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Troy shook his head, wincing involuntarily. If Cole were to ask him—not that a Cabrerra ever would—he’d tell him that he was practically begging to get bit. As Troy had learned at a very young age, it wasn’t wise to put your hand anywhere near an angry female’s mouth.
Troy watched Misty’s eyes narrow, then he speared a bite of sauce-drenched steak with his fork. He chewed, the spicy barbecue burning his tongue, and waited hopefully.
But before Misty could sink her small white teeth into him, Cole leaned close and whispered something in her ear. Above Cole’s palm, Misty’s eyes widened, then narrowed with anger. She shoved Cole’s hand away and answered him right back—and whatever she said certainly shut Cole up. In fact, he was still staring at her in dumbfounded surprise when Misty jumped off the bar stool, grabbed his wrist and her purse, and started towing him toward the door.
Cole followed her willingly. More shouted advice followed their progress, but Misty didn’t pause and neither did the big man behind her. They left to the accompaniment of hoots and hollers without once looking back.
Disappointed at the outcome of the argument, Troy was staring broodingly at the swinging doors when a movement near the restroom distracted him. He glanced over as Short Skirt peered out again, then warily emerged, keeping her face averted. She headed toward her seat, her graceful walk holding Troy’s undivided interest. He smiled a little as this time she gave enough of a jump to make it up on her bar stool on her very first try. Big Bob paused in front of her to point to the door, obviously telling her where Misty had gone. Troy expected Short Skirt to leave, also, but instead, she laid her purse on the bar and reached for the beer Big Bob slid in front of her.
Troy looked around and realized he wasn’t the only one watching her. Seeing her sitting alone caused a fresh ripple of interest in the room. Danny Wilson—with a casual attitude that didn’t fool Troy for a second—abandoned his pool game to swagger in her direction, and ended up in Misty’s abandoned seat, acting as if he’d just landed there by accident and wasn’t aware of the slender blonde next to him at all. His white, chipped-tooth smile widening, Danny settled in, signaling Big Bob for a beer. It wasn’t the first time Troy had seen Wilson in action. Danny worked the circuit as a rodeo clown, and in Troy’s opinion, no one was better at drawing the attention of a maddened bull in the ring. Or, it seemed, a pretty woman in a bar, he mentally added, as Danny smiled at Short Skirt and she smiled back.
Time to get moving, Troy decided. Setting down his whiskey glass, he rose, then stood swaying for a few seconds, waiting for the sharp pain in his knee and the dizziness in his brain to ease. When they did, he carefully made his way to the bar—just as Dan leaned over to say something to the woman.
“Hey, Dan,” Troy drawled, interrupting the other man in midsentence.
Dan glanced his way. “Troy,” the cowboy replied with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
Troy didn’t take it personally. The two men were friends, but no man feels friendly to another when he’s trying hard to pick up a good-looking woman, and this blonde was mouthwatering.
Troy studied her as Big Bob slid two long necks on the counter. From across the room, she’d looked attractive. Up close, she was stunning. The lashes resting against her cheeks were thick and dark, shielding her gaze as she stared at the bottles in front of her. Her cheekbones were well defined, her nose small and straight, her lips sweetly curved. But what really set her apart from most of the women Troy had met was her skin. Her glowing, sun-kissed skin was so finely textured it literally looked silky smooth. Touchable. He had to resist the urge to reach out, to run a finger along her smooth, honey-golden cheek.
As if she sensed his thought, she shifted a little, continuing to ignore him, her stiff posture as unwelcoming as Wilson’s greeting had been.
Troy wasn’t daunted; O’Malleys enjoyed a challenge. So he turned to Wilson. “Ready for the rodeo tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“You planning on attending?” Troy asked, peering around the cowboy to try to catch Short Skirt’s gaze.
She shrugged and turned farther away from him—a reaction that encouraged Dan to lean in closer. “You know, I didn’t catch your name,” Wilson said, smiling crookedly at her, “but I think I’ve seen you around town before. Are you a friend of Misty’s from Dallas?” he asked, lowering his voice in an effort to exclude Troy.
Troy refused to be excluded. He moved, stepping blatantly between them to clap Dan on the back. “Misty’s friend?” he repeated in a disbelieving tone. “Are you kidding me, Dan? Why, she was almost Misty’s sister-in-law. Weren’t you, Short Skirt?”
That got her. Her spine stiffened at the nickname, and she turned to meet his eyes. “Are you saying my skirt’s too short?” she asked in a dangerously level tone.
“Hell, no!” Troy stared innocently into her glowering blue gaze, then at her long, long legs. He eyed them leisurely, then let his gaze travel up to her slim waist and sweet breasts—lingered there a moment—then continued higher to meet her eyes once again.
He shook his head solemnly. “No, ma’am, not at all,” he replied. “In my opinion, your skirt’s way too long.”
Her eyes flashed; Troy repressed a grin. Damn, he loved to make her angry. He was getting ready to provoke her some more, when Dan interrupted, “What did ya mean about her being Misty’s sister-in-law?” the cowboy asked uneasily, his puzzled gaze traveling from one to the other. “Do ya’ll know each other?”
Reluctantly, Troy abandoned blonde-baiting to glance over at Dan. “Of course I know her, Dan. So do you. Surely you recognize Ally Cabrerra.”
Chapter Four
“Uninitiated heifers can present special challenges. Often they’ll spurn the male’s advances and ignore all mating cues. Usually all it takes to overcome reluctance is a simple change of environment. Minimize distractions by selecting a pen large enough for the customary chase, but small enough to ensure interaction between the breeding pair….”
—Successful Breeding: A Guide for the Cattleman
Dan reared back like a startled stallion, the whites of his eyes showing, the stunned alarm on his face identical to the expression he’d worn at the Abilene rodeo when a bull had hooked him in the butt. “Good Lord, I’ll be damned if it ain’t. How’re ya doin', Al—er, Ally? I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you for a minute.”
“That’s okay,” Ally murmured, while Troy clapped him on the shoulder, saying heartily, “Now, isn’t that downright amusing.
Why, when Cole returns—are your other brothers coming with him, Ally?—I’m sure they’ll get a kick out of the way you were trying to hook up with their little sister, Dan, without even realizing who she was.”
As a rodeo clown, Dan was accustomed to moving quickly, and Troy had to admire the speed he used to extricate himself from possible danger now. “Heck, sounds like fun,” Dan said, “talking to your brothers and all,” he added in clarification, the color darkening in his ruddy cheeks. “But I need to get home. Have to check my rigging before the rodeo tomorrow. See ya around, Ally. Troy.” He touched the brim of his hat in farewell, then disappeared quicker than fried chicken at a church picnic, his untouched beer the sole remaining testament to his presence.
Troy took off his hat, then confiscated Dan’s bar stool and stretched his bad leg out beneath the counter. He appropriated Dan’s abandoned beer, as well, tilting the long neck to his lips and taking a deep, full swallow before setting the bottle down with a sigh of satisfaction.
He glanced over at Ally. She was pretending to ignore him, focusing intently on the TV perched high behind the bar as if she’d never seen a monster truck rally before. Troy drank his beer as he studied her, unable to get over how different she looked. Her drastically lightened hair framed her slim jaw in a style Misty often wore, and she’d dyed it Misty’s color, too—a golden-wheat shade with stripes of platinum streaking through it. Her simple, sleeveless blouse dipped into a V displaying a modest amount of cleavage, and the rosy-red color of the garment highlighted the pink on her cheeks.
Troy finished his beer and signaled Big Bob for another. On the TV, the trucks on steroids had been replaced by a skinny kid at a flea market earnestly demonstrating the wonders of an orange chamois cloth. Big Bob muted the television volume and cranked up Jim Croce on the stereo speakers, but Ally remained focused on the now silent TV, watching as intently as if she could read the kid’s lips and expected to be quizzed on the ShamWow! later.
Well, Troy had a quiz of his own to put to her, and he wanted his answers before Misty got back. So he corralled the next beer Big Bob slid toward him, then leaned in close to Ally. “So, Al. How’re things going with you?” he asked, bumping her shoulder companionably with his, as if they were long-lost war buddies recently reunited.
She almost slipped off her stool. She caught herself, then answered through clenched, small white teeth without looking his way. “Things are going fine, O’Malley.” Keeping her gaze fixed on the car salesman who’d replaced the ShamWow! kid, she added, “Or they would be if you’d slink on back to your hidey-hole in the corner.”
“Ah, so you noticed me, did you?” Stifling a grin at the way the comment made her soft lips press together, he drawled affably, “I’ll just do you that lil ole favor, as soon as you tell me what’s going on, what with the change in your hair and clothes—” his gaze traveled to that nearly illegal skirt “—and all.”
She turned to pin him with a cold blue glare. “And I’ll just do that lil ole favor for you,” she promised, exaggerating her drawl just as he’d done, “as soon as you tell me what concern it is of yours.”
“Oh, it’s not any of my concern,” he responded promptly, “but curiosity is my besetting sin.”
“Womanizing, drinking and lying are your besetting sins. Laziness is up there, too. Curiosity doesn’t even make the list.”
“And yet I’m definitely curious about all these changes.” His gaze wandered over her again. “Nice ones for the most part—except for the hair.”
Taken by surprise, she exclaimed, “I thought men preferred blondes!”
He shrugged. “Maybe some do. But I prefer your hair like it used to be. Long and dark. Silky-looking. Real pretty.”
The sincerity in his husky tones was unmistakable. Alarmed by the bloom of pleasure she felt, Ally said caustically, “Gee, that’s nice to know, O’Malley. Why don’t I go outside and write that in the dirt, just in case—in some far distant future—your opinion matters to me.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait! I have a better idea. Why don’t you go do it?”
If she’d hoped to deflate him, she failed miserably. Amusement danced in his green eyes. “Are you asking me to leave?”
She didn’t bother mincing the matter. “Yes.”
He assumed a hurt expression. “You wound me, Ally. You really do,” he said sadly, then lifted his hand to regard the base of his thumb as he played the trump card he’d had on her for more than twenty years. “Again.”
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