Never the Cowboy’s Bride Page 3

  The call connects. “Mrs. Howard speaking for the City Hall.” Mrs. Howard’s voice takes the wind out of my anger sails. Why was I not expecting this? Of course she’s the one who’s going to manage all the administrative details for this competition, of course it’ll be based out of city hall, of course, of course. My brain has been addled by the sight of a naked Austin Bliss climbing out of the river.

  Christ on a biscuit, that man is sexy. Am I starting early menopause? My skin feels like it’s going to burn to a crisp at the memory of that cool water sliding down over cut muscles and a big, swinging—

  It had better be menopause.

  “Hello?” Mrs. Howard’s cheery voice pulls me up and out of that ridiculous fantasy before I crash. “Anybody there?”

  “Yes, hi. This is Brooke Carson calling.” I clear my throat, trying to clear away the memory of Austin in the water, Austin climbing from the water—crap. It’s not working.

  “Brooke, how are you?” Bless Mrs. Howard. She sounds so happy. Like I wasn’t an irritated brat at the contest registration table not two hours ago. Don’t be a brat, River-Wet Austin whispers into my imagination, and oh my god, what am I going to do? I cannot imagine things like this. It’s inappropriate, and also I hate him.

  “I’m doing very well, Mrs. Howard.” My ranch is becoming a farm that’s about to go under. I’ve signed up for a competition that might be my only hope. It’s rigged in favor of my worst enemy, and I have just seen his penis in more glory than I care to admit. I. Am. Hot. And. Bothered. “I’m calling to withdraw from the competition.”

  “Withdrawn? Oh, dear, but it’s only been a couple of hours since you signed up. Did you have second thoughts?”

  I had the thought that I’d rather lose my ranch than have to see Austin Bliss every weekend. “It’s just not something I can commit to at this time.” I almost said juncture. Who am I? Who says juncture? People whose brains have been turned into scrambled eggs by a not-entirely-unwelcome sight laid before them in the afternoon sun. Why was it not entirely unwelcome? Why did I not retch on the ground at the sight of Austin’s naked body? Because it looked so damn good, that’s why, so muscled and strong and like he could take over in bed and in life and I’d never have to worry about that again. “And I’m afraid that the contest has already been decided in favor of one person.”

  Mrs. Howard gasps. “It most certainly hasn’t, I can tell you that. We’ve only just finished putting together the entrants.”

  Heat drags across my cheeks like a flickering candle held close to my skin. “I heard some things in the crowd that suggest otherwise.” My heart is a cymbal crash, a whole band’s worth of cymbal crashes, one after the other. Outside in the breeze, riding fast toward home, my heartbeat was only a racehorse. I need to end this phone call. “I’m just calling to tell you that I quit, and you can let everybody know exactly why.”

  “Too busy.” Mrs. Howard clucks her tongue. “I’m sorry to hear it, Brooke. I know you and your family have some great assets to show off.”

  Assets to show off takes me right back to the riverside and I can’t draw a breath. “Too busy, and Austin Bliss has already been picked to win.” Where’s Everly when I need her? She’d have plucked the phone out of my hand a long time ago. Once I’ve started, I can’t stop.

  “Brooke.” Mrs. Howard’s tone is mildly disappointed, and for a hot second I’m back in ninth grade, stomping through the public library because of none other than Austin Bliss. Brooke. She said it just like that. “If you don’t want to participate in the competition, no one will think less of you.” Not true. “But nobody has chosen any winners yet. That wouldn’t be the right thing to do.”

  “Take my name off your list,” I squeak, sounding like my lungs have become helium balloons. “Austin Bliss is the worst.”

  Chapter Five

  Austin

  I’m bringing in the cattle after the storm and not thinking about Brooke Carson blushing when a voice on the wind catches my attention, dragging my mind away from that pink color and back to the task at hand. Connecticut paws at the ground beneath us, but doesn’t startle. He’s used to the way Luke tears across the field on his horse—like the world is on fire behind him. With the sun sinking into the horizon, it looks a bit like that. But if the world were really on fire, he wouldn’t be smiling like he is. Or maybe he would. I don’t know. Tell you what, that rain wasn’t enough. It’s already soaked into the ground like a ghost of itself.

  “Didn’t catch that,” I shout above the wind and the various grunts and snuffles of the cattle. “What is it?” My heart drums a quicker beat against my ribs. The last time he rode out like this, it was because he’d been the one to check the mail that day. He’d gotten a letter from the other Bliss family, across the country in New York, and everything had changed.

  Or maybe it was only me who changed, and everything seemed too much the same. Like someone had switched out all my clothes in slightly different versions of themselves. Same cut and color, wrong size.

  “I heard you rigged a competition.” He brings Walt, his horse, to a stop and grins, wind tousling his blond hair. “How’d you pull it off? And what are we going to put on that billboard?”

  “Sweet Jesus, Luke, I did not rig a competition. Who told you that?” All I did was dance around naked in front of Brooke and make her blush. Hard.

  “I was down at the library. Mrs. Howard got a phone call.”

  “What the hell were you doing at the library? You’re allergic to books. I haven’t seen you read a book in ten years. Twenty, maybe. The library?” Suspicion wraps itself around the sharp edges of my irritation like the red stripe on a barber pole.

  “I was meeting somebody. But the important part is—”

  “Who were you meeting?”

  “Julie May.” The name trips off his tongue with a dart of his eyes to the side. “But the important thing is—”

  “You’re still seeing her?”

  “I’m not seeing her. We’re friends, that’s all.” He steers Walt slightly away from me and gazes out over the hills. “Good sunset tonight.”

  Friends, that’s all. Like a real friend of Luke’s would drag him into a library. I want to know more about what Julie May was possibly thinking, but it’s a Bliss rule not to pry, and a personal one, too. “Yes, Luke, it’s a good sunset. You and Julie May were at the library, then?”

  “I was at the library and Mrs. Howard got a phone call. Brooke’s dropping out of the competition.”

  Pink cheeks, a slightly open mouth, blonde hair in a knot at the back of her neck. Tick, tick—the ignition at the base of my emotions catches and bursts into flame, moisture fleeing my mouth like he’s just told me that Brooke is standing naked in the middle of our house. “Why do you think I’d care about that?”

  “Mrs. Howard said the two of you were going at it at the signup this afternoon.” He narrows his eyes, the light glinting off the Bliss blue color there. “Going at it. Almost like you care about her.”

  Connecticut shifts underneath me. “I’ve got to get these cattle in.”

  “She’s dropping out because she says you rigged the contest.”

  “Mrs. Howard would never say that to you.” Mrs. Howard is Switzerland. Mrs. Howard works at the library. She’s counted on to do most of the registration in Paulson. She volunteers at local elections, for God’s sake. She wouldn’t say anything about that to Luke.

  “She didn’t. I overheard it. So I want to know if you’ve got an in. That billboard would put us on another level.”

  I ride out around the nearest cattle, nudging them toward the pasture. I want them down from the hills and behind a fence. I want Luke behind a fence, somewhere far from here where he can’t talk to me. “How do you know about the billboard, anyway? I didn’t see you at the ceremony.”

  “I told you, I was busy.”

  “At the library.”

  “Yes.” Luke stares me down, eyes narrowed. Since our parents passed, we’re all the fami
ly we’ve got—that, and a slew of cousins on my mom’s side. But that’s not strictly true, is it? Over in New York, there are six more cousins I’ve only met once and Luke has never met. Don’t know if he even wants to. Don’t want to bring it up, because that would mean facing all the money that’s sitting in that account, the money I never asked for, the money I never wanted. A man is supposed to be independent.

  Independent or not, I still want to know what’s up with Luke. He’s the kind of guy who’s always laughing at the center of the bar on Friday night, not cracking a book in the library with a girl like Julie May.

  Or maybe they weren’t cracking books.

  The sun’s getting lower, and something stirs at the pit of my gut—something ancient. It’s time to bring the animals in, it’s time to get behind a closed door and throw the bolt. Let night come down around us like a heavy blanket. Luke’ll be headed out, no doubt about that. It’s half-off beer at the Riverbend tonight.

  “Help me get the cattle in. You’ve got plans.”

  He laughs out loud. “How do you know I’ve got plans?”

  “You’ve always got plans. Who else is gonna wash all your money down the hatch?”

  Luke rides away, headed for the other end of the herd. “You should come out tonight. Stop being such an old man.”

  “Come out for what?” I’m not interested in the women who cluster at the Riverbend bar in shiny tops and too-loud voices, and they’re not interested in me. You’re too quiet, one of the new waitresses said to me once. You’re like a cold gust of wind on everybody’s back. “Nobody’s there for me.”

  It wouldn’t have been cold that day if she’d worn a coat, but I didn’t tell her that. No, I just walked on out. Everly Carson was there that night. Caught a glimpse of her face on the way out. Those Carson women are everywhere. Everywhere, including the river.

  And here I am, back where I started. Damn that Luke.

  “Somebody could be there for you,” he shouts back, but it’s so absurd that it makes me laugh. Nobody’s going to be waiting for me at the Riverbend. Maybe nowhere else in Paulson. Maybe that’s because I really don’t belong here. Fear tugs at the back of my mind. Maybe that’s why I’ve never found a woman who can go toe-to-toe with me. Nobody’s ever done that, except...

  Except the woman who’d rather quit than have a fair fight in this Harvest Festival contest.

  What I need to do is kick back in front of the fire, get a whiskey from the bottle on my own shelf, and forget all about Brooke Carson. “You go ahead,” I tell Luke next time he comes around this side of the herd. “Julie May’s probably waiting for you.”

  Chapter Six

  Brooke

  “You’d better run.”

  Everly sits casually in the rocker by the window of my bedroom. I have the front on the top floor, and I’ve never been able to give it up—I like to see what’s coming up the drive, even if it means keeping the smallest bedroom of the three. The floor creaks under the rhythmic press of her foot, the wood of the chair whispering across the wood of the floor. All of it’s been softened with age and rocking babies, me and Everly included. Someday, if I ever have babies, I’ll rock them there, too.

  The chair is technically an heirloom. I bet it’s not listed in anyone’s official will. Wasn’t. I bet it wasn’t. And now the heirloom is mine, along with the rest of the farmhouse, along with the rest of the ranch.

  My mouth isn’t working quite right. “What did you say?”

  She looks out the window for three long heartbeats, then turns her head. “Run.”

  My sister’s face has always been like the light coming from a stained-glass window—all the colors, spread right there at your feet, splashed against the wall or the floor, however they’ve chosen to land. Transparent enough to trace the patterns with your finger. So the flat-eyed stare she gives me now reaches into my gut and twists with frozen fingers. Maybe it’s not her after all. Her features soften, flitting out of their usual form. Maybe it’s not her. Everly doesn’t have blue eyes, she has brown eyes. Those blue eyes are like Austin’s.

  No.

  She cocks her head to the side. “Why aren’t you running?”

  Breathe. I’ve got to breathe, even if I’m terrified for some unknowable reason. But the oxygen I suck into my lungs isn’t the familiar dusty air of my bedroom. It’s hot and heavy with smoke.

  Oh, shit.

  A cough tears from my lungs, throwing me bodily out of the dream. Smoke, thick and black, is billowing in around the cracks of the door. It blots out the moonlight. My skin pulls tight around my muscles, the acrid taste of ash on my tongue, and oh my god, the house is on fire.

  The floorboards are warm beneath my bare feet. That’s a bad sign, isn’t it? That’s a sign that the fire is underneath me, maybe. Oh, shit. What to do in the event of a fire. Stop, drop, and roll. No—that’s if your clothes are on fire. My clothes aren’t on fire because I’m hardly wearing any. Because I sleep in an old nightshirt that barely covers my ass. It’s soft, okay? The softest item of clothing I own. Get down, get down, get below the smoke.

  I drop to my knees and crawl, breath harsh in my throat. My lungs buck against my attempt to calm down, gut tying itself into a deadly bow. Not now, Satan Stomach Cramps. Not now. One knee scrapes against a narrow gap between the floorboards and smarts, which is incredible. The adrenaline roaring through my veins has my hands shaking and my skin ultra-sensitive. That’s sure to come in handy when I get burned alive, oh, god, I can’t get burned alive.

  I reach up and palm the doorknob. It’s warn, maybe verging on hot, but not super hot like it would be if the fire were right outside. The fire’s not right outside, is it? I draw my feet up under me and scurry back over to the front window. A warning scratches at the back of my mind. If I open the window, that might pull more smoke into the room. If I open the door, it’ll definitely pull more smoke into the room.

  Make a decision.

  If Everly were here, she’d know what to do. She’d have woken up a long time ago. It wouldn’t have taken a dream-me acting like a creepy ghost to wake her up. What would she do? What would she do? The dam holding my fear in check breaks loose and it climbs up my throat too fast for me to swallow it back down.

  The door flies open. Somebody screams. It’s me. It’s me, and that moment I know it’s me I slap my hands over my mouth.

  “Brooke. Come on. We’ve got to get out.”

  At first, I don’t recognize him—not with the navy bandana tied over his mouth and nose. Then the moonlight catches in those blue eyes. My eyes sting, the smoke making them water. I’m not crying. The tears run down my cheeks anyway. His frame fills the door and then he fills the room, surging toward me. His big hand comes down just above my elbow, and—

  It’s Austin.

  Austin Bliss is in my house.

  Lightning cracks across the dark sky of my soul, lighting me up from the inside out. “The papers,” I shout. “I need my papers.” The last word is a choked cough. How long has the place I live been trying to kill me?

  “Leave the papers,” he booms. “This place is going to come down.”

  “My rocking chair!” The chair—at least the chair, it has to come out with me. With us. The floor heats up under my feet and I seize the back of the chair with both hands.

  Big palms come down on top of mine and break my grip. The tenderness of it doesn’t match with the urgency in his voice. “Leave the damn chair. Otherwise, we’re both going down with the house. Everly. Look at me.”

  I wrench myself around, still within the boundary of his arms, eyes stinging. The fire is eating up all the air in the house in massive gusts.

  “The house is on fire.” Austin’s mouth is hidden by the bandana but his eyes are free to pierce me through the heart with all the delicacy of a butcher cutting up the cheap meats. “It’s coming down. We have to go. Do you understand?”

  His hair is slightly mussed. I’ve never seen what Austin looks like when he’s been sleeping
before. Oh, god, why am I thinking about this when the house is burning down? Why won’t my brain just work?

  I see myself turn toward bedroom door. The house is on fire, but I’ll just walk down the steps like nothing’s happening.

  This is too much for Austin. He hooks his arm around my waist and the strength of him shoves the air out of my lungs on a cough. This time, I can’t stop coughing. Every breath I take is smokier than the last one. “You Carson women,” he mumbles under his breath, and then I’m moving. We’re moving. Toward the front of the house. To my eternal shame I grip his arm like it’s the most muscular life preserver known to man. He’s so solid behind me, the zipper of his jeans brushing against the soft, worn fabric of the t-shirt I’m wearing.

  The t-shirt I’m wearing with no pants. Half my ass is probably peeking out the bottom.

  Austin shoves at the windowsill and it sticks. We painted in the spring. Everly and I—we painted, and I can see her there now, painting the window shut. Terror strokes around my throat with thick fingers and latches on. I could die for freshly painted trim. I could die. We could die.

  But the window is no match for Austin Bliss.

  He gives another shove and the paint comes free with a plasticky crack. The rest of the oxygen in my bedroom hurls itself out the window. More acrid smoke is tight on its heels. Austin doesn’t wait to consult me—he lifts me bodily out the window. The edge of one of the shingles presses painfully into the ball of my foot. Come to find out, I still have a hold on him. On his broad, strong forearm. Nobody could ever accuse Austin of having delicate bones.