“You’re relentless.”
“I try.”
Raney rose and took his hand. “Lead on. And don’t whine about stomped toes.”
* * *
After the first half-dozen missteps, Dalton learned to anticipate where she would stomp next and kept his feet moving. Luckily his boots had steel toes. He didn’t really mind that she danced like a heifer in heels, or spent most of her time looking down between them at her feet, or kept apologizing every time she stumbled. But it seemed to bother her a lot, so he did the only thing he could do—pulled her tight against his body, locked his arm firmly around her slender rib cage, and told her to quit trying so hard and listen to the music.
“I’ve got you,” he shouted into her sweet-smelling hair. “I promise I won’t let you go. Just follow my lead.”
It worked. To an extent. Raney wasn’t a woman who easily relinquished control, even on a dance floor, but somehow, they managed. After a few laps, he could feel her body begin to relax against his, and that furrow of worry between her brows went away, and her smile of happy surprise made something clench deep in his chest. She looked so beautiful, her blue eyes sparkling and her cheeks rosy from exertion, and soft, shiny curls bouncing against her shoulders. He hadn’t had so much fun in a long time.
But it also caused a problem for him, having her firm, slim body rubbing up against his. It interfered with his ability to think. Or remember that this wasn’t a good idea. Or that he was fast becoming that guy he’d vowed not to be.
But he persevered. Because it was Raney in his arms. And she was worth it, and he didn’t want whatever dance they had going on between them to ever end.
But a few minutes later, it did, when Jerry announced a short break and turned the music over to the in-house DJ, who immediately opened with a quieter, slower tempo to encourage dancers to fill up on beer while they could. Good marketing ploy, Dalton thought, as he steered Raney back to their table.
“Did I step on your toes a lot?” she asked, taking her seat.
“You’re a great dancer,” he said loyally, scooting his chair closer so he wouldn’t have to shout. At least, that’s what he hoped she’d think, rather than accusing him of putting a move on her. Which he was.
Raney gave him a look. “Liar. I’m terrible. But you made it fun, Dalton, and I thank you for that.”
“I enjoyed it, too.” He leaned closer and whispered into her ear, “Especially the way you felt rubbing up against me, your hips pressed—”
“Oh my God!”
He flinched and sat back as Joss flopped into the chair on the other side of her sister, flushed and breathless. And not happy, it seemed. “What’s up, Buttercup?” he asked.
Ignoring him, Joss grabbed Raney’s arm, her face tense, her words an angry hiss. “You’ll never guess who’s here!”
CHAPTER 12
“Hi, Raney,” a deep voice said.
Dalton looked up, saw a tall guy, dressed like he’d be more comfortable in an accountant’s office than a Texas dance hall, smiling down at the woman beside him. Smiling in a way that implied a past history between them.
“Hello, Trip,” Raney said, the flush of exertion Dalton had so admired fading from her cheeks.
“Mind if I join you?” the interloper asked, smiling all around.
Actually, Dalton did. Joss, too. But he was asking Raney, not them. To give Raney time to make the right decision and send the guy packing, Dalton stood, stretching to his full six-four so the two-inch-shorter man would have to look up to him. He stuck out his hand. “Dalton Cardwell. And you are . . . ?”
“Trip Kaplan. I’m an old friend of Raney’s.” He studied Dalton’s face as they shook hands. “Have we met? You look familiar.”
“Are you a lawyer? Hang around jails a lot? Consider Commissioner Adkins a close personal friend?”
“No.”
“Then we haven’t met.”
Knowing it wasn’t his decision whether the guy stayed or left, Dalton said to Raney, “You want to dance, sweetheart? Or should I get us a beer?”
She got the message. He could tell by the softening of her mouth. “A beer would be nice, Dalton. Thank you.”
“I’ll go with you,” Joss said, and shot to her feet. As soon as they were out of earshot, she said, “You called her sweetheart.”
“Think he noticed?”
“Who cares. He’s an asshole. I hate him.”
Dalton didn’t respond. If Raney wanted him to know about the guy, he’d wait for her to tell him. At least, that’s what he thought in his head. What came out of his mouth was, “Why do you hate him?”
“I told you already. He’s an asshole.”
“Right. Got it.”
“And he treated Raney bad.”
“Does he know she owns a Glock?” he asked, trying to keep it light. Maybe she had it stashed in her truck. Not that he would ever look for it. Or need it.
“Raney’s got a handgun?”
“Maybe.”
They arrived at the bar. Thirsty people stood three deep waiting to order under the watchful eye of Deputy Langers, still standing in his corner, ready to defend the world against rowdy behavior and bawdy language. Another asshole.
“You want anything?” he asked Joss.
“Yeah. But I’m pregnant and can’t have it.”
Dalton took that as a no. Being taller than most, he could see over the heads of those around him, and when he spotted the waitress he had overtipped earlier, he held up two fingers and another ten.
“Trip worked in our accountant’s office,” Joss told him. “They were engaged a couple of years ago.”
“Engaged? To that asshole?” Dalton was surprised how much that bothered him. “He looks like an accountant.” Probably afraid of horses, too.
“I know, right? Not at all Raney’s type.”
“Raney has a type?” Dalton wondered which category he fit into.
“Yeah.” Joss grinned up at him. “Guys like you.”
He grinned back, mollified.
The
