Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2 (2 page)

“Was this rodeo arena ever in use when you were younger?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not that I remember. The folks who used to own the motel had a daughter who was a barrel racer. That was a long time ago, though. Before my time, anyway.”

From her clandestine research, Monica knew that Dean was turning thirty-six this year. He was only four years older than her, but he gave off the jaded calm of a much older man.

“And no one ever used this arena for anything else?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s out of the way, I guess.”

“Out of the way?”

“When I was in high school, people used to drive out here and make out in their cars. A kind of lovers’ lane.” He paused. “Yeah. That’s what we used it for.”

The thought of a young Dean MacKinnon rutting a cheerleader in a pickup truck gave Monica an unexpected thrill. “How about you? Did ever you come out here?”

“Well, ain’t you full of questions.” He smirked at her.

At the end of the windbreak was a wide dirt field studded with patches of tall weeds. The weeds were so happy to grow unmolested, they’d burst into flower—yellow, white, gold. The rusted white gates of the old rodeo arena stood lonesome, the bleached bones of a giant animal that’d died in the desert a long time ago.

Monica turned off the engine and they got out of the car. The hot, unrelenting wind whipped at her again; her unbound hair blew back and she swept it off her face, annoyed at how wild and unruly it always was. Dean pulled down the brim of his cowboy hat. She looked down. Tangled among the weeds were dusty, crushed beer cans and shreds of desert-eaten litter.

“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” Dean said.

She followed him toward the arena, struggling to keep her balance over the pitted, uneven dirt. Patent leather heels had been a bad choice, but she soldiered on, determined to keep the aloof cowboy’s interest.

“Who’s producing the show?” he asked.

“We signed Miller-Davis Pro Rodeo,” she said proudly. It had been a slog just to get the famous production company’s attention. They kept reminding her again and again that they hardly ever bothered with amateur events.

Instead of being impressed, Dean said nothing.

She frowned. “What’s wrong with Miller-Davis?”

He shrugged. “Nothin’. They do an all right job.”

“All right? What do you mean by all right?” She stopped walking. “You’ve got something to say, Mr. MacKinnon, I think you should say it. I—we—have got a lot riding on this show.”

“You signed on the dotted line. Nothing I say’s gonna change that.”

“But—”

He stopped and turned around. “They’ve got a couple of dinks, is all.”

“Dinks?”

“Bulls that don’t buck.” Dean turned back to the ring. “You want rank bulls. I know a stock contractor not far from here that might could help you out. I’ll give him a call.”

Monica smiled to herself. This was exactly why she needed Dean MacKinnon on her side. “I’d appreciate that,” she said, watching her footing. The weedy ground was more uneven by the rusted barriers. Dean looked at everything with keen eyes as Monica stood by.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

“Classic eight-event rodeo? Regulation arena with a return, which you’ve got here.” He grabbed hold of the metal bars and gave them a shake. Monica saw his forearms flex as he gripped the metal. “These are rusted out. Not sound. You’re going to need new posts and panels. Wouldn’t be safe for the livestock or your visitors otherwise.” He tipped his hat back slightly to look at the rest of the arena. “Stock pens back there, bucking chutes here, roping chutes over there.” He rubbed his chin and nodded. “Seating?”

“Aluminum bleachers. We rented them.”

“They’d go there.” He gestured with his hand toward the opposite side of the arena. “And you need arena lighting for the nighttime events.” Dean walked the perimeter of the rusted-out fencing while Monica stumbled behind him, trying to keep her balance. “It’s a good piece of land,” he said. “Easy to find from the highway. Lots of parking for horse trailers and campers. You’ll need to clear a big space for a turnaround. You thinking about concessions?”

“Three aisles of booths behind the bleachers. All local vendors. A Tioga Beer garden too.”

“All right.” He nodded again to himself. “Okay.”

The made a slow circuit around the arena. The sun beat down on them. Dean looked perfectly comfortable in the heat, but Monica was baking in her silk shirt and linen suit skirt. He took a quick look at her and very subtly led her around the curve of the arena to a stand of eucalyptus trees. They stood in the shade for a second so that she could rest.

Dean hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and leaned against a tree. “Pains me to say it, but I think you’ve got something here.”

“I like to think so. With your help, we’ll be able accomplish much more. It’d be volunteer work, but all of us are volunteers.” Monica wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“How did you become a professional bullfighter anyway?”

“Long story or short story?”

It wasn’t a chore to listen to Dean MacKinnon talk, and she was enjoying the shade. “Long story.”

“When I was a kid, my dad took us to all the local rodeo events in the Central Valley. If we could get out there in a day, he’d drive us. I remember sitting in the stands with him, watching everything—the bulldoggers, the roping, the bull riding. My brothers all loved the bull riders. But I was different. I always liked the bullfighters. Back then we called them rodeo clowns.”

“Did they do the same things you do now?”

“Sort of. Rodeo clowns wore face paint and dove into barrels and told jokes to the crowd. But every time a rider got himself into a fix, the rodeo clown was there. He put himself between the bull and the rider. His job was to make sure the rider had that extra second he needed just to get away. These days the job’s split in two. The barrel man’s the entertainer. The bullfighters are the ones who protect the riders.”

“Do you have bulls on your family’s ranch?”

“Sure. Beef bulls. Little different, though.” He kicked at the dust with the toe of his boot. “When I got a little older, my father got me a job with his friend, name of Bo Walker. Bo was a bull rider, retired. Back then he was dead set on becoming known as the breeder of the rankest bulls on the West Coast. I worked his stock weekends and summers. Soon he had me handling the bulls. He taught me a lot. I began doing local rodeos as a bullfighter. Got a reputation, I guess. I learned from the guys around me and just worked my way up. Bit by bit.”

“Bull by bull.” She sat down on a fallen tree. Its trunk was smooth, worn away by the elements. “Aren’t you ever afraid?”

To her surprise, Dean sat down next to her. “Afraid? Naw. Excited, more like.” He paused. He had his own flavor of drawl, the accent of a man who was from a lot of places but nowhere in particular. “Fear’s no good. You won’t be in the right frame of mind to do the job. Someone could get hurt—you, or the rider, or one of the other bullfighters. You can’t be afraid.”

Monica looked at him. As he spoke about his work, his whole demeanor changed. He relaxed into his body. He unfolded his arms and the rigidity melted out of his shoulders. God help her, he looked even hotter, if that were possible.

“So you’re saying that when you are in the ring facing down a furious one-ton bucking bull, you’re not afraid at all?” she asked.

He gave her a half-smile that doubled his good looks. “Okay, maybe a little.” He leaned back on his arms and looked out onto the ghostly arena in front of them. “The riders—some of them do it for grins, I suppose. But they’re athletes. And they’re chasing eight, looking for a payday. Me? The other bullfighters? We’re there to do a job. We can’t let ourselves be affected by fear, even if we feel it. Fear leads to mistakes. And mistakes like that—they’ve got a high price.”

Monica studied his face. Even though he was at rest, his eyes were alert and watchful. From how he talked about his work, she knew he was proud of it. She could identify with him on that point. Her work was important to her too.

“So what’s your story?” he asked. “I heard the Singhs’ daughter went away a long time ago. Became one of them fancy college kids, more degrees than a thermometer. Working out in Silicon Valley, getting richer’n Steve Jobs. That true?”

Monica always wondered if anyone in town talked about her. People in the Sikh community sure did—she was “that old maid”, still unmarried at thirty-two. “The Silicon Valley part is true,” she said, “but I’m not a computer person. I’m in marketing. I help tech start-ups establish their brand and spread the word about their products.”

He nodded slowly. “How about the rich part? Is that true?”

“It’s good money. But richer than Steve Jobs? No. Not quite.”

“So Oleander Rodeo Days is just a little jewel in your crown?”

She snorted. If only he knew the financial trouble her family was in, that joke wouldn’t seem so funny. She reached down and brushed the dust from her patent-leather heels. “Yeah. A very little, very dusty jewel.”

“Are you moving here for good?”

She shook her head. “No. Once Rodeo Days are done, I’m hightailing it back to Cupertino. How about you?”

He shrugged. “Not sure yet.”

They chatted for a little while in the shade. To her surprise, Dean told her a little about his family and what it was like growing up on a ranch. Talking to him was easier than she’d thought.

When she had cooled down at last, Dean stood up and offered her his big hand. She took it, but when he pulled her up, her heel caught in a gopher hole and she stumbled forward, face-planting into his broad, rigid chest.

“Careful,” he said softly. With sure, swift movements, he hooked one arm around her waist and rested his other hand flat against her back, helping her gain her center of balance at once. She wavered a little bit, but his stance was solid, as though his legs were rooted in the earth like trees. Her skirt had ridden up just a little and she was straddling his thigh. Sudden heat flared up wherever her body was touching his—her chest, her back, her waist, her hands. A powerful, greedy ache grabbed hold of her between her legs. She didn’t move. Neither did he.

“Miss Kaur,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

They were standing so close together that Monica could see the faint brown freckles on his cheeks, the crinkles that formed at the corners of his blue eyes when he smiled.

“Call me Monica,” she said.

“Monica,” he murmured, “are you all right?” His mouth, framed by that short, dark beard, was wide and luscious, as tempting to her as an oasis in the heat.

Monica wasn’t a fool. She’d watched videos of him in the ring. Dressed in his gear and cowboy hat, Dean was fast as a cat and completely fearless, putting himself between angry bulls and fallen riders again and again and again. In the most famous incident, a rider had gotten hung up in his rope and Dean had taken a hoof to the femur while cutting the man free. Dean was fearless.

His local legend went back much further. Back in high school, he’d been Oleander’s very own cowboy Casanova, a football player and weekend bullfighter more handsome than a movie star. Some of the women who’d known him in school had told her stories about him that had left her blushing. When he’d gotten married, they’d cried enough tears to fill the aqueduct. Mystery shrouded his eventual divorce. Monica couldn’t dig up the dirt, even though she’d tried.

And there were dozens of fan sites dedicated to the hotness of Dean MacKinnon. From
Dean’s Queens
, a group of gay cowboys in San Francisco, to
Jailbait No More
, a small army of young women who showed up at his events wearing T-shirts that said
Hey, Dean, I’m Finally 18
. Dean MacKinnon lived in an all-you-can-eat buffet of willing sexual partners.

Up close, Monica saw the truth. Those fans weren’t wrong. The man was a bona-fide sex god.

He grinned as though he could read her mind. “Are you all right, princess?”

Temporary insanity was her only excuse. Months without sex, and her body was like a bull bucking in its chute. No brain. No logic. No words. All go.

“Don’t…call me that,” she whispered, staring at his mouth.

She leaned forward, tipped her head and, eyes open, pressed her lips against his.

He kept his hypnotic eyes open too, blue as the desert sky above them. Against all sense his mouth was cool, as soothing as a drink of cold water on a blazing-hot day.

The handsome bastard stood as still as a statue. Shame tingled in her fingers and toes, but Monica was so deep under his spell that for once she didn’t care. She pressed her palms flat against his chest and realized he was just as muscular as he looked. His body was like stone, but hot and alive. She slid her fingers over his curving chest muscles. Through his shirt, his soft mat of chest hair crinkled against her touch. Her toes curled in her shoes.

Still he didn’t move, letting her explore him. His lips tasted slightly bitter from the beer he’d been drinking at the Silver Spur. She was perched on her tiptoes, the balls of her feet digging into the grit as she pushed her body forward, trying to get a response out of him.

He gave her nothing. Nothing but that curious blue gaze, burning into her.

Finally, too mortified to keep going, she pulled away.

God, what is wrong with me?
On top of being too horny to live, she was now too ashamed to look him in the eye. She lowered her hands and stepped back away from him.

“Excuse me, Mr. MacKinnon,” she said, her voice suddenly raspy. She cleared her throat and licked her lips. They tasted like him. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. I…misunderstood.”

She’d already taken two steps toward the car when he reached out and encircled her wrist in his big hand. His hold was neither gentle nor hard. With his other hand, he slowly reached up and touched her cheek. Monica froze. His palm was calloused. She blinked and looked up into his eyes. His pupils were wide, and for the first time, she realized he was breathing as hard as she was.

“First of all, call me Dean. And no,” he said softly, “you didn’t misunderstand.”