Cowboy Husband

1

Ruckus

“Another round.” My voice doesn’t even slur as I lean in toward the barkeep to place my order. I do, however, find it a little difficult to find my footing on the uneven ground of this dingy little dive bar I’ve holed up in for the night.

It ain’t my usual watering hole: no friendly Ken working the taps to sneak me an extra shot of bourbon every few rounds. No Merl and Henry either, to keep an eye on me when I get a little too deep into his cups. Which I’ve been liable to do of late, given…

Well. given every damn thing about my life.

The barkeep hesitates. I recognize the look in his eye. I knew it well. It’s the should I really serve this guy another drink? expression. Luckily, I also know how to counter this. I hold the man’s gaze steady, keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground. I don’t so much as waver an inch.

There. See? Totally sober.

The barkeep slides a freshly filled glass of whiskey across the stained and pocked bar toward me. I shove a fistful of bills back, tip included. I never skimp on that, no matter what kind of a shit reputation I might’ve earned around town.

“Hey.” Someone slaps my back.

I stiffen, drink clenched tight in my fist in order to avoid spilling any of it. I plaster on my best imitation of a smile, the one I’ve worn every day since the night my world came crashing down, and turn to whoever just had the audacity to touch me.

“Aren’t you Rudolph Ruckus?” The guy, a gangly little kid who couldn’t be old enough to legally set foot inside this establishment, peers up at me through thick glasses. “From the rodeo. You won yesterday, huh?”

Unable to stop myself, I cast a quick glance around the bar. I don’t recognize anyone in here, but that don’t mean anything. Half the enemies I’ve made I wouldn’t be able to tell from Adam in a police lineup. I’m usually pretty far gone by the time things escalate to the punching and throwing chairs portion of the evening. That’s when I tend to do the most damage—to both myself and others.

But nobody seems to be eyeballing me yet. Maybe the coast is clear. I stirred up some trouble the last time I passed through this town, for this same rodeo event last year. Not to mention more than a few of the guys who were out on the field with me yesterday were pissed about my win. But it doesn’t seem like any of them are in this bar.

So I just shrug at the kid. Try for a smile. “That’s me. The big winner.”

“Congrats, man. I loved your performance. The way you held onto that last ride—I thought you were a goner for sure when the bull kicked through the fence!”

“Thanks,” I reply, not without a heavy layer of sarcasm. Always nice to hear your fans thought you were about to die.

Christ, I’m in a shit mood. “’Scuse me.” I shoulder past the kid, making a beeline for the end of the bar. The quiet corner near the old guys getting soused on a bottle of Jack. That’s my kind of spot. The spot where I can just lay low and stay out of trouble. The trouble that’s been plaguing my managers for as long as I can remember.

I catch a couple more eyes along the way—a few more nerdy guys like the kid, and then a couple of bombshell blondes in heels who I definitely don’t mind flashing a wink and a grin at. Okay, so I have some fans in this town too, apparently.

But more enemies.

And I can’t afford to make any more of the latter. Not with two lawsuits already pending against me. Not to mention the countless number of guys who didn’t press charges after we tussled. It’s not that I go looking for trouble, it’s just that whenever trouble saunters into whatever bar I happen to be in, I never back down from the fight.

But I know I can’t afford any more incidents. I’m on thin ice with my sponsors as it is. Last month I ended up in a brawl that was plastered all over the tabloids with headlines like Big Rodeo Star Goes Mad Bull on Local Tavern. It wasn’t my fault two uppity local yokels tried to pick a fight. Said I’d fixed the rodeo, that their friend should’ve won instead. Told me I’d better leave town before they forced me out of it.

I mean, you can’t say that kind of shit to a man and expect him to just walk away. Right?

But still. Those are the thoughts on my mind when I catch a glimpse of what’s going on at the far end of the bar. Stay clear of trouble, Ruckus.

A new girl walks in. Just about every eye in the place, mine definitely included, swings toward her like we’re magnets pointing toward the North Pole. She’s impossible to miss, especially in this bar. It’s like walking into a dirty coal mine and finding a brilliant diamond sitting right there in the middle of the mud.

She’s got legs as long as a filly, swathed in jeans tight enough to dis

play every inch to their best advantage. Combine that with the tight, perky ass that sticks out behind her as she sashays in, her waist-length blonde curls swinging behind her, and I swear, I’ve never gotten harder faster while staring at an entirely clothed, perfectly presentable woman in my life.

She heads straight for the bar, shoulders back and head held high. A girl who knows what she wants. I like that in a woman.

I like it even better when I catch a glimpse of what the bartender’s sliding across the bar toward her. A glass of Bulleit bourbon, neat. Same thing I’m holding right this very moment. My usual poison of choice.

I’m debating whether to go over and introduce myself when another guy swoops in. Not the dweeby kid from earlier. A taller guy, big and burly like me, though to judge by the tangle of a beard he’s got, not to mention the rat’s nest of a ponytail down his back, he’s doesn’t exactly have a shot.

I watch him leer at her through cracked teeth, one of which is so black I can see it from here.

She smiles at him, politely. Ducks her head and tries to sidestep around him toward the bar.

He plants a hand on her shoulder, spins her back to face him, and leans in to say something.

This time, she doesn’t smile. She shoves him back, hard, with both hands. The way she plants her feet, even in heels, she’s able to get up enough momentum to throw him off-balance. He staggers, and at the same moment, I find myself on my feet.

I don’t remember choosing to do this. I have about a hundred reasons not to. Most pressing of which would be the two lawsuits for fighting that are keeping my lawyers busy. My legal bills alone should keep me laying low and playing nice until they wrangle me out of that legal corner.

But instead, I find myself tossing back the rest of my glass of whiskey. I set that on the table, shove it back, and rise to my feet. I’m still steady on them, which I take to be a good sign.

Then again, with all the practice I have at keeping my balance in unsteady situations—namely when a bucking bronco is going wild beneath me and my very life depends on my ability to hang on tight—I don’t tend to stagger, even when I’m blind drunk. So it’s not saying much that I’m able to cross the bar, eyes narrowed in on my target.

The creeper doesn’t appear to be taking the lady’s shove seriously. The barkeep leans across and shouts at him to go, but the guy is all up in that gorgeous girl’s face, his lips parted in a sneer. When I stride close enough to hear their conversation, it only stokes the fire in my blood more.

“—just trying to pay you a compliment, woman. There’s no need to be rude. Girl like you ought to be polite when a man tells her how sexy she is.”

“I don’t need a man like you to tell me anything, much less that,” the woman shoots back in a Southern drawl that makes my blood sing. God, I love a country girl. Especially one like her with muscled arms I can see clear through her tight flannel shirt. Not to mention them legs. Did I mention her legs?

I shake myself back to attention. Focus on the asshole assaulting her.

“I bet you’d put out for the other guys in here, bitch,” the man is snarling.

That’s when my fist collides with his face.

I hit him hard in the jaw, a punch followed through with my full body weight. It sends him staggering backwards, crashing over a chair and into the bar, which catches him enough to keep him upright. The room erupts around us, shouts coming from all sides. Dimly, I feel hands grab at my shoulders, but I shake them off.

I’m in the zone now. And all I see is red hot fury, blinding my eyes of anything but my target. This bastard who thinks he can touch women without their permission, call them names because they don’t respond to his liking.

My target shoves back off the bar and throws a punch. I block it, but my movements are slow, uncoordinated from the alcohol that’s finally catching up to my system.

Dammit. I shouldn’t have downed that last drink.

I dodge another punch he throws, and land one in his gut. He doubles over, groaning. I knee him in the chest, but I’m off-balance from that, standing on one leg. I stagger to the side, feel more hands grip me, and this time, I don’t have time to shake off the bystanders before he launches into me again. His head collides with my stomach as he pile-drives me, making me double over in pain, losing any wind left in my sails.

We collapse onto the sticky floor of the bar, my head hitting the ground hard, stars sparking across my vision. The asshole raises a fist again, brings it down to collide with my temple, but I’m not even looking at him anymore.

The last thing I see before the world fades to black is her face, peering over his shoulder, expression a mask of concern. There’s something about her eyes, baby blue eyes that snag me and pierce me right down into my gut.

At least if I have to die like this, undignified, on the floor of this grimy bar, I get to take one last look at a beautiful girl before I go.

Then the asshole’s fist connects, and everything goes dark. I hear my father’s words, some of the last ones he ever spoke to me. Words that have haunted me ever since his death, because I know I’m not living up to them. Not fulfilling his wishes or carrying out the life he’d want for me.

“Find a good woman, son,” he told me. “Everything else is just noise. You find her and you hold onto her for dear life.”

The words still echo in my head as the darkness takes over.

2

Sheila

I watch the coffee percolate and rub my temples, the events of the night still unfortunately too fresh in my memory.

All I’d wanted to do was stop by that lousy local dive for one last drink before my hard work began. I’d earned it, I figured. Putting up with this crap for the next couple of months was likely to do my head in. I deserved at least one night of blowing off steam first. Little did I know, my job was about to find me, long before I wanted it to.

Rudolph Ruckus.

Watching him sleep on my motel bed, sprawled across the sheets with his plaid shirt half unbuttoned from the mess last night, I have to admit, he looks good. Sexy, if I didn’t know what kind of a wild man lay underneath that chiseled tan torso and tousled black hair, mussed from a night spent passed out on a bar floor, then being carried into a truck and hoisted up here.

I paid a few of the guys at the bar to help me carry Ruckus, after he lived up to his name and started yet another goddamn brawl in the middle of that dive. Luckily one of them had a flatbed truck, so they were able to lift him into the bed of it and then carry him up to my room to sleep off the worst of his hangover and injuries.

Less fun was paying off the creeper Ruckus attacked. The minute that slimy asshole got wind of who’d punched him, he started talking about pressing charges. “This bastard has a reputation for going after anyone he likes in bars,” he snapped. “I want to be compensated for my injuries.” Figures that creep would read the damn tabloids.

I compensated him all right. A single one hundred dollar bill. When he tried pressing me for more, I reminded him none too politely that I was the one doing him a favor. “I could press charges on you for sexual harassment, you know,” I said. “Just remember that before you even think about breathing Ruckus’s name again. Or I promise you, I will make your life in this godforsaken town a living hell.”

He shut up real quick after that. Scampered off with his hundred dollar bill and his tail tucked between his legs.

Not going to lie, there was something almost thrilling about watching Ruckus punch that asshole. That was, until said asshole started to punch back, and I realized how blind drunk my assignment already was. He didn’t stand a chance in that fight, even if he did have common decency on his side.

I sigh and go to pour myself a cup of coffee. The motel room is tiny—barely room for the bed, the kitchenette, and a crappy lazy-boy chair where I spent the night, curled up under the spare emergency blanket from my truck. I don’t have anywhere else to go as I sip my coffee, except to stand in the middle of the room and gaze down at

the man on my bed.

He shifts in his sleep, groans a little under his breath, and his shirt falls open farther. I catch a glimpse of the tattoo I only peeked at last night in the dark while the guys from the bar carried him up here. Now in the early morning light that filters through the cheap motel curtains, I trace the shape better, and understand what it is. A stallion, right over his heart. Its front legs rear up toward his bicep, and its hind ones curve down his ribs. It’s beautiful, delicate work that’s still strong and masculine. Just like stallions themselves, I guess.

Makes sense for Ruckus who built his career on riding and roping.

I step closer and switch my coffee cup to my other hand. My gaze travels up his chest to his face now. To the bruises he sustained punching that guy. His eye has already darkened to black. Shit. We’re going to have to explain that tomorrow when we get to town for the next show. I wonder if we can spin it. Claim he fell down some stairs.