Bad News Cowboy. Maisey Yates

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      “Consider yourself informed.”

      “Now that we’ve established we’re on equal footing—”

      “I didn’t say we were on equal footing. I said I didn’t think you were a kid.”

      “What is that supposed to mean?”

      “I’ve been pro, honey badger,” he said, combining her earlier assertion that she was not a badger with his accidental endearment. “I know the ins and outs of these events. My contacts are a little bit out of date, which is where you come in, but the rodeo is still my turf.”

      “Bull riders. The ego on y’all is astronomical.”

      “That’s because we ride bulls. Those are some big-ass scary animals. A guy has to think he’s ten feet tall and bulletproof to do something that stupid.”

      “It’s true. You are kind of stupid.” A smile spread over her face. Sometimes, it turned out, Kate did smile at him. But usually only after she was done insulting him.

      “I’m wounded.”

      “Don’t waste your time being wounded. First, we’re going to have to find out if the Logan County Fairgrounds are available for the date we would need it. Probably the day before the actual rodeo starts or the day after.”

      “You know who to call for that?”

      “Yeah, but I might want to go through Lydia.”

      “Good call,” he said. “See? This is why I asked for your help.”

      “Because I’m a genius.”

      “Sure.” He shrugged. “About a couple things.”

      “Aren’t you going to have any coffee?” Kate asked, something searching in her brown gaze now. He had no clue what the hell she was looking for, but even so, he was almost certain she wouldn’t find it.

      “I have to run,” he said. He didn’t have to run. He didn’t have anywhere to be. Except for some reason he felt averse to prolonging this moment here in the field with her. “When is the next local meeting?”

      “Tomorrow night. You should come.”

      He’d stopped going to the amateur association meetings in Copper Ridge years ago. He’d turned pro when he was twenty, using the money that the man who was, according to genetics, his father had given him to keep his mouth shut about his existence.

      Sometimes it felt like his attempt at being seen when he’d been paid to disappear. A way to demand attention without breaking that damned agreement. Other times it had all felt like an attempt to bleed that unwanted blood right out of his veins, let it soak into the arena dirt until the Wests weren’t a part of him anymore. But that feeling had faded as he turned that initial bit of money into yet more money through event wins and investments and sponsorship deals.

      Though at thirty-three, he felt too damn old to get trampled on a regular basis. He’d felt too old five years ago when he’d quit. Not just too old for the getting-trampled part but the hard living that went with it. He knew there were plenty of guys still out there riding, but he didn’t need to and he felt lucky to have escaped with as little damage as he had.

      “Sure, I’ll be there. I’ll do the hard sell and see if anyone else has more ideas.”

      “Do you want to ride together?”

      He nodded slowly. “Yeah, let’s do that. Do you want to drive?”

      “I think your truck is a little bit cushier than mine, but I appreciate the offer.”

      “Okay, then, I’ll pick you up... When?”

      “Seven.”

      He gripped the brim of his hat with his thumb and forefinger and tipped it slightly. “Okay, then, see you at seven.”

      * * *

      SHE HEARD A car engine and raced to the window, her heart pushing against the base of her throat. But she didn’t see anything. No truck. No Jack.

      “Oh my gosh, calm down, me.”

      It was probably just one of the ranch hands headed out to the barn, or maybe Eli getting home from work. There were three whole minutes before Jack was supposed to show up, after all. And she was being ridiculous about it. Completely overcome by the sense of hyperawareness that often assaulted her when dealing with Jack-related things. And she would picture him pulling up, and her stomach would turn over sharply, her breath catching, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The response was completely involuntary, and it was so strong it made her legs shake.

      Anyone would think she was waiting for a date.

      She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes tight just as she heard another engine sound. Her eyes popped back open and she brushed the curtains aside again just in time to see Jack’s truck rumbling up the drive.

      She put her hand on her stomach. “Stop it,” she scolded herself. It did nothing.

      She grabbed a jacket and her bag and jerked open the front door, then walked out onto the front porch as she slung both over her shoulder. She wasn’t going to sit in her living room and wait for him to come to the door. She was not going to encourage her weird bodily reactions.

      She scampered to the truck and flung open the passenger-side door, then braced her foot on the metal running board before climbing into the cab. She slammed the door shut and buckled. “Let’s go.”

      “In a hurry, Katie?”

      “I would like to be on time,” she said, battling against her urge to bristle.

      She didn’t want to bristle. She wanted to be sleek. She wanted to have no reaction to him whatsoever. None at all.

      “Is it still at the Grange Hall?”

      “Yes, it is. And I hope you ate, because they still serve store-bought sugar cookies and watered-down punch.”

      “Ah yes, the official small-town meeting food.”

      “I don’t mind the cookies. I don’t even really mind the punch. I just don’t know why people think they go good together.”

      He put the truck in Reverse, then turned around and drove back down the narrow driveway that fed into the wider main driveway that eventually curved onto the highway.

      “It’s one of the great mysteries of our time,” Jack said. “Personally, I think overearnest meetings like this should come with whiskey.”

      “I would have no problem with that. But somehow I don’t think the budget allows for alcohol.”

      “Well, that’s an oversight. What has to be cut to make room in the budget for alcohol?”

      “There really isn’t much to cut. We kind of pay for our own stuff. In addition to paying dues to be a part of Oregon’s Amateur Riders Association. But you know, СКАЧАТЬ