been pleased by the little mare’s performance, not having expected that good a showing. If she hadn’t been injured last fall, she’d have been a great futurity prospect last winter. As a three-year-old, coming four, she still had a fine future ahead of her.
The bay was a different story. He’d consistently placed in the top ten in last year’s futurity events. This year he was a mature horse, and Tucker had high expectations for him. He wasn’t letting him down. The bay had smoked the competition going into the semifinal round, and now he had a chance to show what he was really made of.
Sara inched to the edge of her seat as horse and rider made a deep cut into the herd, moving with patience and practiced precision so as not to spook the milling Herefords.
The bay was on and he knew it. His wide, intelligent eyes were watchful, his fox ears forward and alert.
With a sureness that made it look easy, Tucker guided the gelding with the subtle touch of a knee, the barest pressure on the snaffle, until the calf he’d selected broke at a slow trot from the huddled throng.
The crowd murmured their quiet approval. Sara drew a deep breath and wrapped her fingers in a death grip around the rail in front of her. In the speed of a camera flash, the action began.
With one hand on the horn, the other dropped low to allow complete, free rein, Tucker let the gelding have his head. It was up to the horse now. All the months of training and preparation for this moment had come to this. All he could do was hang on for the ride.
The audience went wild at the first move the gelding played against the calf. A roar of approval erupted like gunfire through the packed arena.
With her heart thundering in her throat, Sara got lost in the beauty and the art of man and animal cutting and dodging and “gettin’ ground” in perfect harmony and with athletic grace. For the next two and a half minutes, the shouts and whistles sounding around her bled into the background as she surrounded herself with an acute awareness of only Tucker and the gelding and the calf.
When it was over and the arena was roaring with approval for a job well done, she pried her fingers from around the rail and waited for the score. It was 219. Again the crowd whistled and hooted and the arena resounded with applause when the fantastic score flashed on the board.
“Yes!” she whispered, and on shaking legs rose and went to meet Tucker behind the pens and wait for the final competitors to perform.
∙ ∙ ∙
They’d settled for second, losing out to the dazzling performance of a seasoned veteran. Tucker was still extolling the virtues of both horse and rider over a thick steak two hours later.
“That old fox Murdock’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve. And his old stud has seen more competitions than I’ve seen horses. Damn, they were something tonight.”
Sara watched him across the table, slowly letting go of her disappointment as he dug into his T-bone. He was still fired up on adrenaline, flying high and fairly bouncing with afterburn energy.
“You’re taking this better than I am,” she sputtered, playing her fork through her salad.
“Darlin’, fifty grand for second place makes for a heap of consoling. And if we had to lose, nothing could have been better than losing to that horse. Poco’s his own son. His
own
son,” he repeated meaningfully. “That old stud threw mostly fillies, and of the horse colts he did sire, most of them have been gelded or ended up reining horses or competing in pleasure classes. Poco’s one of only two stud colts out of the old boy who are cutters. The other one’s in Oklahoma, racking up points and prize money and ten thousand dollar stud fees.
“When I enter Poco in the futurity in Fort Worth this winter, all eyes are going to be on that little stud of mine. If he rises to the occasion like his daddy, we’ll have to build a new facility just to handle the ladies they’ll be bringing to him to settle.”
He grinned at her, then polished off his steak. “The money from his stud fees alone will float the note on the spread.”
“And is Poco as good as his daddy?” she asked, falling victim to that smile and his enthusiasm.
He sat back in his chair, looking smug and dangerous and utterly irresistible. “Does a cowboy ride with his boots on?”
∙ ∙ ∙
They celebrated until midnight. In boots and jeans and high-flying spirits, they found a local night spot where the band was fine and the mood infectious. They Texas two- stepped, boot-scooted and slow-danced until the lazy, sensual rhythm of the music and their brushing bodies sent them sauntering to the truck in each other’s arms.
Sara told herself it didn’t matter how she felt when she saw how other women looked at Tucker. He’d turn heads dressed in a polyester leisure suit. He’d turn heads with a sack over his.
She told herself he was with her, and if there was never another moment than now, she wouldn’t be sorry for the chance she’d taken.
Snuggled against him in the front seat of the truck, with the lights from the oncoming traffic flashing strobe-like across the angular beauty of his face, she told herself all was right with her world—just before the world exploded in front of her eyes.
Tucker swore loudly as he hit the brakes and veered sharply left to avoid the wildly careering car in front of them.
The pickup fishtailed with a screech of tires and complaining horsepower. Thanks to modern engineering and Tucker’s skill behind the wheel, they kept the truck under control and squeezed past the troubled vehicle. Pulling to a skidding stop in the breakdown lane, they watched with horror as the car flipped end over end. After an excruciating, suspended eternity, the little compact landed on its hood in the center of the median, its wheels spinning drunkenly as it wobbled, then stilled.
“You okay?” Tucker asked, with a scowl as dark as the night.
“Fine. Fine,” she repeated in a shaky whisper. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” He looked over his shoulder at the wreckage behind them as he unbuckled his belt and shoved open the door. “Blowout, I think.”
“Tucker, no!” she screamed when he bolted toward the wrecked car. “Tucker, stop! It could blow any minute.”
If he heard her, he didn’t care. And he sure as the world didn’t listen. Propelled from her shock and fear, she scrambled out of the truck as he ran toward the car.
The older-model compact lay crumpled on its roof. Smoke poured from under the hood. The steel belly of the chassis gleamed under a vapor light, the skewed angle of a broken headlight gouging an eerie, fractured path of hazy light and murky shadows into the grassy median.
Her heart, already jack-hammering, kicked up to an aching, exploding pressure when she smelled the ominous fumes of gasoline—then saw the glittering trail of oily liquid running from the rear of the car to snake along the highway,
“Tucker!” she screamed, as a fear as cloying as the stench of death paralyzed her. “The gas tank’s leaking!”
He was beyond reason. He was on his back by the driver’s door, his feet braced against the frame for leverage as he tugged like a man possessed on the jammed door.
She felt as if she were watching from afar. Like a drifter passing through a surreal nightmare over which she had neither ownership nor control. Hours passed. In reality, it was mere seconds, until she heard the creak of complaining steel and the door gave way.
“Hurry!” she whispered, frozen to the pavement like a post, knowing she should be helping, helpless to make herself move.
Until he dragged a woman’s limp, bloody body from the twisted death trap and carried her a safe distance from the wreckage to the grass on the median. He was still hovering over the lifeless mass of humanity when the car blew, rocking the night with its fury, lighting the dark with its rage.