Heart of a Rebel: A Cowboys of the Flint Hills Novel

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Brodie stood staring as the screen door slammed shut behind Jamey. Damn. She was good. And way too sexy for her skinny frame. The smirk she’d shot him indicating she knew she’d won this round had gone straight to his balls. He needed to have a talk with his balls. Jamey wasn’t remotely his type. But the whole time they’d talked, he’d found himself focusing on the way her mouth moved.

He had no desire to kiss her. None whatsoever.

Except that suddenly he did.

Damn.

Where the hell had that thought come from?

She was too tall. Too skinny. Too mouthy. But there were surprising benefits to having a woman’s face so close to his own. For starters, he could see every expression, every thought that passed over her features. Second, he was close enough to observe the crinkles around her eyes and the faint freckles splashed across her nose. Third, he wouldn’t have to tilt his head to swoop in for a kiss. Her mouth was right there. Ready for him. All he’d have to do is step close.

Blowing out a breath, he tossed the scrubber in the sink. He wasn’t going to consent to dish duty. Not when there was a party to help wrap up. Dusk would be falling soon, and he and Ben would have to saddle the bride and groom’s getaway horses before they began the fireworks. He wanted the horses well on their way before it got noisy. He had half a mind to collect Simon and take him to the barn to show him how to turn the horses out to pasture. Then he could supervise Simon in the horse saddling. The kid was smart. Learned fast. But he didn’t quite have the mechanics down well enough to saddle horses by himself.

Brodie stepped out on the back porch and surveyed the party before him. The late afternoon sun lit everything in gold, and sharpened the contrast between light and shadow. He scanned the dance floor but didn’t see Jamey. Where was she?

Back over by the buffet table. Head bent toward Travis f*****g Kincaid. Jealousy shot through him with the force of a charging bull.

Huh.

She wasn’t his type. He couldn’t possibly be jealous. Maybe he needed one of the celebratory Irish whiskey shots being passed around by her brothers. That would scratch the insane itch that had developed around her.

He spotted her brothers standing in a circle with Mason Carter, Blake’s college roommate and a billionaire playboy. Stepping off the porch, he made a beeline for them, narrowly avoiding Millie Prescott, who ran the local organic market.

He should ask her to dance. She was more his type. Curvy, soft spoken, vivacious. He glanced back at Jamey, who was still speaking with Travis. She threw her head back in laughter just then, and jealousy surged again.

No way.

He wasn’t jealous. He couldn’t be. Shaking the feeling off as he reached the men, he extended his hand. “How about a toast, gents?”

Jarrod, the obvious ringleader, looked him up and down.

Brodie got the distinct feeling he was being measured and wasn’t quite up to snuff. The desire to put these city boys in place surged through him. He stood his ground and looked each of them in the eye.

Jason, another of Jamey’s brothers, clapped him on the back. “Seein’ as we’re almost family, you bet.”

Mason handed him a glass.

“Sláinte,” saluted another brother whose name Brodie hadn’t caught.

Clearing his throat, he lifted his glass. “To the bride and groom.” He tipped his head back and swallowed the fiery fluid, feeling every bit of its heat sliding down his throat.

The whiskey didn’t do anything to cool the itch. If anything, it made it more persistent. Would Jamey taste like a shot of Irish whiskey?

Jarrod stepped close. “I noticed you following our sister.”

“Just making sure the guests are happy.”

Jarrod’s eyes narrowed. “So long as that’s all it is.”

Defiance pressed against his chest, and he lifted his chin a notch. “You have a problem with me, city boy?” He’d be damned if he’d be subjected to this kind of scrutiny on his own property.

Jarrod stepped closer and took a sip of his whiskey. “We see the way you look at our sister.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Jason crossed his arms, biceps bulging. Was he the firefighter? Brodie couldn’t keep them straight. “Like she’s a five course meal.”

Huh.

He’d show them how wrong they were. He gave them his best smile. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, gents. The one you gotta watch out for is Travis.” Brodie c****d his head over his shoulder, sliding another glance Jamey’s direction. She was laughing with Travis. Again.

The brothers moved as one.

“Thanks for the drink,” he called after them. He kept his eyes trained on the brothers as they descended on Jamey and Travis. Jamey stepped away and caught his eye, giving him a scathing glare.

He waved his fingers at her, chuckling. Then mouthed the words “Payback” before he drifted away to search for Simon. Another round for him. She’d probably make him pay next time, but he didn’t care.

Thirty minutes later, he still hadn’t found Simon. Blake had signaled that he and Maddie were more than ready to escape the party, and it was past time to saddle up. Maybe Simon was waiting for him at the barn. So long as he didn’t handle the horses.

Brodie began to make his way to the barn, stopping to accept congratulations every few yards. He was halfway to the barn when he realized Jamey was in front of him, wobbling her way across the bumps and ruts. What was she doing away from the party? And trying to navigate the barnyard in frilly shoes?

Suddenly, she stopped and bent double. Was she hurt? He quickened his pace. “Jamey?” he called after her. A shudder wracked her body and she lurched forward, obviously heading for the barn. What the everloving f**k was going on? “Jamey. Wait.”

She heard him this time, if her dismissive wave was any evidence.

The barn door opened. Simon stood straining against the heavy door. s**t. Shit.Shit.Shit.

Blake’s horse, Blaze, stood saddled. But Brodie could tell from the tilt of the saddle that the cinch was loose. Simon must have tried to saddle him alone. He broke into a jog, calling to the boy. “Simon. Stay there. I’ll be right there.”

A flash of movement by the corral caught his attention. The McPherson boys had found their stash of fireworks. Goddammit. Axel and Gunnar had assured him the fireworks were stashed out of sight. “Boys, get out of there,” he bellowed. What in the hell were those boys doing down here anyway? Then he caught it. The whiff of cigarette smoke.

Of course.

Three things happened simultaneously. An object bounced off the barn door. Simon reached for the reins hanging from Blaze’s bridle. And Jamey finally stopped to stare at him.

The air filled with the deafening sounds of firecrackers. Christ almighty. Did the boys have to choose the string of Black Cats? At the same time, Blaze reared, pulling Simon.

“Let go, Simon. Let go of the reins,” Brodie yelled, breaking into a run. Blaze gave a little hop and bolted, saddle listing precariously, heading straight for Jamey. The horse was going to trample her.

“Jamey. MOVE.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the McPherson boys hopping the corral fence. He’d deal with them later. He had to reach Jamey. She stood frozen to the ground. He charged with a final burst of speed, and captured her waist, diving and twisting so that she landed on top of him.

“Oomph.” The air left his lungs in a whoosh, and her startled eyes met his. He caressed the back of her head. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” For a moment, he’d visualized the worst, and his heart had leapt to his throat. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to her.

She shifted on top of him, and he became aware of her thighs pressed against his. Hard and muscular. His other hand rested dangerously close to her a*s. The urge to squeeze and caress her radiated through him. All he’d have to do is raise his head, and her mouth would belong to him.

She arched her back, pulling away from him. “What in the devil’s whiskers are you playin’ at, Brodie Sinclaire?”

He gave her a wry smile. “Glad to see your Irish is intact.”

“Jamey, Jamey. Are you okay?” A worried Simon appeared above him.

A curious light flashed in Jamey’s eyes. “I’m fine, kiddo. Just had the wind knocked out of me by Cowboy Courageous, here. Help me up?”

Simon extended his hand. “I thought for sure Blaze was going to run you over.”

“Nah. I’m too ornery.” She pushed off him, and took Simon’s hand, hauling herself up. She dusted herself off and glanced back at Brodie, her face all business.

He pushed himself to sitting, looping his hands over his knees. “Simon. What were you doing down here by yourself? You could have been trampled when the horse spooked.”

Simon’s eyes widened. “I guess I didn’t think of that.”

Brodie shook his head grimly. “I know you didn’t. You have to remember there are reasons for our rules. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

A look of panic crossed Simon’s face. “Are you going to send me home? I didn’t mean to, honest. I wanted to help.”

Brodie pushed himself to his feet and crossed to Simon in two steps, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “No one’s going to send you anywhere. You’re a Sinclaire. This is your home. Even when you make mistakes. Hell, I’ve been making mistakes on this ranch my whole life, and I’m still here. Just do your best, and follow the rules.”

Simon’s arms wrapped around his waist. “You won’t tell, will you?”

He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Yep. I’ve got to. Part of being a man is taking your lumps when you mess up. Now go find Ben and let him know about the McPherson boys. Gloria’s going to tan their hides.”

“Sure thing.” Simon gave him an extra squeeze, then took off for the Big House at a jog.

The horses could be properly saddled once he assured himself Jamey was really okay. Blaze had circled the barnyard, and stood about ten yards away, munching on a patch of spring grass.

Brodie gave a low whistle to the horse, gently strolling closer. Blaze gave him a side-eye, but remained where he was. “Come on, boy.” He kept his voice low. “Come on back. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

He kept advancing on the horse, murmuring soft endearments until he came abreast of him. Reaching out, he gave Blaze a gentle stroke along his neck. “See? You’re okay. Come on back.” Brodie slowly reached down and clasped the reins. Blaze’s ears flicked, but the horse didn’t back up.

“You’re good with him, you know,” Jamey called out behind him.

Warmth blossomed and settled low in his gut. “I’ve been around horses my whole life.”

“I meant Simon.”

Pride surged through him. Jamey didn’t seem like the kind who freely dished out compliments. “You sure you okay?” Better to steer the conversation to safer territory. For both of them. “Before the horse spooked–”

She raised her hand, mouth tightening. “I’m fine. Really.” She lifted her dress and picked her way over the bumpy ground to the corral fence.

He followed her with Blaze, looping the horse’s reins over the fence post. “Why are you down here? Why’d you leave the party?”

Jamey stared across the corral, brows furrowed, refusing to meet his eyes. “What is this, twenty questions?”

Whatever had been bothering her must have passed. She was back to her usual piss and vinegar. “You’re a pain in the a*s, you know?” he growled.

“You’re not the first person who’s told me that.” She held her body rigid.

“You’re prickly as hell and you drive me crazy.” He reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. Soft and silky. Just like he’d imagined.

Her lips flattened grimly. “You know what your problem is?”

“Let me guess,” he drawled. “I’m a cocky bastard.” That, at least, earned him a half-smile.

“You’re all hot air. Like a popover.”

He scowled at her. “What do you mean?”

“You know, a popover. All air and no substance. A two-hundred-pound popover.”

He pushed down a flash of annoyance. “And you know what you are? Some kind of insane Irish crazy. First you threaten to serve my balls on a platter, then you say I’m great with Simon. Now I’m a popover? You need lessons in good natured flirting.” He focused his attention on tightening the cinch, and double-checking Simon’s work on the halter.

Indignation crackled off of her. “I know how to flirt just fine.”

He gave Blaze a little pat and checked the cinch one last time. “Do you now? Not unless your prickles are all an act.” He aimed a pointed glance at her. “Maybe you’re the popover in this relationship.”

She snorted. “This isn’t a relationship. It’s an… annoyance.”

“You’re right. Relationships involve willing parties. And kissing.”

She glared at him. “Not interested.”

He crossed his arms. “Neither am I.”

“You’re not my type.”

“You’re the farthest thing from mine.”

“I don’t date cocky bastards.”

“I don’t date bossy mouths.”

She raised her eyebrows quizzically. “You think I’m bossy?”

“You think you’re not?”

A blush crawled up her neck, mirroring his own rising agitation. “I didn’t get to be one of the top chefs in Chicago by sitting quietly on my hands and waiting to be told what to do.” Anger laced through her voice.

Setting his jaw, he tugged on her hand and started for the barn.

“Are you a sandwich short of a picnic you gobslice? Where are you takin’ me?”

“I may be an arse w**d, or a gobslice, or whatever else Irish you want to throw at me, but I’m not enough of an a*s to ruin my brother’s wedding by having an argument in plain sight of the bride and groom,” he ground out, leading her around the corner of the barn.

As soon as they were out of sight of the guests, he pulled up short, and spun around, pulling her close.

She clutched at his arms to avoid falling into him, and something slow and sensuous twisted in his gut. “Tell me again I’m not your type,” he rasped.

Her eyes widened a bit, and she rolled her lips together, shaking her head. “Not even close.”

“And you’re not mine. Not remotely.”

“Good.” Her response came out more like a sigh than a statement.

He nodded, his gaze locking on her lips. “Good.” He paused, the air suddenly crackling between them. “Then you won’t mind if I confirm it.” Without waiting for an answer, he tightened his embrace and covered her mouth with his.

There was nothing soft about her. Her thighs against his were hard. The muscles under his hands, rigid. But her mouth was another story. Her lips were softer than his favorite down pillow. He moved his own against them, willing her to open. And with a shudder and a sigh, she did. Hunger flooded his veins, urging him on. He swept his tongue across her lower lip, exploring.

Tasting.

Sweet as honey and soft as silk. He drank her in like she was the last drop of water in the well. A groan ripped from his throat as he spun her against the wall, his hand fisting in her dress.

She deepened the kiss, inviting him in further. Her own tongue sliding against his in a battle of wills. His c**k stood rigid against his denim. And he ground against her, at the threshold of losing control.

Jesus.

If her mouth tasted this good, what about the rest of her? Her p***y must be a slice of Irish heaven. His balls tightened at the thought of dropping to his knees right now and lifting her skirt.

Just as quickly as it started, she gave him a push, and tore her lips from his, eyes glazed and gasping for breath. “Have you lost your marbles you nutter? You can’t go kissing me.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I-I-I have a business partner.” She crossed her arms.

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

“We- we’re… getting married.”

His eyes flew to her bare left hand, then back to her face. “Bullshit,” he stated flatly, rubbing his hand over his face.

Her eyes widened.

“That’s right. I call bullshit. If you haven’t already married him, darlin’, and from the looks of your left hand, it appears you haven’t, he ain’t interested.”

She scowled at him, eyes sparking in challenge. “And you know this because?”

He braced an arm against the wall, leaning in close. So close her breath tickled his skin. “Because I don’t care how scrawny and mouthy you are, I’d never let you out of my sight if you were mine.”

Before she could protest, and before he could stop himself, he brushed his lips against hers one last time, savoring the sensation. Then he pushed away from the wall, and stalked around the corner back to the party. Only a two-by-four to the head and a bottle of scotch would purge Jamey Irish Whiskey O’Neill from his system.