Braddock had been a slave to his impulses far too long to stop now.
Chapter Two
HE WAS THE SEXIEST COWBOY she’d ever seen.
Which said a lot because Miranda Rivers had become quite the expert over the years.
Thanks entirely to her mother—part-time B is for Beautiful independent makeup consultant and full-time buckle bunny—Miranda had witnessed hundreds of Stetsons bobbing through the front door of the single wide trailer where she’d grown up. A parade that had continued as her two older sisters had matured and carried on their mother’s weakness for men with tight Wranglers, starched shirts and a wild and reckless charm.
It was a weakness that had eventually killed Chastity Rivers.
She’d fallen too hard, too fast, for a man who’d rejected her. She’d been so devastated that she’d killed herself and left her daughters to finish raising themselves.
Miranda had been fourteen at the time.
Lucy and Robin had been older, sixteen and nineteen, but it had been Miranda who’d stepped up to take the lead in the family. She’d cleaned the house and cooked dinner while her sisters had strutted their stuff, stayed out all night and stirred up as much gossip as possible.
Time had changed little. Lucy worked at a nearby bar and partied away her earnings while Robin played groupie to a local country band.
They were still the baddest girls in town.
They always had been, and Miranda had been guilty by association.
The entire school had started calling her Restroom Randy back during her sophomore year. A nickname she’d been given when Ray McGuire—junior calf roper and the first cowboy to ever catch her eye—had started a running list on the boy’s bathroom wall of all the places Miranda Rivers had gotten down and dirty.
Restroom Randy’s Hottest Sex Spots.
All lies, of course. He’d been pissed because she’d turned him down in the backseat of his Daddy’s Chevy and he’d wanted to get back at her. He’d started the list, claiming they’d gone all the way not only in the Chevy, but in the front loader of his John Deere, the back alley behind the Piggly Wiggly, the gazebo in the middle of town square, the men’s restroom at the local drive-in, beneath the bleachers at the football stadium, smack dab in the middle of the local rodeo arena and the front porch of his family’s home.
Miranda had seen the list only once. She’d been sixteen and desperate to know why the entire school was snickering behind her back. A quick duck into the boy’s john and she’d found out. The various locations written in red marker had branded themselves into her brain. She’d been mortified and determined to lose the Restroom Randy image.
She’d hated being one of those girls. Trashy. No good. An outsider. She’d wanted to fit in. To feel accepted. To feel safe.
She’d never had any security growing up. Nothing that she could count on. Sometimes she’d had lunch at school. Sometimes she hadn’t. Sometimes her mother had been home at night. Sometimes she hadn’t. Sometimes she’d had her sisters to keep her company. Sometimes they’d been too busy to care. It had been a roller-coaster ride, and Miranda had wanted off.
She’d wanted a smooth, calm carousel tour and so she’d spent her time studying rather than socializing, determined to trade her unstable existence for something solid. She’d graduated at the top of her class and worked her way through college to earn a sociology degree.
She’d been the activities coordinator at the Skull Creek Senior Center for eight years now. A volunteer at the local library for six. She baked cookies for the ladies auxiliary once a month and chaired an annual fundraising committee for the local food bank. She did her best to steer clear of her sisters and surround herself with people she could count on—the old folks at the senior center and the few people around town who didn’t hold her past against her. Since Robin spent most of her time on the road and Lucy only showed up when she wanted money, keeping her distance was relatively easy. Even more, Miranda only dated the kind of men that a woman could count on—nice, conservative, professional types who didn’t know the first thing about roping a cow or riding a horse or getting down and dirty in a hayloft.
She’d finally found stability, but she was still missing one thing.
Acceptance.
It was close. Her boyfriend of three months had finally proposed to her via e-mail before he’d left yesterday for a seminar in Houston.
It hadn’t been the most exciting proposal, but then Greg wasn’t the most exciting guy. He wore khakis and white button-down shirts and, as owner of a local dry cleaning chain, spent his days neck-deep in spot cleaner and starch. He was practical. Nice. Safe.
He was also well-respected. His father had been the mayor once-upon-a-time and Greg himself served as president of the local chamber of commerce.
When Greg walked into the Piggly Wiggly, the female clerks didn’t stare daggers at him and the stock boys didn’t leer. When he waved at old Mr. Witherspoon, the man actually nodded instead of spitting a stream of tobacco juice at his shoe.
Miranda wanted the same acceptance. Or, at the very least, civility. Marrying Greg would give her that.
So why haven’t you given him an answer yet?
Because. It was a big step. One she didn’t feel comfortable taking via the Internet. She wanted to tell him in person. She would tell him. He was a good man from a good family and she was definitely marrying him. Even if he wasn’t that great in bed.
Sex wasn’t everything.
She knew that.
At the same time, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have an orgasm with an actual man rather than a battery-operated body part.
Buck was the heavy-duty vibrator she’d purchased for her twenty-first birthday. Instead of hitting the local honky tonk to celebrate—Lucy’s idea—she’d opted to stay home with a frozen pizza and a Bonanza marathon. A few episodes featuring Little Joe and she’d had her first case of horny.
Not that she’d inherited her mother’s crippling weakness for cowboys.
There was a big difference between an addiction and mild infatuation. Infatuation brought on by an extreme case of denial. She’d developed a No Cowboy policy early on and so it only made sense that she’d started fantasizing about the one thing she could never have. A tall, dark man in a Stetson. Touching her. Kissing her. Giving her a delicious, toe-curling orgasm. She’d wondered every now and then what it would feel like, a curiosity that had killed any and all chances of having a bonafide O with any of the men she’d dated. Three to be exact, including Greg.
They hadn’t been wild enough, or exciting enough, or cowboy enough.
No big deal. Miranda had wanted more than an orgasm. She’d wanted respect, and so she’d settled for Buck and her Bonanza DVDs.
Until last night.
The proposal had served as
