Mary Leo - Aiming for the Cowboy

His sun-kissed hair surrounded that beautiful face of his. His crystal-blue eyes sparkled as a sheepish grin spread across his kissable lips. The man looked sexier than a cowboy had a right to. Helen desperately wished she’d worn something less comfortable. She tried to straighten out the collar on her pajamas.

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

“You look beautiful,” he said.

Sincerity crossed his face, making her uncomfortable.

“There’s room on this sofa if you want to join me.”

“I’d be happy to.”

Colt sat on the opposite end of the couch. Helen was dying to ask him all sorts of questions about how he was feeling about her news. She wanted to tell him she understood that her announcement must have come as a complete shock to him.

But most of all, she wanted to let him know she forgave him for walking away.

She wanted to share all of these things with him and more.

Aiming for

the Cowboy

Mary Leo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARY LEOgrew up in South Chicago in the tangle of a big Italian family. She’s worked in Hollywood, Las Vegas and in Silicon Valley. Currently she lives in San Diego with her husband, author Terry Watkins, and their sweet kitty, Sophie.

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For Indie-Elise, the absolute sweetest grandbaby I could ever hope for. And to her loving and dedicated parents, Jocelyn and Paul, who are simply the best mom and dad ever!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Excerpt

Chapter One

The hoots and whistles from the crowd in the stands at Horsemen’s Arena in Las Vegas should have been enough to give Helen Shaw the adrenaline rush she needed to jack up her excitement for the coming event. But it wasn’t.

As she and her horse, Tater—a honey-colored Nokota she had purchased from Colt Granger two years ago—made their way out to the main arena, Helen’s stomach brutally pitched, reminding her that something was definitely off this evening.

“Shoot ’em dead,” her teammate Sarah Hunter yelled as Helen passed her. Sarah’s ride would be coming up after two more riders competed.

“You, too!” Helen yelled back to her. They were on the same team, but they competed individually, which was the reason why Helen liked the sport so much. Even though they were competitors, everyone in the equine sport acted as if they were all part of one big extended family, which was something Helen needed at the moment, a friendly reminder that she would be all right.

Instead of focusing in on her game, Helen was busy gulping down deep breaths of rich animal-scented air, trying to calm her overactive stomach. The familiar smells of horse stalls usually quieted any nerves she might have, so she didn’t understand the growing nausea.

What could she have eaten to cause such a reaction in her stomach? Yes, she was nervous, but she’d checked and rechecked everything: the braided rein felt steady in her hands; her two single-shot Cimarron .45s were loaded with black powder and secure in their double front rig; her royal-blue cattleman-type hat sat snug on her head; the custom-made, matching blue leather chaps hung easy on her legs; and the lapis lazuli flower pendant her friend Colt had given her for good luck felt a little like his warm kisses around her neck.

She was ready to take on this moment. If she won, she would move on to the next regional championship event for cowboy mounted shooting in the fall. Something she’d been working toward for the past three years.

Tater slowed to an easy canter as they made their way through the metal gate. Helen could hear the pop-pop-pop from the male competitor in front of her as he fired at the target balloons from his mount. An announcer rattled on about the cowboy’s time and his abilities in the usual jumble of garbled words that large arenas’ PA systems seemed to produce.

Then, in an instant, the crowd whistled and cheered as Helen and the cowboy passed each other, nodding recognition as she and Tater finally reached their starting point.

The announcer mumbled something about Tater then focused on there being a lady in the house, which he did every time a woman rode out. Cowboy mounted shooting was one of the few events where women and men competed against each other, and because of this, most of the announcers seemed to overcompensate with political correctness to let the audience know a “lady” had approached the main arena.

Helen eased Tater into a faster canter, making tight circles in front of the short course. The buzzer sounded and without much thought, Helen drew her first weapon, leaned forward in the saddle, and Tater took off for the semicircle of five white balloons. In one swift movement Helen took aim, clicked back the rough hammer, pulled the trigger and popped the first balloon, then the second, third, fourth and fifth. She quickly holstered her gun and drew the second firearm, all the while guiding Tater around the red barrel at the far end of the course, his hooves pounding dirt, his breathing hard and heavy. Tater felt like the wind guiding her toward each target. The constant hammering of his strong legs and the sharp angle of his muscled body as they rounded the barrel added to Helen’s supreme confidence and focus. She took aim once again and popped each of the five remaining red balloons on the run down as she and Tater raced straight to the end of the course. Holstering her second gun, totally in sync with her horse, totally in tune with the power of the event, Helen knew she’d broken a record.

The crowd cheered. The announcer did his “woo-hoo” bit, and continued his warble about how “this cowgirl can ride!” Then he gave the audience her overall ranking stats as everyone waited for her score.

When the clatter died down, Helen and Tater eased up to a more effortless gait, and she noticed the five-foot-tall digital clock gave her a winning time.

“We did it, boy.”

Helen beamed, and just as she patted her approval on Tater’s hindquarters, the nausea overtook her with a vengeance. This time Helen couldn’t control it and she vomited down the side of her lovely blue chaps, causing what could only be described as an overreaction by the handlers, who immediately called in medical.

Suspecting the flu, her team leader insisted she see a doctor, and before Helen could get herself together enough to object to all the fuss, she was transported to an urgent care facility, where an overly sympathetic nurse and stoic female doctor hit her with a barrage of questions. When Helen admitted this wasn’t the first time she’d vomited in the past few weeks, the doctor recommended a complete physical, which included a urine sample and enough vials of blood to satisfy a vampire.

“The good news is you don’t have the flu,” Doctor Joyce said as she slipped off her latex gloves and tossed them in the small silver trash can. “You can sit up.”