Ride A Wild Heart

“All I Ever Dreamed Of Was Having A Home.

“Stability. Roots. But you didn’t want those same things, Pete. That’s why I had to end it.”

He took a step toward Carol, then stopped, thinning his lips. “Do you want me to tell you that I’ve changed?” he growled. “That I want a wife and a family? Well, I haven’t changed. I’m still Pete Dugan,” he said, and thumped an angry fist against his chest.

Carol lifted her chin in defiance. “Looks like you’ll never be anything more than a good-time man, chasing from one rodeo to the next, whooping it up and turning every day into a cowboy Saturday night.”

Scowling, Pete flung an impatient hand at her and turned away. “Go home, Carol. Back to your house and the roots you want so badly. I’m not the man for you. I never was.”

So why did he have to tamp down his instincts to block her exit, to take her into his arms, when she headed for the door…?

Dear Reader,

This Fourth of July, join in the fireworks of Silhouette’s 20th anniversary year by reading all six powerful, passionate, provocative love stories from Silhouette Desire!

July’s MAN OF THE MONTH is a Bachelor Doctor by Barbara Boswell. Sparks ignite when a dedicated doctor discovers his passion for his loyal nurse!

With Midnight Fantasy, beloved author Ann Major launches an exciting new promotion in Desire called BODY & SOUL. Our BODY & SOUL books are among the most sensuous and emotionally intense you’ll ever read. Every woman wants to be loved…BODY & SOUL, and in these books you’ll find a heady combination of breathtaking love and tumultuous desire.

Amy J. Fetzer continues her popular WIFE, INC. miniseries with Wife for Hire. Enjoy Ride a Wild Heart, the first sexy installment of Peggy Moreland’s miniseries TEXAS GROOMS. This month, Desire offers you a terrific two-books-in-one value—Blood Brothers by Anne McAllister and Lucy Gordon. A British lord and an American cowboy are look-alike cousins who switch lives temporarily…and lose their hearts for good in this romance equivalent of a doubleheader. And don’t miss the debut of Kristi Gold, with her moving love story Cowboy for Keeps—it’s a keeper!

So make your summer sizzle—treat yourself to all six of these sultry Desire romances!

Happy Reading!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Ride a Wild Heart

Peggy Moreland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In memory of Tommy Wilson McCarley,

January 27, 1952–February 7, 1971.

A true cowboy and a gentleman…and my first true love.

A special thanks to bronc rider Travis Ring

for answering a zillion questions about rodeos and bronc riding.

Your willingness to share information

is a testament to the Cowboy Code.

PEGGY MORELAND

published her first romance with Silhouette in 1989. She’s a natural storyteller with a sense of humor that will tickle your fancy, and Peggy’s goal is to write a story that readers will remember long after the last page is turned. Winner of the 1992 National Readers’ Choice Award, and a 1994 RITA finalist, Peggy frequently appears on bestseller lists around the country. A native Texan, she and her family live in Round Rock, Texas.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

One

There were times in a cowboy’s life when eight seconds seemed like a lifetime.

For Pete Dugan those times were few and far between.

Not that he considered himself any more talented than the other bronc riders he competed against, nor did he feel he had more nerve. He just loved rodeoing. The lights, the crowds, the sleepless nights on the road chasing from one town to the next, the people, the camaraderie. The thrill of climbing onto the back of a mean-tempered bronc.

And this rodeo was no different from any other. Country music pulsed from a state-of-the-art sound system, while cowboys milled behind the chutes, shooting the breeze and joking around, passing the time until it was their turn to compete. The air all but crackled with the energy created by wired nerves and was thick with dueling scents—some enticing and drifting from the concession area, others earthy and familiar and associated with the roughstock penned behind the chutes.

Feeling the rush of adrenaline that every ride drew, Pete hitched a boot high on a rail of the chute and pulled himself up to look out over the rodeo arena. Dust thickened the air around the chutes, churned by the livestock, but through it Pete had a fair view of the filled stands.

A full house, he thought, and began to smile. And a noisy one. He liked that. Crowds made some cowboys nervous, but not Pete. He liked playing to a full house. And he liked his broncs full, too…electric, even a little rank.

The blue roan he’d drawn for the Mesquite Championship Rodeo was just such an animal, a high roller who shot straight up in the air right out of the chute and continued that sky-high bucking throughout the eight-second ride. Though Pete knew the horse he’d drawn, Diablo, would score high with the judges, he also knew the remainder of the points were his to earn.

“Ready?”

Pete turned to grin at the chute boss. “Always.”

He gave the leather strap on his resined glove a yank, tightening it around his wrist, then leaned over the railing to check the tension on his rigging’s cinch. Satisfied, he swung a leg over the chute, bracing his feet on the railings and his body above the horse, then slowly eased down over the bronc’s back. He felt the horse blow up beneath him, bowing his back, and knew without a doubt that the roan would be airborne the minute the gate opened.

And Pete was ready to fly.

He jammed his Resistol down over his ears, then leaned way back, curling his gloved fingers tightly around the handle of the rigging. He could feel the heat of the resin working, holding his gloved fingers in place. Drawing his knees up, he positioned his spurs high on the horse’s shoulders, then jerked his chin, signaling he was ready to ride.

The gate swung wide and the horse spun for the opening, looking for freedom…he found it one step out into the arena. He leaped high, then kicked out, throwing his rump hard against Pete’s spine. Muscles burned, and ligaments, already stretched and torn, took another beating as eleven hundred pounds of horsepower hit the end of the hand Pete gripped on the rigging.

He set his jaw against the pain and searched for the rhythm. It was there waiting for him, as familiar as a lover’s dance. With his spine almost level with the roan’s broad back, he focused on the timing, drawing his knees high and his toes out, spurring in sync with the bronc’s wild bucks, while whipping his free hand through the air above his head to keep his hips centered in the swell with each of the horse’s sudden twists and turns. He heard the loud cheers coming from the stands and knew the fans were getting their money’s worth.

Diablo was putting on one hell of a show.

And Pete Dugan wasn’t doing too badly himself.

Sweat stung his eyes, and the muscles in his legs and arms felt as if they were on fire. But Pete was confident that, if necessary, he could ride that bronc all night. Through the roar in his ears, he heard the buzzer sound, signaling the end of his eight-second ride. Cheers rose from the stands, and the grin that was as much a part of Pete’s features as his Roman-shaped nose quickly spread to his ears.

Working his gloved fingers loose in the rigging, he glanced to his left, looking for the pickup man. Just as he did, the roan spun sharply, slamming Pete’s right leg up hard against the arena wall. He heard the collective gasp that rose from the stands even as the pain shot from his knee and up his thigh like a bolt of white-hot lightning, making his stomach churn and his head swim. Clenching his teeth against the dizziness, he made a grab for the arena wall and hung on, letting the roan run out from beneath him.

Gasping, nearly blinded by pain, he glanced up at the faces peering down at him from over the top rail that framed the box seats. His gaze struck a pair of green eyes centered on his. The eyes, filled with concern, were achingly familiar.

Carol?

It couldn’t be, he told himself. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in over two years. He closed his eyes and gave his head a shake, sure that he was hallucinating, a result of the pain. When he opened them, she was gone.

“Eighty-nine points!” the rodeo announcer called out. “Let’s hear it for Pete Dugan, rodeo fans. This cowboy’s just broken the record for the highest score ever made in the bronc riding event at the Mesquite Rodeo.”

Loosening his grip on the wall, Pete dropped to the ground, hopping three steps until he was sure his right knee was going to take his weight. When he was sure he wasn’t going to crumple like a rag doll and humiliate himself in front of over a thousand rodeo fans, he planted both boots firmly in the dirt and ripped off his hat. With a loud whoop, he sailed it high in the air and punched the air with his fists.

The audience went wild.

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.

“Your knee?” Clayton dropped his gaze to stare at the bandage wrapped tightly around his friend’s leg.

Pete slapped the waterlogged hat over his head. “Yes, my knee. The bronc I rode last night thought the pickup man was taking a little too long in fetching me, so he decided to scrape me off his back on the arena wall. Wrenched my bad knee.”

Clayton ducked his head. “I didn’t know.”

“No, you didn’t. You just assumed. And you know what happens when a person assumes something, don’t you?”

Scowling, Clayton glanced up. Then, heaving a sigh, he slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders and headed him back toward the house. “Yeah. He makes an ass of himself,” he muttered.

“Apology accepted.”

Clayton whipped his head around to frown at Pete. “I didn’t offer an apology.”

Pete grinned and looped his arm over Clayton’s shoulders, letting his friend take most of his weight. “No, but I could tell you wanted to.” His grin widened while Clayton’s frown deepened. Limping along at his friend’s side, Pete felt the water squishing inside his boots and figured they were ruined…but decided he’d take that up with Clayton later. His buddy had enough on his mind at the moment. “You packed and ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Long as it takes.”

“You gonna put up a fight for her?”

At the porch Clayton dropped his arm from Pete’s shoulders and turned to face him. “If that’s what’s required.”

“She’s worth it,” Pete said with a nod of approval. “Rena’s a good woman.”

Clayton glanced toward the house, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “Yeah. I suppose.” Heaving a weighty sigh, he stooped and picked up his duffel bag. “Are you sure you can handle the ranch alone?”

Pete smiled confidently. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

With a last, doubtful look, Clayton turned for his truck. “I left a list of instructions on the kitchen table. If you need me, you can reach me on my cell phone.”

“You just bring Rena and the kids back home where they belong,” Pete called after him. “I’ll take care of things here.” He lifted a hand in farewell, then, when he was sure Clayton couldn’t see the action, he sank down on the porch step with a groan. He stretched out his leg to relieve the pressure on his throbbing knee…and wondered how he was going to manage a fifteen-hundred-acre ranch when the thought of making the short trek to his truck to gather his gear filled him with dread.

Pete awakened to pain. But that was nothing new. Seemed pain was his constant companion. He rolled to his back, his hand going instinctively to the puckered flesh on his knee. The scar his fingers rubbed at was two years old, left by a surgeon’s knife, but the pain in his knee wasn’t old. It was constant. He’d learned to live with it, as he had another pain…the one in his heart.

Refusing to think about that other pain, or the woman who had caused it, he pushed himself to a sitting position. He swung his left leg over the side of the bed and gingerly guided his right leg to join it. Standing, he kept his weight on his good leg as he tested the strength in the right. When it wobbled, he sighed and reached for the bandage he’d tossed over the chair the night before and sank back down on the bed, knowing he wouldn’t make it very far without the added support. He wrapped the knee tightly, then stood again, testing his knee’s ability to take his weight. Satisfied that it could, he tugged on his blue jeans and reached for his shirt. Barefoot, he limped for the kitchen. His boots were by the back door, where he’d left them, and a pool of water lay beneath the ruined leather soles. And, dangit, they were his favorite pair, too.

“You owe me a new pair of boots, Clayton,” he muttered as he detoured for the coffeemaker. He reached for the can of grounds and caught a glimpse of his hat lying on the counter, its brim limp, its crown crushed. “And a hat,” he added, frowning as he measured grounds into the basket. While the coffee perked, he hopscotched his way across the rocky drive to his truck and dug out an old pair of boots from behind the seat. Grabbing his cellular phone from the base unit on the console, he stuck it in his shirt pocket.

As he turned to head back to the house, he saw a truck by the barn…and stopped, staring, his heart slowly sinking to his stomach. He knew who the truck belonged to. And knew, too, that he might as well get it over with. No sense in avoiding the inevitable.

Bending over, he quickly stuck a foot into a boot, pulled it on, then gritted his teeth as he hopped a full circle, struggling to tug on the other one. Winded by the exertion, he straightened, hitching his hands low on his hips, and stared in the direction of the barn, dreading the confrontation.