The Rebel and the Cowboy (The Carmody Brothers Book 2) Page 2

  “He’s one hundred percent douche canoe, with a sprinkling of asshole on top,” Eva said.

  “Then let’s do this,” Sierra said, pulling out her wallet to settle her bill.

  Five minutes later, Eva was sitting in Big Bertha, engine running, waiting for it to truly sink in that her accommodation crisis was solved. It had only chewed up an hour of her day, too, which meant she could still scout out the grain elevator and get a feel for the town.

  Then she just had to convince McGregor Construction and the Marietta Chamber of Commerce to take a chance on her when she met with them tomorrow afternoon.

  Because that was all she needed—just one chance, one opportunity. After all these years of paying her dues, surely that wasn’t too much to ask? She had the runs on the board; she’d just never been acknowledged or credited for all her hard work.

  She could knock this out of the park—if someone was prepared to let her take a swing.

  She realized she was strangling the steering wheel, her knuckles white with the strength of her grip.

  It’s okay. You’ve got this. You can do this.

  And if she couldn’t… Well, that was a rabbit hole to disappear down another day.

  Up ahead, Sierra pulled away from the curb, and Eva followed suit. One foot in front of the other. That was the only way she was going to get through the next few days.

  *

  Casey Carmody was in the barn when he heard the sound of cars pulling into the yard. Wiping dusty hands on the seat of his jeans, he adjusted his hat and headed out into the sunlight to meet their prospective houseguest.

  It was so Sierra to offer a helping hand to a random stranger she’d met at the diner. His sister had a heart the size of Texas and had never been able to stand by when someone was in need. Casey, on the other hand, was a little more cynical, and his gaze was quietly assessing as he took in the woman talking to his sister in front of a faded black van.

  She was standing side-on to him, but he could see she was boyishly slim, with short, white-blond hair. She was wearing a pair of black skinny jeans with a white T-shirt, and her black Chuck Taylor sneakers were splattered with paint. As he watched, she gestured with her right arm and he registered a brightly colored tattoo on her bicep.

  City girl, was his first thought.

  “Casey. Come meet Eva,” Sierra called, gesturing for him to join them.

  The blonde woman turned to face him fully as he approached, and he found himself looking into a pair of very blue eyes as she smiled at him.

  “Casey. Great to meet you,” she said, offering him her hand.

  “You, too,” Casey said, a little surprised by the wiry strength in her grip and how pretty she was, something he hadn’t picked up from her profile.

  “Please tell me you had a chance to check out the trailer before we got here,” Sierra said.

  “Gave it a once-over. Bar fridge is working, but the stove isn’t.”

  “That’s fine,” Eva said quickly. “I can barely cook toast, so I don’t need a stove, just somewhere to rest my weary head for a day or two.”

  “Unless you get the commission,” Sierra said.

  “Right. But let’s cross that bridge when I come to it. If I come to it,” Eva said, flashing his sister a smile.

  She had a dimple in her cheek. Casey tried not to stare at it, or to notice the way her small breasts pressed against the fabric of her T-shirt when she slid both hands into the back pockets of her jeans.

  “Eva is an artist,” Sierra explained. “She’s hoping to get a commission to paint a mural on the grain elevator out at the Clarke place.”

  Casey nodded. He’d never been great at small talk, especially with strangers. “Good luck with that.”

  “Thanks,” Eva said, her gaze traveling down and then up his body, checking him out.

  “Well, let’s get this over with, put you out of your misery,” Sierra said.

  The two women moved off, and Casey’s gaze gravitated to Eva King’s butt. Small and shapely, it looked as though it would fit perfectly into a man’s hands.

  He frowned, a little thrown by the strength of his reaction. Eva King was not beautiful or built, but there was something in the way she walked and the way she’d met his eye that spoke to him.

  She was sexy, and he found himself following her and his sister, drawn like an iron filing to a magnet.

  “I love it. It’s perfect,” Eva said the moment she rounded the corner of the barn and saw the trailer.

  Situated on a concrete apron, the shiny aluminum Airstream had been in place for more than thirty years and was framed by well-established trees and bushes, giving it a homey, cozy appearance.

  “Wait until you see inside,” Sierra warned.

  “I’m pretty low maintenance,” Eva said. “Unless there’s a cesspit in the middle of the floor, I am about to be eternally grateful that I sat next to you at the diner this afternoon.”

  She stepped up into the trailer and glanced inside, then turned to address Sierra.

  “No cesspit. I’m now officially your slave for life.”

  “Get out of here,” Sierra scoffed, laughing.

  Eva grinned, and Casey took a step backward, alarmed by the surge of animal interest that pulsed through him at the sight of her all lit up with pleasure.

  Yep, she was definitely sexy. Maybe a little too sexy for his peace of mind.

  Just as well she was only staying a night or two.

  “If the offer is still open, I would love to rent this place for a couple of nights,” Eva said.

  “Of course. Done,” Sierra said.

  Eva’s gaze shifted to Casey as though seeking his agreement, too, and he dipped his chin in a nod and offered her a quick smile.

  “Fantastic. Phew. That is such a load off, I can’t tell you,” Eva said.

  She glanced over her shoulder into the trailer, relief and satisfaction radiating off her. The action showcased her small breasts for the second time in as many minutes and Casey forced himself to look away.

  “You need help with your bags?” he asked.

  “Oh, thank you, but I’m fine.”

  “Don’t mind helping out,” he said.

  “Thanks, but I’m good,” she said. “I always make a point of traveling light.”

  Sierra hopped onto the bottom step. “I’ll show you the trick to folding the bed down.”

  Both women disappeared inside the trailer, and Casey hovered for a beat.

  Then he realized what he was doing—angling for more face time with Eva King—and turned away.

  He had stuff to finish in the barn, and it was his turn to start dinner.

  Plus, there was no point investing any energy in a woman who was going to be gone in two days, no matter how hot she was.

  Only a fool would do that.

  Chapter Two

  Eva shaded her eyes, tilting her head back so she could take in the full width and height of the old Clarke grain elevator. Her laser measure told her it was one hundred and twenty feet high by forty-two feet wide, but it seemed much larger. Its timber boards were silvered with age, some still boasting the faded, peeling remnants of barn-red paint.

  She’d have to sandblast the whole south-facing wall before she could even think about painting, and prep it with a suitable sealer and primer to ensure the longevity of her work. Any rotten boards would have to be pulled out and replaced.

  But what a canvas it would make, truly heroic in scale.

  She could feel the thud-thud of her heart within her ribcage as she absorbed the potential of the site. So many possibilities, and no matter what the subject, the finished work would be imposing.

  Maybe even inspiring.

  The late afternoon sun beat down on her as she walked back to the van to grab her digital camera and tripod. The one advantage of having driven Big Bertha all the way from LA was that she hadn’t been forced to be stingy with her gear, which would have been the case if she’d flown. Setting up the tripod, she took a
series of shots of the elevator, trying to capture a sense of the structure in its environment. Later, she’d download the images and use them to finalize her pitch for tomorrow’s meeting.

  Her stomach did a nervous loop-the-loop as she thought about how important the next twenty-four hours would be for her career. Her whole life, really. If she could convince the Marietta Chamber of Commerce to take a chance on her, she was off and running. If she couldn’t… She didn’t want to think about the hard choices she’d have to make if she couldn’t get someone to believe in her.

  She needed to make this work. Needed to bring her A game and put her best foot forward.

  And yet annoyingly—distractingly—an image kept insinuating itself into her thoughts as she worked: Casey Carmody stepping out of the shadow of the barn and walking toward her, his lean, hard body showcased to perfection by worn jeans and a plain black T-shirt.

  It had been more than two hours since that moment in the Carmodys’ yard, but every time she thought about it, Eva experienced an echo of the visceral jolt she’d felt when she’d looked into his eyes for the first time.

  She lived in LA, surrounded by some of the most beautiful, manicured, sculpted people in the world, but she was pretty sure she’d never seen a man as beautiful as Casey Carmody. Not in the flesh.

  And yes, beautiful was the right word, even though there was nothing remotely feminine about his features. He had the same true green eyes as his sister, the same dark hair, but his jaw was clean cut, his cheekbones chiseled.

  And then there was his body—broad shoulders, flat belly, lean, muscular legs. Pretty much every woman’s fantasy cowboy, really.

  Eva had had trouble focusing on what Sierra was saying, she’d been so caught off guard. And now here she was, thinking about Casey Carmody when she should be concentrating on her work.

  You don’t have time for this kind of crap, King.

  She so didn’t. Not to mention she was still licking her wounds over her breakup with Dane. She honestly hadn’t had a sexual thought or urge in months—until Sierra’s brother had walked out of the shadows and she’d had a whole, messy bunch of them all at once.

  Crazy, and stupid, and more than a little inappropriate. And it was going to stop now, because she needed to concentrate.

  Shaking her head, she removed the camera from the tripod and took a number of atmospheric landscape shots, focusing particularly on including majestic Copper Mountain with its snow-capped peak. It was so much a part of the landscape, it would be criminal not to include it in her pitch document. Then she drove into town and tried to capture the essence of Marietta within the frame of her camera. She shot the stately courthouse, with its curved dome, along with the Main Street Diner, inside and outside. She shot the grand library, and the well-tended park, and the neat, charming storefronts on Main Street. She felt like she’d hit the mother lode when she stumbled on the deserted fairgrounds on the other side of the river, home to the town’s annual rodeo, using up a large portion of her memory card on a bronze statue of a horse and rider she found there, and the empty concrete bleachers and shuttered concession stands.

  She made a final stop at the supermarket to pick up some bits and pieces for dinner, then made her way back out to the Carmody ranch.

  There was no sign of any of the Carmodys as she parked and gathered her things. Eva shot a glance toward the low, ranch-style house with its wraparound porch, noting the row of roses that grew along the front and the huge yellow pine that shadowed the rear corner of the yard. Sierra said she lived her with her two brothers. She hadn’t mentioned any wives or partners. So did that mean Casey was single?

  None of your freaking business, idiot.

  Annoyed with herself, she hefted her shopping bags and started across the yard. She was here in Marietta for one purpose, and one purpose only. End of story.

  *

  “Sorry I’m late, got held up,” Casey said as he swung through the door of his friend’s garage.

  He’d heard the rest of the guys jamming as he drove up, and they kept playing as he unpacked his Gretsch acoustic guitar, Danny throwing him a smile to let him know they got it.

  All four members of The Whiskey Shots had full-time jobs they had to put ahead of their music, and they’d all been late to practice one time or another.

  “All right, let’s get this show on the road,” Wyatt said, his fingers stilling on his Yamaha keyboard as Casey settled his guitar strap over his shoulder. “You got any updates on ‘Been Too Long,’ Carmody?”

  Casey pulled copies of his latest effort from his back pocket and handed them out to Danny, Wyatt, and Rory, watching their faces as they quickly scanned the pages.

  “Hey, I like what you did with the bridge,” Rory said.

  “Yeah, cool chord progression. Why don’t we play it out and see how it sounds?” Wyatt suggested, pushing his black-framed glasses back up his nose.

  “Let’s do it,” Casey said with a shrug.

  It might be his song, but he wasn’t against making changes or trying new arrangements. None of the Shots ever let their egos get in the way of finessing a promising song. It was one of the reasons they worked so well together—they’d all agreed early on that egos and bullshit would be checked at the door. None of them wanted to get caught up in drama when they could be making music.

  Danny counted them in, tapping his drumsticks together to find the beat, then they all jumped into the opening verse.

  “It’s been too long, baby, and there’ve been too many miles between us, too many nights I’ve spent drinking on my own…” Casey sang.

  He felt the familiar tingle at the back of his neck when the song built momentum as they headed for the first chorus. Rory caught his eye, grinning and nodding, and Casey’s chest seemed to expand as the music swelled and Wyatt added his backup vocals to Casey’s.

  “Something’s gotta change, because I can’t live with this pain, something’s gotta change around here…”

  The beat drove them all forward, everything coming together, and by the time he was singing the final verse Casey knew they’d found their next song. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close, and they were all silent for a long moment when the song was finished. Then Danny hit the crash cymbal and gave the bass drum a mighty kick.

  “That was fucking awesome,” he said, grinning ear to ear, and Casey could only laugh in agreement.

  “Did it again, Case,” Rory said, patting him on the back.

  Casey was already pulling out a pencil and making notes on his copy. “Still not completely happy with that bridge. Felt like we lost something there at the very start. What do you boys think?”

  The rest of the session flew by as they noodled around with his song some more before finalizing the set list for their monthly gig on Thursday night at Grey’s Saloon. They were still arguing over whether to end with a ballad or Casey’s new song when Wyatt announced he had to go.

  “My turn to do dinner, and you know Louanne will destroy me if I’m late home,” he said.

  “It pains me to see you scared of your own wife, man,” Danny said, shaking his head in mock commiseration.

  “It’s true, I’m a pitiful creature,” Wyatt said, beaming happily.

  Everyone knew he didn’t mean it, not for a second, and they were all smiling to themselves as they began packing away their instruments. Since it was Danny’s garage, this meant simply tossing an old bed sheet over his kit before helping himself to a beer from the battered fridge in the corner.

  As always after a session, Casey felt loose and light and just a little wired. Music had always had that effect on him, even from a young age. Which explained why he couldn’t let it go, even though he knew his energies would probably be better directed elsewhere. The ranch could always absorb extra man-hours, and if he was less engaged with his music, it stood to reason he’d be putting in more back home.

  The thing was, he couldn’t imagine his life without this time with the boys, without songs in his head, and t
he itch to pick up his guitar to flesh out an idea. Didn’t want to imagine it.

  “You boys got anything exciting going on for the rest of the week?” Rory asked as he wound up the cord for his amp.

  “Nothing exciting this end,” Danny said with a shrug. “Case?”

  For some reason the memory of a woman with deep cornflower blue eyes and slight yet provocative curves filled Casey’s head.

  “Same old same old,” he said. “You know.”

  “You guys kill me,” Wyatt said. “I’d be out every night if I was a free man, making the most of my youth.”

  “Dude, do you have any idea how old it makes you sound when you say crap like that?” Rory asked.

  “Yeah, you’re twenty-nine, only a year older than me and Casey. Get a grip on this Old Father Time routine,” Danny said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing thermals and talking about getting enough fiber.”

  “Here’s a deal—I’ll stop acting old if you two start acting young,” Wyatt said, indicating Casey and Danny, both of whom were single. “Next time we’re at a gig and the girls come up afterward, take down a few numbers.”

  “Thanks for the dating advice, Grandpa,” Danny said.

  They all cracked up.

  “Fine. Have it your way. I’m going home to my wife and children,” Wyatt said.

  “Whoa, before you go,” Rory said, reaching out to grab Wyatt’s arm to haul him back. “Did you guys hear they’re running a competition for undiscovered bands out of Radio KUPR in Billings?”

  Danny’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah? What’s the prize?”

  “Time in a recording studio and ten thousand cash. Plus all finalists get air play, regardless of who wins,” Rory reported.

  Danny and Wyatt glanced at Casey, waiting for his reaction. Like it or not, as lead singer he tended to be the default leader of the band.

  “Don’t look at me. What do you guys think?” he said.

  “We could always enter, just to see what happens,” Wyatt said, feeling his way into the idea.