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Cowboy Strong
Kelli Ireland
Going Down FightingTy Covington likes to keep things as uncomplicated as possible. By day, all that matters to him is his horse and winning in the rodeo ring. At night, all he wants is a deliciously hot, no-strings affair with his rival, Kenzie Malone. Then everything changes in one heart-stopping split second.The accident should have killed both Ty and his horse. Instead, they're both on the road to a hard recovery—but only thanks to Kenzie's family connections and fortune. Which means he owes her. He owes a woman who is both everything he despises and his deepest desire. As need—hungry and demanding—takes them both over, Ty knows that this time, uncomplicated isn't an option. And this cowboy always pays his debts…


Going Down Fighting
Ty Covington likes to keep things as uncomplicated as possible. By day, all that matters to him is his horse and winning in the rodeo ring. At night, all he wants is a deliciously hot, no-strings affair with his rival, Kenzie Malone. Then everything changes in one heart-stopping split second.
The accident should have killed both Ty and his horse. Instead, they’re both on the road to a hard recovery—but only thanks to Kenzie’s family connections and fortune. Which means he owes her. He owes a woman who is both everything he despises and his deepest desire. As need—hungry and demanding—takes them both over, Ty knows that this time, uncomplicated isn’t an option. And this cowboy always pays his debts...
“I can take you...” she managed to say.
Ty nuzzled the back of Kenzie’s neck. “Not if I take you first.”
His words fed a primal need in her to be claimed, while her mind screamed they were in public, could be seen. And wasn’t that the crux of involvement with Ty? There was always a risk, always that telltale touch of spontaneity that was his calling card, that thing that always made sex as fun as it was pleasurable.
“When did little Kenzie Malone decide she liked the risk of getting caught?” he whispered, his lips barely brushing the top of her ear.
“If you’d park your boots beside the bed for longer than a couple of hours, I would imagine there would be a lot you’d learn about the women you take to bed, Covington, including me.” He snapped his head back. “That’s what I thought,” she murmured, pulling on her arms.
And like every other experience she’d had with him, he let go and was out the door before she could ask him to stay.
Dear Reader (#ulink_2148e141-22d1-58f4-abde-54ee27abfda1),
As I wrote this story, I found myself often grieving the fact that this is the end of the Covington brothers’ stories. There is something inherently poignant about writing the last book in a trilogy, particular when the story centers around characters as tightly knit as these men. They’ve been so much fun to write and even more fun to share with you as the stories built and the world grew.
I do have a confession, though. Despite the fact I’m the author and should, in theory, know how the story goes, Ty’s story presented a handful of surprises as I wrote—some heartbreaking before they could be happy. This posed some challenges, and I had a blast making it all work. (And rest easy—Ty and Kenzie end up with exactly what they need.) The experience created a final product I was—and am—able to look at with pride. This is a series that will forever hold a special place in my heart. Seeing the brothers find success and love has been an absolute thrill.
I want to thank you for riding along.
And while this is the last book for the Covington brothers, wise words from a fellow author helped remind me that this isn’t over. The brothers will live on every time someone picks up one of their stories. And there are always the ranch hands who have stories to tell...
Happy reading,
Kelli Ireland
Cowboy Strong
Kelli Ireland


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KELLI IRELAND spent a decade as a name on a door in corporate America. Unexpectedly liberated by Fate’s sense of humor, she chose to carpe the diem and pursue her passion for writing. A fan of happily-ever-afters, she found she loved being the puppet master for the most unlikely couples. Seeing them through the best and worst of each other while helping them survive the joys and disasters of falling in love? Best. Thing. Ever. Visit Kelli’s website at kelliireland.com (http://kelliireland.com).
To my father-in-law, a large-animal veterinarian who looks and sounds enough like Sam Elliott to terrify folks. I think it’s the mustache.
I’ve got your number, though. Ranger cookies.
Love you.
Contents
Cover (#uee818801-f086-59d0-8b14-4e2bbad382d6)
Back Cover Text (#u58de2aa0-39db-5040-9103-c64831f42247)
Introduction (#u83b8268d-8fa8-525d-a7de-71f17eeeea52)
Dear Reader (#ulink_a302cdd8-a5e3-5ba1-9756-71c9d6f16ae9)
Title Page (#u8d88c734-6d52-5239-b04e-b6e211bbf0b3)
About the Author (#u0d5693b8-4f8a-5406-b824-4eca976c0c5f)
Dedication (#u1840e729-29c5-5210-9029-301dd1e6bbad)
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1 (#ulink_043de20a-f13d-52d5-9db4-53c9a173e72b)
TYSON COVINGTON LEANED against the end of the trailer and waited on the person he considered his personal dealer in ecstasy to deliver. It wasn’t as though he was addicted. He could stop any time he wanted to. He just didn’t want to. The level of feel-good that was about to change hands was insane. And cheap. It could be worse. Much worse.
“Number seventy-two,” the matronly woman in the portable kitchen called as she slid his order through the trailer’s narrow delivery window and across the short counter. “Funnel cake, extra powdered sugar, and a large lemonade.”
Ty stepped around the corner of the trailer. “Thank you, ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her before tucking the plastic cup between his arm and body, juggling the grease-stained paper plate in his hands.
If he ever met a woman who could whip these up for him? His single days would be over. For regular funnel cake access, even he would consider marriage.
A large barn fan kicked on and swept away the extra powered sugar. Ty clutched his plate tighter as the dense cloud of sugary goodness dissipated in the air.
Ty tore off a wedge of the hot treat and shoved it in his mouth. Sucking in a breath at the burn, he inhaled a lungful of powdered sugar. All the willpower in the world couldn’t stop him from choking. He coughed hard and blew out what looked like a face full of illegal substance all over the back of a nearby cowboy’s dark denim shirt.
Oops.
Still, he wasn’t about to let something as ridiculous as a second-degree burn to the mouth or a personal confrontation destroy the pleasure of the first bite. There was something about rodeos that just made funnel cakes taste better.
He glanced around and let the sights, sounds and smells momentarily take him over. Man, he loved rodeos. Listening to the scratchy amplification of the announcer’s voice boom over the subtle, hive-like hum of the crowded stable area, Ty thought that was probably how God sounded as He called out the scores for those entering heaven horseback. And if, for some reason, Ty couldn’t enter heaven horseback? He wasn’t sure he wanted to go.
Shod hooves hit the dirt pack with sharp clips as owners unloaded horses nearby. Others were arranging stalls, wiping down hides until they shone under the lights and generally working with their animals. Some—both animals and owners alike—were high-strung. Others were old pros, comfortable with the routine common to every competition. Even one with stakes as high as this. The banter between the cowboys, half bragging and half bullshit, resulted in sharp laughs now and again.
Ty relaxed a bit.
He wandered into the community barn and stopped in front of the stall he’d been assigned. Shifting to lean against the bottom half of the Dutch door, he chewed rapidly and tried to breathe with more care—in through the nose, out through the mouth. His eyes still watered enough his vision blurred. Yeah, he could’ve taken a big swallow of lemonade, but he wasn’t a wuss. Besides, some things were simply sacrosanct. Funnel cakes were up there on that list, so he’d eat his cake like a grown man or not at all.
Gingerly shifting the paper plate around, he took a second bite. The first burn was bad enough that the second and then third hardly registered. Glancing around, he took a healthy swallow of lemonade, his shoulders sagging as the cold assuaged the scalding heat.
Still not a wuss, since no one witnessed the momentary weakness.
A dark velvet nose slipped over his shoulder and huffed, sending the plate—and the treat—flipping end over end out of his hand. The plate rolled away and came to a stop next to a bale of hay. The delicacy hit the hard-packed dirt with a thwap—facedown.
Tyson glanced over his shoulder at the big, wide eyes—one brown, one blue—doing their best to appear innocent and full of curiosity. He scowled. “Don’t look at me as if you were being deprived, you big mule. You know I would’ve shared a bite when it cooled off.”
The horse flapped his lips at his owner in a not-so-subtle demand.
Fighting a grin, Ty picked up the cake and retrieved the plate, gently slapping the two together to knock away most of the dirt before tearing off dusty chunks and feeding them to his horse, Doc Bar’s Dippy Zippy Gizmo. But as far as the ladies were concerned, he went by Gizmo. The stud horse had the disposition of a labradoodle crossed with a bullmastiff—gentle, playful, loving and strong as an ox with a heart that just wouldn’t quit. He was also developing quite the reputation with breeders in the area for passing on both his disposition and superior skills to his get. Demand had become so intense eighteen months ago that Ty had put the horse on a breeding hiatus. He hadn’t wanted to, but he couldn’t keep up the breeding demand and the competitive circuit. One or the other had to give.
The stud horse was only six years old. On the fringes of entering his prime, as far as competition went, and the idea of pulling him off the rodeo circuit when he’d really begun to shine seemed incredibly unfair to both of them. They’d worked hard to earn the points, and money, necessary to make it onto the pro roster. That had been followed by hard work and a lot of long hours in the truck and trailer as they traversed the country, attending every event they could. The end goal had always been the same—earning a spot on the National Cutting Horse Association national finals roster and a chance at the more than four million dollars in prize money.
It still didn’t feel real.
Winning would entitle Ty to demand premiums for Gizmo’s stud services, to be even more selective in breeding and creating the Covington line of Quarter horses, a line he’d named Bar None. Like Doc Bar before him, Gizmo was the seat of what Ty was determined would go down in the Quarter Horse Hall of Fame as one of the finest lines ever.
He didn’t want to create a mass-market Quarter horse. He wanted exclusivity, a name for his horse and himself, a legacy that would make him his own man, no longer overshadowed by his brothers.
Ty was pulled from his thoughts as a crowd of spectators walked by the stables discussing the horses and their odds. It didn’t matter that it was December in Fort Worth, Texas. People from around the world had flown in for this. They’d hang out, see the city’s sights and spend a little money. But come tomorrow, these same people would be in the stands, cheering on the stars of the rodeo circuit.
On the streets, limousines ferried international horse breeders and buyers—men and women who Ty hoped would come out to watch Gizmo in action and see what Ty had worked so hard to cultivate in the genetics program he’d started in his teens. They would watch with the open intent of either investing capital in Ty’s program or passing on him.
No. Pressure.
Ty shook his head. Thinking that way gained him nothing. What he needed to do was focus on Gizmo, keep him healthy and happy and energized. The horse was nearly psychic. If he sensed Ty was off, the two would end up out of sync, and that wouldn’t serve either of them well. That meant Ty had to find that inner place where he could simply exist, the place he’d spent so much time as a child, the place no one could reach him.
But his mind threw one more curveball before he could shut himself down. What if he actually took the top title? The little bit of funnel cake he’d eaten wadded up into a thick lump and sank deep in his gut, settling like a ship’s anchor. If he won, the recognition would take him places he’d dreamed of going all his life.
Ty studied his horse with a critical eye. Known as a grullo, Gizmo was a rare dun color—deep blue-gray body; black mane, tail and leg markings; a black dorsal stripe; and a pale face mask. Gizmo often sired colts with dun coloring thanks to a rare genetic marker, and as his predictability in colt color went up, so did the stud fees Ty could charge. Grullos were rare. Every dime of that money helped fund Ty’s breeding program as well as his ability to travel the rodeo circuit and pay the exorbitant entry fees, not to mention helping cover the costs of hiring extra cowboys to cover him at his family’s dude ranch. But what mattered most was Gizmo. Ty had loved the lunk since the colt had taken to following him around only a few days after birth.
“Doesn’t seem to matter where we are. I always find you making moon eyes at that damn horse,” said a highly familiar, decidedly feminine voice, coming from a dozen or so feet to his left.
Ty’s lips twitched as his body came to life, fueled by raw awareness. “Not true.”
“How do you figure?”
He ran his fingers into Gizmo’s forelock and scratched. The horse’s eyes drifted half closed. Ty glanced toward his stable neighbor, lifting a single brow as he offered a lazy smile. “Sometimes he makes moon eyes at me.”
Mackenzie Malone, heiress to the Malone Quarter horse breeding empire and the most challenging competitor in the arena, considered him openly. Then she slipped into her horse’s stall, disappearing from view. “Disturbingly true,” she called, her voice muffled by the thick wooden wall that separated them. “True enough, in fact, that I’m not exactly sure how to reply.”
“I would say that depends on whether or not you’re still seeing that suit. What was his name? It was a city... Kincaid? Watson? Portland? Nashville?”
“His name was Dallas.” Thick walls or not, her amused response came through loud and clear.
“Still seeing him?” he pressed. It took a few minutes for her to stick her head around the corner and answer with a grin. Every second he waited deepened his vague but persistent unease.
“Nope. Turns out he had a very weird penchant for... Never mind. The answer is no. I’m not dating the city boy anymore.” One eye narrowed. “Why?”
Desire for the fiery redhead quickened his pulse, prompting Ty to move away from Gizmo and peer into Mackenzie’s—Kenzie’s—stall as she moved back inside. “Just want to make sure you know there’s no need to be jealous of Gizmo, darlin’. Since you’re city-free, I’ll let you make moon eyes at me anytime.”
‘“Let me,’ huh?” Her laugh was rich yet delicate, the sound enticingly deceptive. She might look like a fragile waif and sound like an angel, but she was a powerful threat in the arena and hell’s own temptress between the sheets. “Keep dreaming, Covington. I don’t make moon eyes for anyone, but particularly for bed partners who park their boots by the door instead of under the bed with the intent to stay awhile.”
He hadn’t heard her complain before. Their long-standing history in the arena had always been fun. Before a rodeo, they’d establish the ground rules, the winner gaining something he, or she, wanted to experience together, though it had always been in bed. These postcompetition hookups allowed him to blow off a little steam and manage any residual adrenaline and ramped-up aggression after the long days on the rodeo circuit. He and Kenzie had skipped a few opportunities to knock boots in the past, but only when one or the other was temporarily involved with someone else. And it was always temporary. Neither of them was programmed for long-term relationships, and that was what he adored about her. No expectations, no threat to either’s independence and no hard feelings when he and Gizmo took home the top prize instead of her and her mare, Search for Independence, or Indie, which they did more often than not.
Still...here they were, chasing each other for spots in the finals, knowing they’d likely end up in a face-off at some point in the competition.
Ty absently pulled a piece of a gum out of his shirt pocket, his mind shifting to the first elimination early tomorrow morning.
Gizmo tossed his head and bugled, knocking one front hoof against the stall door, his eyes never leaving the sweet treat Ty held between two fingers.
“Fine. Take it. Your breath is horrible anyway.” He handed the horse a piece of bubble gum and fought not to laugh as Gizmo seemed to grin, delicately plucking the treat from Ty’s fingertips.
“Sometimes I wonder if Gizmo realizes you’re more than a walking, talking soda jerk of sugary goodness.”
Gizmo shoved him hard with his nose. Ty stepped away, just out of reach of the horse’s flapping lips. “Enough,” he mumbled, gently pushing Gizmo’s face from his shirt pocket. “You’re embarrassing me.”
The horse tossed his head and continued to chew his gum with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Unfurling the in-stall water hose, Kenzie filled Indie’s water buckets, watching to ensure the mare didn’t step on the hose as she moved around, inspecting the new space.
“So,” Kenzie called out to Ty, “how’s the dude ranch endeavor going?”
Ty leaned against Indie’s stall door. “It’s been far more successful than we thought it would be, actually.” They’d have to have another two years before they were in the black regularly. No way was he revealing that to a Malone, though. Wouldn’t surprise him if her family lit winter fires with random dollar bills they had lying around their ranch. Kenzie had never known the hand-to-mouth existence he’d lived for a large part of his life. She couldn’t understand.
Shaking off the discomfort of the chasm of differences in their socioeconomic positions, Ty continued, “Cade’s fiancée has been amazing at getting us prime advertising and exposure. Thanks to her efforts, we were rated a five-star resort. She’s pretty great.”
“I heard Cade had popped the question.” She twisted the spigot off before coiling the hose. “You like her?”
“I do. Quite a bit, actually. She’s just what he needed.” From any other woman, Ty would have weighed the comment for its jealousy component. Not with Kenzie. She was far too practical, and for that he was grateful. But it wasn’t gratitude that resulted in the small twinge of emotion that pricked his heart. Truth? He had no idea what it was. And he had no intention of putting it under his internal microscope for evaluations. Some things were better off left alone, and this was one of those things. Besides, there was a bigger elephant standing between them.
He intended to take the title at this rodeo, and probably from this very woman.
* * *
KENZIE MALONE MOVED through Indie’s stall with the ease born of thousands of hours doing the same repetitive tasks for a variety of horses, some of them hers but most her father’s. Indie was all hers, though, and the mare was special. She was one of the first fillies out of a line Kenzie had started the moment she’d received the first half of her trust six years ago. She’d been eighteen.
The animal was an anomaly at five years old. Indie possessed more intuition, more instinctive responses than could be cataloged. Riding her was a dream. All Kenzie had to do was keep one leg on each side of the saddle and park her mind in the middle. The horse did the rest. Indie knew where to step, when and why, and that left Kenzie with less to do than fans might believe. Yet riding Indie always provided a thrill—almost as much as the man currently lingering in the doorway.
Every inch of Ty Covington’s six-three frame was delectable. She wanted to run her tongue through the hollow at the base of his throat...again. She wanted to taste the salt and sunshine on his skin...again. She wanted to nibble her way to the waistline of his jeans and dip her fingers below the band of his boxer briefs, tease the root of his arousal before taking him...again.
It dawned on Kenzie that she should probably spare them both the public humiliation and turn the hose on herself before she mentally stripped Ty naked. Face flushed, she pulled her hat off and ran Indie’s polishing rag over her head, wiping away the excess sweat. Not much she could do about the shortness of breath or the way her nipples pearled beneath her T-shirt. That was simply the way she responded to Ty. Each time. Every time.
Aware it wouldn’t take the man long to pick up on her interest, she focused on tasks that would keep the horse between them. But Ty, being Ty, managed to charm the female in Indie, moving her away from her hay net to accept the small pieces of apple Ty offered. The horse’s move left Kenzie with a head-to-toe view of the cowboy.
She was torn between thanking the gods for his perfection and cursing the same deities for the distraction the man created by simply being. Broad shoulders, a muscular build, dirty-blond hair that was a good four weeks past the point of trimming, brown eyes richer than the most expensive chocolate, large hands, strong jaw and lips made for kissing—all things that drew her. But what really flipped her switch was his confidence. True confidence, though, not arrogance.
For a man who looked the way he did and had so many notches in his bedpost it resembled a totem pole, that was saying something. And as if that weren’t attractive enough, she had to include his sense of humor, compassion, friendliness and easy compatibility—in public, but particularly in private. It was the recipe for the perfect man. Or would have been, save one thing.
Tyson Covington couldn’t stand postsex anything. No cuddling. No pillow talk. She’d never had the chance to wake up to his sleep-rumpled face the next morning because he’d never spent the night. He made a mad dash for the door before she could ask him to stay. It had started out as a relief. Now? Kenzie wasn’t as comfortable about his urgency to get out of her room once they were both satisfied. And it was always her room.
She turned away from him, worrying her bottom lip with such ferocity it hurt.
“It’s not like you to turn your back on me, Malone.” From her peripheral vision, she watched the man step closer and tip the brim of his hat up to better reveal those dark brown eyes. “What’s bothering you?”
The simple question, so softly worded, totally caught her off guard. He’d always been playful. This quiet concern was new, and it threw her off her game. It was the only reason she had for answering, “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“You.” Heat rushed across her cheeks. This wasn’t how they worked, and she doubted he’d take the change well.
She didn’t see him move, but suddenly he’d spun her around and pressed the front of her body against the darkest corner of the stall wall. Running his hands up her arms, he stretched her out, her wrists captured in one hand.
Kenzie yanked on her wrists and arched her back.
Ty kicked her feet wide and, bending at the knees, rubbed the ridge of his impressive erection up and down the seam of her ass. Bending forward to cover her, his lips brushed the edge of her ear as he spoke. “Ground rules stay the same as those we set at regionals. Winner gets his—or her—fantasy night. Or do you want to modify the game for the big show?”
His hot breath tickled her ear and made her shiver.
Her body responded of its own accord, her back arching again to better present her ass, her arms pulling against his hands, her head canting farther to the side so he might have better access to her neck. His actions fed a primal need in her to be taken, claimed, while her mind screamed that they were in public, could be caught. And wasn’t that the crux of being with Ty? There was always a risk, always that touch of spontaneity that was his calling card, that thing that always made sex as fun as it was pleasurable.
Ty let her neck go without warning. Then he stretched her arms higher, forcing her to move to follow them up the wall. “When did little Kenzie Malone decide she liked a little exhibitionism?” he whispered, moist lips barely brushing the top of her ear.
“When did the cowboy who established love ’em and leave ’em decide to stick around long enough to do it right?” she countered.
Ty grabbed her hip and spun her to face him. Wedging a thigh between her legs, he rubbed against her sex with firm strokes. Not once did he tear his gaze from hers. “Where’s this coming from, Kenzie?”
“If you’d park your boots beside the bed instead of being so damn afraid to take them off at all, I would imagine there would be a lot you’d learn about the women you call ‘lover,’ Covington. Including me.” The brazen statement held within it a poorly disguised challenge, one he clearly heard.
He hauled his body back, eyes wide, and let go of her arms before spinning for the door and stalking out.
She never had the chance to ask him to stay.
2 (#ulink_260bd6d0-3275-5451-b9d2-74ce1b871641)
THE NIGHT WAS passing slower than any Ty could remember. The second hand on the clock ticked and paused, ticked and paused, seemingly searching for the energy to tick again. He tossed and turned, went down to check on Gizmo, then went back up to his hotel room to toss and turn again. He needed to blow off a little steam, and sex was his preferred method.
And his mind was locked on one particular redhead, a woman he’d had numerous times but never could get out of his system.
It wasn’t as though Ty was actually into exhibitionism. He’d just wanted to push the fringes of experience and try something new, and she’d always been safe—as well as seriously fun—to play with. And bless the powers that be, darling Kenzie hadn’t balked. His pulse quickened. Hell, if anything, she’d asked him for more. But he hadn’t been certain how much “more” was wise in the barn.
He’d also had a fleeting moment of insecurity, wondering if she’d want more of what he’d offered just then or more of him in general. The former he could provide, and gladly. He’d always liked women, had always been insistent that everyone left satisfied. But him offering more than what the moment afforded all parties? No. That type of “more” had never been on the table. Ever.
His rolled over and punched his pillow.
Earlier, the competitors had drawn for their bracket positions, and he’d drawn third out of fifty riders. It was a crappy pick. He’d have much preferred to ride somewhere between thirtieth and thirty-fifth so he knew how hard to push Gizmo and how much showmanship was required to keep his horse in the top ten while still preserving enough energy to really clean up if he was called to a tiebreaker.
Flopping onto his back, he stared at the shadowed ceiling. Insomnia sucked. Bad. Insomnia alone sucked worse. He really needed some feminine company to get his mind off all the people who’d be watching him and Gizmo, both live and on TV. The pressure of those anticipated stares grew heavy in the silence, then heavier still, until he thought he might not be able to draw a breath due to the weight on his chest.
The bedcovers tangled around his feet as he lurched upward. He got his feet underneath him, shoved his room key in the pocket of the complimentary robe before tugging it on and then grabbed his cell as he headed for the door.
He hit 6 on speed dial and waited as the call connected. When she answered, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Why are you calling me—” covers rustled and her jaw cracked as she yawned “—at one thirty in the morning?”
Thoughts of her in bed, her lithe body clad in little—or nothing—made him adjust his robe for better coverage. “What room are you in?”
“You’re looking for a booty call from the wrong woman. I’m sleeping.”
“You lost the wager.” He spoke so fast his words ran together.
Silence.
“I beat you at regionals, so I entered nationals with a points lead. Means I get my fantasy fulfilled first,” he pressed.
“We aren’t on the boards yet.”
Her cautious tone worried him, made his response sharper than he’d intended. “Actually, we are. I went to check on Gizmo and Indie earlier tonight, make sure they were settled, and end-of-season scores have been posted.”
“Well,” she mused, “I suppose that puts you on top of me.”
His cock kicked hard enough there was no hiding it. Thankfully, the hallway was empty. “On top’s not where I want to be.”
She chuckled, the sound sleep heavy, sultry. “You realize that if I beat you here, I’ll top you in points and earnings for the year.”
His brow creased. “No. Just until the next rodeo season starts.”
“Not by your logic. You’re saying you get to have your fantasy tonight because you’re ahead in points in a competition that hasn’t started. Well, this exact same competition won’t start again until December next year, so I could feasibly be ahead of you in points until they post next year’s regional totals on the nationals boards. Same thing you’re doing, just building out the timeline.”
His mouth went dry and he stopped, resting his shoulder against the wall. “You’re making me think this was a bad idea.”
“Good or bad, it was your idea, Tyson,” she said softly. “Room 1134. Show up and own it, or hang up and don’t. But make up your mind in the next five minutes or I’m going back to sleep and I won’t answer after that. Not the phone, and definitely not the door.”
The line went dead. If he showed up now, he’d be accepting the fact that she was right—his terms had been pretty broad and rather unclear. If she beat him, could she, would she, want to see him for the next year? That would take this thing between them outside their established bounds of competition romps. Make it more than an occasional tryst. As in...dating.
The idea didn’t repel him, and that alone should have been enough to turn him right around and have him back in his room before he lost what was left of his mind.
He decided not to give the thought too much attention, though, so he pushed off the wall and resumed his trek toward the elevator bank.
He reached the elevators just as one opened and dumped off a group of highly intoxicated bridesmaids supporting one barely conscious bride. To a woman, they looked him over as if he were the best thing they’d seen all night. While he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, he still smiled and flirted a little before stepping into the elevator car and winking at them as the doors closed. It was, after all, what anyone who knew him would have expected of him.
He punched the button for the eleventh floor and ignored the way his belly dipped as the car started its upward climb.
Because he knew with the kind of certainty that discomfited a man that the belly drop had nothing to do with the elevator and everything to do with the woman in room 1134.
* * *
KENZIE HAD BEEN fast asleep when her cell phone rang. Part of her had known before squinting at the bright caller ID who it would be. The other part of her had grumbled and threatened to go back to sleep, right up to the point she swiped the answer button on the screen and heard Ty’s voice. His seductive teasing? Pretty much expected. Lust swamping her like a johnboat with a cannonball hole in its center? Not so much.
After disconnecting the call, she lay there considering her parting shot. He’s not going to show up after I challenged him like that.
She had no idea where the idea to challenge him had come from. She’d only known she wasn’t about to simply roll over and let him have his way with her because he was coiled tighter than a self-winding watch on an MMA fighter’s wrist. It didn’t matter that she wanted him just as bad and was wound just as tight. The principle of the thing mattered—the principle and their agreement.
Well, that added to the fact that he wasn’t one to fish the same pond over and over if the catch was too easy. He needed the challenge, and it had to come across as near defiance if a woman thought to reel him in for even a single passionate night.
And she posed a more authentic challenge than most. What she needed was to have a quality man chasing her, not someone simply after the Malone name or associated fortune. As the sole Malone heir, she’d learned this lesson by age fourteen.
At fifteen, Jack Malone, her father and her idol, had pulled her aside to administer some of the best advice Kenzie had ever received. “When we lost your brother, others assumed I’d want another son to pass the Malone legacy on to, but you know—” he’d gripped her arms “—you know I wouldn’t trade you for all the Spanish gold hidden in the ocean’s depths. And when it comes to taking a man as husband, I won’t make that choice for you. I don’t care if the man you fall in love with is an artist, a pilot, a musician, a doctor or a garbageman. I set your trust up for you to be well-off, so your man doesn’t have to be rolling in money to make you happy.” He’d taken her by the shoulders then, his grip just this side of painful. “I have loved your mother through both lean years and flush times. Money can’t make a marriage, let alone a happy marriage,” he’d said softly before clearing his throat, voice gruff when he’d refocused on Kenzie. “You find the man you want to wake up to for the rest of your life, the man you can’t help but give your heart to, and you marry him. Just promise me you won’t elope, baby girl. You’re my one shot to publicly blubber as father of the bride.”
Now here she was, waiting on a man she desired and equally admired to come to her room at her invitation. “Sheer irony. Nothing more,” she whispered, stretching her clasped hands above her head. She should probably brush her hair before—
The rap at her door, soft but firm, had her throwing the covers back at the same time her heart lodged itself in her throat. He showed up. She wouldn’t overanalyze it, wouldn’t overthink it. She’d just enjoy it.
Padding across the room in her cami and thong, she peered through the peephole and bit her bottom lip. Ty stood there, hands in his pockets, and grinned at her. That man wore a borrowed robe better than anyone she’d ever seen. “Hopeless,” she muttered, unsure whether it was him she spoke about or herself.
She opened the door.
Ty slipped inside, bare feet silent on the carpet. He swiftly shut the door and, grabbing her around the waist, spun and pressed her against the wall. Lips, full but soft, teased along her jaw, and he whispered, “Missed you.”
Don’t believe him, her mind volunteered. You’re no one special to him. After all, he’s known as the Rodeo Romeo.
She stiffened.
Lifting his head to stare down at her, Ty’s gaze roamed her face. “Something wrong?”
“No.” She smiled absently. “I’m good.”
He curled a finger under her chin and lifted until met his stare. “Surely you can do better than that.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Ty. ‘Good’ is pretty damn spectacular.”
He laughed quietly, pulling her into his arms and backing her to the bed. “I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t regret answering your phone.”
“Your first task is keeping me awake.”
He nipped her ear. “This is my fantasy, Malone. That starts with you being awake and receptive to my cunning seduction.”
“And it ends with?”
Again he lifted his head, but all signs of teasing had disappeared. Dark brown eyes bored into hers, the weight of their intent scattering goose bumps along her skin. “It ends with you screaming my name.”
Her mouth formed a small O, but no sound emerged. She was too surprised at his directness to utter anything more than the most fundamental thought. “When did you get so serious about sex?”
Ty leaned forward, his lips brushing hers as soft as a butterfly’s caress. “When you answered your phone. I need you as much as I want you tonight, Mackenzie.”
The way her name rolled so richly off his tongue made her whimper.
She should answer. She really should. But the words were stuck in her throat behind her thundering heart.
He wants me, needs me.
Never had he admitted to anything more than “craving” her. The hunger to hear him confess it again almost had her asking for him to repeat his words, but pride intervened. Then he slid a hand between them, deft fingers manipulating her sex with skill born of experience, and all thoughts of admissions evaporated. Heat built between them faster than sheer winds from a prairie storm’s dry line. He’d never been this way with her, never been anything more than a fun bed partner she enjoyed when their paths crossed and she was in the mood. This man? He was different, in control, almost predatory. Closing her eyes, she gripped the looped cotton weave of his robe and let her head fall back, gasping slightly when he laid his lips to the hollow of her throat.
His huffed out a small laugh against her skin. The smell of mint hit her—toothpaste—as his breath wafted up, strong and clean.
“Kiss me,” she murmured, tossing his hat aside in order to run her fingers through his hair.
“Demanding little thing,” he answered, weaving a hand of his own through her mass of curls and fisting it in her hair just tight enough her eyes widened. He stared at her for several seconds before placing his cheek next to hers, so close that his lips caressed her ear as he spoke. “Tonight’s my fantasy. You agreed to the terms when I called. Clear?”
“You going to bite me again?” she asked, exhaling slowly.
“Absolutely.”
“Then, hell yes, we’re clear, but only if you quit stalling.”
Ty chuckled as he shrugged out of his robe and stood before her, gloriously nude and unashamed of his body. His abs tightened as she touched the muscled ridges and valleys, tracing the chiseled six-pack of his torso, the ropy lengths of muscle in his arms and the corded strength in his legs. The way his lats cut down his abs and framed his long, thick arousal. She let her gaze linger there, and that seemed to be his undoing.
Scooping her up, he sank onto the bed and rolled to his back, placing her on top of him. He ran a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her down as he rose toward her. Stopping millimeters from their mouths colliding, his hot breath washed over her.
She licked her bottom lip. They were so close her tongue brushed over the soft skin of his full lower lip. The faint taste of mint lingered there as the scent did on his breath.
Ty’s eyes flared, pupils dilated as he closed the last of the distance between them, claiming her mouth without hesitation. Tongues dueled, lips sucked and harsh breaths wound together in something akin to demands, not requests, made by desperate lovers.
It was a war she wanted to fight forever, one she might never want to win.
Lying back, he encouraged her to straddle his hips. He bent his knees, pushing her forward. Her dark red curls fell in a curtain around them to create the sensation they were cocooned, the world forever far away. He broke this kiss, the rapid rise and fall of his chest mirroring hers. “Hell’s fires, woman. Give a man a chance.”
Kenzie traced his bottom lip with her thumb, clenching her thighs around his hips when he nipped her finger. “Chance to what?”
“Seduce you.” In a swift move, he rolled her over. “It was supposed to be a drawn-out seduction, with me doing the seducing.”
“And...” Kenzie prompted.
“I’m the one being seduced. Your mouth should come with a warning label.”
“It does,” she said, lowering her face to his and kissing him slowly this time, in a leisurely exploration, tasting him, sipping from his mouth, running her hands over his pecs and wrapping her legs around his waist.
He broke away only to bury his face in the crook of her neck. “You wreck me.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” she teased, tracing her fingers lightly down his rib cage.
Ty sucked in a breath and shivered. Without looking, he reached over the edge of the bed and dug through his robe, retrieving a condom. “I can’t wait, Kenzie. I wanted to, but this first time is going to be rough, fast. I need...” He shrugged, fumbling with the wrapper until, cursing, he sat back on his knees and sheathed his length. “I really want...” he began again.
Those words again—need, want—used in relation to her. “We’re dancing to the same tune, Ty.”
Eyes narrowing and mouth tightening to a thin line, he took her arm and gently pulled. “Roll over.” She followed his direction only to have him grasp her hips and lift. “On your knees, Mackenzie.”
She’d barely assumed the position when he pulled her down his entire length with enough strength to make her cry out with a surprised thrill. “Tyson!”
He pushed her shoulders to the mattress. “Arms wide.”
She complied, but slowly, earning a quick slap to the ass that set more than her skin on fire. He rubbed his hand over the stinging skin and whispered words of encouragement to her. Then he began to thrust and retreat. All she could do was feel, experience and indulge in Tyson.
His fingers dug into her hips as he pumped faster. “Hold on to the sheets and don’t let go.”
Arching her back and lifting her rear higher earned his praise as well as a heartfelt curse. “Can’t...baby... I can’t...” He reached around her and found her clitoris, manipulating it almost frantically as the arm that held him up shook and his rhythm faltered.
Orgasm crashed into her and she offered his name to the heavens in a soulful cry, his voice joining hers. Their fingers wove together, tightening, as they grounded each other through the emotional onslaught.
When it passed, Kenzie relaxed her hand and made to turn over, but Ty gently lowered himself onto her back. “You know better than to think we’re done, darlin’.”
“It’s late, Ty,” she contentedly murmured into the pillow.
He rained kisses all over her shoulders. “It’s never too late for round two, Mackenzie.”
Hiding her face in her pillow, she smiled.
That was exactly what she’d hoped he’d say.
3 (#ulink_f81a8fc9-f641-5631-aaa8-009a43e40362)
TY LET KENZIE drift off to sleep around 4:30 a.m. before quietly gathering his things to leave. Door open, the light from the hallway cutting through the room’s darkness, he glanced back. She looked like a fallen angel with her nude body spread across the bed, lips kiss swollen and hair in disarray. Long lashes fluttered against her cheeks and opened enough to reveal the brilliant blue of her eyes. Her soft sigh revealed her immediate understanding that he was leaving.
Normally that would be Ty’s cue to go. But there was something about Kenzie, something about the way she’d given herself to him tonight, that rode his conscience. For the first time, Ty wanted to stay, to see the night through and wake up to her face in the morning. It was the strangest sensation, this foreign need to wake up with a woman in his arms. Not just any woman, but this woman.
He strode back to the bed. Ignoring her unguarded surprise, he bent over her and kissed her, all tongue and teeth and heat. She responded, arching into the hand he placed on her breast and wrapping a hand around the arm parked next to her head.
The ever-simmering ember of desire that lay between them fanned to life, the flame licking at the base of his spine as his shaft thickened.
“Stay,” she whispered against his mouth, tracing his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.
He tried to imagine waking up to her beautiful face, tried to imagine her hair spread over his pillow. Sure, he could see it, but he could also imagine it being the beginning of something much larger, something he hadn’t ever believed he would want. The longer he thought of the possible consequences, the more actively hesitation shoved at his willingness to try. It took only seconds for hesitation to win the battle, if not the war.
Ty stood. “I can’t, darlin’. You know I’ve got to be up early.” Without a word, she watched as he retied his robe with fumbling fingers. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
Still, she said nothing.
He left as quickly as he’d arrived, anxiety driving him into the hall and all the way to his room. Whatever she’d wanted from him sexually, she’d definitely gotten. Beyond that? He refused to examine their exchange too closely.
Sleep dogged his heels when, several minutes later, he slipped into his room and quietly shut the door. He’d preset the alarm on his smartphone before knocking on Kenzie’s door, ensuring he’d be up early enough he wouldn’t have to rush to the barn. Shuffling through the dark room, he paused to set the desktop radio alarm as a backup, shed his robe and then collapsed onto his bed. The air conditioner’s sharp click preceded the smell of refrigerated air, slightly canned and stale, as it swept across the room. For all that he preferred the outdoors, the artificially cooled air was bliss on his overheated skin. Air-conditioning always helped him sleep.
The robe tangled around his legs and he kicked at it even as he tried to retrieve the covers. No luck. The cooler he grew, the more determined he was to simply stop fighting and give in to sleep. Without at least a few z’s, it would be pointless for him to show up in the arena in—he cracked one eye and peered at the clock—less than four hours. Gizmo deserved more than that from him. His eyes drifted shut.
Sometime later, he woke with a start and the absolute, sickening certainty he was late. A quick check of his watch proved his instincts right. Very. He glanced at the desktop clock and realized it was an hour slow. If he’d depended on that alarm alone, he’d have missed the competition altogether.
My phone. Where the hell’s my phone and why didn’t that alarm go off?
He’d last had his phone in his robe. He dug through the pockets. Not there.
Didn’t matter. There wasn’t time to hunt it down. The rules required him to be ready and warming up thirty minutes prior to his call time. He had less than an hour before he and Gizmo were due in the competition arena, less than twenty-five minutes before he had to be in the warm-up ring.
Yanking on jeans with one hand while he tried to pull on his shirt with the other proved fruitless and forced him to slow down. Man, he had not wanted to start nationals this way. He got himself together and sprinted from the room, rode the elevator to the lobby and raced through the crowds. He uttered apologies as he clipped folks left and right.
Another glance at his watch as he waited to cross the street to the temporary stalls said he had thirteen minutes to prep Gizmo and get him to the ring.
Damn it. Not enough time.
The light changed and he kicked into an all-out sprint through even heavier crowds. His stomach plummeted when—from twenty yards away—he saw the top of the Dutch door was already open. He slid to a stop in front of the stall...and gaped.
Kenzie stood there casually brushing the horse’s tail. Gizmo had been saddled up, his reins looped over the wall-mounted hitching ring. His splint boots rested in the tack bucket she’d hauled out with her.
“What are you doing?” The question whipped across the distance, sharp enough to cause Gizmo to bob his head and paw the ground in protest.
“Why, I’m putting pretty polka-dot bows in your manly horse’s tail before I paint his hooves ‘I’m Not Really a Waitress’ red by OPI, of course,” Kenzie answered, just as brittle. “That way you might fool the steers, mesmerizing them with his handsome appearance. Just a hint? Right here, a ‘thank you, Kenzie’ wouldn’t be inappropriate.”
Ty stared at her, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline. “You’re such a smart-ass.” Grabbing the splints, he knelt in front of his horse and, moving quickly, yanked the Velcro straps in place.
“And you’re behaving like a real jackass.” She tossed the steel comb at him. “I came down to feed Indie and saw you hadn’t taken care of Gizmo. The longer you went without showing up, the more I began to think it might be helpful if I lent a hand. I actually just called your cell to make sure you were up. My bad, seeing as you clearly have this under complete control. I suppose I should tell you to ignore the voice mail where I yell at you to get your butt in gear.”
She moved past him and he instinctively stood and grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you are,” she bit out. “Now let go.”
He tightened his hold. “No. Look, Kenzie. I’m truly sorry. You have to understand, I need this...”
Her brow furrowed when he trailed off. “Need what?”
He stopped himself just short of explaining the prize money was necessary for him to expand his breeding operation, and he was glad. As a Malone, she wouldn’t understand his desperation to claim the prize money. It fueled his drive every day. Instead of answering, he shifted his approach. “I appreciate that you stepped in and helped.” He shrugged, the skin across his shoulders tightening until it was too small to comfortably cover his large frame. “Thank you.”
She eyed him with open disbelief, as if she knew it hadn’t been what he’d started to say. In the end, though, she let it go with a “Sure. Whatever.”
Ty moved around her to tighten Gizmo’s cinch before he led the stud into the barn alley. “I hate to run, but I have to check in at the warm-up ring.”
“Go. I’ll be in the stands.”
“Taking notes on how it’s done?” he teased, mounting his horse.
“Nope. Watching arena conditions, checking out how worked up the steers get and gauging what the judges seem to be scoring on most heavily.” She tapped her chin and then met his eyes, grinning. “Oh, yeah. And just how hard I have to bother to beat you.”
Ty laughed. “One of the things I admire most about you, Malone, is your warped sense of entitlement.” The minute the words left his mouth, he knew he’d stepped in it. Her face went stony and her spine ramrod straight. He opened his mouth to say something lighthearted, but she cut him off.
“I had no idea you thought so little of my skill, Covington.” She crossed her arms under her chest and took a step away from Gizmo. “Normally I wouldn’t address such nonsense, but this is one thing I’m compelled to settle. You may consider me ‘entitled,’ but I work every bit as hard as you do, if not harder. I put in just as many hours in the saddle, in the barn and on the computer to perfect my breeding program. No one can claim that’s done with any sense of entitlement since I do it all myself. I’ll pit my work ethic against yours any day.”
She spun on her heel and stalked off, weaving through the crowd with a kind of fluid grace no one else had ever mimicked, let alone matched. For such a petite woman, she seemed taller, more sure of herself than ever. That she hadn’t apologized for her legacy but rather had bitch-slapped him with it raised his opinion of her mightily. And that she’d walked away without sparing him a glance? He shouldn’t find it sexy, but he did. Not many women were built of sterner stuff than that.
Ty wheeled Gizmo toward the warm-up ring and urged the horse into a trot. Once again, he called out apologies for his speed, but he was down to the wire.
The ring loomed closer.
One of the registrars moved to shut the gate for the next round of competitors—his round. He had to make it through before that gate closed or he was considered a no-show. That was not happening.
He spurred Gizmo forward. They sprinted for the gate, the horse’s hooves pounding across the packed dirt and into the softer substrate of the ring before the registrar could respond.
“Sorry,” Ty called, waving a hand in acknowledgment to the officials. He trotted over. “I had a small snafu this morning, but I made it.”
“Barely,” one of the men groused.
“He’s here on time, William,” said a woman next to him, eyeing Ty with open interest. “Leave him be. Name?”
“Tyson Covington and Doc Bar’s Dippy Zippy Gizmo.”
She made a note before pulling out Ty’s competitor number. “Need help pinning this to your shirt?”
William snorted and pushed away from the table. “Keep your jeans on, Kathy. I’ll help him.”
She blushed, handing over the number.
Ty dismounted, and the man pinned the competitor’s number across the shoulders of his shirt. “This’ll be your number for every event you compete in. Keep it pinned to your shirt when you’re on your horse for any reason.” He gave Ty a friendly punch to the shoulder and stepped away. “A word of warning, though. You come through that gate at anything other than a slow trot next time, and I’ll see that you’re marked absent on the roster.”
“That’s hardly fair,” Ty said as amiably as possible as he remounted Gizmo.
“I’m not so worried about fair as I am about competitors following the rules. The rules say you’re here before that gate closes.” He held up a hand when Ty started to protest. “Yes, you were here, but only because you ran the last hundred yards. That’s not the spirit of the rule, son.”
“Sir.” Ty tipped his hat and spun Gizmo away, silently fuming at having been called out. What made him the angriest, though, was that the man was right.
He warmed Gizmo up with a small herd of steers. The horse seemed anxious, and Ty worked to first settle Gizmo and then himself. He tried to shake the nagging irritation of having been taken to task twice, first by his friend with benefits and second by a registrar and complete stranger. Neither sat well with him.
The announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker to announce the first competitors. Ty listened to the crowd’s reaction as the first horse and rider hit their marks. The pair left the arena and their score was called shortly thereafter. Not bad, but definitely not strong enough to put the other cowboy on the boards or in the money at the end.
Ty absently listened as the next cowboy put his mount and the selected steers through their paces. He scored far better than the first rider. A contender.
Then it was Ty’s run.
A deep breath, a swift pat to Gizmo’s shoulder, then Ty reined his horse toward the arena entrance.
Showtime.
* * *
KENZIE FOUGHT THE urge to skip Ty’s showing altogether. He’d pissed her off. More than that, he’d hurt her. It wouldn’t have been such a shock if she’d expected it, but she hadn’t. Not from him.
“‘Entitled,’ my ass,” she spat, weaving her way through the crowds that were collectively pushing their way into the bleachers around the arena. She’d never been entitled. In fact, she had never been meant to be the Malone heir, and had no qualms with that particular fact. But the abrupt death of her older brother, Michael, had set her on the undesirable path that forced her to be both daughter and surrogate son to The Malone. Her father. The man who could do no wrong in the Quarter horse community.
Oh, she loved him. Wildly, in fact. He was an amazing father and friend, and most kids never experienced that rare combination. But the reality was that once she’d lost her brother, Kenzie had become the de facto heir to the Malone legacy. It wasn’t something she’d ever wanted, and never, ever at that cost.
It left her trying to fill some big shoes, to live in the darkness of two shadows—Michael’s, the up-and-coming rodeo star who had been the perfect older brother and ideal son, and her dad’s, an infamous horseman who’d always been successful at everything he did. Kenzie wasn’t perfect, and she failed as often as she succeeded. It was obvious to those around her she’d never be as good as they were.
So even insinuating she was either spoiled or entitled was the highest insult anyone could throw her way and was guaranteed a reaction. I’ve earned every step forward I’ve taken. No one has handed me anything.
Okay, yes. There was her trust fund. But no amount of money was worth the price she’d paid. Besides, there was certainly no dollar figure that automatically gave Ty, or anyone, the right to use words that hurt her.
If Michael were here, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have inherited so much money, so no one would dare comment. The crushing sense of obligation to be both perfect daughter and replacement son wouldn’t exist.
Three short beeps sounded. The competition clock. She slowed. Stopped. The crush of people worked their way around her. The first competitor was in the arena and working his, or her, group of calves. Applause followed the spectators’ collective gasp.
What had happened? Curiosity ate at Kenzie. She moved with purpose toward the arena and then into the stands.
She slipped into the Malone arena-side box, bought with Malone money, respected because of the Malone name. Not hers—not yet—but her father’s. He’d been a national champion in cutting, reining and roping, and his high score still stood. She’d grown up proud of him. Now? She wanted to beat him.
A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips at the same time someone opened the box and walked in, folding down the stadium seat beside her. Years in the man’s presence told her who it was before she even looked into his sun-lined face. “Hey, Dad.”
He slid down in his seat before draping an arm around the back of her seat. “You here to figure out a way to win or for the eye candy?”
“Dad!” The word escaped her on a rush of laughter. “You don’t say things like that to your daughter.”
“Hey,” he exclaimed. “I’m hop. I know what’s what.”
“That would be ‘hip,’ and no, no, you don’t.”
He gently cuffed the back of her head. “Smart-ass.”
He shifted his attention to the ring. “So who’s our biggest competition this year? Still that Covington man from New Mexico? Didn’t they get into some financial trouble, have to set their place up as a dude ranch to salvage it or something?”
Kenzie fought to keep her face straight. It wasn’t that her dad didn’t respect the hard work the Covingtons had put into saving their ranch. What bothered him was that, when he’d heard Gizmo’s owner was in financial straits, Jack Malone had made a fair offer for Gizmo in an effort to help a fellow cowboy out. Even more, though, he’d wanted to get his hands on the stud horse. He hadn’t taken Ty’s rejection well. Of course, Ty hadn’t taken the gesture as it was—at least mostly—intended, either. She’d never talked to either man about it directly, but she’d heard about it from both of them and more than once.
Her father didn’t press for an answer right then, so she settled into her seat, watching the first competitor struggle to keep his calf separated from the herd. Horse and rider were out of sync. It took less time for him to lose the calf than it did for the rest of the herd to scatter. A mild round of clapping ceased when, in a fit of irritation, the rider viciously yanked the horse’s head to the side and spurred him out of the arena.
Kenzie flagged down a server and asked for a program. Finding the horse and rider, she made a note regarding the horse’s stall number. One benefit of having money? She could scare the man into responsible behavior with threats she could definitely follow up on. Oh...and she could buy his horse. She’d be doing both before she returned to Colorado.
Her attention shifted to the event again.
The second rider pulled a slightly above-average score, and he was clearly pleased with his performance.
That put Ty and Gizmo up next.
Kenzie took several deep breaths and blew them out with absolute control. Her dad rolled his program and slapped it against his palm repeatedly as he leaned forward to get the best view. With breakfast over, the noise level rose sharply due to the sheer volume of humanity moving in. Footfalls rumbled on the upper-level bleachers as more and more spectators filled the last vacant seats. What had been a low-level hum had grown to a near cacophony of sound. Even an experienced horse and rider could suffer from the distraction, and neither Ty nor Gizmo were accustomed to performing in indoor arenas this large. Sound seemed to echo back at both horse and rider and could fracture the focus of either. Or both.
The herd holders positioned a new group of yearlings for the incoming pair and then backed off, waiting.
At the opposite end of the arena, the gate swung open in a sweeping arc. Ty and Gizmo emerged from the dark tunnel at a lazy trot. Gizmo’s head was low, the reins hanging loose. The horse seemed indifferent, almost half asleep, and Ty, with his chin to his chest, could have been napping. Their leisurely approach quieted the crowds even as it ratcheted spectator tension to a new high.
Kenzie moved to the edge of her seat. What the hell is he thinking? The judges are going to score him down for looking so— The buzzer sounded and she gasped.
With no visible cues from Ty, Gizmo’s ears flipped forward, alert, and he started for the herd, the intent in his movements balling the cattle up. Horse and rider eased into the mass of cows and separated the first steer, peeling him away from the others with brutal efficiency. Ty and Gizmo moved in parallel harmony. The cowboy kept his hands down, his reins slack in order to give Gizmo his head. The stud horse never faltered. A whirling dervish, he spun, wheeled and darted left and right with both athleticism and showmanship that stunned not only Kenzie but the crowd, as well. She’d never seen the pair like this, had never known Ty to ride this professionally yet make it seem absolutely effortless.
Someone broke the silence with a whistle. Another voice shouted encouragement.
Anxiety created a solid mass between her shoulder blades. An invisible band tightened around her chest and made every breath she drew as painful as it was necessary. She wanted to scream at everyone to keep quiet, to let the pair work. If it wouldn’t have generated an even larger distraction, she’d have done just that.
But Ty and Gizmo ignored every potential distraction. The horse worked the yearling and prevented his return until Ty deemed it time. Then, together, they put the animal back in the shuffling herd.
Next they sorted a much bigger steer out of the group. Obviously irritated, the steer charged the horse. Gizmo didn’t give ground, instead rapidly placing himself, cross bodied, in between the steer and the herd. Confused, the steer stumbled and stopped. Gizmo took advantage of the other animal’s hesitation to push him farther from the herd.
The big steer sprinted one direction, then spun and sprinted the other, trying his best to get by Gizmo. The horse wasn’t having it. He met the steer’s every move with a countermove that kept the animal separated from the herd.
Then on a particularly hard turn, one of Gizmo’s leg splints came loose.
Kenzie’s stomach dropped.
The horse ignored the support failure, charging forward to stop the steer. He slid to a stop and whirled to meet the other animal’s next move.
Gizmo pushed off with his front feet, forced to make a rapid change in direction to head the steer off. The unsupported fetlock flexed and twisted in a totally unnatural manner. The cannon bone bent and the horse screamed, the sound sheer agony. The horse’s momentum was unstoppable, and both Ty and Gizmo went down, the horse’s right front hoof flopping sickeningly as he rolled over Ty.
Kenzie didn’t think, didn’t listen to her father’s protests as she rose, refused to heed his restraining hand on her arm. She shrugged him off and vaulted the pipe fence, heading across the arena as fast as she could. Soft, ankle-deep dirt pulled at her feet like quicksand. The sound of her breath swamped her awareness as she pushed forward. She had to get to Ty now.
On some level, she was aware of onlookers shouting and the announcer’s voice booming and the herd holders trying to keep the yearlings back so they didn’t create more chaos. None of it mattered. What mattered was the horse groaning and unable to get up, his shredded fetlock already swelling. Even more? His rider. The man. Lord have mercy, the man...
Tyson.
His hat had been crushed in the fall and then flung several feet from the spot where he’d hit the dirt and gone completely still. She fixated on the hat as she ran. She knew Ty was within feet of the hat but couldn’t bear to look at him too closely. One glance, one single glance, had dragged up memories that darkened the periphery of her consciousness, reminding her of Michael and the way he’d lain, preternaturally still in the dirt after his fall. She’d silently urged her brother to get up as he always did, to dust himself off and curse his horse and start again. But he hadn’t risen. Not ever again.
No. No, no, no! her mind shrieked as her lungs worked harder than industrial bellows to provide her with air, to keep her moving, to keep her focused on that damned hat.
She couldn’t lose someone else, couldn’t watch another man she cared about die doing what he loved. She’d wouldn’t recover from that a second time.
Move, Ty. Just once. Move.
Her heart hammered out a frantic rhythm in her chest. She stumbled, fear making her clumsy. Landing on her hands and knees, Kenzie crawled the last half-dozen yards to the unmoving man.
No! Her singular denial translated to a silent wail.
The closer she got, the easier it was to see he wasn’t quite right. His eyes were closed, and his head... His head was canted at a strange angle. Dirt packed one ear and caked the near side of his face. And his chest failed to rise and fall.
Ty wasn’t breathing.
“Please, God, no.” Her broken plea was lost to the sounds of the announcer, official personnel and the crowd’s frantic buzz. She ignored it all, kneeling next to him and grabbing his hand.
Ty’s chest shuddered as he gasped, seizing a short breath. For ages, nothing followed. Then another short, gasped breath.
She squeezed his unresponsive fingers. “Ty? Tyson? Tyson!” she yelled, scared to touch him anywhere else even as she longed to shake him hard enough to rattle his teeth. “You answer me, damn you!”
Nothing.
“Don’t you dare do this to me,” she whispered. The harsh words brimmed with anger, demand and fear.
Sirens chirped and forced her to look up. The ambulance and EMTs were headed their way. The vet’s emergency truck and flatbed trailer followed.
Gizmo...
Still gripping his hand, she leaned forward. “You fight, Covington. You. Fight.”
His fingers spasmed against her hand. One booted foot flopped to the side only to lie perfectly still again. Then his eyelids fluttered. The deep mink of his irises showed for a split second before his eyes slipped closed.
“You stubborn man! Gizmo needs you. Wake up and deal with this catastrophe. I’m not cleaning up after you. Do you hear me?” she demanded. Hysteria’s sharp claws scrabbled their way up her spine as the seconds passed and he didn’t answer. “Tyson!” She squeezed his hand hard enough to grind the bones together.
His fingertips pressed into her hand, the movement faint but undeniable.
A man and woman raced up to her, and she recognized Cade Covington before he skidded to a stop. Eyes wide, he fixated on Ty, and when he spoke, his deep voice trembled. “Tyson.” He grabbed his female companion’s hand, uttered a pained sound and then pulled her against his body.
She wordlessly folded into him, her eyes fixed on Ty and brimming with tears.
The ambulance stopped a few feet away, and two EMTs hopped out. One grabbed a body board as the other, already gloved up, approached. He crowded her out, the act far from gentle. “I need you to leave the ring, ma’am.”
“Like hell,” she snarled. She had to stay, couldn’t leave him, not like this. Wouldn’t leave him. “He’s mine.” The lie emerged without conscious thought.
The man shot her a sharp look even as he pulled on blue nitrile gloves. “Your husband?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “He’s. Mine.”
He scrutinized her before lifting one shoulder and getting to work. “Fine, but stay out of my way.”
Cade stared at her, skepticism filtering through his initial shock at her declaration.
She ignored him, ignored everyone but Ty and the EMT. Terror wove its way around her heart and up her throat, stopping just shy of spilling out her mouth on a keening wail. Focusing on the EMT, she managed to rasp out a desperate “Help him.”
She heard raised voices behind her. Eli Covington and a woman she assumed was his new wife stood with rodeo vet. The three of them were arguing as Gizmo lay there, his sides heaving, hide slicked with sweat.
“The animal is in pain,” the vet said. “Putting him down would be the humane thing.”
“I’m about to hit you so hard your dentist won’t need to worry about which teeth to keep. I guarantee that’ll result in pain. Yours.” The woman, tall enough to look at the man eye to eye, stepped close enough to invade his personal space. “You suggesting I put you down then, too? As a matter of ‘humane’ treatment?”
“That’s different,” the man objected. “I’m human.”
She pointed at Ty’s still form. “You euthanize this horse, you might as well put him down, too, because you’ll destroy him and everything he’s worked for.”
Eli said something low to his wife.
She rounded on him. “Don’t you dare tell me not to get worked up! I don’t care if I’m six weeks’ or six months’ pregnant. Neither my hormones nor the baby responsible for them changes right and wrong.”
Ty squeezed Kenzie’s hand again, stronger this time but still far weaker than he should have been capable of. His eyelids fluttered before he ground his teeth and opened unfocused eyes. “Save...”
“We’re working on saving you, Mr. Covington.” The EMT scowled. “You’ve got to be still, though. We have to establish how much damage the accident caused your cervical spine.”
“Screw spine,” he whispered brokenly. His pain-filled gaze roamed wildly, skipping over her face and coming back. He fought to focus. “Giz... Save...” Tears rolled down his temples, and he squeezed her hand harder. “Please, Kenzie.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she answered, voice husky.
“No.” His tears flowed faster. “Promise.”
“You have to calm down, Mr. Covington.” The EMT pulled a syringe and loaded it. “I’m going to give you something for the pain before we transport you.”
“Promise!” he rasped, grasping Kenzie’s hand hard.
“I promise,” she choked out, but his eyes had already drifted closed, and she had no idea if he’d heard her before the drug hit.
His hand relaxed. She clung to him, unwilling to let him go.
“Where are you taking him?” she asked, standing as they lifted the body board.
“Medevacing him to Baylor’s trauma center.”
Kenzie looked at Cade. “Go with him. I’ll check in later after I take care of Gizmo.”
“Take care of him how?” Cade demanded.
“Don’t worry, I have a vested interest in ensuring the horse survives.”
Cade’s fiancée narrowed her eyes. “Ty didn’t mention anyone else having a vested interest in Gizmo.”
“Have you talked to Ty about his business dealings since he’s been here?” Kenzie asked with feigned arrogance.
Cade arched a single brow. “No.”
“Then, I don’t expect you to know that I bought into the horse here or that I’m funding part of your brother’s breeding program.” Any other time it would have bothered her how easily she lied. Not right now, though. Too much was at stake. “I won’t let my investment fall apart.”
“Gotta go, folks,” the EMT called.
“Do what you can,” the short-haired woman said, grabbing Cade’s hand and hauling him toward the ambulance. They hopped inside, the ambulance driver slamming the door closed behind them before racing for the driver’s seat. The ambulanced chirped and, with lights flashing, took off.
Kenzie turned to the rodeo vet. “What’s the prognosis?”
“Unless you own the horse—”
“I have a vested interest, yes.” How many lies would a cowgirl issue if a cowgirl could issue lies? The answer was simple: as many as it took. “Let’s consider the broken parts mine, so tell me what I’m facing here.”
“He’s torn ligaments and tendons in his fetlock, and I’m going to wager he’s also fractured his cannon. We’ve got a Kimzey leg saver on its way, but the damage...” He shrugged. “He’ll require serious surgical intervention. If he’s worth anything at all, get him to Ohio State University.”
Eli’s wife paled. “You’re talking thousands just in transport.”
“Make it happen,” Kenzie said, crossing her arms and widening her stance.
The vet arched a brow. “You realize that between emergency transport and initial treatment you’re looking at fifty to eighty thousand dollars?”
“You signing the checks?” she asked quietly.
“No.”
“Then, don’t worry about the costs.”
“We have to, though,” Eli murmured.
Kenzie shook her head. “No, you don’t.” Facing the vet again, she tucked her hands into her jeans pockets and did the one thing she hated doing. She threw her name at the doctor with the force of a major league pitcher’s fastball. “I’m Mackenzie Malone, Jack Malone’s daughter.” The vet’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something, but Kenzie shook her head. “There are only two things I want to hear from you. First, I want this horse’s flight number to the airport nearest Ohio State University. Charter a plane if necessary. Second, I want the in-flight pain management plans for him so I can clear that plan with my own vet.”
The rodeo vet stiffened. “I assure you—”
“I listed the two things I need, Doc, and your assurances weren’t on the short list.” Dismissing him to do his job as she’d seen her father do a thousand times, she faced the Covingtons. “Ty’s being lifted to Baylor. You two go there. I’ll stay with Gizmo.”
“Don’t let them put him down. Please, Ms. Malone.” Eli choked on the words and looked away, but not fast enough to hide the sheen of tears in his eyes.
“Just Kenzie, and I give you my word I’ll do my best to avoid that very thing, Mr. Covington.”
The woman pulled out her admission ticket and grabbed a pen from a vet tech. She scribbled on the back, then handed the card to Kenzie. “I’m Reagan Covington, large-animal vet and Eli’s wife. Call me with the drug names and I can explain what they’re giving him.”
“Will do. Now you two go on. Ty needs you, and frankly, I can make things happen faster if I have a little room to play the bitchy heiress.”
Both Covington and his wife issued their thanks before jogging toward the nearest arena exit.
Kenzie went to her knees by Gizmo’s head. She stroked his jaw and murmured soft words of encouragement. It took her several moments to summon the courage to meet his gaze. When she did, her heart broke for him. His nostrils blew hard, froth decorated his lips and neck, and the whites of his eyes showed clearly. He hurt. Worse than the pain, though, was his obvious fear. It was as if he had some inkling of just how bad off he was, and he was terrified.
That made two of them.
4 (#ulink_2eaa517e-cd64-5bcb-95cd-243874125b71)
KENZIE KNEW THE exact moment her dad entered the fray. Things started to happen at twice their normal speed. The vet became respectful versus argumentative, and that—that—pissed Kenzie off more than anything. As a petite woman dominating the leaderboards in a man’s sport, she had to earn every iota of respect she received. Carrying the Malone name only made it more difficult. There were always the behind-the-back allegations that she’d never have made it this far if it hadn’t been for her father. For all that it was bull, the quiet whispers stung. The song “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” by Toby Keith rang true. Neither the title nor the lyrics said it was a blessing to be a cowgirl. She wouldn’t allow them to push her aside because she was female.
Shoving her way through to the vet, she stepped up beside her father and shot him a hard glance through dark lashes. “I’ll manage this, Dad.”
“Seemed to me you could use a little help.”
“Nope. He—” she jabbed a finger in the vet’s direction “—will do better when he learns a little respect for women and a hell of a lot more respect for animals.”
“There’re better ways to get what you want, Mackenzie.”
“Well, right now Gizmo’s down, so tossing the last name around will have to do.” Rounding on the very man under discussion, she ignored the people milling about, the weight of the crowd’s collective stare and, above all, she fought to keep her attention off the pain poor Gizmo was suffering. He had to come first. She focused on the one man who could truly help him. “Dose him with dermorphin so we can get him in a hoist and moved.”
“I need proof you have authority over the animal, ma’am, because he’s registered under Tyson Covington’s name.”
“I already explained this. I bought into him prior to the accident.” She didn’t think twice about uttering the lie again. Not until she realized her father had overheard.
“Excuse us for a second.” He took her by the arm and led her a few steps away. Jack Malone’s eyes were bright, glittering with a type of predatory anticipation she’d never seen outside competition. “I’ve been trying to get Covington to sell me half rights to Gizmo for over three years. How did you manage it?”
“Feminine wiles?” A question and not a declarative statement. Guilt tightened her throat, the sensation spreading to her chest. She’d always been honest with her dad. She’d been his shadow as long as she could remember. How could she lie to him, particularly about something he wanted so badly? Easy. She couldn’t. Opening her mouth to admit her deception, he plowed forward in excitement.
“I’ll have Alyssa make arrangements to get this horse to Ohio State and the Galbreath Equine Center’s emergency medicine team.” He pulled his cell and called his barn manager. “Alyssa, I need you to charter a flight for an injured horse—Fort Worth to the nearest airport to the Galbreath Center.” He paused then shook his head. “No, not Indie. Kenzie managed to buy into Covington’s Dippy Zippy Gizmo just before the stud was injured.” Another pause. “I have no idea how she managed to do it. We’ll get details later. Right now, that horse has to get on his way. I’ll have Kenzie book the next flight to Columbus since she should be on the ground before the horse in order to receive him. Tell the Center to do whatever is necessary to save this animal. Cost isn’t an issue. I’ll call you back shortly. Thanks, Alyssa.”
Kenzie wanted to puke. The lie had taken on a life of its own and was about to cost her father a hell of a lot of money. She couldn’t live with this, couldn’t let him foot the bill and then find out the truth. “Dad, maybe you shouldn’t do this. I don’t actually—”
“Honey, it’s all right. I trust you implicitly. You’ll be my eyes and ears, acting in my stead to make sure this horse gets the best of everything.” He pulled her into a bear hug. “I’m so glad we’re finally partnering with the Covingtons and have the means to help save this magnificent animal.”
Guilt hung in her throat, both bitter and sour. “I haven’t been—”
“I know you haven’t ridden yet, Kenzie, but don’t worry, honey. You’re amazing on horseback and you’re young still. There’ll be more opportunities for you to chase my record. I’m proud as hell that you’re putting others’ well-being in front of your own success.” He stepped away and grasped her shoulders before meeting her gaze. “Call me with your flight details.” His attention drifted to the horse, who lay in the soft arena dirt, sides heaving, one front fetlock terribly swollen and distorted in a macabre, stomach-churning manner. “You remind me so much of Michael, thinking on your feet like this.”
She’d lived to ease her parents’ pain after Michael’s death, worked her ass off to be good enough at everything she did to make them proud, and here she was, hearing the words for the first time.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. Jack Malone, known for his honesty and straightforward talk, wasn’t proud of her based on her own merit. It had taken things beyond her control and one whopping lie to hear the words she’d longed for from him.
Sure in the knowledge she was dooming herself by letting the truth stay buried, she hugged him hard before starting for the end of the arena where the golf carts were kept. She got a driver to return her to her hotel, stuffed all her belongings into her suitcase and less than forty minutes later was in a hired car bound for the airport.
She dug out her cell phone, pulled up the internet and paused. If she called her dad now, she could come clean, tell him she’d pay for the horse’s care from her trust fund. She wouldn’t have to live with the immense burden so many lies created.
She closed the web browser and pulled up her dad’s cell number.
Her thumb hovered over the call button.
I trust you implicitly.
I’m proud as hell that you’re doing the right thing.
You remind me so much of Michael.
Confessing now would destroy his pride in her, would make him regret losing Michael all the more because her brother never would have backed himself into a corner like this.
“Way to go, Mackenzie,” she muttered, closing the phone function on her smartphone and returning to the web browser.
It only took a few taps of the screen on the airline’s booking page to have her seated in 3A on the next flight to Columbus, Ohio.
Kenzie dropped her phone in her messenger bag, then settled back into the seat. The image of Ty’s broken body flashed through her mind. She shivered.
There was more to this than just her father’s pride in her. At least part of the reason she was going through with this was the sheer terror she’d witnessed in Ty’s eyes. She’d felt an emotional connection with him, a shared purpose that bound them together in this. She could save him, save his horse, where she’d failed Michael that day. Now she might set the past to rights by saving Gizmo, and in turn, giving Ty a reason to fight harder to recover, to live.
And she needed him to live. In the privacy of the backseat of the car, she could admit she cared about him. Cared far more than was wise, no doubt.
But for a split second when she’d first approached Tyson after the accident...
His chest hadn’t moved.
Hers had stopped in kind.
He’d had no pulse.
Hers had stalled without even an indignant sputter.
His eyes hadn’t fluttered.
She’d been unable to blink.
He’d been as still as death.
And a part of her had died.
The thought alone was enough to make her throw herself into Gizmo’s well-being. Being near the horse would put her near Ty, and it would give her time to work out how to handle her dad. And she could avoid looking too closely, or even at all, at the complicated emotional chaos she’d faced when, for that split second, she’d thought she’d lost Ty forever.
* * *
TY KNEW THINGS WERE, at best, pretty damn bad. If someone would’ve taken the time to explain just how bad, he’d have appreciated it. Chances were good they assumed he couldn’t hear them, though. Seeing as he couldn’t currently force his eyes open, it was a fair assumption. But it was still wrong. During the many moments of dark lucidity, he heard every word.
As it was, the best he could do was focus on squeezing his hands or flexing his feet when instructed. No matter how miserably he knew he’d failed, strangers’ voices praised him. Now and again he’d hear a voice he recognized. That was when he’d fight hardest to open his eyes. The effort always proved too much, but it wasn’t enough to take the fight out of him. He needed to know what had happened, needed to see the truth in the faces around him. Those faces wouldn’t lie to him.
Yet no matter how hard he fought against the pain that enveloped his brief battles to remain conscious, he continued to surface to darkness and descend into darkness.
So he listened.
And heard the same phrases over and over.
“Cervical involvement at C2 and C3.”
“Neurological impairment unknown.”
“Long-term prognosis undetermined.”

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