The Cowboy Upstairs. Tanya Michaels

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СКАЧАТЬ sure the real reason you didn’t invite me was because you were afraid she’d take one look at me and decide I was the better-looking cowboy?” Sawyer smirked, but then said, “Nah, I understand. I think it’s great you two put a couple stamps in your passports. I’ve always had wanderlust myself.” Granted, most of Sawyer’s travels had been regional—Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming.

      “On-the-Move McCall. When was the last time you were home?”

      Sawyer shrugged, as if the answer didn’t matter. “My life’s a thrilling blur of cattle drives and training horses, pretty cowgirls and small-town motels.”

      At the mention of motels, Brody frowned. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us until after the trail ride? You’d be more than welcome.”

      Cupid’s Bow was about to have its centennial celebration, a week of Western-themed festivities culminating in a three-day trail ride that would recreate the journey of the town’s founders; on the strength of Brody’s recommendation, Sawyer had been hired as one of the ride leaders. Getting here a week early allowed him plenty of time to catch up with his friend, a chance to compete in a rodeo in the next county and the opportunity to finish a series of articles he’d been writing for a Texas travel magazine. Plus, you had nowhere else to be. He hadn’t been back to the family spread since his older brother had made it clear Sawyer was no more than a glorified ranch hand.

      “I appreciate the offer of letting me bunk with you.” Originally, that had been Sawyer’s plan...or as close as he came to “planning” in advance. But he’d realized today just how smitten Brody was and how awkward the role of third wheel would be. “You and Jazz are newlyweds, though. You don’t need me underfoot. I’ll check into a hotel after lunch.” It would be an added expense, but he’d had a good year between prize money and breeding rights for the bull he’d invested in. His only splurge was a new truck.

      “Sure, there are a couple of hotels close by. Or you could—never mind.”

      Sawyer raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “What?”

      “Well, Becca Johnston has a room to rent. Since you’ll be staying for a couple of weeks, that might be more comfortable than a hotel, but she’s—”

      “You boys decided what you want to eat?” A blonde waitress with a polka-dot manicure and thick drawl set their drinks in front of them. “Sorry I took so long. Lunch rush.”

      Both men ordered their entrées, but as the waitress turned to go, Brody stopped her with a question. “Hey, Leanne, how would you describe Becca Johnston?”

      “Terrifyingly efficient,” she said over her shoulder.

      “That pretty much nails it,” Brody agreed. As the waitress walked away, he told Sawyer, “If you rented a room from Becca, your lodgings would be spotless, the meals would be tasty and she could answer any question you ever had about Cupid’s Bow. But you don’t want to cross her. Last man who did that is still missing.”

      Sawyer froze with his glass halfway to his mouth, sweet tea sloshing, but then decided his friend was messing with him. “You made up that last part.”

      “Exaggerated, maybe. But it’s true no one knows where her ex-husband is—including Becca. Long story short, she’s still pretty ticked. And she would hate you.”

      “What’s wrong with me?” Sawyer demanded. “I’ve been told I have a winning personality.”

      “Becca likes structure and setting rules. While you...are a pain in the ass.”

      “But a charming one.”

      Brody snorted. “Not as charming as you think. Is that our food?” He perked up at the sight of Leanne carrying a tray in their direction.

      “Do you have her phone number or address?”

      “Leanne’s?” Brody asked, sounding perplexed.

      “Becca’s.”

      “I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea. Although, I suppose that’s why you’re pursuing it.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      Brody gave him a knowing glance. “Never met anyone who hates being told what to do more than you.”

      “It’s not like I’m being stubborn for the sheer hell of it,” Sawyer defended himself. “A private room is bound to offer more peace and quiet than a hotel filled with tourists in town for the centennial celebration.”

      “I’ll give you directions to Becca’s place, but it’s your funeral if you track in mud or pick an argument with her.”

      “Pretty sure I can handle myself.”

      “Maybe. If not...can I have your truck?”

       Chapter Two

      Marc Johnston watched the soccer ball, a whirl of white and black as it came at him, and wished it would roll far away. Off the field. Into the street. His mama would never let him chase it into the street. No ball, no soccer practice. He could go home to play in his room! It was too hot outside.

      But that was a dumb wish. If the ball rolled into the street, his mama would chase it down and bring it back to him. She’d told him a zillion times, “I’m always here for you.” Not like his daddy, who’d gone away. Mama was never far.

      Right now, she was coaching from the side of the field. “Kick the ball, Marc! You can do it!”

      He swung his leg. It wasn’t really a kick, not a good one. He brushed the side of the ball, which kept moving, and lost his balance as it rolled under his foot. He wobbled, then fell on his back, the sting just enough to make him suck in a breath. Ow.

      Mama jogged toward him, her face crinkly with worry. She helped him up, brushing grass and dirt off his uniform. “You okay, champ?”

      “I guess.”

      She patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe you should take a break and drink some water.”

      He’d rather have soda from the machine by the bleachers, but knew better than to ask. Mama handed him a water bottle, then turned to give instructions to Jodie Prescott, who was taller than Marc even though his birthday was before hers. He didn’t like Jodie—she called him Shorty—but he was glad she was keeping Mama busy so he could go sit in the shade. There was another boy there, not in Marc’s grade, playing on a Nintendo 3DS.

      “Are you here for soccer practice?” Marc asked.

      The kid grunted. “Does it look like I’m playing soccer? My dad’s coaching my sister’s team over there.” He flung an arm toward another field without looking up from the screen. “I’m waiting.”

      “You’re lucky you have a DS.” And lucky you have a dad. And, also, lucky he didn’t have to play soccer. “Can I have a turn?”

      “No. But you can watch me.” He scooted a little closer so that Marc could see the screen.

      It СКАЧАТЬ