Colby (BBW Western Bear Shifter Romance) (Rodeo Bears Book 3) (3 page)

Gemma shuddered.
 
Everything in her told her to run away.
 
Very fast.
 
But he was amazing looking.
 
And nice.
 
And the others were watching.
 
If she had someone to meet, she could escape her interview with Hutch and maybe with Wold.
 
If she ever found him.

"I'd like that," she said.
 
"Can I meet you somewhere?"

This time when he took her hand, he raised it to his lips.
 
His breath was hot as an animal's, weirdly sensual on her skin.
 
This time she shivered.
 
She could feel his touch of her fingers, his lips on her hand.
 
The sensation was as intimate as it might feel against the skin of her neck.
 
She felt dizzy.
 
She didn't think that was from either the fall or having her breath knocked out.

It was the honey colored eyes.
 
The hot breath.
 
The cheekbones and jaw.
 
The sensual, hot mouth that had just caressed her hand.
 
The way his index finger slid inward and under to stroke across her palm.
 

He arranged to meet her at the ticket booth.
 
"If you're not running lost," he added with a wink.

She blushed.
 
He'd seen her?
 
Probably right before she barreled into her.
 
And now he was teasing her about it.
 
But gently.

Even if Colby had totally made fun of her for being lost, she'd have met him at the ticket booth.
 
She was already half intoxicated by his looks.

She watched him stride away.
 
He had the lanky long-limbed stalk of a cowboy.
 
His legs ate up distance fast.
 
Out on a ranch, he'd move with economy under the broad desert sky.

Gemma could suddenly picture and even smell her father's ranch, clear as if she were standing on the land.
 
She hadn't been back there, or around anything remotely cowboy if she could help it since –
 

She broke off that thought and looked up at Hutch.
 
He grinned lazily, as if he hadn't seen any of her emotions going across her face.

She thought he probably had.
 
Gemma didn't lose her composure very often.
 
Maybe being bowled over by a bear had something to do with it.
 
Her thoughts about the past were emotions she tried to keep under wraps.

The thought of Colby made her hot inside again.
 
That was something she'd try and keep hidden as well.

She turned and looked up at Hutch to lead the way.

Hutch put a hand on her shoulder and led her into an office off the main part of the barn.
 
Or pavilion.
 
Maybe this was the pavilion and she'd found it after all.

The sounds of the arena faded.
 

The office would do for the interview.
 
It was utilitarian and filled to bursting.
 
Two western style saddles took up a ton of space, and saddle blankets lay tossed over filing cabinets.
 
Gemma suspected they'd been put in the office after use.
 
There was a pungent smell to the office that Owen Hutch didn't seem to notice.

A big, old fashioned metal desk dominated space not taken up by the saddles.
 
Parts of the desk were curling up in ragged metal strips.
 
The chair behind the desk had thick molded plastic arms and a seat and back made of cracking green leather.
 
Four black file cabinets groaned under the weight of books, brochures, dust and Stetsons.
 
A Native American dream catcher hung on one wall.
 

Gemma averted her gaze from it.
 
Her father had brought her one, back when she was a little girl.
 
When Marla had given her the assignment, Gemma thought it meant getting through coarse conversations and dusty places she didn't want to be.
 
Having shaken the dust off her boots and the boots off her feet, she wanted to be metro.
 

At no point had she admitted to herself she didn't want the memories of her father's ranch.
 
Or the cowboys or the long, hot, still summers outside Winnemucca.

Or of her father.

She cleared her throat and jumped when Hutch offered her a cold bottle of water from a mini fridge.
 
"Thanks."
 
She took a swig before she broke out her recorder and notebook.
 

"No laptop?
 
And is that a cassette recorder?"
 
He stared at it like she was suggesting recording onto wax cylinders.

"Old school," she admitted.
 
"Digital recorders are far more likely to screw up.
 
And I can store cassettes without giving up space on my computer."

"Just in case an interview comes back to bite you on the ass," he said with a chuckle.

"Something like that."

"Have any?
 
Ever?"

She frowned at him.
 
"Have any ever what?"

"Come back to bite you."

He didn't say
on the ass
this time.
 
That was good, because she was still blushing.

There was no way she was answering that question.
 
"Better safe than sorry," she said lightly.
 
"Shall we begin?"
 
Her palms were sweating.
 
Instantly she recalled the feel of Colby's thumb brushing against her skin there, sensual as if he –
 

She pulled herself together.
 
She'd see him when she finished the interview.
 
Better to get through it, then.

For the next twenty minutes she asked the superstar rodeo cowboy about real world ranching experience, about horses and bulls, about lifestyle and choices.
 
She asked him about the animosity so many people had to shifters being in rodeo.

Owen leaned back in the creaking desk chair, his feet on the desk and hands behind his head.
 
"Basically, folks just don't like anyone different.
 
Might've known about shifters for a lot of years, but they're happier when we stay out of sight.
 
The old,
Don't ask, don't tell
mentality."

"Then why don't you?" Gemma asked.

He gave her a curious look.
 
"Why don't we not tell?"

Gemma nodded.

He shrugged, not as casual as he was trying to look.
 
"People know.
 
They know anyway.
 
You want to round out your article with more than just Owen Hutch, best looking, best bull riding, best all around best on the circuit today – "
 
He stopped to see if she'd react.

She was already laughing.
 
"And most modest."

"Yes, add that."
 
He pointed at her notebook.
 
Just that fast he was serious again.
 
"Want to add some meat to that article, talk about not only the fight about shifters in the rodeo – which is kind of the no professional athletes in the Olympics thing – "

"How so?" she interrupted.
 
If she didn't, she forgot questions she wanted to ask.
 
Sometimes she forgot she was interviewing and just got interested.

"We're faster, stronger, bond better with the animals, and can subdue or at least stay on a bull the eight seconds with a much higher percentage than a non-shifter human."
 
He let his hands fall from behind his head, rocked the chair down on its tired springs and crossed his arms on the desk.
 
"But I'll tell you what.
 
We're not cheating by being who we are and in rodeo.
 
We're raising the bar."

Gemma didn't speak, just made a
go on
motion.

"Maybe other competitors are going to have to step up their own game and be more like the superstars of other sports – Michael Jordan, for instance."
 

"Not everyone can do that," she said, watching him.

"Not everyone can compete when it's human athlete versus human athlete.
 
Professional games are for professionals.
 
Everyone trains.
 
Everyone competes."

She stared at her notes.
 
She had other questions.
 
He went on before she asked them.

"You've heard about the disappearances?" When her confusion was obvious, he said, "That's what Colby's doing here.
 
He's kind of the on-again, off-again sheriff-type law back in our little patch of Texas.
 
And yeah, he rides.
 
He ropes, mostly.
 
Damned good.
 
You going to stay and watch?"

Marla had insisted.
 
She wanted the flavor of the rodeo.
 
Gemma nodded.

"Good.
 
Keep an eye out for Eddie Tyrell.
 
He's one of the best.
 
And Jacob.
 
He's the baby.
 
I'm riding and so's Colby."

"And your brother – " She hesitated and read her notes.
 
Part of Marla's interest in the clan was the very fact they were a clan, with generations of shifter bears bull riding and bronc roping together.
 
"Holden?"

He closed down then.
 
"Holden's out looking for some of the missing," he said simply.
 
"Ask Colby about it.
 
He can tell you more."
 
He was looking past her, at the door Gemma had her back to.

"But – " she started, but he was already motioning someone to come in.

"Ask Colby," he repeated.
 
"Because obviously he's waited long enough for that drink."

Gemma turned quickly, her whole body swinging around on the metal folding chair she'd set up on the far side of the desk.
 
When she moved, she caught her leg on the bottom of the desk where a long curl of shredded metal decorative strips had come loose.
 
One jagged edge sank into the outside of her left calf, between ankle and the bulge of calf muscle.

Gemma sucked in a hissing breath.
 
Her hands went instantly to the wound.
 
Her linen pants were caught on the metal and hot blood beginning to spurt through the fabric, coating her fingers.
 
Instantly she was dizzy.
 

"Whoa, there, darlin'," Colby said.
 
He was halfway through the door the instant she began to tip.
 
He caught her easily as she began toppling out of the metal seat.

"Not good with blood," she said.
 

And the entire room tipped sideways.

Chapter Three

She didn't quite faint.
 
There was some mercy in that.
 
But there was an indefinite amount of time she couldn't account for.
 
When her vision cleared, she saw that her already shredded linen pants had been split up the leg much higher than seemed necessary in order for Colby to take a look at her calf.

Blood was still streaming from the cut, deep purple as it hit the air.
 
Gemma gagged and forced herself to breathe long and deep.
 
She tilted her head back and kept her eyes trained on the ceiling.
 

"Easy, there," Colby said.
 
Gemma could hear the sounds of Owen moving around the room.
 
"Thanks," Colby said.

She risked a glance.
 
Owen had just handed him a first aid kit.

Involuntarily she looked at her leg again and began to shake.

"So tell me what you learned from Owen in the interview," Colby said loudly as he took hold of her leg and gently began cleaning the wound with a sterile pad.
 
"Oh, this isn't bad.
 
This is a scratch."

Gemma made a sound she hadn't intended to make.

"So was that something Owen said or one of your questions?" Colby said.

That made her sputter a laugh.
 
"I didn't actually get to ask all my questions," she said.
 
"We were interrupted."

"You mean when you tried to amputate your leg?
 
This might sting."

Sting was an understatement.
 
She almost kicked him involuntarily when the disinfectant hit her leg.
 
But the more he did, the less she had to.

Besides, the wound throbbed like a stubbed toe rather than burning like a cut.
 
She could ignore the pain even if she couldn't ignore the blood.