The Cowboy and the Princess Page 7

  Dutch had led him to the barn, showed him the cutting horses in the stable. Told him to muck out stalls. Brady had been happy to do it. He loved the smell of hay and leather and horses. His only problem was that he got so caught up in grooming and riding and tending the horses that he forgot all about his other ranch hand responsibilities.

  “You remind me of me when I was your age.” Dutch laughed. “Except you’re better-looking.”

  Then one day one of Mr. Daniels’s pregnant mares got hung in a downed barbwire fence and cut herself up pretty badly. They called the vet, but the high-strung horse was hysterical and wouldn’t let the vet anywhere near her. She reared up on her hind legs and pawed the air, lips frothing, nostrils flaring. Even Dutch, who was a wizard at taming horses, couldn’t calm her. Everyone stood around scratching his head, watching blood stream down her damaged flank, afraid to approach her in case she did herself more harm or the stress caused her to go into early labor.

  Brady could literally feel her pain. A visceral pummel straight to his gut. The sensation burrowed under his skin like a sickness. A candle flame of terror burned in the mare’s eyes. She tossed her head, mane flailing. The pulse beat hard in her long neck nicked with barbwire wounds.

  He took a deep breath, dived to the bottom of the calm, serene pool inside himself. The place he dived whenever his old man went on a rampage and beat the living shit out of him just because he was feeling ornery. It was a cool, deep, unruffled place. Every muscle in his body relaxed, while at the same time he straightened his shoulder, raised his chin, and moved slow, easy, and unflinchingly toward the mare.

  “Careful boy,” Mr. Daniels said, but Dutch put a hand on the rancher’s arm and drew him to the far side of the barn. The vet followed.

  “There now,” Brady murmured, comforting her the way he’d comforted himself those dark lonely nights cowering in bed with bullwhip welts striped across his back. “There now. You’re safe. You’re above the pain. It’s okay. It’s all right.”

  Immediately, the mare stopped thrashing. Her frightened eyes met his.

  “Yes,” he cooed, “yes, yes. You’re a good, good girl.”

  She half lowered her eyelashes. She was still breathing heavily, her flanks heaving in and out. The coppery smell of her blood scented the air.

  “That’s right. You’re safe. Relax. Let go.” A tranquil energy flowed through him, languid and vibrant.

  The mare moved restlessly, snorting in air, but she didn’t bolt or rear up. Acting purely on instinct, Brady kept speaking to her, low and controlled. When he got close enough, he touched her neck, firm yet gentle. He put two fingers on her pulse point. She quieted instantly and her breathing slowed.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Dutch whispered. “Will ya look at that?”

  A flush of pride beat through him. He’d never had a father figure who complimented him and he was ravenous for praise. He ran a hand down the mare’s back. She quivered, but then her muscles uncoiled as she soothed. After several minutes of touching, she allowed Brady to slip the halter on. He held her, cajoling and comforting as the vet came over and worked to sew up her wounds.

  “You got the touch, boy,” Dutch told him after it was over. “A natural talent.”

  Brady guessed that learning how to deal with the abuse his father had dished out to him, but spared his four brothers, had been worth something. His ability to find peace in the midst of pain had given him his career.

  And now he was back where he’d begun, except this time with some unexpected baggage.

  The passenger side door opened and Annie got out of the truck.

  “Are we here?” she asked, blinking at him with those smart gray-blue eyes in the dusty light of the quarter moon. The wind billowed through her unzipped sweatshirt, ruffled her hair. She stood straight, graceful.

  God, she had a way of looking sophisticated and genteel when anyone else under the circumstances would appear rumpled and wrung out. What made her so different? How did she manage to look so much like a high mountain buttercup, pristine and beautiful? Fascination moved through him. Tightened up in his chest.

  “We are,” he confirmed.

  She sank her hands on her hips, assessing their surroundings. “So this is Jubilee.”

  “Actually we’re ten miles south of Jubilee. This is Green Ridge Ranch where I’ll be working.”

  “Oh, okay.” Annie set Lady Astor on the ground. The tiny dog started sniffing around.

  Trampas spied the Yorkie and, goofy doofus that he was, raced over to start the universal canine ritual of heinie sniffing. Lady Astor, however, had other plans. She spun her fanny away from him, tossed her fierce little head, and let out a sharp bark. Back off, buster.

  “Lady Astor,” Annie scolded. “Be nice.”

  The Yorkie growled at Trampas.

  Brady’s mutt lay down and then rolled over on his belly, paws pulled up close to his body in complete surrender.

  “Seriously, Trampas? You’re giving up alpha dog status to a hiccup with hair?” he asked.

  “Excuse me,” Annie protested. “That is my dog you are denigrating.”

  “Sorry,” Brady mumbled. “But you gotta admit she barely qualifies as a dog.”

  Annie sank her hands on her hips, angled him a haughty stare. “She has got your dog on his back.”

  “She does at that. Trampas, have some self-respect. Get up.”

  Instead of obeying, Trampas wriggled in the dirt, put out a paw to Lady Astor, and made begging noises.

  The Yorkie’s nose went in the air and she trotted off to take care of business.

  “Pathetic,” Brady scolded his dog. “Done in by an arrogant little female.”

  Trampas didn’t look the least bit ashamed. In fact, he gazed at Lady Astor with adoring, love-struck eyes.

  “Is there a place where I could . . .” Annie cleared her throat, moistened her lips.

  Brady’s gaze hooked on her mesmerizing mouth. “Go to the bathroom?”

  “Um . . . yes.” She looked uncertain now. There it was again. That paradox he found so maddeningly sexy. Prim yet brave.

  “Inside the trailer.” He walked over to lower the steps of the trailer. He unlocked the door, and then held out a hand to help her up.

  “Will you keep an eye on Lady Astor?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She took his hand like it was her birthright to have men wait on her. She sniffed delicately. “It’s dark.”

  He reached around to flip on the twelve-volt light switch.

  “Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “It is rather nice in here.”

  “You were expecting a hovel.”

  “You are a bachelor.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m a slob. This trailer is my home. I take pride in it.”

  She turned around in the entryway, scanning the space as Brady perched on the top step, holding the door open. The back end of the trailer housed three horse stalls. He used them mainly when a horse needed to be isolated. Sometimes, he rented himself out as a transport service for folks who bought and sold horses. For now, the back trailer was empty. The opposite end of the trailer housed Brady’s bed, which was located up over the head of the gooseneck trailer. To one side lay a small kitchen area, a stovetop, no oven, a refrigerator, and a postage stamp-sized table with two chairs. Across from that was a small sitting area. The shower was on one side of the unit, the toilet on the other.

  Brady stepped into the trailer with Annie and opened the bathroom door. “Toilet,” he announced.

  She tilted her head at him. “You are going to stay in here while I . . . ?”

  “Where should I go?”

  “I prefer to use the facilities in private.”

  “There’s a door between us.”

  “A very thin door.”

  He lifted an eyebrow in amusement. Prissy along with the prim. “Fine. I’ll go back outside. I better make sure your dog isn’t kicking the stuffing out of my dog.”

  Brady ventur
ed back into the night, drawing the door closed behind him. Lady Astor was sniffing at water puddles, completely ignoring Trampas, who was crawling on his belly after her. “C’mon, show some dignity, will ya?”

  Trampas looked shameless.

  “Face it, buddy. She’s never going to give you the time of day.”

  Trampas ignored him.

  Brady sighed. He needed to schedule the dog for a neutering. He’d meant to do it, but kept putting it off because of his travel schedule. But the dog was over a year old. It was time.

  He whistled. Reluctantly, Trampas got up and trotted over. “You are sleeping in the back tonight. You’re too muddy for the bed.” He pulled a leash from his pocket, clipped it to Trampas’s collar, and guided the dog to the back of the trailer. Trampas whimpered in protest, glanced back at Lady Astor, and let out a mournful howl.

  “She’s so far out of your league it hurts. Just give it up.” He put Trampas inside, fed and watered him. “She’s a high-toned purebred and you’re nothing but a ragtag ruffian.”

  While he was doing all this, Lady Astor came over to watch the proceedings, her little ears sticking straight up. He had to admit the Yorkie was cute as all get-out with those perky little ears and sassy attitude. “Gotta hand it to you, Trampas, she might be out of your league, but you got good taste. She’s pretty and got gumption to boot.”

  He closed the back door of the trailer, scooped up Lady Astor, and carried her inside. The Yorkie cocked her head and stared up as if passing sentencing on him.

  “Well?” He looked at her. “Do I pass the test?”

  Her warm little tongue flicked out to lick his thumb.

  “Looks like we’re gonna be good friends. Sorry I called you a hairy hiccup.”

  Annie was still in the bathroom. There wasn’t much space to move around. Brady deposited the little dog on the half-sized sofa, and she immediately curled up into a little ball to watch him. He stripped the sheets off the bed, got out fresh ones, and proceeded to put them on the lone narrow mattress.

  Ahem. Seriously, you’re going to do this? You’re going to sleep on this tiny little bed next to Annie and not touch her? How do you plan on accomplishing that?

  The bathroom door opened and Annie emerged dressed in a long, silky underwear thing. The word “peignoir” popped into his mind. He didn’t know where the word came from. Probably one of the women he dated had told him that’s what it was called. Whatever it was named, Annie looked completely stunning in it—floaty and feminine, clothed in a sexy cloud of white.

  Dammit.

  Why couldn’t she have worn cotton footie pajamas? That he could have resisted. But in this sheer gown it was all he could do to keep from reaching over and pulling her into his arms.

  “Hey,” he said gruffly.

  “Hello.” She tucked her hands behind her back. “Do you require any assistance in making the bed?”

  There it was again, that overly formal speech. Where was she from? His curiosity climbed into a rocket ship, took a blast to Mars.

  “Naw, I just about got it.” He shifted away from the sight of her in the frothy nightie.

  Brady slid his hands under the corner of the mattress, tucking in the sheet. He’d been in bedrooms with more than his share of women, but he could not recall a moment as odd and awkward as this one. He could hear her breathing, soft and quick. She was as unnerved as he. No doubt in his mind. Maybe even more so.

  Annie cleared her throat.

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “Your face needs attention.” She gestured toward her own cheek.

  “What?” He reached a hand to his face. “Oh yeah.” He’d forgotten about the cut, but now that he touched his jaw, he felt the sting anew.

  “Sit down.” She patted the seat of the straight-backed chair.

  “It’s okay, I’ll tend to it later.”

  She gave him that do-as-I-say look that she was so good at and pointed at the chair. “Sit. Attending to your wounds is the least I can do after you were carved up over me.”

  Feeling like Trampas, he sat.

  “Do you possess first aid supplies?”

  “Under the bathroom sink.”

  She hurried into the bathroom, reappeared with the first aid kit. She stepped close to him. He tried not to look at her breasts, so perky and high, but hell, he was only human. He did his best to be covert about it, but one look at those smooth, perfect breasts and he stiffened.

  Quickly, he crossed his legs, settled his hand over his lap. Do-da-do-da. Stop with the boner, champ.

  Luckily, Annie was busy digging around in the first aid kit. She came up with a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a folded square of gauze. She soaked the gauze with the peroxide, then leaned over to slowly start working on the dried blood.

  Brady’s entire body tensed. The gauze scratched. The peroxide bubbled foamy against his skin. He closed his eyes. He needed something to distract him from her nearness, from the silky glide of her peignoir rubbing over his knuckles, from the soft sound of her breathing, from her baby powder fragrance mixed with the lemony zest of his bar soap. His mental gears ground hard, trying to make sense of this situation and how he’d gotten here with her. He fisted his hands.

  “Does that hurt?”

  “It’s okay. Keep going.”

  He gulped, wanting to ask her the question he’d been dying to ask. He kept his eyes closed, so he wouldn’t intimidate either one of them. He knew how intimidating direct confrontation could be. His old man had been one of those kinds of guys who crowded your space, got in your face, and spewed spittle when he yelled. When the old man was really picking on him, when his bullying was in high form, and beating Brady just wasn’t taking the edge off his anger, but instead inflaming it, his four brothers would form a human shield, encircling him, screaming at their father to back off.

  That’s when he felt the safest. Encircled by his brothers. He was going to ask Annie the question he needed to ask, but he wasn’t going to make eye contact. Wasn’t going to do anything to threaten her.

  “Annie,” he said softly, “I really need to know something.”

  It took her a minute to answer. “Yes?”

  “You can keep your secrets, but since I am sticking my neck out for you, then you have to tell me if you are in any danger from the Blues Brothers? Am I?”

  “The Blues Brothers?”

  “You really aren’t from America, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you from Canada?”

  “Do not worry. You are in no danger from the . . . er . . . Blues Brothers.”

  “Not Canada, huh? I know you’re not from Australia. I have a good friend from there and you don’t sound anything like him. New Zealand?”

  “Why does it matter where I am from?”

  He shrugged and finally opened his eyes. She was standing back, examining her handiwork. They were only a couple of feet apart, but in this small space it was as far apart as they could get. “It doesn’t.”

  Their gazes met.

  “That’s not your real hair color, is it?”

  She reached up a hand to her choppy hair. “How did you know?”

  “You dyed your eyebrows to match the hair, but your eyelashes are blond. Can’t hide that. You’re a natural blond. Iceland?” He reached up to finger her hair.

  She drew back. “What?”

  “Are you from Iceland?”

  “No.”

  “You’re on the run. Hiding out.”

  “If I say yes will you drop the questions?”

  “Okay.”

  “Then yes, I am hiding out.”

  “Did you—” He broke off. He’d been about to ask her if she’d committed a crime, but a promise was a promise. He would drop the questions. For now. But somehow he couldn’t see her as a criminal.

  That’s how they lure you in.

  “I am going to put the butterfly closures on your wound. So hold still.” She seemed in no hurry to return to violating the boun
daries of his personal space.

  “I’m waiting.”

  She cleared her throat, hardened her chin, and ripped open the package of butterfly closure strips. She didn’t look at him, she looked into him and he stared boldly back, seeing past the wide-eyed mystery she wore like a veil.

  Her eyes told him things that her fear and distrust would not let her say.

  I need help. I’m in over my head. You’re all I’ve got.

  Or maybe it was just his damn ego talking. Two hours ago, he’d ditched her as trouble he didn’t need. Now he realized she was as vulnerable as an orphaned newborn foal in Yellowstone’s Lamar Valley, where the wolves lived.

  She dropped her gaze, worked on closing the edges of his wound with the butterfly bandages. Her gentle fingers pressed against his skin. It was all he could do not to shiver.

  “There,” she said breathlessly, and stepped away again. “All done.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  A long silence stretched between them, sticky as a cobweb.

  “It’s after one in the morning. Time for bed.” He uncrossed his legs, placed both palms on his knees.

  “Time for bed,” she echoed, her voice slow as maple syrup on a winter morning.

  They kept watching each other. Her gaze roved over his face. He could feel her sizing him up. He was doing the same. The woman was different and he could not reconcile the fact that she was on the run from something, someone. What had he stumbled into?

  “I’ll get into the bunk first,” he said. “That way you won’t be closed in.”

  “Thank you.” The grateful expression on her face told him he’d nailed it. She was afraid of having her back against the wall.

  He shucked off his boots. “I’m just going to brush my teeth.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

  “I’ll get Lady Astor settled.”

  He went his way. She went hers.

  Inside the bathroom, Brady stared at himself in the mirror. His cheek was mended with the stark white skin closures. He squirted a dab of toothpaste on his hard-bristled toothbrush. Winced when he opened his mouth wide enough to get the brush in. The damn cut hurt.