Her Rodeo Man. Cathy Mcdavid
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Her touch was both gentle and electrifying.
Closing his eyes, he let himself experience the moment. Don’t stop. Not yet.
She must have read his thoughts for she lingered. And lingered.
Her proximity brought with it a heat that invaded his every pore. As did the fragrant scent of her hair. Or was it the lotion she’d used that morning? Not to mention the silky texture of her skin.
Skin? Wait a minute.
Without realizing it, he’d lifted a hand to caress Tatum’s bare arm.
She made the slightest move to pull away. Ryder would have none of it and drew her close. Closer still. He didn’t stop until she was forced to grab hold of his shoulders or risk losing her balance.
“Ryder” was all she got out before he covered her mouth with his, turning a not-quite-innocent peck into a full-blown, make-no-mistake-I-want-you kiss.
Her Rodeo Man
Cathy McDavid
For the past eighteen years CATHY McDAVID has been juggling a family, a job and writing, and doing pretty well at it, except for the housecleaning part. “Mostly” retired from the corporate business world, she writes full-time from her home in Scottsdale, Arizona, near the breathtaking McDowell Mountains. Her twins have “mostly” left home, returning every now and then to raid her refrigerators. On weekends, she heads to her cabin in the mountains, always taking her laptop with her. You can visit her website at www.cathymcdavid.com.
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To Mike…and the incredible spark you always ignite. Here’s to forever, my love.
Contents
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
The day Ryder Beckett swore would never come had arrived. He’d returned to Reckless, Arizona, and the Easy Money Rodeo Arena. But instead of a hero’s welcome, he was slinking home like a scolded puppy with his tail tucked firmly between his legs.
Really slinking. He should be meeting his father in the arena office. In fact, he was five minutes late. Only, Ryder had continued walking. Around the main barn, past the row of outdoor horse stalls, all the way to the horse pastures. There he stopped and forced himself to draw a long breath.
He did want to be here, he told himself. Though, to be honest, he needed to be here. Be somewhere, anyway. Why not Reckless, where he could maybe, possibly, mend a bridge or two? He would if his baby sister, Liberty, had her way. For Ryder, the jury was still out.
Keeping a low profile. Yeah, he decided, that had a better ring to it than slinking. Then again, Ryder possessed a talent for putting a positive spin on things. It was what had propelled him to the top in his field. Stupidity was what led to his downfall.
As he stood at the pasture fence, his leather dress shoes sank deep into the soft dirt. He’d have a chore cleaning them later. At the moment, he didn’t care.
When, he absently wondered, was the last time he’d worn a pair of boots? Or ridden a horse, for that matter? The answer came quickly. Five years ago during his last strained visit. He’d sworn then and there he’d never set sight on Reckless again. The aftermath of another falling-out with his mother.
Recent events had altered the circumstance of their enduring disagreement. Liberty, the one most hurt by their mother’s lies, had managed to make peace with both their parents. Not so Ryder. His anger at their mother’s betrayal hadn’t dimmed one bit in the twenty-five years since she’d divorced their father.
Was coming home a mistake? Only time would tell. In any case, he wasn’t staying long.
In the pasture, a woman haltered a large black pony and led it slowly toward the gate. Other horses, a half dozen or so pregnant mares, ambled behind, bobbing their heads and swishing their tails. Whatever might be happening, they wanted in on it.
Ryder leaned his forearms on the top fence railing. Even at this distance, he could tell two things: the pony was severely lame, and the woman was spectacularly attractive. Both drew his attention, and, for the moment, his meeting with his father was forgotten.
The two were a study in contrast. While the pony hobbled painfully, favoring its front left foot, the woman moved with elegance and grace, her long black hair misbehaving in the mild breeze. She stopped frequently to check on the pony and, when she did, rested