Saddle Up

“Of course not, ma’am. I’m sure you fly all over the United States, giving money away like this. It’s probably a great tax deduction, not that I know personally. Still-”

If she could get her hands on Tiffany, she would strangle her for sure. But Tiffany wasn’t around, and even if she was, Bridget couldn’t depend on her to get her out of this mess. She alone was responsible for the quagmire she’d gotten herself into and would have to get herself out of.

“Look, would you excuse me for a moment?” Bridget didn’t have to go to the ladies’ room, but she wanted him to think she did. She had to have some space, some time to think. She feared where this conversation was leading, and she had to have ammunition to head it off. What she intended to do was find Tiffany and persuade her to leave. Of course, she would have to pay the money, but a check was quick and easy to write.

This cowboy would just have to buy an electric blanket if he wanted warm feet at night…provided his ranch had electricity.

Jeremiah stood at the same time she did. Tipping his Stetson, he said, “Sure thing.”

Feeling her entire body turn red at the mocking note in his voice, she turned and somehow managed to take a few steady steps.

“I’ll be waiting for you right here. We have a lot to talk about, you know. I’m glad you’re from Texas. At least you’ll know the difference between a Hereford and a Charolais.”

Bridget stopped in her tracks, swallowed hard, but didn’t dare turn around. Wrong. They didn’t have anything to talk about! She had no intention of continuing this conversation. Still, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d struck a nerve. But he did know, and that galled her even more.

Damn him! What was a Charolais? She knew damned well Cadillac didn’t make it.

Four

Jeremiah couldn’t believe his good fortune. Hell, his mind was still reeling from the impact of what had happened. Having been down on his luck for so long with mounting bills, a dying cattle market and a decaying ranch, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Yet a niggling thought in the back of his mind warned him that Bridget Martin didn’t belong here, that something was not quite right. Her reaction when he’d mentioned Charolais cattle had set off an alarm.

She even looked out of place. She wasn’t typical of the women who had shown up for the auction, an auction he still couldn’t believe he’d taken part in. But that was another story altogether, one that was moot now that he had joined in this idiotic scheme.

It rankled, though, that he’d let his friends cajole him into taking part.

“Ah, come on, Davis, be a sport,” one of the guys had said. “Hellfire, you’re in the same shape as the rest of us, stuck here without womenfolk—and no hope of any ever being here unless we take matters into our own hands.”

Drastic matters, Jeremiah had thought at the moment of that conversation, and his opinion hadn’t changed. He still felt like the high school nerd who couldn’t get a date.

But even as he ridiculed himself, he couldn’t stop the unwanted and foreign sensations that invaded his insides as he watched Bridget Martin walk toward the ladies’ room, her stride perfection in motion.

He knew he should turn away from the sight of her deliciously rounded buttocks and the way they filled out her jeans with no room to spare. He took a deep breath, endeavoring to calm his racing pulse.

What the hell was happening to him? He’d never reacted to a woman with such speed or sexual precision in his entire life, not even his wife, God rest her soul.

Jeremiah paused and wiped the sweat from his brow, even as Bridget disappeared behind the ladies’ room door. Too bad his erotic thoughts didn’t disappear, as well.

When he’d walked up to her and sat beside her, her perfume—delicate, like her—had slapped him in the face, though in retrospect it had actually been a caress.

At close range, she’d been breathtakingly lovely. She was fair-skinned, with short red hair that was kind of wild, but that, he assumed, was the latest style. It didn’t matter, because it set off huge brown eyes, narrow cheekbones, a perfect nose and a slightly full lower lip that gave her mouth a sensual pout.

However, it was when she’d taken a shuddering breath, throwing her full breasts into prominence, that he’d felt that first sexual jolt, causing his head to spin. And not just his head, he’d been forced to admit. He’d felt the heat spin down into his lower body, and his jeans had tightened in certain areas. He’d wished then that he’d had several beers instead of just two.

He wished that same thing now as he watched her exit the rest room, looking miserable. But then, he was miserable, too, but for a different reason. Of that he was sure.

He cursed, then waited to see if she would walk toward him, expecting her to ignore him, then bolt. If she was smart, he told himself, she would do just that. This whole bizarre scene was out of touch with reality, yet for the moment, he didn’t care. Bizarre or not, he didn’t intend to let her disappear.

And it wasn’t just because he was horny, either. Yeah, right, Davis, his conscience contradicted with intense scorn.

He paid it no attention as he strode toward her.

“How about something to drink?” he asked, struggling to come to grips with his out-of-control libido.

Her breath escaped in a rush even as she looked at him. “Look, Mr. Davis, I don’t—”

“Why not be a sport? People drink things in Texas, don’t they?”

“Of course, but I’m taking—”

“Hey, I know this is awkward as hell, but for the time being, let’s pretend we’re at a barbecue and that we just met under normal circumstances.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We need to talk. You see, I have no—”

“If you’re about to say what I think you are, then I need a beer. And you can have some punch. You owe me at least that much, since you outbid women who were serious about all this.”

“Fair enough, Mr. Davis.”

In spite of the fact that he knew in a short time he would never see her again, he chuckled. “Don’t you think you’d best call me Jeremiah? After all, you paid a thousand dollars for the right.”

Her face turned beet red, and when she spoke, her tone was curt. “For charity, not for you.”

“Yeah, you keep reminding me of that. So how ’bout that drink?” he pressed, choosing to ignore her last statement, especially as it riled him a bit. Maybe he wouldn’t let her off the hook so easily, after all. His gut told him that she had no intention of going through with this deal. Oh, he felt sure she would write the check to charity. If the truth be known, he would bet she could afford to write a check for a hell of a lot more. But that wasn’t the point. Her holier-than-thou attitude rankled him big time.

Maybe he would make her squirm a little before she bolted, just as he was squirming now. The thought brought another smile to his lips.

“So, are you game? A cup of punch is mighty cheap payment for a thousand bucks.”

“Oh, all right,” she muttered, “but then we have to talk because…I have no intention—”

He wanted to grab her arm and tell her he got the message, but he restrained himself. Instead, he gestured that she should precede him, keeping his smile “ intact, though it was forced.

A few minutes later, he had a beer and she had a cup of punch. He had maneuvered them to a secluded place away from the band, the dancing and the food line. The atmosphere was far from quiet, but at least they didn’t have to raise their voices to hear one another.

Jeremiah decided to make only small talk for now. “Your friend seems to be having a good time. She sure can dance.”

Bridget turned and faced the crowded dance floor. “She’d rather dance than eat.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Would you rather dance or eat?”

Her voice was husky, he noted, at the same moment she ran the tip of her tongue across that full lower lip.

She must have heard his sharp intake of breath, because for the second time that day, their eyes locked.

Against Jeremiah’s will, his blood thickened. He fought to combat his growing passion, feeling out of control, something he despised and wouldn’t tolerate. At the moment, however, he didn’t know how to regain control.

“Neither one, but I’d like another glass of punch,” she said.

He heard the desperate note in her voice and didn’t argue. Hell, he needed another beer, too, but he wasn’t going to have one. He needed to be in full control of his faculties, or he feared he might do something he would regret for the rest of his life—like kiss her until she begged him to stop.

Seconds later, when he returned with another full cup of punch, her eyes were again on her friend, who was teaching someone to dance Texas style, or at least something he’d never seen before and assumed came from Texas.

“What are they doing?” he asked, as she took the cup from him.

Their fingers touched, and he sucked in his breath, trying to haul his unruly senses back in line.

She seemed to read his thoughts. Her face flushed, and she took a quick gulp of her punch.

“Sure looks like they’re having fun,” he added.

“I…I should go. My head suddenly feels kind of-”

She broke off, then jerked her eyes away from his.

Even though the sun had dwindled, turning to twilight, he could still see the heat as it invaded her throat, which drew his attention to her V-necked shirt, then to her breasts, making him wonder if they were flushed, as well. He cursed silently.

“Come on, let’s dance.” He knew his tone was brusque, but he didn’t give a damn. He was in bad shape.

“Why should we, Mr. Davis?”

Damned if he intended to beg! Still…“Because you flew all the way out here from Texas, you got caught up in the moment and now you’re feeling like a fool. Because you smell good, you look good, and you’re obviously not in any strut to find a man. But mainly because—”

“Oh, all right!”

He circled her arm with one hand, using his other to set the empty containers on the nearest picnic table, then guided her onto the cement floor beneath a metal roof.

At first she remained ramrod straight, looking beyond his shoulder. He wanted to shake her into compliance, but, of course, he didn’t, as everyone around would then be witness to his frustrations, not that anyone was paying attention to them.

The music was slow, and most couples were locked in embraces that were worthy of the bedroom. He smirked. Apparently the other women who’d won their men were more than happy with their situation.

Not so Bridget Martin. She was still as stiff and uncooperative as a board, even though they moved in perfect unison. Again, he couldn’t imagine what had driven her to come here, to take part in something she obviously abhorred. But the question that nagged him even more was, what had attracted her to him enough to make her bid a grand?

“Bridget, relax a little, okay?” he asked.

“I…can’t.” Her voice cracked.

For a minute he cursed himself for making her take part in something she didn’t want to. Then he thought better of it. Hell, she was a big girl. He wasn’t forcing her to remain in his arms. If she chose to leave, he couldn’t stop her.

Yet he didn’t intend to make it easy. “Normally, I’d say let your hair down, but yours is too short for that,” he muttered, noticing his voice had grown husky.

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