Mary Sullivan - No Ordinary Cowboy

Someone should tell him he looks goofy when he smiles like that, Hank thought. Like a lovesick moose.

“I can drive her home later if you want, Hank,” Hip said.

Over my dead body, Hank thought, and stood beside Amy.

Ty picked up a rope and tied a honda, then passed the plain end through the honda to make a loop. He started to spin it nice and slow. Like any cowboy worth his salt, he spun and worked the rope to an impressive four-foot loop, which he tossed over his head and down his body until it spun around his waist.

Ty smiled his goofy grin while he watched Amy. She clapped and laughed, her pretty smile sparkling in the sun.

Angus put a hand on her shoulder, a hand that would be broken in about two seconds if he wasn’t careful. Hank’s mind was turning to violence at every turn.

“That’s called a body spin, but the prettier term is wedding ring,” Angus said.

Amy nodded and smiled at him.

Hip ran forward with a rope of his own.

“Watch this, Amy.” Hip started spinning a flat loop in front of his body. When he’d worked the rope to a good-size loop he passed it to his right hand and around his back, picking it up with his other hand and bringing it around front again on the other side.

“That’s a merry-go-round,” Angus said.

Hip threw the loop high over his head and kept spinning it. “Look, Amy,” he shouted.

Hip was a good twenty years older than Amy. Disgusting way for a middle-aged man to behave in front of a young woman.

Show off. Braggart. Good word.

A split second before Hip threw the loop toward Amy, Hank realized his intention and spun Amy around out of the way, then pulled her flush against his chest, but Hip was too fast and his aim too accurate.

The loop settled over Amy, but also caught Hank, the rope tightening around them with the gentle persuasion of a mare nudging her colt home.

Hank heard shouts and whoops of laughter from the men, and heard Angus say, “Nice hoolihan, Hip,” but all Hank saw was Amy.

She’d raised her arms when he’d pulled her toward him and her hands rested high on his chest. They rose and fell with his quick breaths, branding him.

The sounds around him drifted away. He lost himself in Amy’s green eyes.

His hands held the back of her waist, drifted down to her hips. He thought of ripe pears and his blond guitar.

She smelled warm, like the sun, like mango and papaya and coconut.

Her skin looked soft enough to lick.

What if he did what he wanted and rested his head on her golden hair, felt the glide of it across his cheek?

What if he pressed his lips to her eyelids to close them, so she couldn’t see all those handsome cowboys crowding around her? What if he kissed her until she was aware of only plain Hank?

Before he could act on the crazy impulse, she did the oddest thing. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, then smelled him with a delicate sniff.

She opened her eyes and smiled into his. “Soap. Nice.”

When she raised her hands to his shoulders, his arms automatically drew her closer, until her chest was flush against his.

She stiffened. Then, as if he’d doused a roaring fire, she grew icy. Her skin paled. Her lips thinned. The light in her emerald eyes died.

She dropped her gaze to his chest and one cheek burned red, and he could swear she was more than just turning cold on him. She was ashamed about something.

What the heck?

He felt a tug on the rope and realized Hip was gathering it up, forming loops over the fingers of one hand. Hank shook himself out of his stupor and turned to the old ranch hand.

“Hip,” he said, “you could have hurt Amy.”

Hip slowed his approach, his expression sheepish. “Aw, Hank, you know I’d never hurt a woman. Been doing these tricks since I was eight years old.”

He lifted the loop above Hank’s and Amy’s heads as carefully as if she were a skittish horse. Hank felt reluctant contrition about his behavior toward Hip—contrition, great word—but then Amy smiled, rose on tiptoes and kissed Hip’s cheek.

Hank had the urge to rub a little dirt in the guy’s face, even if Hip was an older man.

Hank stalked to the truck, ashamed of his nasty urges. What the heck was wrong with him? He wasn’t a violent man.

“Amy,” he called, his tone brooking no opposition. “We need to go.”

She didn’t reply.

“Now,” he said.

Nothing was going to happen with this woman.

Amy ran to the truck and jumped in, but she didn’t look happy about it. She didn’t say a word about checking out the business.

He steered the truck toward the Sheltering Arms, heading out across fields instead of down the driveway to the road.

AMY WAS STILL having trouble catching her breath after being crowded against Hank’s big body. His very hard, muscular body.

He’d felt so good she’d wanted to stay there for days, staring into his laughing brown eyes, feeling his heat spread through her.

Then her traitorous arms had slid a path up to his shoulders and he’d pulled her close until her chest hit his. Oh, that horrible moment when she’d wondered if he knew, if he could feel how she differed from a normal woman.

Could the day possibly get any more rocky?

Maybe tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, would be a better time to deal with business.

The truck lurched as Hank swung it around in the yard. Amy fell hard against him. He pushed her upright with a gentle hand. “You should put your seat belt on.”

“Sorry, I forgot,” she mumbled as she slid over to lean against the passenger door, then pulled the harness across her body.

She bumped against the handle as the truck bounced over a rut, and her mind finally registered that they were driving over fields instead of to the small highway leading back to the ranch.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Hank pushed his hat back and wiped his forehead. “I want to see if we can catch sight of the campers.”

“Campers?” Amy asked, curious in spite of herself.

“The little kids you met aren’t the only ones we have at the ranch right now. The five older ones headed out this morning for a camping trip on Hungry Hollow land.”

“Who went with them? More counselors?”

“A bunch of my ranch hands.”

“Why would they camp over here? Why not on Sheltering Arms land?”

“I want them to see what goes on at a real working ranch. Most of these kids have never seen a steer in their lives.”

Suddenly he pointed to a cloud of dust on the horizon and gunned the engine. “There.”

When they flew over a hill and landed in a small gully on the far side of it, Amy’s jaw snapped shut. She braced one hand against the door and one against the dashboard. Her butt hurt from bouncing on the firm seat.

She glanced at Hank. He was barely aware of the bumps. His mustache curved up at the ends, echoing a smile on his lips. Damp hair stuck out under the brim of his hat, punctuated by the caramel streak at his widow’s peak.

As they approached the cloud, his grin broadened.

Amy watched dust swirl around a small herd of cows, or steers, or whatever they were, thirty yards away. Cowboys on nimble horses raced around the edges, controlling where the cows went. Mooing and yelling and rumbling hooves drowned out everything else. The pickup got close before she realized the ranch hands had children on their saddles in front of them while they herded cattle.

Dear God, were they crazy? Her heart pounded.

“Those children will fall off,” Amy cried.

She unsnapped her seat belt and threw her door open.

“Hey!” Hank yelled. “You can’t go out there.”

She was half out of the truck when Hank wrapped his fingers around her arm and hauled her back in.