Rode Hard, Put Up Wet (Rough Riders #2)(22)

“It’s a date.” He wiggled his hat on his head and stood. “You need anything at all, just call my cell.”


Why couldn’t she just go up to the house and ask him in person? “What are you and Gemma up to tonight?”


When he glanced away quickly, she understood there were certain things she did not need to know about her father—or how he and his boss spent their idle hours. “Never mind. You don’t have to answer that.”


“Gemma and I are goin’ to check out a couple of buckin’ horses over by Beulah.


We’ll be back tonight, but it’ll probably be late tonight.”


“Then drive safe and I’ll see you tomorrow.”


He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, giving her a quick peck on the forehead.


“Later.”


The familiar scent of horses and leather and sun-baked cotton surrounded her. Maybe she’d be doomed to disappointment, but Macie was happy her dad was at least trying to reach out to her. And she’d be damned if she’d slap his hand away.


Chapter Ten


Later that night another rumble of thunder rattled Macie’s teeth. Lightning flashes seared her eyes. Wind gusts made the camper shake like an aluminum can. Rain pelted the steel siding.


The electricity had crapped out hours ago. She had no clue how the backup generator on the camper worked. Her cell phone was completely dead. She couldn’t call her dad—


not that she would’ve ventured outside in a raging freakin’ thunderstorm by herself even if she’d had explicit instructions on how to fix the damn generator.


So Macie cowered in the dark, alone, completely freaked out and feeling stupid for being such a scaredy cat. God. She should be over this irrational fear of storms by now.


Still, she knew if her dad and Gemma were around, she would’ve hightailed it into Gemma’s house. As far as she knew, they hadn’t made it home. She’d like to think her father would’ve checked on her to make sure she was all right.


He’d sooner check on his horses and cows than on you.


Stop it. All of it—the recriminations, the neediness, the overpowering fear.


Yet, her subconscious reminded her in every horror movie she’d ever watched gruesome scenes took place during a thunderstorm—when the female victim was alone.


Every noise spooked her. She’d tried to block them out by singing “Redneck Woman” at the top of her lungs. Didn’t help. When a crash sounded outside her window, she’d managed not to scream, but panic kept her wide-awake.


The wind whistled and a new fear arose. Were there tornados in Wyoming? Here she was stuck in a small camper—aka a tornado magnet. Gemma’s house had a cellar. She’d be safe there. Should she make a run for it? But…what if there were electrical wires on the ground? What if she stepped outside onto a live line? Was it worth it to take a chance she might be electrocuted? As she debated, the door to the camper blew open.


She screamed. She screamed even louder when she saw the hulking, dark figure blocking the doorway. Blindly she reached on the counter for a weapon—hoping for a frying pan, a flyswatter, a can of nonstick cooking spray…anything.



“Macie? Where are you?”


She had to be hearing things. Why would he be here now?


The deep voice became louder. “Macie? It’s me. Carter. Carter McKay.”


“Carter?”


“Yeah. Where are you?” Ooof exploded from his lungs as she tackled him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs clamped his waist like visegrips. She’d didn’t care he was sopping wet; she didn’t care that she immediately burst into tears.


“Hey, now. Ssh. It’s okay. I’m here, darlin’. I’ve got you. Ssh. Take a deep breath.”


He slammed the door shut with his foot, and walked sideways through the galley style kitchen. He cursed when his knee hit the edge of the mattress and they half-fell on the bed.


Macie clung to him.


Carter shifted her body. He settled her on his lap, not attempting to disentangle the death grip her limbs had on him. His hands stroked her back, soothing her. He rested his chin on her head.


Her breath stuttered. She buried her face in his solid warmth. After she’d regained some semblance of calm, she sighed.


“Better?” he murmured.


“A little.”


“Pleased as I am to have you in my arms, can I ask why you’re actin’ so…”


Please, don’t say childish.


“…skittish?”


Although thankful he wasn’t making fun of her, she couldn’t find the guts to answer.


“Macie?”


She wasn’t surprised he kept prodding her. But it was his gentle tone that made her whisper, “Because I hate storms.”


“I kinda guessed that.”


Rain beat on the roof in the silence, mocking her fear.


“I’ve been terrified of them since I was a kid.”


“Why?”


She didn’t answer.