“Amber is the best,” Elmer said.
“Like Annie Oakley?” Jensen’s smile was eager and almost hopeful.
The guy really needed to get a grip on this whole over-the-top Wild West fascination. Of course, it was people like him who would be paying customers, eager to see her show.
“Yes,” Amber admitted, “but when I do trick shooting, it’s in a controlled environment.”
“Oh.” The corners of his lips dropped and a look of dejection crossed his face. “So you don’t really know how to shoot then.”
Heck, the man acted as if she’d just told him Santa Claus wasn’t real. “Of course I know how to shoot.”
“A real gun?” His eyes sparkled with that same gleam Elmer’s had right before he’d confronted the Baumgartners.
“Yes, a real gun. I’m an excellent shot.”
“Care to make a wager on it?” Jensen smiled and cast a glance at Elmer, who’d scooted to the edge of his seat.
“I believe you still owe me from the last wager we made,” she pointed out. Their barbecue date had understandably been waylaid by Amelia’s recent delivery. And Amber had been looking forward to it.
“So then double or nothing,” Elmer shouted out, having no idea what the bet was in the first place. The man just loved a competition.
Amber lifted her brow at Jensen, waiting to see how he would react to the old marine’s suggestion.
But he didn’t give it a second thought. “Yes. Double or nothing.”
Jensen wasn’t sure what the old man had planned for today’s shooting competition, but he knew one thing for certain—he had no plans of winning.
If he lost, he’d get to take Amber out on two dates, since he’d yet to collect on their original wager. And he’d been looking forward to their barbecue dinner.
Losing didn’t come easy to a man who’d grown up competitive. And he’d never thrown a bet in his life.
But for Amber, the temptation had been far too great to resist.
He shook his head at the silly trail of thoughts. The bloody competition had yet to even begin and he’d already planned his surrender. The little Texas cowgirl was making his mind spin in funny directions. Something about her had him doing things he’d never think of doing back in England.
He rolled the window down. Maybe it wasn’t Amber. Maybe it was something in the western breeze that blew tumbleweeds across the fields in summer and English bachelors willy-nilly in January.
Even his penchant for old cowboy movies couldn’t explain the relaxing effects of being in Texas. And for once, overseeing the family investments and holdings, as well as Chesterfield Ltd., and keeping his siblings out of the tabloid limelight no longer seemed like the only things that mattered.
For some damned reason, he now found himself watching airplanes take off, riding horses on bulky Western saddles out to watering holes and kissing a rodeo queen behind a darkened feed store. He also found himself smiling for no reason at all, which he hadn’t done since...well, in longer than he cared to ponder.
Now, as he eased Quinn’s pickup along the dirt driveway and headed toward a parking area near the Broken R barn, he spotted Elmer Murdock and did a double take.
The stocky, elderly was man toting liter-sized bottles of soda out of the back of the spiffed-up muscle car. But why was he dressed like a leprechaun playing in a polo match at the VFW hall?
Jensen parked and exited the truck.
The old man, wearing tight white jodhpurs on his short, bowed legs, waved him over. “Top o’ the morning to ya.”
As Jensen made his way to Mr. Murdock’s open trunk, the elderly man handed him a crate holding eight plastic bottles filled with bright neon-pink soda.
Jensen looked at the array of containers. What in the world was he doing with so much...? He glanced at the label. Caliente Pepper Fiz?
“Were they having a special at the grocery?” Jensen asked.
“They sure was, but not at the Superette here in town. I picked these up over at the discount drug place on the way to Lubbock. Seems they didn’t sell as well as storeowners hoped, so they were just sitting on a pallet out back, expiring in the sun.”
“Did they go bad in the heat?” That would explain the unnatural neon-pink color.
“I don’t reckon so. This here is their strawberry-cream-flavored line. The regular hot sauce flavored soda is pretty tasty, but no one seemed to like it much when they added the strawberries to the original mix.”
Jensen looked again at the label. These Texans and their food products could sure be inventive. “Hmm. You’d think they wouldn’t be able to keep hot sauce-flavored cola on the shelf.”
“I know,” Mr. Murdock said, not recognizing Jensen’s sarcasm. “Oh well, it’s the Caliente Company’s loss and our gain, right ol’ chap?”
Jensen was raised to be polite, but there was no bet in the world that would make him drink strawberry-cream-and-hot-sauce-flavored cola—let alone nearly fifty bottles of the wretched stuff. “Tell me why it’s our gain?”
“They make perfect targets, son. When your bullet hits one of these suckers, boom! Hot-pink juice explodes everywhere. Not only is it fun to look at, it saves the range master some footwork. He doesn’t have to run back and forth to measure the targets. And since that’ll be my job for this here competition, I figured I’ll save my legs for that upcoming dance contest.”
Just then, Amber stepped out of the ranch house cradling a rifle and a box of ammunition.
She looked just as serious as Wyatt Earp himself making his way to the OK Corral. Of course, Wyatt Earp didn’t look as sexy. Her snug jeans hugged her curvy hips, tempting a man to want to go out and buy her a dress... Or maybe some silky lingerie.
Jensen came to a complete stop, not even noticing the weight of the bottles in his arms as he watched Amber walk toward him. She wore a shiny silver belt buckle along a tiny waist a man could span his hands—
“Are you ready to get beat by a girl, Sir Jensen?” she asked.
He forced himself to pull his gaze away from her dangerous torso to her seductive brown eyes. And to be honest, if he was ever ready get bested by a girl, it was today. And it was this girl. Or rather, this woman. No doubt about that.
His throat worked to swallow, but his mouth was so dry he almost opened one of the discolored sodas and took a huge sip.
What a mistake that would be.
Back in London, he’d never been tongue-tied around the beautiful socialites and jet-setters who made up his social circle. Then again, they didn’t have anyone quite like Amber Rogers in the British Isles—or all of Europe, for that matter.
A hand smacked against his back, pitching him forward. “Keep it moving, son. I got an appointment with my podiatrist at one o’clock to see about my bunions. And if I win our bet, Helen said she’d go with me afterward to that remodeled movie theater over in Vicker’s Corners.”
Jensen picked up his pace, hoping Mr. Murdock wouldn’t miss out on his opportunity to squire Helen to the cinema.
Because there was no way Jensen was going to miss out on his own date with Amber. Instead he said, “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
“Hell, son,” Murdock said. “I didn’t bet on you. I bet on our Amber over there.”
* * *
Amber’s