Sweet on You

Book 3: Sweet on a Cowboy

by Laura Drake

Genres: Sagas; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

A Love as Bold as a Texas Sunset . . . Ex-army medic Katya Smith has always healed other people's pain. Now she has to deal with her own. Taking a job as an athletic trainer on the Pro Bull Riding circuit seems like the perfect escape from her grief-except Katya doesn't know anything about bulls, and even less about the tough men who ride them. She doesn't expect to fall for the sport, or for one tantalizing cowboy who tumbles her defenses. For rodeo champion Cam Cahill, fifteen years of bucking bulls have taken their toll on his body. Before he retires, he wants a final chance at the world title-and he doesn't need some New Age gypsy telling him how to do his job. But when the stunning trainer with the magical hands repairs more than his worn muscles, everything changes. Soon Cam finds himself trying to persuade Katya to forgive her past so she can build a future . . . with him. Praise for Laura Drake and her novels:"Touchingly real. Tender and timely. Laura Drake creates characters you know you've met and you have to root for." -- Pamela Morsi, USA Today bestselling author on The Sweet Spot "An emotionally packed story that will pull all the heartstrings." -- Christie Craig, New York Times bestselling author on The Sweet Spot

Release date: August 26, 2014

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 371

Sample

Kandahar Air Field, Afghanistan

Another night of blood and adrenaline.

Katya Smith pulled her shower-wet hair into a bun. The weight of exhaustion tugged at her, but the fine hum of tension running just under her skin warned that she wouldn’t sleep.

Yet, beyond that, resting close to her heart, was a firm pillow of satiety. They’d saved two soldiers’ lives last night.

Being alone in the small, fake-wood–paneled room of the Quonset hut was an odd occurrence, given her three roommates. But Role 3 hospital inhaled medical personnel. They must be working a shift. The army was so desperate for medics that Katya had been transferred from physical therapy to triage medic two years ago.

She took the few steps to the American flag-draped wall and the small chalkboard beneath it, almost covered in chalk lines. Neat bundles of five, representing men that they’d saved from the enemy. She picked up the chalk, to add her night’s conquests, but hesitated. Keeping score against the bad guys only made sense if you were clear that there was an actual bad guy.

That’s not right. The enemy they fought in the ER wasn’t the Afghani insurgents.

It was death.

She brought the chalk down on the board so hard that it broke. She made two marks, one crossing four others—another neat bundle.

Beep beep! The Jeep’s horn through the thin walls got her moving. Shouldering her rifle and pack, she opened the door and pushed into the dry blast of Kandahar heat. By the time she had the door locked, her shower had worn off.

Murphy grinned from the seat of the Jeep he’d commandeered—best not to ask where. Last night in the ER, when he’d invited her on a trip to town, she couldn’t resist. Most soldiers longed for a taste of home. They cheered when fast-food franchises opened on base. Not Katya. She loved unfamiliar spices and exotic local dishes. She’d even tried the boiled sheep’s head a street vendor once offered, finding the flavor of the facial meat fabulous once she got past the staring white eye and the grinning exposed teeth.

She tossed her pack in the Jeep and climbed in, cradling the rifle in her lap. “I don’t remember it being this hot last April.” She put her hand to her cloth-covered helmet, shifting it to blot the sweat tickle that made her scalp feel as if it was crawling with bugs.

Murphy’s cool, green eyes watched her with appreciation. “It’s probably just my proximity, ma’am. I have that effect on women.”

She knew she shouldn’t encourage him, but couldn’t help but smile at the combat medic. He looked like a pencil wearing a helmet—all long bones and knobby joints. His helmet covered buzz cut red hair, but even if she hadn’t known his surname, the flushed, freckled skin declared him a Celt.

He gunned the engine, yet drove at a sedate pace to keep the dust down until they cleared the security check at the entrance of the base.

She would have loved to be alone for a while, but knew that was impossible. Kandahar was not safe—especially for a solitary female. Even a female second lieutenant.

The wind swirling behind the windshield cooled as well as a fan in hell. Katya looked out at the receding puddles and rapidly parching grass at the side of the road, thanking God for the road the Corps of Engineers had built last year. Spring rain in the desert was beautiful, but it was hell on goat-track roads that morphed from sliding mud pits to foot-deep cement-like ruts overnight.

Eyes on the road, Murphy yelled over the wind, “We could swing by the airport on the way back and watch the planes do touch-and-goes. Not very romantic by normal standards, but it’s the finest that this corner of Afghanistan has to offer.”

Like everyone, she enjoyed the Nebraskan’s down-home, upbeat sense of humor that had lit up the ER since he’d transferred in a month ago. But comments like these made her wonder if the E-4 had a bit of a crush. “Did you miss the lecture about not fraternizing with officers in boot camp, Corporal?”

“I think that must’ve been the day that the general’s daughter and I were—uh, indisposed, ma’am.”

She smiled. Incorrigible.

He slowed as they rolled into town. The two-story stucco buildings may have been handsome, before the bombing. They passed one with a missing front wall, exposing jagged rooms like broken teeth. Between the damage and the dust, the town looked tired, weary of all it had seen. Murphy parked and they got out. Katya shouldered her pack and rifle, wondering when it had stopped feeling odd, carrying armaments on a shopping trip.

Tourists were an extinct species in a war zone. The shops were shuttered. Still people needed to eat. Intrepid vendors had set up tables in the narrow band between the buildings and the street. Vegetables mostly, sold by men with light, loose clothing and disrespectful eyes. The bright blush of pomegranate skin and green grapes looked incongruous in the sepia scene.

Dusty muslin awnings extended from the buildings, blocking the sun, but didn’t help much with the torpid air. She and Murphy joined the shoppers, keeping their rifles slung, but remaining alert. When Murphy bent to examine something on a table, Katya’s eyes scanned the crowd.

An hour later, the cloth bag on Katya’s shoulder held her treasure—local figs. She found their dusky sweetness cleared her palette after a mess hall dinner. “I’m ready to head back if you are, Murphy.”

She glanced at her sweat-slicked companion, looking as if his M16 would overbalance him. He carried a palm-sized hand-sewn stuffed rabbit.

“You know, you may want to tuck that under your pillow at night, or your roommates are going to give you hell.”

He lifted the toy to his lips, kissed it, and dropped it into the pocket of his damp shirt. “It’s for my new niece. I haven’t met her yet, but I’ll show you photos when we get back.”

They headed for the Jeep. The next block was unpopulated, its bombed-out buildings long abandoned. The light seemed harder here, as if showcasing the damage—throwing it in the onlooker’s face. In contrast, the inky black of the narrow alley on her left made Katya shiver, conjuring thoughts of scorpions and snipers. Her skin pricked, but not from sweat. She stepped quickly past.

A boy stepped around the corner a few buildings ahead. He held his forearm, blood dripping between his fingers into the dust. He looked to be nine or so, wearing a traditional long shirt and loose pants, a round pakol cap on his head. He shuffled toward them, tears streaking his dusty face.

Kayta’s heart rate shot up, kicking into triage mode. Quickening her pace, scanning the boy for other injuries, she reached into her bag for her ever-present first-aid kit.

Then she hesitated. The boy’s eyes darted, his movements jerky with fear.

The gun was in her sweaty hands before she knew she’d unslung it. Sound ceased. She tried to remember when a vehicle last passed.

Murphy rushed past her, his still-slung rifle bouncing, as he reached for his first-aid kit. Alarm sirens of panic echoed through her head. Something was wrong. She snatched at Murphy’s arm, but missed.

He reached the boy and leaned over him, blocking her view. Katya took two running steps forward.

The harsh light exploded in a starburst of yellow and red. The sound was deafening as it threw her backward.

Then blessed blackness took her.

Katya listened. The hushed conversation and echo of hurried squeaky shoes sounded familiar. So was the smell—dust, antiseptic, and the metallic undertone of blood. She shifted her arms, her legs. All there, thank God, but her slight movement woke a hot poker stab in her side and throbbing in the fingers of her right hand.

She lay still in the dark, afraid to open her eyes. Afraid to assume the responsibility, because she sensed, deep in her mind, something lurked that she did not want to know. Opening her eyes would force her—

“Welcome back, Soldier.” The deep voice was familiar too.

Katya pulled her eyes open. Major Samuel Thibodaux, her superior officer and lead surgeon at Role 3, leaned over her. She turned her head, disoriented to see her work environs from a reclined angle. Beds in rows, most filled with wounded—white skin, brown skin, no skin.

The major peeled back her eyelid and flashed a penlight in her eye. The light lasered to the back of her brain. She flinched.

“Headache?”

She closed her eyes and nodded.

“Nauseous?”

A brush of air as the sheet was pulled to her hips. He gently prodded her side.

She winced and shook her head, frowning. It was coming. A hulking memory lumbered down the pathways of her brain, moving fast.

“You were downtown. A bomb…”

The rest was drowned out by the sound of a wailing moan. She realized after a beat that it had come from her. The heat, the sound, the light—“Murphy.” She opened her eyes.

The major’s jaw tightened, pulling his lips into a thin line.

She realized she hadn’t stated it as a question. Her stomach muscles pulled taut, to protect her solar plexus from the blow. A memory came forward, burned into her brain. Murphy bringing the toy to his lips, to kiss it. “No. Oh, no.” Her legs writhed, trying to find an outlet for the pain, the horror.

The major pressed the plunger on a morphine drip. “We took shrapnel from your side, along with your spleen and a chunk of your liver. You lost the fingernails on your right hand. But you’re going to be okay.”

A face swam to the surface of her mind. Wispy black hair, huge, dark eyes, full of liquid fear. “The boy.” Her voice came out as a thready whisper, fading.

He shook his head. “Suicide bomber.”

She rushed to meet the sweet blackness that rose to swallow her.

Cam Cahill coughed up dust. The sun branded his skin through his shirt. He kicked his borrowed gelding to a canter, chasing down another steer, wild from months on the winter slopes.

How could Texas be this hot and dry in April? He tugged the bandana off his nose, where it was doing nothing to block the dust, and settled it around his neck where it would at least keep the sweat from rolling down his back.

Another billow of dust rolled over him as Len Robertson reined up alongside. The old man’s hair might be gray and his face as tanned and creased as a burlap sack, but he sat relaxed in the saddle even after ten hours in it. “You know what Phil Sheridan said about Texas, dontcha?”

“Go east, young man?”

“Close.” Len smiled, showing the gap between his front teeth. “He said, ‘If I owned Texas and Hell, I would rent out Texas and live in Hell.’ ” The old coot cackled and rode on ahead, his horse kicking up more dust.

He actually enjoys this. Cam reached for his canteen. Five more miles till the home corrals. He uncapped the bottle and took a long drink of the hot, metallic-tasting water.

And more of the same, tomorrow. He hadn’t expected a stock contractor’s life to be glamorous, but the past five days convinced him he could cross this off his short list of careers.

Which left… exactly nothing.

His last season as a rider on the pro bull riding circuit was half over and his future resembled a black hole in space, sucking light, gravity, and all his peace. He capped the water jug and hung the loop over his saddle horn. He should be content. He’d had a great career. The first rider to win back-to-back titles, and he had the belt buckles to prove it. He reined left, to stay upwind of the small herd.

What if the past fifteen years had been the best of his life? Thirty-two was too young to give up and do nothing, even if he had enough money to live on. The drive that pushed him to the top hadn’t lessened with the years, even if his reaction times had.

His knee protested when he shifted in the saddle to ease his sore hip. His body was about done.

He’d planned to have a wife and kids by now. He’d planned to settle on his own ranch in Bandera, and live out the rest of his life in peace. But he no longer had a wife, much less kids, and after years of traveling, the thought of holing up in his run-down cabin all alone wasn’t a happy one.

What good were gold buckles and old bull riding stories, if you didn’t have someone to share them with?

Sar san, Katya?”

The ancient voice sounded as shaky as the hand resting on Katya’s arm. Her grandmother sat swaddled in a blouse and flowing skirt, as if she’d shrunk since putting them on. Anxiety shot through Katya’s chest. When had their keystone become so frail?

“Nothing is wrong, Grand. I’ve come home, that’s all.” She lightly stroked the tissue-paper skin of her forearm, enveloped in the smell of the herbs Grand had worked with so long they’d become a part of her. Her body may have aged, but the bright sparrow eyes that regarded Katya hadn’t dimmed a bit in what they saw.

The dining room table stretched under the window, crowded as always with piles of sorted leaves and packets of ground herbs. Grand’s mortar and pestle sat before her, the queen’s scepter. She sat in her wing-back chair, with the same green corduroy cushions Katya remembered, the nap worn smooth in places.

“You have no kintala.” She turned Katya’s hand, palm up, studying it.

Quickly, gently, she pulled back her hand.

Grand’s bony fingers clamped on her wrist with more strength than Katya would have imagined they possessed. She curled her fingers closed and looked away, not ready for whatever future the old woman would tell.

“My balance is okay, Grand. I’ve lived out of the country so long it’s bound to seem strange, coming home.” She tried not to squirm under the intense regard, just as she had as a child. “I want to know how you’re doing. Are the aunts taking good care of you?”

“They hover. I am fine.” She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. “Have you seen your mother?”

“Not yet. I will.” All she’d thought of since waking in the hospital was getting here to Chicago, to Grand.

The old eyes glazed for a moment, then cleared. “You will go, yes? You will need her soon.”

Need her mother? Oh yes, she’d needed her, many times. Not that her mother had noticed. “Yes, later.” Getting along in a foreign land was a skill Katya had learned growing up in her parents’ house.

Katya glanced through the antique lace curtains to the street. Her cousins played in the yard of the family’s apartment complex, rolling together like a ball of puppies. She’d done the same in her summers as a child. Hundreds of years ago it seemed. Her gorge rose, and with it, the admission she must keep inside. She’d lost more than blood, a few nonvital organs, and good friends over there.

“What happened? You are in pain.”

Katya turned again to the woman, just as she always had. “Too much, Grand. Too much suffering. Too much fanaticism. Too much stupidity.”

Grand’s baggy blouse exposed bird-like bones. Fragile shoulders didn’t look strong enough to support her neck, much less Katya’s burden.

“I’ve lost my healing.” Her confession fell on the table, a lump of black, oozing offal. A clock ticked in the silence and she could hear her heart, thudding in her chest. Ten minutes with Grand, and she was spilling her guts. She shouldn’t be surprised; it had always been so. She dipped her head.

She’d lost a precious gift; her legacy. There could be no penance for such a sin.

Cool fingers stroked her cheek then slipped under her chin, raising it. The love in Grand’s wan smile tore open something—a black festering, overlooked in dealing with all the wounds, real and imagined. Katya realized that the balm of absolution in that smile was the reason she’d come.

“Ah Katya. You cannot lose something that is a part of you. It’s only gotten covered up.” Grand tucked a hank of hair behind her granddaughter’s ear, as she had a million times. “You will find it again and more. When you do, remember; gifts sometimes come in strange wrappings.”

Katya knew better than to ask what the small smile meant. Grand was a master in the art of the arcane. They sat in the peace of quiet. Katya pulled in the vibrant energy that was her grandmother. She felt like the confused child who’d arrived here, every summer.

There was a lot of love in her parents’ house, only most of it didn’t involve her. She’d always been the moth outside the window of her parents’ love, bumping the glass to get inside. Her parents’ relationship seemed smothering to Katya. Unnatural. If that was love, she’d do without.

God knows what delicate negotiations took place between her parents and Grand, to allow Katya to travel from her home in DC to Chicago, but she’d loved those summers.

In the beginning, she’d only attended Grand’s lessons to have an excuse to be close, to suck up the loving acceptance like a dry sponge. But once filled, she listened, and found herself pulled in by the art of healing.

Now, with time and distance, she could see that she’d always wanted to be like her grandmother.

Grand believed Katya had empathic powers. Katya knew that wasn’t true. She’d just found there were more ways to listen than with her ears. If she paid close attention, even unconscious patients had things to say.

A door closed somewhere, and heels tapped in the hall, getting closer. The apartment door opened and her aunt’s frizzy gray-threaded black hair appeared first, followed by her face. The stamp of Gypsy was plain on her aunt’s olive skin and cat-slanted dark eyes. She put a finger to her lips, then waved Katya over.

Eyes closed, Grand’s head rested against the back of the chair. She breathed evenly in sleep.

Katya stood carefully, leaned over and whispered, “I love you, Puri Daj. Thank you” and walked out.

Katya sat in a chair in her aunt’s kitchen. “Beval, she’s so frail!”

“That happens when you reach the age of ninety-four.” She walked to the stove and clicked the burner under the teakettle. “Why did you feel the need to fight in their war, Katya?”

Her aunt had always been plainspoken, and she hadn’t changed a bit.

Katya opened her mouth, then closed it. She used to know the answer. She used to believe in the answer. She’d grown up outside of DC. When Flight 93 went down on 9/11, enlistment seemed to her the only response. But after ten years of patching up the young pawns of the chess match, the answer had faded like invisible ink, leaving her holding blank pages. She shook her head.

“How is your daj, Katya?” her aunt whispered, leaning forward.

Her sister, Katya’s mother—the outcast. A full Gypsy, Katya’s mother was raised there, living communally in the kumpania. Katya grew up hearing whispered stories of her mother’s wildness, though they were hard to believe, given the staid researcher she’d become.

As a child, her mother had done as she pleased, defying the laws of the family. Yet when she stepped through the doors of high school and slapped eyes on Katya’s father, things got serious. He was gajo—non-Gypsy. This building must have vibrated with the buzzing of the famalia, men and women alike. When she eloped after graduation, in the eyes of the family, Katya’s mother had died.

Only Grand kept tenuous contact, and only after Katya was born. Grand must have used magic, because Katya bore the name Grand chose, and from Katya’s earliest memory, her summers were Gypsy.

“I haven’t seen her yet. Last I heard, she was fine.”

Beval’s gaze darted around the room, though she knew they were alone. “Well, tell her, when you see her, that—”

A ghostly moan echoed from the hall. It changed, rising in volume and pitch to a banshee’s wail.

“Aaaaieeeeeeeeee!”

Katya jerked, and before she could control her body, she was crouched under the table, sweat popping in her armpits and her heart hammering like the piston of a redlined engine. She and her aunt froze, staring at each other in horror.

“Help me! Oh God. Katya, help me!”

The too-human pain in the young woman’s scream shattered her aunt’s immobility. She lurched from her chair and ran out of the apartment door before Katya could crawl out from under the tablecloth. She tried to stand, but the adrenaline surge left her legs rubbery. She fell back to her knees and leaned her forehead on the carpet, for just a moment, until the black spots retreated.

I don’t want to go! That wail had told her whatever waited down the hall was horrible. Her muddled brain processed thoughts in half-time. She tried to force her limbs to move. But as in Kandahar, they rebelled. Katya knelt in a quivering ball, exhaling coward breaths into the carpet.

Why me? Why do they call me?

Flashes fired behind her clenched eyelids; gaping wounds, mouths twisted in agony, the dark, fearful eyes of a strange boy.

Move, damn it! Someone needs you! Gritting her teeth, she forced her fingers to relax and felt the nails pop out of the carpet. Her biceps shook, but supported her weight when she pushed herself upright.

Her unwilling feet eventually carried her down the hall. She stood quivering in the doorway to Grand’s room, physically unable to force her body across the threshold. Her aunts crouched around the small body in her grandmother’s chair. Beval raised her streaming eyes to the doorway, and shook her head.

In Washington, DC, a week later, Katya dodged students, pulled the door open, and stepped inside. The glass entry of the university chemistry building soared overhead. The huge silver helix of a carbon atom hung from the ceiling, rotating unnoticed by hurrying students. Even the smell was the same—an odd mix of books, chemicals, and sunlight. She should have known that nothing ever changed here. Shouldn’t her arms be full of textbooks? Katya hurried down the hall, the soles of her flats slapping. She’d allowed a half hour before her real appointment, and didn’t want to be late.

She didn’t have to scan the nameplates alongside the doors she passed; her feet led her to the right one. Hand on the knob, she took a deep breath. Somewhere between Chicago and DC she’d gotten mad. The fact that she’d expected the outcome didn’t seem to matter. Seething, she turned the knob and opened the door to her parents’ lab.

It hadn’t changed either. Table-lined walls, an island workstation in the center, all cluttered with sinks and expensive research paraphernalia. To the left, her white-coated parents huddled beside an electron microscope, deep in conversation.

They had changed. Her father stood bent, staring into the eyepiece. He was handsome as ever, but silver glinted in the too long blond hair sweeping from his temples. He’d forgotten to get it cut again. When he glanced up, there were no smile lines at the corners of his eyes, only a deep frown; the price of decades of contemplating the mysteries of science.

“Hello, Katya.”

She took a step toward her father, arms open. But he’d already returned his attention to the world in the microscope lens. She dropped her arms.

Hand on his back, her mother regarded Katya. A Gypsy in a laboratory, her mother was as paradoxically beautiful as ever. Perfect olive skin and huge dark eyes, her lips pulled into a tight line, as if she were embarrassed by their fullness. Her black curls were harnessed in a tight French twist.

“Welcome back, Katya.” She said it as though they’d seen each other at breakfast. Her mother traveled the few steps to bridge the gap between them and opened her arms.

Katya stepped into them and wrapped her own arms around her mother, enveloped by her scent—a blend of exotic perfume and the cold alkaline bite of chemicals. She leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder and clung as emotion washed over her, a strong mix of regret and hollow longing that swelled her throat, and pricked behind her eyes.

Her mother gave her a brief squeeze and a pat on the shoulder.

Katya stepped back, as her anger flared. “You couldn’t attend your own mother’s funeral? Really, Mom?”

“Show some respect in your tone, Katya.” Her father threw in his signature line, then checked out of the discussion, bending once more over the altar of the microscope.

Katya tried to ignore the pinprick that tightened the muscles of her chest. She crossed her arms, leaning a hip against the counter. “Respect. Now there’s an interesting word.”

Her mother had a large repertoire of sighs. She deployed one of her favorites, the long-suffering one. “What do you think Rom Baro would have done if I’d shown up? You know him. He’d have used the funeral as a bully pulpit from which to preach.” She pursed her lips and shook her head, once, fast, as if it were a spasm. “I made my decision years ago. I knew then it was irreversible. Just bec. . .