The Cowboy and the Princess (2 page)

“What is chili?” she asked, raising her head to meet his gaze.

He startled again, just as he had when she climbed into his truck. Something about those eyes unraveled him in a way he’d never been unraveled and Brady was no stranger to peering into the eyes of gorgeous women. “You’ve never eaten chili?”

She shook her head.

“You’re not from Texas.”

“How do you know?”

“Texans cut their baby teeth on chili.”

“I am not from Texas,” she admitted.

“Where you from?”

She rested one hand on the satchel beside her. “What is chili exactly?”

“It’s ground or shredded beef cooked in a tomato-based sauce.”

“And served cold?”

“No. It’s hot. Both temperature and spice wise.”

She looked puzzled. “If it is hot, then why do they call it chili?”

Something was decidedly off about this one. “Dunno. Sarcasm maybe?”

“Sarcasm?”

“They don’t have sarcasm where you’re from?”

“May we get some?” she asked.

“Get what?” Brady asked, his mind rambling to all possible meanings of the phrase “get some.” “Sarcasm?”

“Chili.”

“Okay,” he said, just like that. So much for rule number three.

Never order chili at a truck stop.

That rule was self-evident. No unsavory details needed, but when the waitress came back, Brady handed her the menus. “Two bowls of chili. I’ll have a Coors and the lady wants . . .”

“Might I have a cup of tea?” Annie asked.

“You mean hot tea?” The waitress gave her a strange look. Probably not too many truckers ordered hot tea.

“Yes, please. Thank you.” Annie sat like she had a ruler implanted in her spine. Straight. Proper. “Earl Grey if it is available.”

“I’ll see what we got.” The waitress pivoted and scooted off.

Annie hugged herself, grinned. “This is so enjoyable.”

Brady cocked his head, trying to detect some kind of accent, but her speech was as plain as a Midwest newscaster. Sometimes her word choice was a little formal, a little stiff, which didn’t quite jibe. Who was she? Her inscrutable gray-blue eyes revealed no secrets. “What is?”

“Ordering chili in a truck stop with a real-life cowboy.”

“Are you from another country?”

“Are you?”

“No,” he said.

She spread her hands, delicate and smooth, against the Formica tabletop in a prim gesture. She wore no rings, no bracelets. No jewelry at all. Her nails were short and painted with clear polish. Simple. Understated. Elegant. No adornments needed. “And there you have it.”

What was she talking about? He felt as if he’d missed a step or two in the conversation. She looked so young. Not a single wrinkle on her face. No blemishes either. Flawless complexion.

“How old are you?” he asked. What if she was underage? This could be the beginning of a major snafu.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“Naw.” He shook his head. “You can’t be twenty-four. I’d say twenty at most.”

She raised both palms out from her head, shrugged. “It is true.”

“You have some great genetics.”

She glanced around the room at the other diners. “This place is quite interesting.”

Interesting? Furrowing his brow, Brady followed her gaze. Nothing special as far as he could see. Asking her where she was from wasn’t getting him anywhere. Clearly she didn’t want to talk about her past or why she was on the run. He understood that impulse. He tried a different track. “Where are you going?”

“Where are
you
going?”

“Jubilee.”

“Where is Jubilee?”

Dammit, here she was doing it again, running the conversation in circles. “About eighty miles southwest of here.”

“Is that where you live?”

“No.”

“Why are you going there?”

“A job.”

“What kind of job?”

“I work with horses.”

“You are an equine veterinarian?”

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly?”

“You could be a reporter, you know, with all those questions. Are you a reporter?”

“No, I am just naturally curious about people,” she said quickly. “What exactly?”

“I work with horses who’ve been emotionally traumatized.”

“Oh!” She broke into a big smile. “Like the Horse Whisperer in that dramatic novel by Nicholas Evans.”

“It’s not as glamorous as Robert Redford made it out to be in the movie, but yes, I do rehabilitate horses who’ve been injured or harmed or developed phobias.”

“How did you get started in that line of employment?”

“I just sort of fell into it.”

“Is it a difficult job?”

“Not from my point of view. But horses are sensitive, highly intuitive animals. You have to know how to handle them.”

“How is that?”

“With a gentle hand and a loving heart.”

“I like that.” She leaned forward. “What an exciting profession.”

“It’s just what I do.” He paused. “But I do love it.”

“Where do you live when you are not healing horses?”

“In my trailer.”

Dejection flickered across her face. “You do not have a home? You are a homeless person? I have never met a homeless person. Is it truly terrible? Being without a home?”

Beam me up, Scotty. I don’t know what planet I’ve landed on, but the hitchhikers in these parts are freaking nuts.
“I live in my trailer. That’s my home.”

“Traveling from town to town?”

“Living on the road is the ultimate freedom. Footloose and fancy-free. I can go anywhere I want, any time I want to go. No limitations. No expectations.”

“I cannot imagine such circumstances.”

“No roots, nothing holding me back.”

Annie pressed the fingertips of both hands against her lips. “It sounds so sad.”

Brady blinked. Something dark and uncomfortable slithered across the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t capture or name, but it slithered all the same. Swift and heavy, scraping his brain. “What’s so horrible about freedom?”

“It is lonely.”

“No, no. Not lonely at all. I have my dog, Trampas, and friends all over the country, and there’s the horses and . . .” He trailed off, trying to think of all the wonderful things about his life.

“No one special,” she finished for him.

Brady snorted. “Hey, if you’re so happy and your life is choked with special people, what are you doing hitchhiking in the rain on a Friday night?”

She pulled herself up on the edge of her seat and looked down her nose in a stately expression of the highborn. “I am out for an adventure.”

“Yeah? Got away from the zookeeper, did you?” Now, that was tacky. He shouldn’t have said it, but his gut poked at him.

“Pardon me?” The regal expression vanished and the vulnerable girlishness was back—hurt, disappointed.

Brady shook his head. “Never mind.”

Thankfully, the waitress showed up, interrupting the weird conversation. “Toad’s chili twice.” She sat two blue bowls of steaming cinnamon-colored chili, swimming in the glistening grease of too much cheddar cheese, in front of them. She plunked down Brady’s beer with barely any foam, and then she slid a small metal pitcher of hot water in front of Annie, along with a tea bag. “No Earl Grey. All we got is orange pekoe.”

“Thank you.” Annie graced the waitress with a smile as if bestowing a title upon her. “May I have an additional spoon, please?”

“Sure thing.” The waitress grabbed an extra spoon for her.

Brady peered into his bowl and accepted his fate. That’s what you got when you broke rules. He dug into the chili. Just as he feared, it was deceptively delicious.

He tried to blank his mind and focus on eating, but then the satchel on the seat beside Annie moved. Huh? Was he seeing things? He narrowed his eyes and noticed the sides of the satchel were made of braided mesh.

The satchel moved again.

“Whoa!” Brady jumped. Which wasn’t like him. Usually he was laid back, not the least bit jumpy, but things just kept getting weirder.

Annie looked up. “What is it?”

He pointed. “Your bag moved. Twice.”

“Oh.” She put a dab of chili on the end of her spoon and reached for the satchel.

A little brown head popped from the side corner of the bag, and a tiny black button nose twitched.

“What the hell is . . .
that?
”

Annie laid a finger to her lips. “Shh, this is Lady Astor. My best friend in the whole world.”

Shiny black eyes fixed on him.

“Seriously? That’s a dog?”

“Lady Astor is a Yorkshire terrier. She is one year old and she weighs six pounds.” The Yorkie lapped chili from Annie’s spoon.

“You brought her with you on Annie’s Big Adventure?”

“Of course. I could not, in all good conscience, leave her at the pal . . .” She trailed off, got a strange look on her face, and finished with “leave her home alone.”

“Ever heard of a kennel?” Did they have those in whatever la-la land she was from?

Annie glared as if he had suggested she run the dog through a blender.

“Hey, you’re the one who carries her around in a satchel.”

A distraught furrow creased her brow. “She is comfortable in it. The mesh sides let air get in. It keeps her dry in the rain and I bought the most expensive one they had and—”

He raised a palm. “You don’t have to justify it to me.”

“Do you really think it is a bad thing that I keep her in a satchel?” She worried a paper napkin between her fingers.

“Why do you care what I think?”

“I am not—” She shut her mouth.

“You’re not what?”

She tilted her head back and gave him that condescending glare again. “Disregard that.”

“C’mon, you can tell me.” Brady hated secrets. Had since he was a kid and he’d learned—well, there was no point going
there
—but whenever he was around someone who was obviously hiding something, he couldn’t resist nudging for full disclosure. He’d discovered a lot of unexpected things about people that way. “It’s not like you’re ever going to see me again. Your secret is safe with me.”

“I have no secret,” she insisted, but her earlobes pinked and she did not meet his gaze.

“None? Nothing? Not even a tiny white lie you want to confess?”

Her eyes widened and she seemed even paler than before. Did the woman ever go out in the sun? “No.”

Brady’s lie-o-meter went off. Big time. He did not know who or what Annie Coste was, but she spelled complication in capital letters.

Lady Astor finished licking the spoon, and then burrowed back into the satchel. She did seem to like it in there.

Annie picked up the second spoon that the waitress had brought her and daintily dipped it into the chili. Brady couldn’t help watching her bring the curved stainless steel up to her full pink lips. When they finished their meal, they ordered banana cream pie and Annie attacked it with gusto.

“I am not allowed to eat like this at home.” She moaned a soft sound of pleasure and put a hand to her stomach.

“Allowed to?”

She ignored that, flicked her tongue out to lick a spot of frothy meringue from her upper lip, laughed. It was an airy sound that had real joy behind it, a gleeful laugh that embraced life in a hard hug. If he never saw her again, he would always remember the sound of her laughter, because it sounded like freedom.

For some reason, just hearing her laugh made him laugh and they both sat there underneath the mule deer, the smell of grease in the air, the taste of banana cream pie on their tongues, laughing and looking at each other and having a high old time together. It was the most fun he’d ever had at a truck stop, bar none.

Slowly, her laughter drained away.

So did his.

They were left with just the looking.

Mesmerized, he pulled a palm down over his mouth. He couldn’t figure out what compelled him more, his attraction to her or his curiosity about her.

The healthy, masculine part of him was already toying with the idea of seducing her. She was sexy in an unusual way and it had been months since he’d taken pleasure in the company of a willing woman. But his gut was saying back off. Something wasn’t right. All was not as it seemed.

To distract himself, he turned and peered out the window. The rain was still washing down in angry torrents. Through the dark night, a long black limousine emerged and pulled up to the gas pumps.

“Now there’s a sight you don’t see every day at a truck stop in this neck of the woods unless it’s prom night,” Brady said. “But prom was two weeks ago. Unless it’s a school with a late prom.”

“What is that?” Annie asked in her slightly prissy, nondescript tone.

It drove him nuts that she had no birthplace-identifying accent. Who was she? Where was she from?

“Limo.”

The chauffeur got out to fuel the vehicle. The rear door opened and two other men emerged. They were dressed in expensive suits tailored to perfectly fit their bodies. One man was tall, the other squat, and they both wore sunglasses at night and jaunty fedoras pulled down low over their foreheads.

Who were these guys? Mobsters? Secret Service? The Blues Brothers?

Then he remembered that former president Franklin Glover’s daughter, Echo, was getting married this weekend and the president’s ranch, where the nuptials were being held, weren’t far from here. It had been all over the radio for days.

Most likely they were Secret Service. But in a limo? He would have expected a black Cadillac Escalade with bulletproof glass.

Brady felt movement beside him, turned his head to see Annie had gotten up to come peer over his shoulder. He swung his gaze back to the window. Her warm breath tickled the hairs on the nape of his neck.

A fierce craving hammered down his spine and drove to his groin. He swallowed hard, fighting off the reaction. Yes, okay, she got a rise out of him, but he did not have to do anything about it. In fact, a smart guy would get the hell out of here as fast as possible. Unfortunately, Brady had never been particularly smart when it came to women. He always seemed to go for the troublesome ones.

The two guys from the limo broke into a trot, rushing to get out of the rain, and headed for the front door of the restaurant.