Busting Loose (4 page)

“You're fine. There's a set of office keys by your computer. Lock up on your way out. Lydia is coming in to open at the regular time and she's got her own keys.”

She nodded and headed in, her small companion right beside her the whole time.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. She likely had some cute secretary fantasy running through her mind, where she stood off to the side and looked adorable while he did all the dirty work.

Oh, she'd learn.

 

“Morgan Browning, that is the most horrible thing you have ever said to me.”

Bea sniffed, then immediately regretted it as the smell of manure nearly caused her to gag.

“Bea.” Morgan sighed and ran a hand through his already-disordered hair. “I didn't criticize you. Just your shoes.”

She angled one foot out the truck door and rotated her ankle to show the high pink heels off. “I keep telling you, there is nothing wrong with my shoes.”

“There is today. Just take these. They're boots. Who cares what they look like?”

“I do, if I'm going to be in public.”

“It's a barn.”

“It's a barn with other people in it. I cannot be seen in those horrible things.” She pushed away the boots, using his forearm instead of his hand, which was holding the pair of nasty wader-style boots that looked like they'd already seen the inside of a pigpen. Repeatedly.

“So maybe next time, you'll wear proper shoes. I can't help it. I warned you yesterday your heels were impractical.”

Bea rolled her eyes. He was playing with words and he knew it. “I can hear you just fine from the truck. Just call out what you want me to record and I'll get on it.”

“No.” He stood firm now, his mouth set in a grim line. A line that reminded her how sexy his lips usually were, when they weren't all pursed with pissiness and attitude. Hmm. Had she noticed his mouth before now? Apparently, if she knew the difference. Just look at the way it moved. She nearly purred when his lips closed, opened again, formed a few words and . . .

“Bea!”

“What?” She snapped back to reality and blinked. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Is the smell that bad?” he said, smiling a little.

She shook her head, then gave him her best pout. “Morgan, please? Just pull the truck up a little more.”

“Bea.” He said it quietly now. “You can do better than this.”

His eyes were glued to hers behind those dirty lenses, and she couldn't look away. It was like he dared her to prove him wrong. To prove everyone wrong who would say she'd never in a million years be caught dead in a pair of nasty waders in a pigpen. A silent dare, unspoken, but all the more powerful for it.

She could play more games, or just downright refuse. Quit on the spot.

A year ago, she would have.

“Give me those,” she muttered. Then grimaced when her fingers touched the cold rubber. “And if you tell me where these have been before today, I will find a gun somewhere and shoot you.”

“Lips are sealed.” But she caught a hint of a twitch before he stepped back and waited. While she removed her heels—gently, and with all the reverence her Choos deserved—he went to greet the owner. She slipped on one, then the other boot. The tops came up to just under her knees, covering a good bit of her white pants.

And hell, now was so not the time to envision what this little field trip was going to do to her white Capris.

A few testing steps had her realizing the boots were a bit big, and she walked like an idiotic duck with a limp. But then again, fashion wasn't the point.

Fashion wasn't the point?
Oh God, she really had changed.

She grabbed the clipboard Morgan had given her back at the clinic and followed him over to the owner.

“Chuck,” Morgan said, “this is my new receptionist, Bea Muldoon. Bea, this is our first hit of the day, Chuck.”

Chuck seemed amused at her plight, and watched her waddle/limp over with a grin. “Something wrong with your leg, Ms. Muldoon?”

“Not a thing.”

“Might not be used to the pig-shit waders, huh? I don't think those are very Hollywood,” Chuck joked.

“I hear rubber boots are all the rage in Europe.” She stood as straight as she could in the embarrassing footwear and held out a hand to shake his. “Nice to meet you. I'll be . . . assisting Dr. Browning today.”

“Might need to open up a clinic of my own one of these days,” he murmured, holding her hand a little longer than she wanted.

Typical. She smiled thinly and pulled harder, her hand slipping out of his this time. “You'd be hard-pressed to beat Morgan at his business. He's the best.”

Morgan glanced at her, surprise clear on his face. But what did he expect from her? Insults? Probably, after dumping the boots on her.

“Well, let's get to it. Bea? You're with me.” He cocked his head, then walked straight through the muck and the mud, into the dimly lit barn.

Deep breath. Deep breath. Soak in the clean air now, and . . . “Hold up, I'm coming!”

T
race's mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Just walked right in? Into the mud? No pushing or pulling required?”

“None.” Morgan's mouth curved in pride. “Well, maybe a little verbal pushing, but minor. She's got spunk. People don't give her enough credit.” He set his empty beer down on the table. He'd met up with his longtime friend Trace and his new friend Red for drinks after work, and couldn't resist sharing his day.

“And she likes it that way.” Red shrugged when both he and Trace stared at him. “What? I watch, I observe. It's what I do. And your sister”—he pointed at Trace with the neck of his beer for emphasis—“likes to be underestimated. She's not what she seems, but she never wants anyone to know.”

Trace winced. “No, Bea's helpless. Always has been. I love her, and she's a good person, when she stops gossiping and talking about clothes. But even as a little kid, she was determined to have everyone else do for her what she could have done herself. She was Mama's little doll. Perfect in every way, but almost sad at the same time.”

And was probably raised to act as such. Morgan filed that one away for later. “Suffice it to say, she's working out at the clinic. I don't see any reason to change things up. She's got the job as long as she wants it.”

Trace sighed and leaned over to pull his wallet out from his back pocket. Rifling through, he pulled out what Morgan saw was a twenty and slid it across the table to Red. Red nodded and stuffed it into his own wallet.

“You bet on your own sister?”

“Hell yeah, I did. Seemed like easy money,” he muttered into his beer.

“How's that dog of yours?” Time to move away from Bea before he embarrassed himself with the subject. “Still no name?”

“No Name,” Trace said.

“Why can't you name him? Just pick something.”

“That's it. No Name. It just sort of stuck. He's a barn dog, through and through. Seth likes to look at him and wrestle with him on the front porch, but he's definitely learning the ropes working. Not really a pet. Shoulda thought that one through better.”

“Who needs a pet on a ranch?” Red asked, waving over their server to signal for another round. “You're surrounded by animals.”

“Bea certainly loves her pet. And that thing is so not a working dog. I caught him stealing Seth's toys last week, the little shit. Watched the dog look around, see nobody down there, and yank one of Seth's toys from his toy box and go stuff it under the damn couch, like he was saving it for later. If I hadn't been watching from the stairs, we never would have found it again.”

“Dog's smart.” Morgan grinned. “I don't think you guys give that little guy any more credit than his mama.”

“Maybe if his mama didn't dress him up in sweater vests, I could take him seriously,” Trace retorted.

“Now, now, girls. If you start pulling hair, I'll have to separate you.” Red smiled as their server, Amanda, set three new bottles on their table. “Thanks.”

“No prob. Jo says these are on the house, long as you make it your last, Trace.” She winked at Morgan, then sauntered back to the bar.

“She's got her eye on you.”

Morgan blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. Of course, you're not alone in her sights. Amanda's not picky. But if you're interested . . .” Trace made a “go right ahead” gesture with his arm. “I'm sure you'd receive a warm welcome.”

“Yeah, I'm gonna pass.” The days of enjoying sex for the sake of having a warm body were over. He wanted a wife, kids, a little annoying shit of a dog hiding the baby's toys. Not someone to pass a few nights with before she found something else shiny and moved on. Not his style. He didn't judge others for it, but it wasn't for him.

“You're like a monk. I think even Red got more action before he found my sister, and part of the time I thought he was a eunuch.”

Red threw a coaster at Trace and hit him in the chest. “Fuck off.”

“Just saying.”

“
Just say
yourself upstairs. You've got a warm reception of your own coming.”

Trace pumped his fist. “Daddy's night off. Thank Peyton again for babysitting,” he added, clapping Red on the shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah.” Red shrugged him off, but smiled.

Morgan waited until Trace was through the front door, heading around the side where Jo's apartment stairs were. His girlfriend, and the owner of the bar, lived on the second floor. When he had a free night off from his son, Trace was with Jo, without fail. After Jo was done pulling bar duty, Morgan knew she'd lock up and head upstairs herself. It was a comfortable routine they'd developed, and one he was surprised to see his friend so at ease in.

“You don't mind babysitting?”

Red snorted. “Hardly babysitting. By the time I get home, Aunt Peyton will have the kid in bed and asleep. He's down for the count, and won't wake up until after Peyton's already out the door in the morning.”

Morgan watched the amber liquid swirl in his bottle as he tilted it back and forth. “You and Peyton thinking of getting married and making a few kids soon?”

Red sputtered a little on his beer, then used the back of his hand to wipe his chin. “Damn, man, could you at least wait until I'm not drinking?”

He never understood why other men were so sensitive about the subject of settling down, getting married. He'd known since he was ten he wanted to be a family man like his father. Maybe that made him boring, but it was true. It never occurred to him that he would be in the minority.

Red took another, smoother sip of beer and cleared his throat. “To answer your question, we've talked about it. Some. Nothing concrete, but it's . . . we'll say it's come up in conversation.”

“The making kids part, or the getting married bit?” He laughed at Red's flush. “Both, then.”

“Peyton wants to give the ranch another year or so under her personal care before she thinks about adding in marriage. I know I wouldn't take over running things, and she knows that, too. But other people don't. And she's still just a little touchy on the subject of how others view her work with the ranch. Something about cementing the Muldoon brand before adding Callahan to the mix legally or some such thing.”

Morgan could see that. Enough scorn had been thrown her way when it'd come out she was sleeping with her horse trainer. Less than she'd probably expected, though. People respected Red, and more people than she knew respected her for picking up the pieces left by her mother's incompetent handling of business affairs after their father passed. There had been negative talk, but not as much as she'd feared.

“It doesn't bother you to wait?”

“Wait for what? The way I see it, marriage only changes one thing. Piece of paper we both sign. She's with me every night, and we're together working every day. It's exactly how I want it.”

Another thing Morgan just couldn't agree on. Marriage was special to him. He understood the sentiment behind the whole “it's just a piece of paper” thinking. Intellectually, he agreed. But the emotional attachment to that ritual still meant something to him. Enough that he wanted it, with the right woman.

And more and more, he wondered if he'd already found her, or if Bea's desire to get back to California and not give Marshall a fair chance would halt things before they could begin.

 

Bea struggled into her newest online purchase: a pair of adorable peep-toe red wedges that looked great with her denim skirt. Maybe the peep-toe wasn't all that practical for around the ranch. But in the office, on that tile floor? She'd be fine.

“Milton? Thoughts?”

Milton snorted and set his underbite on top of his favorite frog.

Everyone's a critic.

She'd started to put the shoes back in the shoe box when a knock sounded on the door. She looked at Milton, whose ears perked up. “You expecting someone at seven in the morning?” On instinct, she closed her robe over her pajamas, which were merely a thin T-shirt and an old pair of boxers some long-forgotten lover had left at her place years ago. She still had bedhead and no makeup on. In other words, absolutely not fit for company. Maybe if she just ignored the summons, they'd think she was asleep.

Milton trotted over to the door and gave a quick sharp bark.

Well, there went that idea. “Coming.” Bea slid her feet back into her ratty slippers—the floor was ice-cold in the morning, thanks to being over the garage—and shuffled to the door. No peephole, so she called, “Who is it?”

Her brother's laughter vibrated through the door. “Who the hell else would it be besides family?”

Bea rolled her eyes, unlocked the door, and opened it. “You say that like either you or Peyton have been making regular trips over here to say hi.” She hugged him and let him in. Milton jumped up on Trace's jean-covered leg, whining like an infant for attention.

“This dog is pathetic,” he grumbled, but he lowered to his haunches to give the Boston some love anyway.

“You adore him. He's charming, if flawed. Probably more charming for his flaws.” Bea headed into her small kitchen area and called back, “Coffee?”

“Wouldn't say no.”

Bea poured two cups, leaving his the way he liked it, black. In hers, she dumped several packets of sugar substitute and some low-fat creamer. Tasted like hell, but that was the price she paid for being in an industry that cared what she looked like.

“So what brings you over here?” Bea sat down at the small table across from him and smiled. “You had your date night last night with Jo, if I'm not mistaken. Didn't feel like staying in for an early morning—”

“Nope. Not even going there with my baby sister,” Trace said easily and took a sip.

“Drop the baby, Trace. I'm twenty-six, if you can count that high.” She blew a piece of hair away from her eye. When was the last time she'd had it cut?

And when was the last time she'd ever had to even think about that? She shuddered a little at the dangerous hygienic path she was treading. First it was skipping regular trims. Then clipping her nails back until they didn't exist. Before long she'd be forgetting to shave her legs and walking out of the house without her eyeliner. God.

“I'm just having some quiet time with one of my sisters, whom I haven't seen for years. Is that a crime?” He watched her with that same easy patience as Morgan and Red. It was like a bred-in-the-bone Marshall way of managing females.

“You haven't seen me for years because you didn't come visit.”

“You didn't visit either.”

Touché. “I stayed in one place. You were rodeoing all over the damn country. Easier to find me than you.”

“True.” He eased back in his seat, crossed one boot over his knee. The small coffee mugs she used looked tiny in his big hands. “But then again, we both could have met up for Christmas back home. And neither of us did. Wonder why that was.”

Bea's hand tightened around the handle of her mug before she set it down. “Let's not be cute about it. This place sucked when Mother was alive.”

“For Peyton, yeah. For me, sure. For you?” He took another calm sip. “You were her favorite.”

Bea looked away, out the window, toward the open fields beyond the barn tops. It was a view so many might call typical Americana. The peaceful fields, the simple, family-owned ranch, the grazing cattle.

She used to call it a prison. Now she didn't know what to call it.

“Bea?”

“Hmm?” She glanced back. “What?”

Trace's lip quirked a bit. “Nothing. I've been thinking.”

“Don't hurt yourself,” she said automatically, then grinned. “Wow, the whole sibling thing really does come back to you, doesn't it?”

“Cute. But I've been thinking. We might want to get you a saddle of your own to have around.”

His eyes watched her closely, and she fought against the rising panic. Had he seen her? Did he know? Had she left some sort of clue around his tack when she'd borrowed it during one of her nightly rides?
Play it cool. Play it calm.
“For what, a lawn ornament? What in the world would I do with one of those things?”

Her brother sat quietly for another moment, then shrugged. “Just thought it might be nice to have something around. You know, in case you decide to go riding with us one morning.”

Bea snorted, back to her familiar façade. “Don't hold your breath, big brother. You won't catch me dead on one of those huge, smelly animals.” She shuddered delicately for effect.

“Just a thought.” He stood and took his coffee cup to the sink and rinsed it out. Emma had trained them all. Setting it in the drainer to dry, he walked by and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for the coffee. Have a good day at work, Bea-Bea.”

“See ya,” she said after he'd closed the door behind him. Then she stared down into her half-finished coffee. Okay, that was weird. Not just the impromptu morning chat—because she would often see him in the morning at the main house. Or at least, she used to, before she started working and couldn't afford the time to head over there before getting to the clinic.

But the mention of a saddle . . .

So, she'd just give up her rides for a week or so. The thought made her want to shriek. But it was for the best. Playing the helpless city girl was the only way she was going to be able to leave without any problems this time around. So she'd play it to the fullest, and that meant foregoing a midnight run with Lover Boy.