Calder Storm (Calder Saga 10)

caught her up and twirled her into the mix of dancing couples, each pair choosing its own combination of steps to match the music. As Sloan had warned him, she was far from adept, but neither cared as they spun and laughed and spun some more, endlessly jostled and bumped by others.

When the cymbal clashed on the final note, Sloan collapsed against him with a breathless laugh. “That was too advanced for me.”

Trey grinned at her. “You sure showed plenty of try.”

“That’s rodeo talk for a rider making an all-out effort. I heard it used at the arena and asked.” Sloan studied him with a curious and considering look. “I never asked how you fared with your bull tonight.”

“I didn’t ride.” His arm loosely circled her shoulders, keeping her close to his side.

“Really?” Her eyes widened in surprise.

“I’m too tall to be competitive on the rough stock,” Trey explained.

“Why? What has that got to do with it?”

“It gives me a high center of gravity, and that means it’s a lot harder to keep your seat on an animal that’s determined to buck you off.” His mouth crooked in an amused but confident smile. “Now when it comes to the roping events, I can hold my own with the next cowboy.”

“Now that I think about it, nearly every rider I’ve seen has been under six feet. I guess when I saw you behind the chutes I just assumed you were competing.”

“A couple of my friends were.”

“And you were lending moral support,” Sloan guessed.

“Something like that.” Fiddle music filled the air, its notes slow and plaintively sweet. “Sounds like that song is about your speed. Shall we?”

Smiling her answer, she turned into his arms. This time she lifted both hands around his neck, linking her fingers behind it. His own hands settled on the rise of her hipbones as they shifted in place to the dreamy rhythm, bodies brushing with an ease that already felt familiar.

A hand tapped his shoulder. Half irritated by the interruption, Trey threw an impatient glance to his left as Tank waltzed into view with a town girl in his arms.

“I see you found her,” Tank said, tipping his head in Sloan’s direction.

Trey responded with a curt nod and a tight smile.

As usual, Tank wasn’t the least bit put off by his obvious reticence. An impish glee entered his expression. “Get a load of who Johnny’s squiring around the floor.” A jerk of the thumb directed Trey’s attention to the couple ahead of them along the outer circle.

Lifting his glance, Trey was quick to spot Johnny, rocking from side to side like a metronome gone awry. And the blonde bobbing with him was none other than Kelly Ramsey.

“Kinda looks like you started something.” Tank exchanged an amused look with Trey before he swung his partner away.

“Those are your friends, aren’t they,” Sloan guessed.

“They are,” he confirmed, regarding the pair as hardly a subject worth discussing, especially not with Sloan.

But she clearly didn’t share his opinion. “Sounds like you’ve been doing a little matchmaking.”

“Believe me, it was just a joke that took an unexpected turn.”

To Trey’s regret, Sloan continued to watch the other couple. “I’m surprised she isn’t seasick,” she murmured on a note of utter marvel. Trey threw his head back and laughed. “Well, it’s true,” Sloan said in defense of her comment, then laughed along with him, a little self-consciously at first, then with open mirth.

It became a private joke between them the rest of the evening whether circling the dance floor or strolling on the crowded street to check the other action. A dozen times or more Trey was hailed by someone he knew. Most times he got by with an answering wave; with others he was obliged to exchange a few words before moving on.

By midnight the crowd had been thinned of its families with adolescents, leaving the hard-core revelers behind to party away the balance of the night. Rather than abating, the noise had lifted to a more raucous level.

Trey steered Sloan clear of a couple of cowboys who already showed signs of having a few too many beers. The altered course carried them onto the sidewalk as a group of Triple C riders, some with their wives or girlfriends in tow, approached. He was instantly recognized.

“Hey, Trey,” one of them yelled. “We’re all goin’ in and grab a beer. Come on and join us.”

Before Trey had a chance to decline, Sloan spoke up, “Not me. I’ll pass, thanks.”