Chapter 4
Trace had never seen anyone pass out as cold as Gemma. He scooped her up and her face lolled against his chest, her arms flailed out limply, and her legs hung as if she had no bones in her body. He wasn’t totally sure what to do next. Call the rodeo doctor? Take her to her trailer to sleep it off?
The song ended, and another one started. Dancers changed partners quickly or else kept the one they had, and the crowd began to sway and move again. No one noticed him carrying Gemma away from the arena lights and into the darkness. He sniffed the night air as he headed toward his trailer. Her exotic perfume covered up the smell of alcohol. She must’ve started knocking them back right after her ride because there was no way she could have gotten to the pass-out drunk stage on the two beers he had seen her drink.
He shooed Sugar back away from the door and carried Gemma straight to his bed. She mumbled something when he carefully laid her down, but he couldn’t understand a word. He pushed her hair back away from her face to fan out like a halo on the pillow. She looked like an angel lying there but looks were damn sure deceiving in that instance. Gemma O’Donnell was hard as nails, spicier than Cajun cooking, and by far the sassiest woman he’d ever met.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Hey, Gemma, wake up!”
Nothing. Not even a rolling flicker behind her eyelids.
If she hadn’t been stone-cold drunk, she would have risen up off that pillow and scorched the hair off his chest with a fiery hissy fit. And then she’d do that sexy little wiggle-stomp dance out of his trailer, slam the door hard enough to rattle Sugar’s teeth, and throw looks off her shoulder that would blister the paint off the walls.
He tried another angle. “Sweetheart, you were very good in bed, but it’s time to go home now. I don’t let women sleep in my bed after sex, no matter how good it is.”
Nada. Not even a break in her breathing.
He looked down at the Chihuahua sitting beside the bed. “Sugar, I can’t believe a woman who can ride a bronc like she does is a lightweight when it comes to drinking. I figured with her Irish blood, she could drink all of us cowboys under the table and then dance on the bar to celebrate.”
Sugar whimpered and climbed the steps at the end of the bed. She eased up to the pillow and sniffed Gemma’s face. Then she started at her chin and slurped all the 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 horses!” He slapped his forehead. “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 out of 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 up and started kicking and screaming.
After a quick shower, 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 having his socks knocked off by a kiss, and his first time dealing with someone who had been drugged.
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 for 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 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 had whispered in his ear.
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 on the floor beside his bed. One wild night 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; 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 actually wished that the weekend 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 bed.
He’d made it to the finals that year but wrecked in the Las Vegas ride. So, the first year he had stayed away from rodeo sex. The next year he’d had one weekend of it. Neither year had been a good one.
He looked over at Gemma again and wondered what this year—the third one and supposedly the charm—would bring. Neither Ava nor the two women he’d fancied himself in love with made his mouth go dry and his heart do double time like Gemma O’Donnell. She couldn’t begin to understand how important it was to him to win that title and the money that went with it. He’d worked for his uncle Teamer for the better part of ten years, and Teamer had offered to sign the ranch over to him lock, stock, and barrel.
“I haven’t got kids and you’ve been like a son to me, Trace. Let me give you this land and cattle. Your grandpa left it to me so it’s rightfully yours,” he’d said.
“There are three more male cousins who deserve this as much as I do. I’ll buy it, but I won’t take it free of charge,” Trace had told him.
Winning the bronc riding event in Vegas would give him the rest of the money he needed to make that happen. Gemma O’Donnell just wanted the glory, and he would gladly let her win it another year. He’d even sit in the crowd and cheer for her, but this year belonged to Trace Coleman.
Sugar roused and looked at the woman lying on her pillow.
Trace shook his head slowly. “Wild horses couldn’t wake her up. But I will guaran-damn-tee that come morning that Irish beauty is going to wake up cussin’ mad.”
Gemma’s arms were still beside her, her hair fanned out on the pillow, and her boot toes pointed straight up. She looked so much like a corpse that he checked her pulse to make sure she was alive.
“Hey!” he yelled again, but she didn’t move.
“Gemma!” he yelled louder, and Sugar growled at him.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear so he could see her face. He liked her better when her pretty green eyes were wide open. If she was happy, they dazzled. If she was mad, dark storm clouds brewed in them.
He fell asleep pondering over what he’d see in those green eyes if they suddenly snapped open and saw him lying beside her. Would they go all soft and dreamy, or would a Category 5 tornado come streaming out of them?
***
Gemma awoke to the aroma of coffee and bacon. Bless her brother Dewar’s heart; he’d gotten up early and cooked. It must be Sunday morning because that was the only day of the week he’d even consider making breakfast. Her eyes snapped open, and she sat straight up, grabbed her aching head, and fell backwards on the bed. Good God Almighty, what had she done the night before? She remembered a rodeo, so she and Dewar must have gone down to Mesquite, Texas. She could remember hearing the crowd whooping and hollering.
She drew her brows together in a deep frown and groaned. Her head throbbed. What had she drunk? She felt like she’d fallen into a vat of pure white lightning and sucked half of it down while trying to get out. She remembered riding. Was it the mechanical bull or a bronc? There was a beer when she first got to the dance and one after that, but when did she start drinking the hard stuff?
She distinctly remembered settling into the saddle and nodding at the clowns to open the gate. So, she rode a bronc and then what? Why didn’t Dewar stop her from getting so drunk that she’d pass plumb out? Some brother he was. She eased one eye open, then realized she was not in her bed at home, and she wasn’t even at Liz and Raylen’s house, either.
What had she done? And worse yet, who did she do it with?
She snapped her eyelid shut and took a deep breath. Just that much effort shot an extra bolt of pain into her head. She reached up to grab it, but her arms felt like they were encased in concrete.
That must’ve been some raw liquor , she thought.
She remembered Trace Coleman having more points than she did and how disappointed she had been. She had taken a shower and changed for the rodeo dance. Someone had put a beer in her hands, and she’d finished it quickly, then there had been dancing and another beer and that’s where everything came to a screeching halt.
There’s no way two beers put me on my butt. I can hold my own against three older brothers, and I can outdrink my sister, Colleen. How did I get home and into bed? Did I die? Is this eternity? If it is, then it has to be hell. But I can’t be dead. My head hurts too bad for me to be dead.
She wiggled her toes to find them still restricted in boots. She ran a hand down her side. She was still fully dressed. She opened both eyes even though the light hurt. Nothing. She was not at home in her trailer, so where was she? She didn’t recognize a single thing. She slowly turned her head toward a soft whimper coming from the pillow beside her, and a doggy tongue licked her face from chin to eyelid.
Where did Sugar fit into the picture? Nothing made a bit of sense. She shut her eyes again against the harsh bright light coming through the window and tried to think. Doggy breath. The aroma of bacon and coffee. Someone humming an old George Strait tune “Famous Last Words of a Fool.”
Holy Mother of God!
She was in Trace’s trailer. He was happy and cooking breakfast, and she was in his bed. What had she done?
And he’s humming about the famous last words of a fool? What did I say? Am I the fool?
She forced her eyes open one more time and looked down the length of the bed. He was putting plates on the table. He was every bit as sexy in those knit pajama bottoms as he was in tight-fitting jeans and chaps.
Shut up thinking like that! Think hard. What happened after that second beer?
He turned around and waved. “Good morning. I thought the smell of food might wake you up. I tried everything else, but nothing worked.”
What all did “everything else” cover, anyway?
Gemma eased to a sitting position and checked one more time. Yep, she was fully dressed, complete with her boots still on her feet.
Trace carried a cup of coffee to the bed and put two aspirins in her hand. “Something for the headache and to wake you. We’ve got more than four hundred miles to go before the end of the day.”
She popped the pills in her mouth and washed them down with stout coffee. “What happened?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Two beers.” He chuckled.
“Impossible!” She tried to shake her head, but the motion made it too bad.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I think someone drugged your beer. You left it sitting on a hay bale while you were dancing. You finished it off and then you passed out while we were dancing.”
She handed him the coffee and held her head with both hands. “That was a downright stupid mistake on my part. I know better than to drink out of a bottle or a glass that’s been sitting out of my sight.”
But you were watching me dance and your eyes made me all hot. Did I tell you that before I passed out?
“God, it even hurts to think. Who did it?” she asked.
“The last person I saw you dancing with was Chopper, but he wouldn’t drug you. I wouldn’t put it past Coby. He’s pretty wild, and he’s had his eye on you.”
“I can’t remember anything after dancing to a fast song in a group of cowgirls. If that sumbitch doped me, he’s in big trouble,” she said.
Trace sat down on the edge of the bed. “You remember that much?”
“I remember dancing and waking up right here. What did I say or, worse yet, do?”
Trace chuckled. “You slept. I’d like to hold it over your head that you said something terrible or did something sexy, but you didn’t. You just slept like you were drugged. You finished that dance in the group and downed your beer. I asked you to dance with me, and you barely made it past the end of the song before you were out. I would have put you to bed in your trailer, but I didn’t know what might happen if I did, so I brought you here.”
“Thank you,” she said with a nod.
He handed her the coffee, and she took a sip. It helped to erase the bitter, nasty taste in her mouth. If she ever figured out what sorry sucker drugged her beer, she fully well intended to repay the favor. Only he wouldn’t wake up fully dressed in a bed with a Chihuahua licking his face. He’d wake up staked out spread-eagle and naked on a fire-ant bed. If he wanted a hot bed, then she’d give him one.
She slung her legs over the side of the bed. The room did a couple of fast spins before it slowed down.
“Need some help there?” Trace asked.
“No, I can do it,” she declared. She set the coffee on the end table and held on to the wall. Her legs were rubbery at first, but they finally supported her, and she took a couple of feeble steps toward the table.
Trace stood up and followed her. Knowing he was back there to catch her if she fell gave her confidence and determination to make it to the table without help.
“This is miserable,” she said as she slid into the booth and sighed.
“Think you can drive? We could stay right here until tomorrow,” Trace said.
We could stay here? she thought. Where did that “we” business come from?
“This coffee and aspirin are helping. Once I eat something I’ll be fine,” she said.
“Your eyes still look dazed,” he said.
“It’s a crazy feeling not knowing what happened. I keep trying to remember something past the dance and I can’t,” she said.
He put a plate in front of her with three fried eggs, bacon, and two pieces of toast on the side and refilled her coffee cup before he carried his plate to the table and joined her.
She picked up a piece of bacon with her fingers and ate it. It was crispy enough to crackle when she bit a piece off, and it had been smoked to just the right flavor.
“I love breakfast food,” she said.
“Me too. Good breakfast starts the day out right. Good supper ends it. Dinner can be a quick sandwich or leftovers from the night before,” he said.
She cut up the eggs. “Yep. You are so right. These eggs are done just right. Over easy, whites done.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He grinned. “That proves it, Gemma. You were drugged for sure. If you had a hangover, you wouldn’t be eating greasy fried eggs.”
She looked across the table at Trace but didn’t nod in agreement. Moving her head still hurt. “You got that right. First time I ever got drunk enough to have a hangover, I didn’t even want to eat a piece of dry toast.”
Trace smiled again. He had a killer smile and dreamy eyes, and words could not begin to describe his body or his slow Texas drawl. He could ride a bronc and talk about horses, ranching, and rodeos, and could cook too. Why wasn’t he married?
“What time is it?” she asked.
He glanced toward the clock on the microwave and her gaze followed his. It was seven thirty. If they were on the road at eight, they’d pull into the campground at five that afternoon. That should give her plenty of time to cook the traditional holiday supper before the fireworks show started at dark.
“I’ll follow you today,” he said. “And I need your cell phone number so we can keep in touch about stopping for food and potty breaks.”
“You don’t have to. I can take care of myself,” she protested.
He chuckled.
She gave him the meanest look she could conjure up with a headache.
He raised both palms. “Hey, you want to go it on your own just say the word, darlin’. I’m just offering since you’re not runnin’ on all eight cylinders today.”
“It’s getting better,” she grumbled. “But I’ll take you up on the offer. And I’ll even make supper to pay you back for protection and breakfast.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You cook?”
She met his gaze without blinking. “You think I can’t?”
“You want a fight? I can deliver it.” He growled, but his eyes were teasing instead of angry.
“No, I’m too messed up to fight. You’d win and then I’d hate myself. Yes, I cook,” she answered between bites.
“What are you planning?”
“It’s the Fourth of July. We’ll have steaks on the grill at the campground, corn on the cob, and maybe summer goulash if I can find a fruit stand along the way.”
“Summer goulash?” he asked.
“That would be potatoes, squash, onions, and tomatoes or whatever fresh vegetables I can find at one of those roadside fruit stands all put together in some foil and grilled with the steaks. And watermelon for dessert.”
He polished off the rest of his omelet and smeared grape jelly on the last piece of his toast. “Sounds like a meal fit for a king who just rescued the princess.”
“Darlin’, I’m not the princess. I’m the queen and I intend to have the crown in Vegas,” she told him.
He leaned across the table until their noses were only inches apart. “Miss O’Donnell, to get that crown you are going to have to get past me.”
Her green eyes locked with his brown ones. “I can do it.”
He slowly straightened his back and picked up his coffee cup.
She was disappointed. She was so sure that he would kiss her that she could already taste the coffee on his lips. She felt cheated and then she was angry at herself for wanting him to kiss her at all.
“I believe that you think you can beat me,” he said.
“I believe that you think I can’t.” She slid out of the booth. The room didn’t sway, and her feet were on solid ground once again.
“I guess we’ll see what happens in the next five months.”
“And like I told you before, one of us is going to be very happy. Thank you for breakfast. I’ll be ready to leave in thirty minutes,” she said.
The room seemed smaller when he slid out of the booth. Six feet two inches of a bronc rider took up a lot of real estate, especially in a small trailer. “I’ll follow you. If you start feeling light-headed or sick, just call me and we’ll stop earlier than the campground. We’ve got five days to get to Colorado Springs. We don’t have to hurry.”
He opened the door for her and followed her out into the bright sunlight. “Going to be another hot one. Thank goodness for air-conditioning.”
She turned around and smiled at him. “Amen.”
His arms gathered her close to him and she barely had time to close her eyes before his lips had found hers in a searing kiss that came close to frying her underpants.
Tongue met tongue in a fiery mating dance, and their bodies pressed tightly together as if closeness would ease the aching pain brought on by steaming-hot kisses. One kiss grew to two with the last one lingering on and on. Yet it ended too soon, and when he stepped back, she had to get her bearings quickly or she would have fallen forward into his arms again.
“See you when we stop for lunch.” He picked up her hand and wrote his phone number on her palm. “That’s in case you need to call me,” he said and then quickly disappeared back into his trailer.
Words would not come out of her swollen and hot mouth. And her hand was every bit as warm as her lips. So that first impromptu kiss hadn’t created an oozy feeling down deep in her gut because of an adrenaline rush; she really was attracted to the cowboy.
“Dammit!” Gemma muttered, as she fished her key from the pocket of her tight jeans with trembling hands. She unlocked the door into her trailer, and once inside, she threw herself backwards on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
She could not be involved with Trace. She could not let him kiss her again. It would be like sleeping with the enemy, and she’d never know if he was playing her or if he was seducing her with those blistering kisses just to mess up her head, so she’d wreck at every rodeo. Or was he as attracted to her as she was to him? Either way, she’d never know the absolute truth.
She had leased her beauty shop and given up a year of her life for this circuit round. No matter how she wanted more kisses and a taste of what Trace would be like in bed, the answer was no. She would get over Trace, and there would be lots of cowboys in her future. The glory of the Vegas win was a one-time shot.
“I mean it!” she mumbled as she reached down and undid her belt. Then she sat up, undressed completely, padded to the tiny bathroom, took a quick shower, and washed her hair. She slipped into clean panties and a bra, a pair of jean shorts with frayed edges, sandals, and a yellow cotton top with spaghetti straps.
She had locked the door securely and was on her way to get inside her truck when she saw Trace bringing Sugar back from a walk. She would never get used to seeing a big tough cowboy with a little bitty dog prancing along beside him.
“Ready?” Trace asked when he reached her side.
“Are you?” she fired back at him.
“Soon as I get in the truck. You go on first and I’ll follow you,” he said.
She nodded and settled into the pickup seat, belted up, and started the engine.
How could he act as if nothing had happened between them? It must be a man thing. Her insides were a pile of mush, and her brain was barely functioning. She wanted to follow him back into the trailer and finish what they’d started with that kiss and be done with it. Maybe a good romp in the sheets would put an end to the fire.
***
Trace settled Sugar on her pillow in the passenger’s seat of his black pickup truck, fired up the engine, and waited until he saw Gemma expertly back her trailer up and slowly pull away from the rodeo grounds. He fell in behind her and wished he was right there in the truck with her instead of looking at her license plate.
“Damn woman, anyway!” he said to Sugar. “Her lips are even softer than I thought they’d be, and the way she fit into my arms was like she belonged there. But I can’t do it, Sugar. We can be friends and traveling buddies, but no more of those hot kisses. Besides, she might be trying to mess me up so she can have her glory ride and be the second woman to win the title. She’s got two strikes against her. She’s way out of my league and I could never trust her.”
He was still arguing like a prosecution lawyer going after a guilty conviction when she signaled that she was getting off at the next exit. He was surprised to see that the whole morning had passed, and it was lunchtime. He’d give her credit for one thing: she didn’t piddle around when it came to getting from one place to the next. They’d put in two hundred and fifty miles since they left the rodeo grounds.
She was out of her vehicle and jogging toward the door before he could get Sugar’s leash snapped and take her to the doggy section of the truck parking area. By the time Sugar had sniffed every blade of grass and chased a grasshopper out from under a rock, Gemma was back.
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll order for both of us. We can eat while we drive,” she said.
“Slave driver!” he teased.
“Yep, I am. Now give me your order. I only allow thirty minutes for eating and then it’s back on the road,” she told him.
“You really are a slave driver,” he said.
“Keep up or stay out of my way,” she said with a raised eyebrow.
“I want two cheeseburgers with everything on them, a double order of fries, a chocolate shake, and a cup of coffee,” he said.
She looked at her watch. “I’ll take care of the orders and then watch Sugar while you have a potty break.”
“Bossy as hell, ain’t you?” he asked.
“I prefer to think of it as highly acute organizational skills,” Gemma told him.
“That’s just fancy talk for bossy,” he argued.
“Words are words. I’ll order and be right back,” she said and hurried off toward the store.
He watched her trot back inside. She looked just as good in those cutoff shorts as she did in tight jeans. It was going to be a long, long five months.