Cowgirls Don't Cry(3)

A loud thud sounded and Jessie’s thrashing stopped abruptly. Brandt released her wrists to see what the hell the noise was.

Jessie maneuvered her body away from Brandt’s. They peered over the edge of the bed.

Holy shit. Mike had passed out cold on the floor.

In the middle of going down on Jessie.

Unf*ckingbelievable.

She whispered, “You think he had a heart attack or something?”


But she wasn’t frantically checking him over, which meant she wasn’t so out of it she couldn’t see the truth. She nudged his leg. “Mike?”


Mike let out a soft snore.

Once again Brandt’s heart broke when Jessie made a soft sob. She scampered away from him quickly, like a crab sinking back into the sand. “Jessie—”


“Just go away.”


“No. I’m takin’ you home. Where are your clothes?”


No answer.

Focusing on his anger on her behalf kept him from pitying her. “Fine.” Brandt tossed the comforter over her, rolled her like a sausage, and lifted her into his arms.

She gasped, “What’re you doing?”


“Takin’ you home.”


“But I’m naked!”


“Wasn’t like that swimsuit covered up much anyway.” And yeah, when Brandt stepped over Mike’s sprawled form, he might’ve kicked the guy’s ribs. The idiot wouldn’t have noticed if he’d been kicked in his numb nuts.

“Put me down, Brandt. I mean it.”


“No way in hell.”


The walk from the camper to his truck was mighty long and mighty quiet. He deposited her in the passenger side of his pickup before he climbed in. After he started backing out, she said, “Wait.”


“What? You feel like you’re gonna barf?”


“No. I forgot my purse.”


“Where?”


She bit her lip. “I’m pretty sure it’s still in the cab of Mike’s pickup.”


Brandt whipped a U-turn and followed the bumpy trail from the public parking area back to the campsites. He pulled up behind Mike’s camper and shut off his truck, pocketing the keys. He issued a stern,

“Don’t go nowhere, Jessie, I mean it,” and bailed out.

The pungent scent of pot smoke wafted out of Mike’s truck as Brandt opened the door. A roach clip dangled from the rearview mirror, weighted with feathers and skinny strips of leather. He pushed aside food wrappers and empty beer cans until he found a small bright orange fanny pack. Since he’d forgotten to ask specifics about size and color, he unzipped the main compartment. His hand froze.

It wasn’t the unopened package of condoms that snared his interest, but the hand-tooled leather wallet.

The wallet he’d made Jessie for Christmas—in what turned out to be the only Christmas they’d spent together.

The ragged edge of Brandt’s thumb traced the row of flowers he’d so painstakingly pounded out in the supple leather above the metal clasp. After he’d tanned the row a rich brown and finished the rough edges with a leather whipstitch, he’d painted each tiny flower a different color.


He couldn’t believe Jessie had kept the wallet. She’d seemed embarrassed when she’d opened his present. Too late Brandt learned such a labor-intensive gift was appropriate for a girlfriend. Or a lover. Or a wife. None of which Jessie was to him. Luke had been a real prick about it, too, teasing him mercilessly.