Bucking the Rules(12)

“Bustin’ those broncs?”

He tilted his head back and laughed. “Worst accent ever. Never try to pass for a native. Nobody is ever going to buy it.”

“No problem there.”

“And no, I didn’t often bust the broncs, as you so cutely put it. But that’s in the past anyway. Now I’m at the ranch.”

She wanted to ask another question—completely violating her MYOB policy—but three tickets came in together, followed by a steady stream of orders and issues to handle at once. At one point, she glanced back to see if he was waiting for her to return and finish the conversation, but he seemed intent on the TV screen above the bar. Just as well, since she didn’t have the time to stand around chatting with an off-limits man.

An hour later, things slowed down. But when she returned, she found only money in Trace’s spot, well more than would cover the bill. She passed the tip off to Lori, since he’d started at her table, and worked on autopilot, prepping the bar for shutdown. But stupidly, she kept looking over her shoulder to see if he was around the bar somewhere. He wasn’t. He’d left without saying good-bye. And why should he? She was just the bartender, and he was just a customer. Besides that, Amanda had her eyes on him, and Amanda was a friend, as well as an employee. She had no business looking for the man in a crowd.

Didn’t mean, when she pulled on her pajamas that night, he didn’t float through her mind. The faceless fantasy cowboy had features now, and they were too close to Trace Muldoon’s for comfort.





“Oh, good, you’re in here already,” Red said as he walked up beside Trace.

Trace stood beside his equipment, staring at it. “Something’s off with my stuff.”

Red glanced toward the tack. “Looks fine to me.”

“Yeah, but I don’t put it away in this order. Has someone been messing with my stuff?”

Red shrugged, unconcerned. That annoyed the hell out of Trace, since he knew Red would be the first to boil over if he thought someone had been jacking around with his tack. “Nobody should be using my stuff but me.”

“Well, I didn’t use it. I’ve got my own stuff, and you know it. If you’re so sure someone did, feel free to question the hands. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if it turns out you were a paranoid bastard.”

He started to reply, then just shook his head. No point. Red hadn’t used it, that much he was sure of. And he’d look like an idiot questioning people about using his stuff, when none was missing or damaged. He’d just keep an eye on it. “What’d you want?”

“I need you up on Lad. We’ve got two weeks before you head out again and we could really use some good PR at the next event.”

Trace grinned and grabbed his stirrups. “And when have I ever given bad PR?”

Red opened his mouth, then shut it again. After rolling his eyes, he pointed to the tack. “Just get your ‘messed with’ stuff and saddle up. And get your head in the game. I’m not putting up with a shitty practice.”

Trace waited until Red walked away, then kicked dust after him, just on principle. He liked the guy, tolerated him with his sister, and knew he was good for the ranch. But still … he cast one more glance at his tack. Someone had definitely touched his stuff. He gave everything an extra look over before using it, just in case. But as he’d thought, it was all in perfect working order. Almost as if someone had merely knocked it over and put it back in the wrong order. Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe he really was a paranoid bastard.

On the road, when he’d traveled solo for years, barely making enough to feed both him and his horse, he’d learned keeping his tack safe was a matter of whether they both got to eat that night or just the horse. Some cowboys were as petty and vindictive as a bunch of sore losers backstage at a beauty pageant. Loosened buckles, ripped nylon, weakened straps, they would stop at nothing to give themselves the upper hand. His tack never left his side if he could help it, and if he couldn’t, it was locked up in his truck. End of story.

He didn’t want to go back to that place, where he felt so alone, like he was fending for himself constantly. His son didn’t deserve that existence.

So he’d brush it off. As he walked over to where Steve had Lad waiting to be saddled, he told himself, time to move on. He had a permanent place at the family ranch as long as he wanted it. And he did, for his son’s sake.

“You have fun at Jo’s the other night?” Steve rubbed a hand over Lad’s neck while Trace adjusted the saddle blanket. “I saw you at the bar before I left.”