LOVE OF A RODEO MAN (MODERN DAY COWBOYS) (3 page)

“Agreed,” Sara purred.

Mitch grinned, feeling ab
surdly proud of her ability to match his father’s bluntness. It hadn’t even taken her an hour to get the best of the old man. Mitch felt he could use a few lessons. Ruth was clearing the plates away and serving deep-dish apple pie and huge mugs of strong, steaming coffee.

“Mitch and, and... our Bob—” her voice quavered, but she managed, just barely, to keep control this time “—they both went to college, but neither one seemed to use their education much,” she remarked to Sara, passing a pottery jug of sweet cream for pouring on the pie.

“Bob, now he always wanted to be a rancher, like Wilson—” she swallowed and hurried on before the ever-present tears could overcome her “—but you, Mitch...” Her eyes rested fondly on her son, and Sara saw him give his mother an affectionate wink as he poured cream liberally on his huge slice of pie and began to eat it.

“You always had that touch of wildness in you that scared me half to death. Riding wild horses every
chance you got, roping your father’s bulls when you were still a boy.”

There was now fierce pride and animation in Ruth’s tone, and it transformed her.

Sara marvelled at how attractive she was when the sorrow faded from her eyes and her expression became animated. “You see Sara, Mitch is a rodeo cowboy. He was a professional till just last year, didn’t he tell you? He won prizes, too. All Around American Cowboy two years’ running, and he’s made two TV commercials.”

Mitch moved uncomfortably beside Sara, refusing to meet her eyes. The lobes of his ears were fiery red, and Sara loved his embarrassed reaction.

“You didn’t mention any of that to me,” she said sweetly. “All Around Cowboy, huh?” She was gently teasing him, but the disclosure explained a lot of things. It accounted for his athletic build, for instance, and the impression he gave of rangy toughness and trigger-sharp reflexes. Modern cowboys were superb athletes.

“Two TV commercials as well. What were y
ou advertising, Mitch?” It was wicked to put him on the spot this way, but she had a suspicion he could handle whatever she served up.

Now he met her eyes squarely, more than a hint of a twinkle there. “One was for smokeless tobacco and the other was for beer. Basic necessities of life. Far as I know, they only play them during the breaks in grade B movies at three a.m. on Wednesday mornings.”

“I’ve probably seen them both, then. That’s my favorite time for watching television,” she replied laconically, and he laughed aloud, a gruff, short bark of sound.

Sara was impressed, though.
There were obviously depths to this man she hadn’t yet seen, and she was curious about him all over again. So he’d been a hero in his field. Her sister Frankie would know him. She decided to phone Frankie later tonight. It was too long since she’d talked to her sister, anyway, and Frankie could probably tell her a whole lot about this sexy cowboy.

Undoubtedly, Sara mused next, he was also well aware of his dangerous aura of sexual attraction. Rodeo cowboys had always been a major romantic fantasy among her female roommates in college, and she knew from her sister that not many cowboys on the rodeo circuit ever lacked female companionship for long. But she, Sara, knew better than to fall for that patented charm, she reminded herself sternly.

She’d known what rodeo cowboys were like when she was still a teenager, thanks to her sister. Frankie had been married to one. Even now, she worked with them every day.

Professional cowboys we
re charming and endlessly lovable, and notoriously unreliable. Quixotic. Irresponsible. It was something in their blood, a strength and a weakness.

Frankie had always said they were strong in going and weak in staying, and no one knew cowboys better than Frankie Kesler.

Mitch’s shoulder brushed against her, and warm awareness coursed through her veins despite her internal lecture.
So much for not being affected by cowboys
.

Ruth had gotten up again, but this time it was to bring several photos from a shelf on the far wall. She rubbed her apron against the glass and handed the first to Sara.

“That’s Mitch on his prize mare, Misty, when he won the award the first year. That was taken in Wyoming, wasn’t it, Mitch? You should take Sara down to the horse barns later and introduce her to Misty.”

It was a profile shot, seemingly unposed, with a wide, rosy sky at sunset as a back
drop. Mitch was twirling a lariat over one shoulder, wearing a white Stetson, a cowboy shirt, a rough leather vest and chaps over his jeans. He was both intent and yet relaxed, exuding confidence. The hand nearest the camera held the reins with careless grace. The beautiful dun-colored mare was at full gallop, and man and horse were one powerful unit. It was a classic portrait of the traditional American cowboy at work, and both Mitch and his horse were nothing less than breathtaking in their beauty.

The others were less dramatic and less natural, posed photos of Mitch holding various trophies aloft, grinning self-consciously, and one of him accepting the keys to a shiny new truck as one of his prizes.

Wilson had been uncharacteristically quiet until now. He motioned at the photos with the dripping spoon he’d been using to stir his coffee. “It’s a dangerous, foolhardy way to make a living, if you want my opinion. All show. If you win, the money’s good, but nobody wins all the time. And when you get hurt or grow old the way we all do sooner or later, then what’ve ya got?” He snorted scornfully. “A pile a’ fancy pictures and a truck with the wheels worn down from all that travelin’, that’s what.”

It was easy to tell that Wi
lson gave that particular opinion often.

Sara noticed Mitch’s mouth tighten and his eyes narrow as Wilson sounded off.

Sara studied the photos, one by one. “That’s true, but there’s a wild excitement and a sense of tradition about it, as well. It gets into your blood, and then it’s hard to turn your back and just walk away,” she said absently.

Mitch was watching her, “That’s what it’s like, all right. How come you know so much about it?” he asked in a low, intense voice.

Sara looked up at him for a second and then shrugged. “I know because my younger sister, Frankie, is a rodeo clown, a bullfighter. She’s worked the rodeo circuit off and on since she was a teenager, and she’s twenty-seven now, two years younger than I.”

She instantly had the undivided attention of everyone at the table.

“Frankie Kesler? That Frankie’s your sister?” Mitch’s voice was a combination of astonishment and disbelief.

“Yup, Frankie’s my baby sister. She was married very young to a cowboy named Brian Kesler. He died in a rodeo accident years ago. He was a bull rider, and he taught Frankie more as a gag than anything to work the barrel for him. She was a novelty because she was female, and also just a kid. After Brian died, she went to bullfighting school down in Texas and learned more about it, how to do it professionally. She’s been working the rodeos ever since.”

“I’ve seen her work plenty of times,” Mitch said in a guarded tone. “She’s not bad,” he added reluctantly.

“Not bad?” Sara was instantly defensive. “Frankie’s considered by a lot of riders to be the best insurance around against being mauled by a bull. She’s a top-class athlete.”

“She’s also an attractive young woman,” Mitch snapped, and now there was an angry, vehement tone to his voice that was brand-new to Sara. She half turned toward him, ready to defend her sister, but Mitch didn’t give her a chance to say a word. His green eyes were anything but calm now. They were dark and cold. His tone was as insistent and stubborn as his father’s could ever be.

“Every single clown knows the day will come when he gets hooked by a bull and hurt, that’s a chance you take when you compete in the rodeo arena. It’s a man’s rough world, not a woman’s. Everything t
o do with rodeo competition is dangerous, but the Brahmans are the worst of all. A lot of good cowboys, me included, won’t have anything to do with the Brahmans. It’s absolute total madness for a woman to go risking her life around bulls just to say she can do it. As far as I’m concerned, your sister’s out to prove some damn fool women’s liberationist point, and she’s going to end up badly mauled or dead because of it.”

Sara’s mouth opened, and she felt raw anger and outrage boiling up in her, but before she could explode, Wilson Carter interrupted loudly, “I agree a hundred percent on that score. I sure as hell wouldn’t allow any daughter of mine to have a job like that.”

Sara leveled an acidic look at the senior Carter. “Maybe,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet, “a daughter of yours wouldn’t be the type to let you allow or disallow her any career she chose to follow. Maybe she’d just tell you to mind your own damn business and let her get on with her life. I certainly would.”

Wilson’s self-righteous expression changed to on
e of amazement, as if a tame rabbit had bitten him unexpectedly, and Sara thought there was a fleeting look of admiration and hidden amusement on Mitch’s features.

Ruth said softly, “I always wanted a daughter, Sara.” She hesitated and then added apologetically, “But I have to agree with Wilson, I don’t see how I could bear the thought of her fighting bulls. Having Mitch in danger all the time was bad enough, but to have a girl involved in that type of life, I don’t know ” She shook her head, a shocked look on her face.

It dawned on Sara all of a sudden that she was definitely alone in this discussion, with the three Carters staunchly lined up on the other side of the fence, and she felt desolate and absurdly abandoned and hurt. After all, she was a guest here, and politeness demanded she not start an outright war. But up till now she’d been relying heavily on Mitch’s support during this difficult meal, and he’d abruptly deserted her.

The very worst part of the whole discussion was the fact that all the things they were saying about Frankie and her work were valid concerns
that kept Sara awake and worrying lots of dark nights, just as they did her mother and grandmother.

All of Frankie’s family had serious reservations about her job, about women as bullfighters, and they were all vocal about it at given times among themselves. But here with strangers,
Sara felt she had no choice except vehement, total defense of her sister’s occupation.

Her body felt rigid and stiff with tension, and she eased away from the masculine shoulder that had been touching her own so pleasantly till now.

Close beside her, but as isolated from her as if a thick wall had been erected between them, Mitch felt his amusement at how well Sara managed his father fade abruptly, and he seethed with frustration. Every muscle in his body felt knotted with tension at the way the conversation was going. He was disgusted with himself for getting into a discussion about women and rodeo; it was a thorny issue, and he should have just kept his mouth shut.

He frowned and clenched his fist around his coffee cup. He had to make himself let go before his mother’s best china cracked with the force of his grip.

Why had he impulsively asked Sara to supper, anyhow? He supposed he must have had some fool idea that the fun they’d enjoyed together that afternoon could continue, some wistful notion that he
r wonderful laughter and sparkling humor would lighten his mother’s heart for just this one evening.

He’d wanted things to go along differently than this. God knew, with the old man
around, supper couldn’t be anything but difficult, but how the hell had this situation gotten so far out of control?

He felt as if a bronco he’d been confident he could ride had unexpectedly thrown him into the boards.

“Look.” How could he make her understand? He turned in his chair until he was facing Sara. Some part of him noted the high, bright spots of rich color in her cheeks, the icy coldness that seemed to frost the gray eyes to silver, and it registered subconsciously on him that passion made her beautiful.

“I’ve talked to Frankie about this same thing a couple of times—most of the rodeo cowboys have. I’m not saying anything I haven’t told her straight out.” His words were gruff and rapid. “Bullfighting is just no job for a woman,” he concluded emphatically. “If you ask me, it’s a suicidal job even for men.”

Ruth and Wilson were now sitting back watching the two young people intently, as if the arena had narrowed and they’d become spectators.

Sara’s voice was soft and dangerous. “Don’t you see that you can’t start dividing jobs into sexual categories? What about women vets, for instance, Mitch? Same thing, in your valuable estimation? Vetting is no job for a woman either, I suppose?”

He made a low, angry noise in his throat. He had to restrain the urge to reach across the two feet that separated them and take her by the shoulders, shake some sense into her. Kiss her into silence? Now, wouldn’t that just confirm her impression of him as a sexist male.

Angry green eyes met disdainful gray, and the clash was almost audible. When the tension became unbearable, Sara
shoved her chair back and got to her feet, turning to Ruth with a strained facsimile of a smile.

“Can I help you clear up and do t
hese dishes?” she managed to ask.

Ruth got up as well, palpably relieved to end the tense scene. “Heavens no, Sara, there’s a dishwasher in the kitchen.” She slid a troubled glance at Mitch. “Why don’t we all go sit on the porch where it’s cool and have some more
coffee?” she suggested in a hopeful tone.