The Cowboy's Destiny. Marin Thomas
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as the something borrowed part of Destiny’s bridal outfit.
Blast you, Daryl.
Even though they’d known each other only six months, she hadn’t expected him to leave her high and dry. She closed her eyes and recalled their first date. Daryl had taken her to a tattoo parlor in Kingman. And since she’d decided to call Lizard Gulch home, she’d gotten a colorful lizard tattooed on the back of her shoulder. Daryl had picked a two-headed snake for his arm. Afterward they’d stopped at the Sonic for shakes and that’s when she’d discovered they had more in common than new tattoos—they’d both experienced crummy childhoods.
Destiny hadn’t had any contact with her mother in ten years. She’d been thirteen when she’d walked out of the Tomahawk Truck Plaza in Phoenix with only the clothes on her back and ten dollars in her pocket. She rarely reflected on her childhood—growing up in truck stops where her mother entertained men in bathroom stalls wasn’t the stuff of fairy tales.
She rubbed her belly. At barely two months pregnant it would be several weeks before she showed. Destiny admitted she didn’t love Daryl, and he’d never confessed to loving her, but she’d believed they could make a go of a real marriage for the baby’s sake.
Well, crap. Now what?
She retrieved her purse then left the chapel, closing the doors behind her. After stowing her purse and phone in the bench compartment of her 1980 Harley-Davidson Wide Glide hog, she slid on her mirrored sunglasses and straddled the seat, careful to keep her white leather pants from touching the greasy engine. She positioned the two-inch heel of her black biker boot over the kick-starter and jumped down on it with all her measly one hundred and ten pounds. The engine revved to life, and she flipped the stand up then tore out of the parking lot, tires spewing gravel.
The hot wind in her face stoked her frustration, and she pushed the bike’s speed to seventy. She’d driven only two miles when she spotted a pickup parked on the shoulder of the road. Dollar signs flashed before her eyes. A stranded motorist needing a tow meant money in her pocket. She pulled off the road and scanned the area—a girl couldn’t be too careful these days and she was too smart to walk into an ambush. Assured no one hid in the brush along the road, she turned off the bike and set the stand.
A movement caught her attention and she zeroed in on the pickup, where a pair of cowboy boots stuck out the driver’s side window. She approached the vehicle cautiously and peered through the open window, finding a cowboy sprawled inside, his hat covering his face. Snoring sounds echoed through the cab—whether he was sleeping off a drink or resting while he waited for a ride was anybody’s guess.
She slapped her hand against the bottom of one boot then jumped inside her skin when the man bolted into an upright position, knocking his forehead against the rearview mirror. His hat tumbled to the floor, and Destiny got her first good look at him.
Wow.
There was a hint of gold warmth in his brown eyes, the color reminding her of high-grade engine oil. Dark eyebrows stood out on a face framed by shaggy brown hair with sandy highlights. Without the cowboy hat he might easily be mistaken for a California beach bum.
Destiny wasn’t used to running into sexy men—she lived in a town full of old people. “Need a lift?”
He glanced out the rear window. “Where’s the groom?”
“If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.”
He shoved his hand out the window. “Buck Cash.” His deep baritone voice settled over her fringed vest like a soft caress. She shook his hand—thick calluses convinced her that he was the real McCoy, not some wannabe buckaroo.
“Destiny Saunders. Where are you headed?”
“Up to Flagstaff for a rodeo this weekend.”
“What event?”
“You mind if I get out of the truck?” he asked.
She backed up. Then backed up again when he stood. The man towered over her five-foot-four frame. She eyed his broad shoulders and deep chest. “Tie-down roping?”
“I ride a bull every now and then.” He settled his hat on his head, which added another two inches to his height.
“Where’s your horse?” she asked.
“Don’t own one. A buddy of mine loans me his when I compete.”
This cowboy must only rodeo when he felt like it. “What’s wrong with your truck?”
“Puncture in one of the hoses.”
She doubted he’d even checked the engine. Ignoring his wide-eyed stare, she walked to the front of the truck. “Pop the hood.”
He grinned—brilliant white teeth as straight as a ruler glinted in the sun. Self-consciously she ran her tongue over her crooked eyetooth. Once he released the latch, she secured the hood rod. “The cap looks fine.”
He peered over her shoulder and she caught a whiff of musk-scented cologne. There wasn’t a hint of wood or lavender or any other smell—it was pure raw male. A quiver that had nothing to do with the morning sickness she’d come down with a few days ago spread through her stomach. Steeling herself against the odd sensation she examined the engine.
“You’ve got a cracked hose.” She stepped back and unhooked the rod then let the hood drop into place. “The nearest mechanic with a tow truck—” her “—is a few miles up the road in Lizard Gulch. You want a lift there?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
She waited by the Harley while he closed the truck windows and locked his gear inside the cab. “Guess you’re going to miss your rodeo,” she said.
“There’s always another one.” He eyed the bike. “This your motorcycle?”
“You think I ditched my fiancé at the altar and then took off on his bike?”
“Kind of looks that way.” He kept a straight face but his eyes sparkled.
“Looks can be deceiving. Hop on.” Once he was situated, she jumped on the kick-starter and gunned the engine.
His chest pressed into her back and sweat beaded between her breasts. She’d yet to come across a man who intimidated her, but there was something about the cowboy that put her off-balance. “Where should I hold on?”
“Wherever you want.” She checked the mirrors then shot onto the highway. Once the tires gained traction, she shifted gears. When the hog jumped forward, his hands clasped her hips, his fingers squeezing until she felt the pressure against the bone.
Her driving made him nervous. Good.
She hit a straightaway and the hog’s speed edged toward eighty. She knew the road like the back of her hand—every pothole, bump and crack in the asphalt—and had complete control of the bike. The first time she’d given Daryl a ride on the Harley, he hadn’t been half as nervous as the cowboy.
Speaking of Daryl... Funny how she’d forgotten the father of her baby the moment Buck had stepped from the truck. Maybe things had worked out for the best when Daryl had chickened out at the eleventh hour. Had they tied the knot, they’d probably have been divorced inside of a year.
* * *
BUCK FELT LIKE an extra in a Hollywood movie. He’d woken this morning ready to rodeo and now here he was, hitching a ride on a Harley with a runaway bride. He swatted the lace veil away from his face. Life sure had gotten interesting since his older brother Will had all but kicked him off the family pecan farm and told him to get the heck out of Dodge for a while. Buck was the first to admit he’d deserved the banishment.
Will had learned for the first time this past June that he had a fourteen-year-old son. The mother had been a girl he’d taken to the prom his senior year. After Marsha Bugler graduated high school, she’d left Arizona to attend college in California. Buck