The Cowboy Takes a Bride (24 page)

Miracle looked at her with his seductive brown eyes and lowered his head.

“You can touch him.” Joe nudged her forward.

Mariah took a step toward the horse. Her father’s love of horses, and they way he’d thrown her over for them, had prejudiced her against the animals. Unlike most young girls, she’d shunned horses while her friends had been enamored of them.

Cassie had been part of that as well, discouraging her from any horse-related activities. As a result, she hadn’t been around them since . . . well . . . since Dutch had left. But the sweet tugging she’d felt in her heart the first day she laid eyes on the stallion was back, drawing her toward him. Her father’s DNA ran through her veins after all.

Joe led Miracle to the barn. Mariah tracked after them. He went to a shelf, took down an airtight jar, opened it up, removed two sugar cubes, and passed them to her.

Mariah placed one in her palm and stretched it out to Miracle. Gentle as a lamb, he reached out and delicately took the cube from her hand, his lips lightly grazing her skin. She was jettisoned back to the past, remembering another horse, another sugar cube, and her father.

“You can catch more horses with sugar than vinegar, Flaxey,” Dutch had said.

With Dutch, all his sayings had had something to do with cowboys and horses. There hadn’t been room in his life for anything more. Even if she hadn’t been part of his world, she had to admire his single-minded focus. He’d loved horses with all his heart and soul. Rather than resent the animals, wouldn’t it make more sense for her to embrace them? Try to find out what it was that her father had loved so much. See if she could discover why they’d meant more to him than she had.

“He never meant to neglect you,” Joe said.

“What?” Mariah looked up.

“Whenever you think about Dutch, you pull your bottom lip up between your teeth and get a faraway hurt look in your eyes.”

“How do you know it’s about Dutch?”

“ ’Cause usually after you get that look in your eyes you say something derogatory about him and get all huffy.”

Did she? “I thought I hid it better than that.”

“You try,” he conceded. “I’ll give you that. And you’ve probably got most people fooled. But I see through all that bluff and bluster. I know your dad hurt you. I also know Dutch didn’t mean to.”

“I hate that you know so much more about him than I do. I resent that.”

“I know that too.”

Miracle’s cool nose touched her hand again, looking for more sugar. Then the stallion nuzzled her neck.

“What’s he doing?” she asked, alarmed.

“I’ll be danged,” Joe said.

“What is it?” She rounded her eyes wide, the smell of horse filling her nostrils as Miracle seemingly kissed her cheek.

“He likes you.”

“Oh please, he’s just a horse.”

“I wonder if you don’t smell a bit like Dutch.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Same DNA. You can wear perfume and lotion, but underneath it all, you smell like your chemistry.”

“Are you saying this stallion is getting amorous with me?”

“Not at all,” Joe said, “just that something about you attracts him.”

“Right.”

“The same way you attract me.”

“What?” she whispered, not sure she’d heard him correctly.

Joe took Miracle by the bridle, tugged the horse back from her neck, and captured Mariah’s gaze. They were standing very close. The pupils of his eyes dilated dark and hot like some fierce volcano on the verge of eruption. “You heard me.”

“You’re attracted to me?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

“Why are you attracted to me?” she had to ask, risking ruining the chemistry cooking between them. “Is it because I remind you a little of your dead wife? People in town tell me I resemble her.”

Instantly, a shadow descended over Joe’s face. Why had she said that?

“You look a little bit like her,” he conceded. “But the resemblance stops with the petite stature and blond hair. In personality, you’re nothing like her.”

They studied each other. She wished she knew what he was thinking. Wished she possessed mind-reading skills.

“Have you dated anyone since she died?” Mariah asked.

“Dated?”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. She had to know if she was simply the rebound woman here or if there was a chance for something more. “Have you had sex with anyone since she died?”

At first, he didn’t say anything, and for the longest time, she thought he wasn’t going to answer, that she’d upset him. Finally, he spoke in a low, soft voice. “No on both counts.”

“So in other words, you’re horny and I’m handy.”

Joe looked affronted. “That belittles us both.”

Now she really did feel like an ass, but she had to know where she stood. What was this thing they were playing at?

“I get that you’re scared,” Joe murmured, stepping closer. “I’m scared too.”

“What do I have to be scared of?” she denied, notching up her chin.

“This,” he said, and lowered his head.

H
e wanted her. His body ached for hers. He had to have her or go mad with need.

But taking her meant putting himself in a position he wasn’t sure he wanted to be in. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t offer her any promises. He was a mess and he knew it. Ravaged by Becca’s and Dutch’s deaths. Obsessed with cutting horses. The only reason no one had called him on his obsession was that he lived in a town of people who were just as obsessed with cutting horses as he was. Part of him knew it wasn’t normal to be so consumed and another part of him was surprised to find that anything had broken his focus.

Mariah had taken his mind off Miracle and the futurity and put it squarely on sex. Whenever he was around her, his brain fogged and all he could think about was the sway and dip of her hips when she walked, the smell of her that obliterated all common sense.

And the need. Damn, the sharp, stinging need to have her, possess her, be with her and only her.

That scared the living shit out of him.

So to combat it, he buried himself in work, hiding behind his horse, avoiding her as much as he could. That had worked for a while. But it wasn’t working any longer. Joe lowered his head, feeling like a randy stallion.

There she stood. In jeans and a fluffy white sweater as soft as a spring lamb. She wore the sassy, leopard-print cowboy boots he’d bought her.

His tongue welded to the roof of his mouth. All the hairs on his arms stood at attention. His muscles coiled, waiting.

She smiled, clearly not realizing just how much she turned him on. She was studying him as intently as he was studying her. Joe swallowed. Mariah mirrored his movements.

He forced himself to smile when what he wanted to do was throw her over his shoulder, carry her up to the hayloft, strip off her clothes, and make love to her right here, right now. He moistened his lips.

Mariah moistened hers.

What the hell are you playing at, Daniels?

The thought ate at his brain as his mouth took possession of Mariah’s. One taste and he thought no more.

He inhaled her, unable to get enough. He craved more. More of her vanilla scent. More of her sugared lips. More of her soft skin.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her up off her feet, pressed her against the wall of the barn. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms tangled around his neck. She tossed back her head, and he buried his face against her long, sweet throat. Breasts and chest collided, melded.

Her fingers found their way to his hair, sliding silkily through the strands, setting his scalp tingling. Her touch fired the most peculiar awareness, filling him with wonder.

She touched his face as if she was committing the bones of his cheek and jaw, the texture of his skin to memory. He touched her too, using his fingertips to imprint her on his brain.

“Joe,” she whispered huskily, “Joe.”

“Mariah.” He breathed.

“What does this mean?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I just know that I want you.”

She worked the buttons on his shirt.

“What are you doing?” A sly tickle of delightful alarm passed through him.

“I want you too.” She nipped at his bottom lip as her hot little hands slid into the opening she’d made in his shirt.

Everything about her inflamed him. The hungry look in her eyes. The softness of her curvy body. The heat of her.

He took possession of her mouth once more. Kissed her harder. Longer. Her tongue responded, tentative and exploring. Her movements roused the barely leashed beast in him. His muscles tensed, rippled beneath her palms. It was all he could do to check his passion, hold himself back.

Never, in all his thirty years on earth, had he ever felt anything so perfect, so right. It felt like the highest disloyalty to Becca. To want another woman more than he’d ever wanted her. That shook him to his core. Put the brakes on the runaway passion he’d hitched a ride on.

He pulled his mouth from Mariah’s. “We . . . I . . .”

“Shh.” She placed her index fingers over his mouth. “Shh. No need to say anything.” She dropped her legs, lowered herself to the ground.

His erection was so stiff he could barely draw in a breath. He said nothing.

“You need time,” she said, stepping back, stepping away. “I get it. So do I. Let’s just . . . let’s just . . .”

“Put Miracle to bed for the night?”

“Yes.” Her voice quivered. “Yes. What do we do first?”

“He needs to be combed out. I’ll get the currycomb.” Baffled, Joe stepped away from her, both bereaved and relieved. He’d never experienced anything like this crazed, desperate need, and that’s why he could not lose himself to it. Loss of control. Control was the only defense he had, and she broke it like a hammer on fragile glass.

Joe handed her the comb. Their fingers brushed. He broke out in a sweat. Stepped away. Held Miracle’s bridle while she began combing him out.

In spite of his best intentions to stomp on the attraction—although calling it attraction was putting it mildly—Joe studied Mariah in the dying light fading from the window.

Her head was down as she groomed Miracle, brushing his flank and cooing softly to the stallion, her long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail that swished across the side of her face. His gaze got tangled in her rhythmic movements. She had such pretty hands. Unusually long fingers for a woman so petite, but slender and smooth. Mesmerized, he felt his breathing sync to hers.

“All done,” she said after several minutes. “He’s ready for his oats and bed.”

She glanced over at Joe, and when their eyes met it was like being shot in the chest with an arrow. The shock of impact, followed by a stunning vibration that echoed up his chest, down his shoulders to set his arms tingling and his pulse racing.

What was this? What was this?

He didn’t trust it. This feeling was too hard, too soon. It felt righteously wrong.

Mariah smiled and set the currycomb on the shelf running along the wall. A long silence stretched between them. The air cooled as dusk gathered in shadowy blue whispers.

“How did you get that scar?” she asked.

It was only then that he realized his shirt was still open from where she’d unbuttoned it earlier. “This?” He touched his chest.

“You’ve got other scars?”

“Oh yeah. Lots of them.”

“From what?”

“Mostly my rodeo days.”

“Can I see them?”

“What?”

“Your scars.”

As if he wanted to show her his bunged-up knee. It was a weakness he didn’t want to dwell on.

She came closer, crossing the hay-strewn ground. He caught a whiff of her again—that intoxicating vanilla scent.

“It’s on your left side, correct?”

He nodded.

“Over your heart.” She reached up to touch his chest, ran her fingers over his shirt in search of the scar.

Goose bumps spread over Joe’s arm. He was accustomed to being in control. Doing the exploring. But here was Little Bit, turning the tables on him.

“Joe,” she beguiled.

Not knowing why he obeyed, Joe’s hands wrested off his shirt, giving her a full view of his bare chest. Why the interest?

Sympathy flared in her eyes. “You’re marked.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“I need to see what life’s done to you.” Mariah’s hot little hands skipped over his ribs. Why were her hands so warm? They should be cold with the temperature outside, but her fingers were as toasty as socks fresh from the dryer.

His breath expelled in short, raspy pants.

Then she leaned down and pressed her lips to the jagged, erratic scar and lit him up inside.

She raised her head, met his eyes. “Does it ever hurt?”

“Not anymore.”