Peggy Moreland – Ride A Wild Heart (страница 2)

Grinning, Pete stooped to pick up his hat, then waved it over his head in a salute to the crowd before settling it back over his sweat-creased hair and limping his way back to the chutes.

“You okay?”

Pete waved away the medic. “Yeah, I’m all right.” To prove it, he planted a boot on the fence rail and hauled himself to the top, then swung a leg over and dropped down on the other side. He landed beside his traveling buddy, Troy Jacobs.

“Helluva ride,” Troy said with a nod toward the giant screen where the ride was being replayed.

“Yep,” Pete agreed. “That Diablo sure knows how to raise some dust.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the computerized scoreboard and added, “But Ty Murrey’s up next. We’ll have to wait and see if my score will hold.”

“He’ll give you a run for the money. No doubt about that. But your score’ll hold,” Troy assured him, watching the screen as the chute swung open for Ty Murrey’s ride.

Pete turned his back on the rodeo arena and the giant screen that offered the rodeo fans a live and up-close view of the action going on in the arena. The same as every other cowboy on the circuit, Pete had his superstitions and rituals that he adhered to religiously, and one of them was to never, ever watch the next competitor out of the box after his own ride. Instead, he caught between his teeth the strip of leather that bound his wrist and gave it a tug, loosening it as he glanced back up at the section of box seats where he thought he’d seen Carol. As he pulled off his glove, he swept his gaze across the sea of faces, looking for a woman with flaming red hair and green eyes.

Telling himself he was a fool for even looking, he started to turn away but whipped back when the crowd shifted, revealing the woman he’d seen while hanging from the arena wall. Her gaze met his, and he froze, his heart freezing, too.

Carol. It was Carol.

With his heart a dead, aching weight in his chest, he tucked his glove into the belt of his chaps and started toward the rail, his gaze locked on hers. He hadn’t taken more than two steps when she bolted from her seat and fled up the ramp, disappearing into the crowd.

Pete stared, anger pulsing through him. He debated his chances of finding her in the crowd, then whirled away, ripping off his hat. Swearing, he slapped it against his chaps, making dust fly.

He wouldn’t chase after her. Not Pete Dugan. Not when she’d left him high and dry more than two years before.

Haunted by the image of Carol, but determined not to waste his time thinking about her, Pete strode straight for the bar, his spurs jingling on the planked wood floor. “Beer’s on me!” he yelled and dropped his duffel bag with his bronc riding gear at his feet.

Upon hearing the call for free beer, cowboys crowded up behind him.

Pete slapped a hand on the bar. “Line ’em up, bartender.” He swelled his chest a bit and gave it a smug rub, grinning. “We’ve got us some celebrating to do.”

Pitchers were quickly filled and placed on the bar, thick white foam spilling over their sides and pooling on the bar’s scarred surface.

“What are you celebrating, cowboy?”

Pete glanced over at the woman who pressed herself against his side, and gave her a slow, appreciative look up and down. A smile built as he decided that this little buckle bunny might be just the distraction he needed to take his mind off Carol. “Well, darlin’—” But before he could tell her about the bronc riding record he’d just broken, one of the cowboys picked up a pitcher of beer and dumped it over Pete’s head while the other men looking on cheered and hooted.

Pete yelped as the icy beer sluiced over the brim of his hat and down his back, then gave a loud whoop and ripped off his hat, tossing it high in the air. “Let the good times roll!”

Grabbing the woman around the waist, he danced her a fast waltz around the room, keeping time with the country song currently blaring from the jukebox. He stumbled to a stop when a wide hand closed over his shoulder from behind.

“Pete?”

Dragging a sleeve across his eyes to swipe at the beer that still dripped from his forehead, he turned to find Troy standing behind him. He shrugged off his friend’s hand. “Not now, Troy. Can’t you see I’m busy? Me and—” he peered down at the woman, frowning “—what did you say your name was, darlin’?”

She smiled up at him and sidled closer, rubbing her abdomen against his belt buckle. “Cheyenne.”

Pete grinned and did some belt polishing of his own as he told Troy, “Me and Cheyenne are dancing.”

“Clayton left.”

Pete whipped his head around, his eyebrows snapping together over his brow, his grin disappearing. “Left? Where’d he go?”

“Rena called.”

Noticing for the first time the worried look on his buddy’s face, Pete dropped a quick, if distracted, kiss on the woman’s mouth. “Stay right there, darlin’. This won’t take but a minute.” Taking Troy by the elbow, he herded his friend toward the empty hall where the restrooms were located and the noise level was somewhat less. “What’s the problem?”

“She’s gone.”

Confused, Pete furrowed his brow. “Rena?”

“Yeah,” Troy confirmed with a sigh. “She’s left Clayton. Packed up the kids and went to her mother’s.”

“Oh, man,” Pete said, swiping a shaky hand across his forehead. “That’s a shame. When did this happen?”

“About an hour ago. She called and left a message on his cell phone. He’s already gone. Hitched a ride with one of the boys who was headed for Austin. Said he needed to check on the ranch and pick up his truck. He wants you and me to take care of his ranch while he’s gone.” Troy sighed again, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Problem is, I’ve already promised Yuma I’d haze for him at a rodeo in New Mexico.”

Pete mentally rearranged his schedule. “Don’t worry. I can handle things alone.”

Troy looked at him uncertainly. “You sure?”

Pete reared back, bracing his hands low on his hips. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Some greenhorn?” He swelled his chest and thumped a fist against it. “This here is Pete Dugan, current contender for World Champion Bronc Rider. I believe I ought to be able to handle a little old ranch by myself for a couple of days.”

“I know Clayton wouldn’t ask if he wasn’t desperate,” Troy said, still looking uncertain. “He said his hired hand’s home with the chicken pox. Caught it from his kids. He tried calling Carol, but she wasn’t home.”

At the mention of Carol, Pete sagged against the wall. No, Carol wasn’t home, he thought, swallowing hard. She was right here in Mesquite at the rodeo. He’d seen her himself less than two hours before. “Carol still leases that place down the road from Clayton’s?” he asked uneasily.

“Yeah. And she teaches riding lessons a couple of times a week in his arena. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Pete dropped his head back against the wall and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. “No,” he said, trying to convince himself it was true. “No problem.”

“How soon can you leave? Clayton said he’d wait until you got there.”

“Three hours, max.”

It was nearly two in the morning when Pete bumped his way across the cattle guard marking the entrance to Clayton’s ranch. His eyes gritty from lack of sleep, he dragged a hand down his face and sighed. Ahead he could see the porch light was on…and Clayton on the top step, pacing.

Though Pete knew he’d miss a rodeo or two by filling in for Clayton, he figured if his efforts helped his friend save his marriage, the sacrifice was well worth any loss he might suffer in the standings. Both Clayton and Troy were his buddies, traveling the rodeo circuit with him, and, for all practical purposes, the only family he had.

Forcing an overbright smile for Clayton’s benefit, he hopped down from the truck. “The troops have arrived!” he shouted, then felt his knee give way beneath him. Cursing, he stumbled, but quickly righted himself.

“You’re drunk,” Clayton said, his eyes narrowing.

Pete straightened indignantly. “I am not.”

Clayton stepped closer, sniffing. Curling his nose, he withdrew. “You smell like a damn brewery. How the hell am I supposed to leave my ranch in the hands of a drunk?”

Angered by his friend’s wrongful assumption, Pete tossed back, “Well, you sure as hell didn’t seem to mind leaving your ranch in a woman’s hands for the past three years.”

Clayton whirled, his eyes dark with warning. “My marriage is none of your business.”

Pete took a step toward him, ready to argue the point, but stumbled again when his knee buckled a second time. He sucked in a breath as pain shot up his leg. Setting his jaw, he bent at the waist and gripped his hands above his knee caps, trying to swallow back the nausea that rose.

“You are drunk,” Clayton accused angrily.

Before Pete could offer another denial, Clayton ducked a shoulder into his midsection, picked him up fireman-style and strode for the corral.

“Put me down, dammit!” Pete yelled. “I’m not drunk!”

“You won’t be in a minute.” With no more warning than that, Clayton heaved Pete from his shoulder and dumped him in the horse trough.

Pete came up sputtering, scraping the water from his eyes. He glared up at Clayton. “You jackass! I’m not drunk! It’s my knee, dammit!” He fished his cowboy hat from the murky water and levered himself from the trough. His shirt and jeans were plastered to his body, and water sluiced down his face and dripped from his chin.