A Cowboy Comes A Courting. Christine Scott
fleeting kiss, he murmured, “Congratulations, Skye.”
One by one, her “uncles” crowded in to take their turns.
Gus suffered through the mandatory pats on the back and the murmurs of congratulations with his usual good cheer. He shook his head and groused the entire time.
Her own head was reeling by the time the last cowboy stood waiting to collect his kiss.
Tyler Bradshaw watched her with a devilish glint in his eye.
An unexplainable panic gripped her, making it hard to breathe. Frantically, she searched her mind for a plausible excuse for bowing out of the ritual. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come up with a single, logical reason why Tyler—though much younger than most of her father’s Mends—should be denied the friendly kiss while she’d indulged the rest of the group.
As though he sensed her reluctance, a grin played on his tantalizing lips.
Skye’s stomach lurched with trepidation.
Over the PA system participants for the last event of the night were being called to the starting chutes. Skye breathed a quiet sigh of relief as she heard Tyler’s name among the bull eiders. With a wide smile, she pointed a finger to the invisible voice in the sky. “Someone’s calling your name.”
“You want me to leave without giving the bride a kiss?”
“Oh, I think I’ll survive without the attention.”
He stepped toward her.
“I-I don’t think there’s enough time....” she stammered, fighting the urge to back away. “Besides, it’s such a silly tradition, don’t you think? Just an excuse for men to take advantage.”
“Well now,” he drawled, caressing her with a rakish glance. “I’m not sure I can speak for everyone else, but this cowboy’s big on tradition. But if you’d rather skip the ritual, that’s fine with me.” He tapped his whiskery cheek with a long, tapered finger. “Though I’d sure appreciate a little kiss for good luck, before I start my ride.”
Skye swallowed hard, glancing around to see if anyone was watching.
The whole crew of cowboys was waiting for her answer. Each of them wore a smile of amusement on his weathered face. Her father wore the biggest grin of all. She could see the laughter dancing in Gus’s eyes. Her daddy expected her to tell Tyler no.
“Well, hell,” she muttered, releasing an exasperated breath, as she was struck with an ill-advised surge of reckless defiance. “I don’t want to be accused of bringing a cowboy bad luck.”
She stood on tiptoe, propping both hands on Tyler’s shoulders for balance, feeling the heat of his skin and the strength of his muscles through the thin fabric of his western shirt. The touch warmed her hands, warmed her body. Up close, he was all male, hard planes and chiseled angles. Scents mingled—spicy aftershave, rugged leather and hardworking sweat—making her dizzy with the combination. Before second thoughts could stop her, she puckered up to give him an innocent peck on the cheek. Wether it was an accident, or a well-calculated dastardly act, she would never know. Instead of the chaste kiss she’d meant to give him, Tyler lowered his head and turned just in time to collect a full-mouthed smack on the lips.
For a pint-size woman, Skye packed a kiss with a major league wallop. Soft, warm and supple, her mouth seemed made to fit his. Tyler’s lips sizzled at the impact. He felt the shocked inhalation of breath against his mouth. She swayed slightly. Before she could escape, he grabbed a hold of her tiny waist and held on tight.
The kiss, by his standards, was innocent enough. No tongue and cheek action. No plundering of the virginal mouth. Just an innocent pressing of his lips to hers. But the way his blood was heating and his body was thrumming, he’d have thought he was on his way to a blissful night in heaven.
Heaven would have to wait.
He felt the insistent weight of her hands against his shoulders and realized Skye was trying to push him away. Reluctantly, he did as she’d requested. He released the grip he had on her waist, instantly missing the sweet heat of her body as she slipped away.
If they weren’t in the middle of a crowded rodeo, fast becoming the center of attention, he’d have pushed for a second helping of this unexpected treat. But he valued his life too much to risk the wrath of Gus Whitman. He’d rather face an ornery bull, than an irate father.
He took a good look at the woman who’d affected him so. Truth be told, Skye looked a little tipsy. There was a dazed, uncertain look clouding those big blue eyes. Her lips parted slightly as she sucked in a deep breath. The action stretched the material of her T-shirt against her generous curves, making his mouth go dry and his body ache with a new awareness.
He reconsidered that second kiss.
But before he gave in to temptation, he had the good sense to look up and catch Gus’s eye. His mentor, the man he respected more than anyone else in the world, was watching him with the guarded expression of a hawk about to swoop down and attack.
Giving what he hoped was a nonchalant smile, Tyler tipped his hat in mock salute. “Thank you, ma’am. If that doesn’t bring me a little luck, I don’t know what will.”
Then, without a backward glance, he strode away, carrying with him the memory of Skye’s good-luck kiss.
Until Diablo demanded his full attention.
Moved from the holding pen into the bucking chute, the bull looked raring to trample any fool who dared to climb aboard. That fool being himself, Tyler mused. When his turn was announced, he settled himself onto the bull’s back. Tuning out the noise of the arena, he slipped his gloved hand through the handhold, palm upward. Then, once, twice, he wrapped the end of loose rope across his hand, strapping himself to eighteen hundred pounds of molten energy. As he prepared for his ride, the bull’s loose hide twitched restlessly beneath him.
Tyler knew that the fury called Diablo was about to be unleashed.
Not wanting to delay the inevitable, Tyler nodded to the gate tender. The gate burst open. Diablo took a fraction of a second to glance around. Then, with a roll of his eyes, the bull arched his back and threw himself sideways out of the chute.
Struggling for balance, Tyler dug in his spurs and tried to center himself on Diablo’s back, avoiding the worst of the seesaw bucking action. As the bull rounded for another jump, Tyler squeezed the rope in a death grip, trying his best not to get thrown off. The urge to grab ahold and hang on for dear life nearly overwhelmed him. Somehow, he had the presence of mind to keep his free hand up and out of the way as required.
Like the devil himself., Diablo tried a new method to pull him under. He made a sharp turn to the left and began to spin. The world swirled around him, faster and faster until Tyler felt as though he were about to be sucked into an invisible whirlpool of motion.
Then just as quickly as he began, Diablo stopped his spin. He kicked his heels and began to buck once again. With a snort and a bellow of indignation, the bull tried to toss him off his back. Tyler felt every hop, every bounce, every jolt in his clenched, aching muscles. His spine felt as though it were being raffled apart.
Then, just when he thought he could endure no more, the horn sounded. His eight seconds of hell were over.
Tyler released his grip on the bull rope. With his free hand, he loosened the tight wrap around his riding hand. A final buck sent him flying off the back of the bull. He landed hard, the breath knocked out of him. He lay stunned on his back, wondering if he’d ever be able to move again.
Nearby, Diablo snorted. He lowered his massive head and pawed the dirt, preparing for a final charge.
Tyler forced his aching body to move. Rolling over onto his side, he hopped up and scrambled for the fence.
Two clowns jumped into the line of fire. Running, hollering and whistling, they distracted Diablo long enough for Tyler to make it to safety.
A