Just a Cowboy and His Baby (Spikes & Spurs) by Carolyn Brown Page B
Authors: Carolyn Brown
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way to her hairline in one big lick. Still Gemma didn’t move a muscle.
“She’s out, Sugar. Dropped like a light. Never seen anything quite like it, and it’s a good thing that I was there or she’d be stretched out in the dirt. Whoa! Hold the hosses! She’s not drunk. She’d be holding her head over a toilet if she was that drunk. She’s drugged.”
He lifted her hand and dropped it. It fell back on the bed with a thud. He did the same with her leg and got the same result.
“Somebody drugged her beer while she was dancing with Chopper. I saw her set it down on a bale of hay. That’s why she’s out so deep. I’m glad I was the one dancing with her. No tellin’ where she’d be if I hadn’t been. You mind sharing your pillows with her tonight?” he asked Sugar.
The tiny dog curled up next to Gemma, and Trace eased off the bed. He looked back over his shoulder at her before he kicked his boots off and stepped into the shower for the second time that evening. He left the door open just in case she roused and started kicking and screaming.
Afterwards he put on a pair of cotton knit lounging pants, and then stretched out on the bed next to her and Sugar. He laced his hands behind his head and thought about everything that had happened since he started the trip. It had already been an experience of firsts: his first time competing against a woman, first time seeing someone drugged, first time having his socks knocked off by a kiss.
He was thirty-two years old and had been dating since he was sixteen. He’d had relationships and almost married a couple of times. But there was something different about what was going on with him and Gemma. And there was damn sure something different in the way her kisses affected him.
This was his third rodeo circuit, and he hoped that old adage about the third time around being the charm was the gospel truth. Two years before he’d made his first attempt at winning enough money to buy the ranch and he’d steered clear of the rodeo groupies. He didn’t even make the final cut that year, but he did find out the groupies had bets going about which one would get into his trailer first and how long she’d keep his attention. Ava hadn’t done any betting, but she’d made it past the front door of his trailer in Lovington, New Mexico. That was less than a year ago, but looking back, it seemed like it never happened at all. She’d appeared out of nowhere at the dance after the rodeo. Her tight jeans and boots were brand spanking new and she didn’t know how to two-step, but she was willing to learn. She hadn’t known how to drink whiskey, but she’d learned to do that, too, that weekend. And when the band sang Conway Twitty’s old song called “Tight Fittin’ Jeans,” she’d hugged up to him like a real cowgirl.
“This is the story of my life. I’m used to wearing pearls and riding in limos, but this weekend I’m out to see what it is about you cowboys that turns a woman into a hormonal fool. Got to admit, it wouldn’t take a lot to turn me right now,” she’d said.
He’d told her that that was the craziest come-on line he’d ever heard. The next morning he had awakened to those new jeans and boots lying beside his bed. One wild night had stretched into a weekend.
On Monday morning after breakfast she had dressed in her jeans and boots and told him, “It was fun, cowboy. I guess the fuss about you cowboys is well earned. I’m not disappointed, but it was just for one weekend. Now like that singer said the other night, I’m goin’ back to my own world and you can stay in yours.” She had shut the door behind her and he’d never seen her again.
He hadn’t loved Ava; hell, he didn’t even know her last name. He didn’t have her phone number and he didn’t want to see her again. He wished it had never happened. There should be something between a man and woman other than a bottle of expensive whiskey and too many beers to count before they went to
“She’s out, Sugar. Dropped like a light. Never seen anything quite like it, and it’s a good thing that I was there or she’d be stretched out in the dirt. Whoa! Hold the hosses! She’s not drunk. She’d be holding her head over a toilet if she was that drunk. She’s drugged.”
He lifted her hand and dropped it. It fell back on the bed with a thud. He did the same with her leg and got the same result.
“Somebody drugged her beer while she was dancing with Chopper. I saw her set it down on a bale of hay. That’s why she’s out so deep. I’m glad I was the one dancing with her. No tellin’ where she’d be if I hadn’t been. You mind sharing your pillows with her tonight?” he asked Sugar.
The tiny dog curled up next to Gemma, and Trace eased off the bed. He looked back over his shoulder at her before he kicked his boots off and stepped into the shower for the second time that evening. He left the door open just in case she roused and started kicking and screaming.
Afterwards he put on a pair of cotton knit lounging pants, and then stretched out on the bed next to her and Sugar. He laced his hands behind his head and thought about everything that had happened since he started the trip. It had already been an experience of firsts: his first time competing against a woman, first time seeing someone drugged, first time having his socks knocked off by a kiss.
He was thirty-two years old and had been dating since he was sixteen. He’d had relationships and almost married a couple of times. But there was something different about what was going on with him and Gemma. And there was damn sure something different in the way her kisses affected him.
This was his third rodeo circuit, and he hoped that old adage about the third time around being the charm was the gospel truth. Two years before he’d made his first attempt at winning enough money to buy the ranch and he’d steered clear of the rodeo groupies. He didn’t even make the final cut that year, but he did find out the groupies had bets going about which one would get into his trailer first and how long she’d keep his attention. Ava hadn’t done any betting, but she’d made it past the front door of his trailer in Lovington, New Mexico. That was less than a year ago, but looking back, it seemed like it never happened at all. She’d appeared out of nowhere at the dance after the rodeo. Her tight jeans and boots were brand spanking new and she didn’t know how to two-step, but she was willing to learn. She hadn’t known how to drink whiskey, but she’d learned to do that, too, that weekend. And when the band sang Conway Twitty’s old song called “Tight Fittin’ Jeans,” she’d hugged up to him like a real cowgirl.
“This is the story of my life. I’m used to wearing pearls and riding in limos, but this weekend I’m out to see what it is about you cowboys that turns a woman into a hormonal fool. Got to admit, it wouldn’t take a lot to turn me right now,” she’d said.
He’d told her that that was the craziest come-on line he’d ever heard. The next morning he had awakened to those new jeans and boots lying beside his bed. One wild night had stretched into a weekend.
On Monday morning after breakfast she had dressed in her jeans and boots and told him, “It was fun, cowboy. I guess the fuss about you cowboys is well earned. I’m not disappointed, but it was just for one weekend. Now like that singer said the other night, I’m goin’ back to my own world and you can stay in yours.” She had shut the door behind her and he’d never seen her again.
He hadn’t loved Ava; hell, he didn’t even know her last name. He didn’t have her phone number and he didn’t want to see her again. He wished it had never happened. There should be something between a man and woman other than a bottle of expensive whiskey and too many beers to count before they went to
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