She was a willowy silhouette standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright lobby. He suddenly got all tingly. Strangest, most godawful giddy sensation he could imagine, partly because he knew who she was, knew she was surprised to see him even though he couldn’t quite make out her face. “That’s your mother?”
“Stepmother,” Mike said quietly as they watched her approach them at the bar, at once purposeful and unhurried. “But I don’t like that term. Sounds cold, y’know?”
“Cold as the devil.” Trace nodded, inadvertently lifting his hand to touch a hat brim that wasn’t there. “Mrs. Quinn.”
“Trace Wolf Track,” she said, eyes alight. “Your name was on the program.”
“You were there?”
“How else was I going to get a program?” She smiled. “You were magnificent.”
“Thanks.” Magnificent. Damn. “For eight whole seconds.”
“Just a sample. Imagine eight whole hours.” Her quick laugh was throaty and rich. “You’re all alike.”
Trace raised one eyebrow and challenged her with a look. Try me.
“Looks like we can skip the introductions,” Mike said.
“Only if your mother likes to be called Mrs. Quinn.” But Mike could skip town now for all Trace cared. He only had eyes and ears for …
“Skyler.”
“This is the guy who trained Bit-o-Honey,” Mike supplied. “You wrote the check. Remember?”
Trace glanced down at the glass in his hand. He’d hardly looked at the check. Counted the zeros, copied them onto the deposit slip. Why did it feel funny knowing that she’d been the one who’d paid him?
“I’m the bookkeeper.” She gave a honeyed laugh. “Names might escape me, but I never forget an expense category.”
“You remembered mine from the program.”
“I had a face to put with it.” She turned to her son. Stepson. “I was taking pictures at the arena this afternoon, and Trace and I … crossed paths.”
Trace slid her a smile.
“What happened to Earl?” Mike demanded, glancing toward the lobby.
Skyler stabbed Mike’s arm with a small but forceful forefinger. “The question is, what happened to you?”
“I told you guys to go ahead and get supper. I’m toasting my trainer here.”
“Were you invited to Mike’s party, too?” she asked Trace.
“I was offered a drink.” He lifted his half-full glass. “I’m a long way from getting toasted.”
She claimed Trace’s drink and mirrored his gesture. “Here’s to Mike and his trainer.”
Down the hatch.
She set the empty glass aside and took number two from Mike’s hand, flashing an enticing glance at Trace as she raised the glass. “And to Trace Wolf Track and his impressive horse sense.” Down the hatch.
Glass on wood, she called out, “Bartender! Another round for these two cowboys.”
“Okay, she’s mad now,” Mike told Trace.
“Not anymore.” Skyler gave Mike a perfunctory smile. “If you aren’t having dinner with Earl, you might want to tell him he’s excused.”
“I was coming back.”
“You were on your way back, but you ran into a couple of buddies, and one drink led to another.” She shifted from script reader to instructor. “Earl doesn’t interest me. Nothing about Earl interests me. I had a wonderful time at the rodeo, Mike. You interest me because you’re my son. Trace interests me because he’s … interesting.” She spared Trace a pointed glance. “Earl does not interest me.”
“But he’s got—”
“I don’t care what he’s got. You don’t have to worry about me. Okay?” She shrugged dismissively. “And if this is a celebration, I’m not feeling it.”
“One more oughta do it.” Mike gave a nod for the two drinks the bartender was just setting down near his elbow.
“You know what?” Trace pulled a couple of bills from his pocket and tossed them on the bar. “In the interest of mutual interest—” he turned to Skyler and smiled “—why don’t we hold off and take a walk?”
“What about Earl?” Mike demanded. Trace laid a friendly hand on Mike’s beefy shoulder. “I’d say Earl is your problem, son.”
“Son?”
“You make a date, it’s yours to keep, yours to break.”
“Impressive,” Skyler said. “Who trained the trainer?”
“My dad. Logan Wolf Track is the best there is.” He gestured toward the exit with a flourish. After you. “What’s your pleasure tonight, Mrs. Quinn?”
“Do you dance?”
“Hell, yeah, like nobody’s watching. You know any cowboys who don’t?” He offered his arm. “Mrs.
Quinn?”
“Mrs. Quinn doesn’t remember how to dance like nobody’s watching.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and smile up at him. “But let’s see if Skyler does.”
Chapter Two
There was a sweet sensuality about the way Trace held her when they danced—not hard, not tight, but close enough to feel the power in his thighs and the heat in his belly and the cool in his carriage. Her body moved with his, riding double on a silky new song. New for Skyler, anyway. She hadn’t danced in ages, which was not a measure of time, but a chunk of life. She felt lighter on her feet than she had in ages, lighter in heart and head. Giddy-light, something a man like Trace would know nothing about. She felt so new she was afraid if she opened her mouth she’d squeal with delight or babble some kind of gibberish and he’d have no interest in a translation. So she kept quiet and rode her senses, her thighs glancing off his, her nose sneaking up on his neck, her ears tuning in to the drums and the steel guitar.
Given the kind of erotic thoughts she’d been having lately, it was probably pretty risky for her to let a man who smelled this good get this close, but she was sure she had the upper hand. She was a woman, after all. She knew how to smell the flowers. Or, in this case, the alfalfa. She knew how to lose herself on a little detour, soak up some unexpected warmth and inhale the greener grass.
Close your eyes and take a long, slow breath. Let the picture draw itself in your mind. Pure, natural manhood.
Now that she knew why Mike had insisted on her coming to Sheridan to watch him put his newly trained calf roping
