on—Dr. Hart needing her. If he didn’t, she didn’t know what she would do.
Almost on instinct, her hand moved to cover her abdomen. At the last moment she diverted it to the strap of the purse slung across her body.
“No emergency.”
“After his ride, I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him.” He waved her toward his vacated seat on the bench. “Best seat in the house.”
“Thanks.”
“Rusty.” He touched his hat again. “Folks call me Rusty.”
He left the introduction hanging with his expectant look. What would it hurt to introduce herself?
“Deseré.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Deseré.”
Miss Deseré. She knew, even if she’d been wearing a wedding ring that was bigger than Dallas, Rusty would have called her “Miss” as a sign of respect. Among the gentlemen she knew in New Orleans, it was a sign of respect there, too.
The familiar custom eased the tension across her shoulders by the slightest of muscle twitches.
Before she could return the nicety a loudspeaker boomed, “Up next is Jordan Hart, points leader for this event.”
Distantly, she heard a deep voice call out, “Cowboy up.”
She looked in that direction, to see a calf burst from a narrow chute into the arena. Hot on its heels was a cowboy on a very large red horse.
With only the slightest flick of his wrist, Dr. Jordan Hart unfurled his rope. The stiff loop shot out and fell neatly over the neck of the running calf.
His horse stopped short, jerking the calf to a standstill.
Quicker than she could comprehend, Jordan slid out of his saddle and began taking big strides toward the snared calf as his horse backed away without direction to keep the rope taut, with its end looped around the saddle horn.
He grabbed the calf, tipped it onto its side and wrapped three of its four legs using the short ropes he’d carried in his mouth.
Once done, he threw his hands in the air. Another man looking official with his stopwatch and mounted on a horse that stood as still as a statue called, “Time,” as he nodded to someone in the speaker’s booth next to the complex structure Rusty had called “the gate.”
A smattering of applause broke out from the stands. Deseré couldn’t help but notice that most of the cheering came from the women and girls, all dressed similarly to the first girl Deseré had met.
If those were his type of women, then she definitely didn’t fit his mold.
Not that she needed to be Jordan Hart’s type.
She just needed his money.
As Jordan loosened the cinch on his mare, he saw his cousin and ranch foreman, Rusty, approach him.
“Nice run, cuz.” Rusty gave Jordan’s mare a rub on her neck. She leaned into it, clearly enjoying his touch.
“Thanks.”
“Jordan …” Rusty hesitated. “Are you expecting to meet a woman here tonight?”
He quirked his eyebrow at his cousin’s cautious question. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, there’s one waiting for you on the bleachers.”
She wouldn’t be the first buckle bunny to approach him. Under the brim of his hat, he checked her out.
In her city clothes, she certainly wasn’t dressed for a rodeo pickup. He couldn’t be sure as she was slumped on the bench, arms tightly wrapped around her huge purse, but he thought she might be five feet seven or so to his six one. Tall enough to kiss without getting a crick in his neck.
Where had that thought come from?
And the accompanying spark in his veins?
At first he was jolted by it. But by his second heartbeat he welcomed it. It had been so long since he’d felt even a flicker of interest.
Gently blowing on that internal ember, he continued to examine her.
Her mink-brown hair shimmered in the bright overhead lights as it fell to her shoulder blades. It was the perfect length. A man could tangle his hands in that silky softness as they lay together, but the length wouldn’t get caught underneath her when they tangled arms and legs.
Jordan let that image grow, reveling in the way his nerve endings seemed to be waking up.
Hope. He’d despaired of ever feeling that emotion again.
She moved her purse, revealing the way she filled out her blouse.
No model-skinny skeleton here.
Ample.
Just the way he liked them.
A flame of interest burned through the apathy he’d been living in these last months.
It felt good, and not just in his groin.
Want. Desire. The burning sensation in the pit of his solar plexus was a very good thing.
Need.
Not so good. He didn’t need anyone.
“She said she was looking for Dr. Hart. When I pointed you out, she didn’t seem to recognize you. Do you know her?”
Jordan shook his head. “Nope.”
“Got any suspicions?”
Jordan ignored his cousin’s curiosity, giving a strong stare at Rusty’s bronc-riding vest instead. “You sure you want to do this?”
Not that Jordan didn’t want to climb on a bucking bronc himself. Only, as the older cousin, he felt duty-bound to make a token protest after Rusty’s last unsuccessful ride and consequent fall.
He refrained from rubbing his hand over his face.
He felt so old lately. And so numb.
“It’s what we do, right?” Rusty shifted under Jordan’s gaze. “Get thrown. Get right back on.”
Jordan shook his head. “Until you get smart enough to realize you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
Unwanted sympathy showed in Rusty’s eyes. “I guess you’ve had enough adrenaline rush to last a lifetime, huh?”
Jordan tightened his lips, neither confirming nor denying it.
He was supposed to be recovering from too much living on the edge. How could he admit to anyone that without that infusion of fight-or-flight-induced chemical his life was gray and deadly dull, bordering on meaningless?
