The Princess And The Cowboy. Martha Shields
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he was going about this all wrong. He didn’t necessarily need to be married forever—just long enough to convince his mother to lay off. Hell, he could pay some woman to marry him. Have her sign an ironclad prenuptial. A trailer-park queen would be grateful to earn as much money as he could afford to give her.
They’d get divorced after five or six months, and he’d have years to “recover” from his wife leaving him. Surely by then, he’d find a woman who’d make him happy.
Buck grinned. This sounded like a plan.
Now all he had to do was find himself a bride. The trashier, the better.
“Oooouuuuweeee! Will you look at that long, tall drink of sweet water?”
Buck tightened the cinch on Aggie, then turned to see what had his fellow steer wrestler so excited.
The sight of a young woman walking around the corner of one of the campers kicked him in the gut like his horse’s hind leg. Leading a dun mare, she moved as if on the runway of the Miss America Pageant, though she was dressed in the gaudy starred-and-striped sequined weskit of the rodeo “court” and white jeans so tight he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been painted on.
As he watched, she paused and glanced around, then twisted to tug at the seam riding up her rear end. The action was so sexy, Buck reacted as if she’d stripped right in front of him.
“Damn.” He shifted his stance to ease the sudden tightness of his own jeans.
The other cowboy whistled. “I ain’t never seen her around here before. Have you?”
“She must be that princess the rodeo director’s been looking for.” Buck stared at her through the chaos of horses, cowboys and cowgirls—a hunter whose crosshair was squarely on his quarry. “And maybe the one I’ve been looking for.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” Buck quickly wrapped off the cinch. “I’ll go tell her they’re waiting on her.”
“Hey, I saw her first,” the cowboy complained as Buck walked toward the young woman.
“Too bad.” Buck threw a grin over his shoulder. “This little filly could be the answer to my prayers.”
“Howdy, Princess.”
The sound of her title made Josie’s heart slam against her ribs even before she could untwist from her awkward position. She straightened to find a tall, broad, incredibly handsome cowboy smiling down at her. The sight as much as the panic at being found so quickly made her stammer. “What… How…”
With a smile that could melt the rock cliffs of Montclaire, he drawled, “They’re looking for you.”
Her eyes widened further. “For me? They are?”
Oh, no. How could they have found her already? Though it had taken an hour to ride across the fields toward the rodeo, she didn’t think they’d even miss her by now. It was barely dark.
“Can’t open a rodeo without all the princesses leading the procession.”
She blinked hard. “All the princesses?”
“There are six of you, I think, not counting the queen.” He pushed his hat back on his head. “Didn’t you practice with the others?”
“Practice? No, I…” Josie dragged her gaze away from the cowboy’s sexy blue eyes so she could think.
There weren’t any queens or other princesses in California at the moment, that she knew of. These must be the beauty queens America was so fond of crowning. Melissa had said rodeos held a contest for a “queen” and her “court,” but why would this cowboy think she was one of them?
A quick glance around the area told her. In the limited light, she could see three other young women wearing a sequined blouse identical to the one Josie had “borrowed.”
Mon Dieu, I can’t even steal properly.
After she’d cleared the fence that separated the Porter ranch from the rodeo property, she’d quickly realized her ball gown would stick out like a black sheep in a flock of white merinos.
Luckily—or so she’d thought at the time—these tortuous pants and the red-white-and-blue sequined blouse had been hanging on a trailer door at the edge of the lot. There’d even been a hat and boots to complete the outfit. She’d been desperate enough that it didn’t take long to overcome her scruples about taking them. As she’d changed behind the trailer—one end of which bounced and squeaked rhythmically—she could hear loud moans coming from inside. She’d felt better then, thinking if the woman was sick she wouldn’t need the clothes.
To help assuage her guilt, Josie left her own gown as payment. The Versace was worth at least ten outfits like the one she had on.
“You must be a substitute princess,” the cowboy offered.
This was getting worse by the minute. If she claimed to be a substitute, she’d have to ride in the procession this man mentioned. She didn’t think anyone would recognize her in this disguise, but she didn’t want to waste any time. Soon either Madame Savoie or the bodyguards would realize she was missing. She wanted to have found a prospective husband and be long gone by the time they thought about searching the rodeo grounds.
But if she claimed she wasn’t this rodeo princess, she’d have to admit stealing the clothes, which could put her in jail. Then Bonifay’s men would locate her for sure.
Why couldn’t she have found a plainer outfit to steal? One that would let her blend into the crowd?
“Are you okay, miss?”
She’d have to take her chances in the procession. Surely it couldn’t take that long. The only problem was… “I don’t know what to do.”
He shrugged. “From what I can tell, it’s not hard. Just ride around the arena with one of the sponsor flags. C’mon. I’ll walk you to the gate.”
Her eyes traveled uncertainly across the wide expanse of his shoulders. “But…who are you?”
His smile broadened, folding two deep dimples into his hard cheeks and stealing air from her lungs. He tipped his black hat. “Name’s Buck Buchanan. Pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”
“Josie Fr—” She clamped her mouth shut to keep from uttering her French name. After a bare second’s pause, she supplied the rough translation. “Freeheart. Josie Freeheart.”
His dark brows moved together. “Freeheart? That some kind of hippie name or something?”
Not knowing how to answer, she lifted a shoulder. Free-heart sounded like a perfectly good American name to her.
To take his mind off her possible faux pas, she asked, “Are you a rider of…” What did Melissa call those wild horses? “…broncs?”
“A bronc rider? Not anymore. But hey, we’d best get you to the gate. C’mon.” He grabbed her hand and started walking toward the arena. “I’m a bulldogger these days. I used to ride broncs, but when you’re six-two and two hundred twenty pounds, there’s too much of you to be jerked around.”
Josie barely heard his explanation. Her mind was so consumed with the sensation of her hand in his, she barely remembered to keep hold of her horse’s reins.
Never in her life had a man held her hand. Not like this, palm against palm, fingers laced. The most she’d ever experienced was a man’s hand wrapped around her gloved fingers as they danced. She’d never felt the heat that not only engulfed her hand, but shot up her arm to spread all over her body. Her heart began to race like it had when she escaped across the—
“Josie?”
“Hmm?” As she tried to shake off the curious sensation, she took one more step than he did, which landed her smack up against his side. The mare’s