Rode Hard, Put Up Wet (Rough Riders #2)(78)

Macie stared at the paper for the longest time. She whispered, “Carter McKay, you are such a dumbass.” And right then, she had no doubts that she was indeed, completely, madly in love with him.


Chapter Thirty-two


“Excuse me. Is this the studio of famous Wyoming artist in residence, Carter


‘shoulda been a cowboy’ McKay?”


Carter spun around and grinned. “Jack! You bastard. ’Bout goddamn time you got here.”


“You do realize I’m not living in Denver anymore and I had to fly in? I’ve been stuck in the rental car for five hours. Without satellite radio.” He dropped his duffel bag and scowled. “Can you please tell me why every single station around these parts plays nothing but that goat yodeling crap?”


“Hey, some of us like Western music.”


“Yeah, well, you’re a hick, so I expected that much from you.” Jack stalked over and grabbed him in a bear hug. “Good to see you, man, you look like shit.”


“Gee, thanks.” Carter gave Jack—all six-foot-four, two hundred odd pounds of him—a quick inspection. “You look a little tight-assed yourself. Wearin’ pinstriped underwear under your pinstriped suits these days?”


“Fuck off. Where’s the beer?”


“In the cooler by the door.”


“Cool. You care if we sit outside? I’ve been cooped up all damn day. Need some of that fresh mountain air.”


“Nope. I need a break anyway.”


Once they’d settled in lawn chairs with the cooler between them, and a cold beer in each hand, Jack sighed. “So where’s the fire?”


“What’d you mean?”


“Why was it so damn urgent I haul balls up here?”


Carter didn’t say anything for several minutes.


“If it’s anything less than you telling me you’re dying, I’m going to beat your sorry ass into the dirt, McKay.”


Carter kept staring off into space, lost in the vast prairie and his guilty thoughts.


“Shit. I was kidding. You aren’t dying, are you?”


“No.”


“Then what?” Recognition dawned on Jack’s face. “It’s about a woman, isn’t it?”


“Yep.”


“You knock her up?”


Carter tossed his beer can off to the side of his chair and cracked a fresh one.


“Nope.” He downed half the contents. “I’m crazy about her. So crazy about her in fact, that I want you to do something for me.”


“What? Be your best man?”


“No. I want you to f*ck her.”


Beer spewed out of Jack’s mouth. “Jesus Christ, Carter!”


“What?”


“You can’t just blurt out something like that…dammit.”


He waited.


“I don’t even know what the hell to say.”


“Simple. Say yes. It ain’t like we’ve never had a threesome, Jack.”


Jack stared at him. “True. But it’s been a few years and we were usually drunk. And neither of us gave a crap about the women who were bold enough to take us both on.


That last time, hell, we didn’t even bother to learn her name.”


Man. Had he really been that callous?


Yes. Maybe Carter was more like his wild brothers than he cared to admit.


“What’s really going on here, McKay?”


“Honestly?”


Jack nodded.


“You laugh and I’ll kick your ass, former linebacker or not.” Carter fiddled with the tab on the beer can. “This woman? I had impressions about her, almost like cognitive daydreams, before I ever met her. Drove me crazy, I kept tryin’ to work her likeness into clay, and wood, or on paper. Nothin’ worked. Then I actually, physically met her. Yeah. I was a little freaked out about it. And she’s better in real life than in those dreams.”


“What’s her name?”


“Macie.”


“How long have you known her?”


“Seems like forever.”


Jack frowned. “She a cowgirl?”


“What makes you ask that?”


“You’ve always had a thing for sweet little country girls.” Jack scowled again.



“Personally, I don’t understand the attraction. And I can guarantee you’ll never see me with a cowgirl. Never.”


Carter kept drinking.


“So. Is she from around here?”


“Sort of. Not really.”


“Okay, that’s vague. What’s she like?”


“She’s…damn. She’s everything. But she’s also damn young.”


“Like Jerry Lee Lewis young? Great balls of fire, you jonesin’ for a thirteen-year-old girl, McKay?”


“No, you f*ckin’ pervert. She’s twenty-two.”