shirt.”
He looked down to see his chest exposed nearly down to the waist, bandages and all. “Hey, I didn’t unbutton it.”
She let out an exasperated breath and leaned toward him, her fingers brushing his sore ribs as she struggled to fasten the buttons she’d clawed loose. He took pity on her and helped, which probably slowed things down as their fingers tangled together. Her gaze flashed up to meet his and skittered away again. She bit her lip and concentrated on the buttons.
When she finished the last one and started to pull away, he took her hands in his own, holding them against his chest.
“Does this mean we’re not having sex?”
“Lane, shh.” She nodded toward a group of men emerging from the nearby car. “Tuck in your shirt and let’s go.” She was all business now, except for the flush that reddened her neck and cheeks. He wondered if it was embarrassment or passion or if she was just pissed off. Probably all three.
He shoved his shirttail into the waistband of his jeans, wincing as his hand hit his still-eager buddy down below. She turned to him, her eyes stern, and he had to resist the urge to kiss her into submission again.
She smoothed her shirt and he almost groaned as the fabric tightened over her breasts.
“Is there any sign of… anything?” she asked. “Can you tell what happened?”
“Not by looking at you. Maybe by looking at me, though.”
Her eyes flicked downward and away, her cheeks flushing.
“Want to go for that beer?”
She swallowed. “Sure.”
She gave him a stiff little nod and he wondered what had happened to the woman who’d kissed him a moment ago. She was all tense now, and he couldn’t think of a thing to say to her as they headed past the bright lights of the midway and made their way through the dimly lit parking lot. He usually found it easy to talk to women. He talked, they giggled. Then they went to bed, and he didn’t have to talk anymore. But that obviously wasn’t the way it was going to go tonight.
Most of the concession stands were closed for the night, but a string of plastic chili pepper lights glowed red against the buff canvas of the beer tent. The catcalls and whoops of celebrating cowboys drifted through the canvas and swirled on the night air, mixing with the sharp scents of spices and barbecued meat. Sarah kicked a stone with the toe of her boot and sent it skittering across the walkway. Lane looked down and froze.
“What’s with the boots?”
She pulled her wallet out of her pocket and pulled out a five for the cover charge, ignoring Lane’s efforts to pay. “Nothing.”
She edged through the crowd and plopped down in a folding chair, swinging her feet under a long table that looked like it had been borrowed from a school cafeteria. A couple guys waved at Lane, but he nodded and sat down beside Sarah, bending down to tug at the hem of her jeans. “Let me see those.”
They were brown leather cowboy boots, square-toed and unadorned. They weren’t girlie fashion footwear with fancy tooling; they were working boots. Judging from the worn, scuffed leather, they’d been used and used hard.
She pulled her foot away. “They’re cowboy boots. Is that a problem?”
“Real cowboy boots.”
She tucked her feet under her chair and he knew he’d scored a point. He just didn’t know how.
“No city girl has boots like that.”
“This city girl does.” She shrugged and looked away. “They come that way these days.”
This was getting interesting. He’d seen the so-called “distressed leather” boots they sold in stores. Sarah’s were the real thing, broke in, broken down, and used damn near to death.
He was sure now that she was lying about the horse thing. And he definitely wanted to go on with the game.
***
Sarah glanced around the crowded interior of the tent, searching for familiar faces. Humboldt was far enough from Two Shot that she might go unnoticed—but there was a chance somebody would turn up who knew her when.
When she’d been dirt-poor trailer trash. When she’d been the daughter of a drunk, the only defender of a family that fed the gossip vine like Miracle-Gro fed potted plants.
“Shit,” she muttered, then winced. She wasn’t thinking. She hadn’t been thinking when she let him kiss her, and she hadn’t been thinking when she swore like some spunky heroine in a Reba McEntire song, either. He was scoring points right and left, and she was losing