A Rodeo Man's Promise. Marin Thomas

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СКАЧАТЬ Riley. Usually, he was the one beating off the women. “I’m no threat.”

       Keeping hold of the weapon, she crossed her arms in front of her bosom—a well-endowed bosom.

       Plus column.

       She had curvy hips unlike the skinny buckle bunnies who squeezed their toothpick legs into size-zero Cruel Girl jeans. This lady filled a pair of denims in a way that made Riley want to grab hold of her fanny and never let go.

       Three pluses—home run.

       “Engine trouble?” she asked.

       “Bird strike. I’d hoped to make it to Blue Skies Regional—” the municipal airport was located seven miles northwest of the central business district in Albuquerque “—but I lost altitude too quickly.”

       “Who are you?”

       The female drill sergeant needed to loosen up a bit. He spread his arms wide. “A cowboy.”

       “Aren’t they all.” She rolled her eyes.

       Amused, Riley tapped a finger against his belt buckle. “Standing before you, ma’am, is a bona fide world-champion bronc-buster.”

       “Don’t call me that.” Almond-shaped brown eyes flashed with warning.

       “Call you what?”

       “Ma’am.”

       So the lady was a tad touchy about her age. The tiny lines that fanned from the outer corners of her eyes hinted that she was older than Riley by more than a few years. She was on the short side, but there was nothing delicate about her. The arm wielding the pipe sported a well-defined bicep. His mind flashed back to Dirty Lil’s—he’d give anything to watch this woman mud wrestle.

       “I’ve never met a real cowboy who wears snakeskin boots and flies his own plane. My guess is that you’re a drug dealer, masquerading as a cowboy.”

      Whoa. “Sorry to disappoint you, ma’—uh, miss. I left Canon City, Colorado, earlier today after competing in the Royal Gorge Rodeo.” She didn’t appear impressed. “Go ahead and check my plane for contraband.” He dug his cell phone from his pocket. “Or call my agent. He’ll verify that I’m Riley Fitzgerald, current NFR saddle-bronc champion.” Soon to be dethroned if he didn’t get his rodeo act together.

       “Agent?” she scoffed. “Is that what they’re calling drug cartels these days?”

       The lady appeared immune to his charm. Riley couldn’t remember the last time a woman had rejected him. Her feistiness and bravado intrigued him and he found her sass sexy. “Why would a drug runner risk landing his plane in a salvage yard?”

       “I’ve seen bolder displays of arrogance.”

       Now he was an arrogant drug dealer? “As soon as I locate a good mechanic I intend to fly the heck out of Dodge.” He removed a handful of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. “Put this toward the damages. You can send a final bill—”

       One of her delicately shaped eyebrows arched.

       “What?”

       “Cowboys don’t carry around hundred-dollar bills.”

       “Take the money!”

       Riley jumped inside his skin and scanned the piles of household appliances, searching for the location of the mystery voice. “Who’s there?”

       “Alonso Marquez, get your backside out here right now.” The woman marched toward the graffiti-covered cinder-block hut with broken-out windows and a missing door. The word Office had been painted across the front in big red letters. Rusty refrigerators, washing machines and water heaters sat outside the building. “Victor and Cruz, I know you’re there, too.” The pipe-wielding crusader halted a few yards before the door when three teens waltzed from the building.

       They were dressed the same—baggy pants that hung low on their hips. Black T-shirts. Each wore a bicycle chain lock around their necks and another chain hung from the pocket of their pants, down both sides of their legs, ending an inch above the ground. The baseball caps on their heads were turned sideways—all facing to the left—and their athletic shoes had no laces.

       “You guys better have a good reason for skipping class yesterday and missing the quiz.”

      Quiz? He’d crash-landed his plane, been accused of drug trafficking and now the crazy lady discussed schoolwork with three troublemakers from the ’hood.

       “We’re not comin’ to class no more.” The tallest kid of the bunch spoke.

       “You’re quitting, Cruz? The three of you are this—” she pinched her thumb and forefinger together in front of the boy’s face “—close to earning your GEDs.”

       “We got a better gig goin’ on.”

       “Does this gig have anything to do with the Los Locos, Victor?” She tapped the end of the pipe against the boy’s chest.

       “What if it does?” The teen grimaced, the action stretching the scar on his face. A line of puckered flesh began at his temple and cut across the outer corner of his eye, dragging the skin down before continuing along his cheek and ending at the edge of his mouth. “Hanging with the Locos is better than sitting in class learning stupid stuff, Ms. Alvarez.”

      Ms. Alvarez was a teacher. Riley didn’t envy her job—not if her students were as difficult as these punks.

       “Victor—”

       “Mind if I butt in?” Four heads swiveled in Riley’s direction.

       “Awesome landing, dude.” The kid named Victor made a fist pump in the air.

       “Thanks, but I prefer using runways when possible.” Keeping one eye on Ms. Alvarez and her lead pipe and the other on the teens, Riley joined the crowd. “You guys didn’t get hurt by flying debris, did you?”

       Three heads swiveled side-to-side.

       “I’m Riley Fitzgerald.” He held out his hand and one of the teens stepped forward, offering his fist. Riley bumped knuckles with the kid.

       “Alonso Marquez.”

       Next, Riley nudged knuckles with the tall teen, who said, “Cruz Rivera.”

       The kid with the scar kept his hands in his pockets and mumbled, “Victor Vicario.”

       Riley offered his knuckles to the teacher, but she held out her hand instead. “Maria Alvarez.”

      Pretty name for a pretty lady. He eyed her weapon. “That’s for show, right?”

       “No.” She smiled and Riley’s breath hitched in his chest. She had the most beautiful white teeth and dimples.

       “When did you figure out I wasn’t a drug lord?” he asked.

       Her gaze dropped to his waist. “When you pointed to the horse on your belt buckle.”

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