A Cowboy Comes A Courting

“Ralph won’t be there,” she said without thinking. Giving a silent moan of regret, she averted her gaze. She feigned a sudden interest in a box marked odds and ends, knowing it wouldn’t take much for her father to read the disappointment she’d felt at Ralph’s decision not to spend the summer with her.

Gus clung to the news like a dog with a bone. “He won’t?”

“No, he won’t,” she said, straightening from the box to face her father. Skye winced at the sudden glint of curiosity in Gus’s blue eyes. “He’s in Europe for the summer, researching a paper he plans to publish.”

“And he didn’t take you along?”

“No, he did not.” She brushed a dark curl from her forehead, hoping to distract her father. “Whew, it’s hot. Would you like a cold drink?”

“Yeah, I’d like a drink,” he said, his frown deepening. He pushed the white cowboy hat back from his forehead and scratched at the shock of silver hair, a habit of his when he was trying hard to concentrate. “Since you were knee high to a grasshopper, you’ve been jabbering away about going to Europe and seeing all those castles that those princes and princesses live in. I can’t believe you’d turn down an opportunity to go now.”

She strode into the kitchen and pulled two icy bottles of cola from the refrigerator. Twisting the cap on one, she passed it to her father before answering. “Like I said before, I’ve got a lot of work to do. So does Ralph. I’d have been a distraction—”

“In other words...the idiot didn’t ask,” her father finished for her, accepting the cola with a grin. Tipping the bottle in salute, he chugged half the soda in one long swallow.

Skye fought the urge to sigh again. She’d done enough sighing for one day, thank you. It was just one of the hazards of being near her father for very long. Leaning against the tiled kitchen counter, sipping her soda, she struggled to find a decorous way to push Gus out the door. “Thanks for helping me move my stuff, Gus. I really appreciate it.”

“And now you’d like me to move along, right?”

“Well, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said wryly. He moved into the living room, eyeing the stacks of boxes, the books scattered about, the computer and software weighing down the dining room table. “Before you put your nose to the grindstone, why don’t you play hooky for a night?” He waggled his eyebrows Groucho Marx style. “There’s a rodeo in town tonight. And I know some boys that are champing at the bit to see you again.”

The “boys” were her father’s friends, her adopted “uncles” since she was five years old. It was at this tender age that her mother had died unexpectedly, landing her on her father’s doorstep for the duration of her childhood. Divorced for nearly four years and having only seen his daughter a handful of times in between, Gus had been ill-prepared to handle a young girl. At first, he had relied heavily upon the help of his rodeo buddies.

But even with the sage advice of his cohorts, things did not go smoothly. Gus had tried taking her on the road with him. They both soon realized that riding the rodeo circuit wasn’t a life for a child, though it was the only life that Gus knew. So he’d placed her at the family ranch in the care of her grandmother. While Grandma Whitman loved her deeply and saw to her needs without complaint, it never quite made up for the abandonment by her only parent.

“Play hooky, eh?” She bit her lip against a smile, trying not to appear too anxious. The truth was, it was just too hot to work. The old house didn’t have air conditioning. Until the sun went down, it would remain stifling inside. She’d like nothing more than to escape from the heat and the call of duty for a few more hours. “You always have been a bad influence in my life, Gus.”

“I try my best,” he said, reaching out to tweak her nose. “You know, honey, you were born too serious. It’s my job to see that you have a little fun in your life.”

“If you put it that way, how can I say no?” She pushed herself away from the kitchen counter. “Give me a few minutes to find a pair of jeans in this mess. Then you, sir, can escort me to the ball.”

With a snort of discontent, the bull pawed the sawdust-strewn ground with his front hooves. Swinging his massive head, he bucked against the gate of the holding pen, ramming the iron fence with a shattering force. His restless movements sent up a cloud of dust and the rank smell of sweaty, raw energy into the air.

Tyler Bradshaw jumped back from the gate, not out of fear, but for safety’s sake. In less than an hour, he’d be expected to ride on the back of this restless creature. He didn’t need to lose any essential body parts while he was waiting his turn.

Joey Witherspoon chuckled. “Diablo’s in a fine mood tonight.”

“That he is,” Tyler said, his calm voice belying the trepidation churning in his gut. He was getting too old for this. Time to think of retirement. At least, that was what he’d been told by concerned friends.

Not that he felt old. Far from it.

Only, at the age of thirty-two, most bull riders had ended their careers and put themselves out to stud. They’d found themselves pretty little wives and were raising families, settling down to enjoy their retirement while they were still in one piece. But not him, no siree. No primrose path to old age for him.

As far as he was concerned, if he had to hang up his spurs, he might as well be dead.

“How’s the back?” Joey asked, studying him carefully.

One of his concerned friends, Tyler reminded himself with a sigh. “The back’s fine.”

“No twinges? No spasms?”

“Not a twitch, not an itch.”

Joey didn’t crack a smile at his attempt at humor.

Tyler squinted at the man next to him. At an even six feet, they stood eye to eye. But that was where the similarity ended. Joey was dark to Tyler’s fair-haired complexion. He was solid-packed muscle to Tyler’s lean lankiness. And Joey was a lot smarter than he was. A few years his senior, his friend had had the keen sense to retire years ago from the rodeo circuit. Joey owned a little piece of land not far from Dallas, and he’d found a wife to put up with his pesky ways. Together, they were raising a brood of little Witherspoons. Five, at last count.

“You don’t have to ride tonight,” Joey said, the words soft enough for Tyler’s ears only. “Nobody’s going to care if you pass.”

“I’m fine, Joey,” Tyler said, tight-lipped, reining in his growing irritation.

He didn’t need to be reminded of his numerous injuries. A rider worth his salt didn’t get to be a champion unless he’d taken a few tumbles. Granted, he did have a tendency to fall on his tailbone, throwing his spinal cord out of whack on more than one occasion. So what if he was becoming a chiropractic junkie, relying on the doctor’s magic fingers more and more to work out the kinks? No one ever said the path to glory would be easy.

“Tyler Bradshaw, tell me you’re not crazy enough to get on the back of this man-eating bull?” a familiar voice called out.

Tyler grinned, relieved at the interruption. The topic had become entirely too serious for his taste. He turned to welcome the newcomer, Gus Whitman. Tyler owed Gus a great deal. A veteran of the rodeo circuit, the man had taken a raw, seventeen-year-old boy under his wing and coached him to become a champion bull rider. Gus was his mentor, his friend and more of a father figure than Tyler’s own pa had ever been.

Pleasure turned to surprise when he spotted his old friend strutting toward him with his arm draped about the shoulders of a beautiful young woman—emphasis on the young. Tyler shook his head. Well, he’d be damned. Gus must be feeling his oats tonight—or going through one of those midlife crises—to pick a filly so young.

He raked a second glance over the modem-day Lolita. She had dark—almost black—shiny hair, cut short and framing her oval face. Her big blue eyes were the color of the Texas sky. She had a pert little upturned nose. Her body was petite, but with enough compact curves to make a man sweat. Tyler didn’t blame Gus for losing his head over a woman like her, even if she was young enough to be his—

“What’s the matter with you, boy? Don’t you recognize my daughter?” Gus said, slapping him on the back with a hearty laugh. “It’s Skye, you fool.”

“Skye?” Tyler repeated dumbly.

It couldn’t be. Or could it?

The last time he’d seen Skye Whitman she’d been a flat-chested adolescent, who used to follow him around the rodeo like a lovesick puppy. He’d tolerated her youthful infatuation out of respect for Gus. But he’d kept his distance, never giving her reason to expect more than a brotherly friendship. Back then, she’d been cute enough in a fresh-scrubbed way, but she hadn’t looked anything like this grown-up version.

She’d gone away to college a child, and had returned home a woman.

No wonder he hadn’t recognized her.

“Hey, Tyler,” Skye said, her rosebud lips parting in an easy smile. “It’s been a long time.”

Even the voice was different, he realized. All rich and sultry, reminding him of the taste of milk chocolate melting in his mouth on a hot, summer day.

Somehow he found his own voice. “Skye, I can’t believe it’s you.”

An understatement for sure.

“It hasn’t been that long, has it?” The smooth lines of her forehead puckered into a frown. “Well, I guess it has been a few years. Six, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, aware that a half-dozen sets of eyes were upon him. They were drawing a small crowd. All of Gus’s cronies who still hung about the rodeo were beginning to zero in on their little group.

Unexplainably, Tyler felt a flash of resentment. He’d have liked to have had a moment alone with this new Skye. His gaze flitted over the lush curves of her breasts, the tiny nip of her waist and the gentle splay of her hips. Given a little time, he just might develop an infatuation of his own.