A Dark & Stormy Knight: A McKnight Romance (McKnight Romances) (22 page)

Because Colonel Mustard was well known
for acting up in the chute, a spotter grabbed Sol’s belt in case he needed to
be pulled out. Terry appeared on the other side of the rail. That was a stroke
of luck. Terry knew how Sol liked his rigging. They worked together, pulling
the rope tight, making sure the clangy cowbells were properly set under the
bull. He pulled the rope through his gloved fist, spreading the rosin, warming
it so it would be tacky.

The bull shifted, banging into the side
of the chute. With his boots on the slats, Sol was able to stand, which kept
his leg from getting mashed between the eighteen-hundred-pound bull and the
chute. The hand on his belt tightened, prepared to pull him out, but Colonel
Mustard calmed, and Sol settled onto his back again.

He aligned the pinky finger of his left
hand with the bull’s backbone and finished his wrap, laying the rope between
the ring finger and his pinkie. A suicide wrap, it was called because it gave
him a nearly unbreakable grip on the rope. The downside was that it also made
it harder to let go if he needed to. He’d explained that to Georgia once, way back when they were married. Horrified, she’d asked him to stop using it, and he
had, but he used it now.

Why was he thinking about that now?
Get
your head back in the game.

Inside the glove, he stretched his
fingers wide one last time then curled them closed. With his other hand, he
pounded his riding fist tight.

At his signal, Terry leaned over the rail
and applied a steady pressure on the rope. Sol laid the tail of the rope on top
of the bull’s shoulders, so he could grab it with his free hand to release the
wrap when the whistle blew, then centered himself.

Terry slapped his shoulder. “Show ‘em
whacha got. Ride ‘im purdy.”

Sol gave Terry a nod then took a deep
breath. His heart thumped hard in his chest, and his body, well familiar with
this process, dumped a truckload of adrenaline into his bloodstream.

He laid his free hand on the gate and
pushed himself forward the last bit until he sat just behind the bull’s
shoulders and brought his weight forward from his butt to his crotch.

One deep breath, slowly released. He
lifted his free arm to a neutral position. One last nod of his head. The gate
was flung open, and the bull lunged out.

Only on the back of a bull did eight
seconds ever seem like more than an eye blink. Sol’s brain went offline. The
crowd disappeared. It was just him and the bull.

Instinct ruled here. Any attempt to
think, plan, or strategize only put the rider a step behind the bull, and a step
behind meant bucked off.

He relied on his body to anticipate what
the bull was going to do next.

Almost immediately, Colonel Mustard spun
right, into Sol’s riding hand. Sol leaned forward to counter the lunge,
shifting his weight onto his right leg to keep from bucking off the bull’s left
side.

The bull planted his front feet and
kicked his hind legs out high. Sol leaned back, staying with him.

A good ride made eight seconds seem like
nothing. This was shaping up to be a good ride.

The bull changed directions and spun
left. Sol countered the move too late. The dowels of his spur slipped, and his
balance became precarious. Being the wily bull he was, Colonel Mustard bucked
flat as he spun left again. Sol fought to get his weight back to his right leg,
to get centered again, but gravity was against him. He slid toward the well at
the center of the bull’s spin.

Oh, shiiiiit.

And the party was over.

###

Sol was done, eliminated in the long
round, but Terry’s high score meant they were there for another day. Sol was
happy for him, but he couldn’t shake the question of why he kept doing this.

He was still asking himself that at the
local watering hole after the rodeo. From a table against the wall, nursing a
bottle of Lone Star, Sol watched Terry laughing with the other cowboys and
flirting with the local girls. That had been him once upon a time. Back when he’d
ridden regularly, scored high, and pocketed prize money.

All the years on the road, all the
flea-bitten motels, all the junk food eaten on the run, the fortune in entry
fees gambled on having a good day on a good bull, the medical bills to fix his
knee and then his shoulder, watching a bull put not one but two of his best
rodeo buddies into wheelchairs they’d never climb out of.

Was it worth it? The answer to that
question had always been a resounding yes. Tonight, he didn’t have an answer.

He’d had his shot at the brass ring two
years ago. A spot on the PBR Cup team—the Professional Bull Rider tour—was no
small feat. He’d never had any illusions that he could take home the championship
buckle, and even his wildest fantasies couldn’t wrap themselves around the
million-dollar prize that went with it. But for a while—eight short weeks—he’d
touched his dream. He’d been among the best bull riders in the world. He’d
beaten out not only homegrown cowboys but Australians, Canadians, Mexicans, and
Brazilians—damn, those Brazilians could ride—for his place among the
top-ranking forty-five riders on the Built-Ford-Tough tour. And then a bull
named Toro Diablo had bucked so hard, he’d dislocated his left shoulder.

He crossed his arm over his body and
grasped his shoulder. The bones moved under his fingertips, popping only a
little as he flexed. The scars from the surgery shifted under the heel of his
hand. He’d learned the hard way that a dislocated shoulder wasn’t the minor
thing portrayed in movies. Slipping the shoulder bone back into the socket didn’t
do any good if the ligaments wouldn’t hold it in place. And in his case, the
ligament had been pulled away from the bone. They’d had to go in from the front
of his shoulder to reattach them.

By the time he’d healed enough to ride
again, he’d lost too many points and been bumped back down to the challenger
tour. Since the injury had come at the beginning of this season, putting him
behind before he even got out of the gate, chasing the dream hard that year
hadn’t made any sense. Hell, he hadn’t even entered half the challenger events,
but he couldn’t quite leave the bulls alone either. So he’d moved from the PBR
tour back to the PRCA. Temporarily. Or so he’d thought at the time, but he knew
now he’d never go back to the PBR. The sands of time had run out on him.

Like any extreme sport, bull riding was a
young man’s game. In spite of the number of times he pointed out that Adriano
Moraes had ridden bulls until he was thirty-eight, Sol knew he was whistling in
the dark. He was no Moraes. He never had been.

At thirty years old, he already felt like
a has-been.

Maybe it was time to give it up.

Sol hated the idea of quitting because he’d
been bucked off. He wanted to go out on a high note. The dangers of holding on
for that, however, weren’t minor.

He’d seen too many cowboys lured back
into the game by one good ride, seduced into thinking they were starting a
winning streak, forgetting they’d promised themselves they’d quit. Or he could
get badly injured holding on for that perfect time. He should get out now, but
he knew he wouldn’t. He just flat wasn’t ready yet.

But the time was coming. He could feel it
breathing down his neck.

Terry fell into the seat across from him,
his beer sloshing on to the table. “Please don’t tell me you’re over here
sulking about your ride.”

“Nope. Just in a philosophical mood.”

Terry groaned. “Lord, spare me from
cowboy philosophers.”

One of the waitresses Terry had been
flirting with stopped at their table. “You boys ready for another?”

She wasn’t there for him, Sol knew. Not
the way she smiled at Terry. He ordered another beer anyway. Terry turned
sideways on his chair to watch her sashay away. Sol tipped his bottle up,
finished it off, then set it to the side.

“So how’s Molly?” Sol asked.

Terry turned back to face him. “Wanting
to get married.”

“Yeah, that’s what you need,” Sol said
before he could stop himself. He’d met Molly a few times, and except for her
decision to keep company with a rodeo cowboy, she seemed like a sensible girl. “She’ll
get over it.”

“I don’t think so. We been going ‘round
together for three years now. She says it’s time to shit or get off the pot.”

Sol snorted his amusement. “A romantic
girl, your Molly.”

“She has her moments.”

“So . . . what? You want
me to give you my blessing or to talk you out of it?”

“Hell, I don’t need you to talk me out of
nothin’. I know all the reasons it’s a bad idea. I may be slow, but I learned a
few things when me and Cathy crashed and burned.” Cathy being his ex-wife. “Rodeoin’s
‘bout the toughest thing there is on a marriage, but Molly wants a ring.”

Sol had seen enough examples of that to
know the truth of Terry’s statement. Cowboys, on the road for months, leaving
their wives at home, alone or with kids. Women got tired of it. Men came home
to find their women gone or, worse, that they’d been replaced.

Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for a
cowboy to succumb to the temptations of the road themselves. Buckle bunnies
were always available, and even the men who didn’t seek them out, like Sol and
Terry, were susceptible to the comfort offered when they’d had a string of bad
rides.

The waitress returned with Sol’s beer,
her smile all for Terry, but Terry’s mind had shifted gears. The smile he gave
her back wasn’t as inviting as it had been before. She picked up Sol’s dead
soldier and disappeared.

“So Molly wants a ring,” Sol said. “Or
what?”

Terry flicked him a look that said he
wasn’t happy to acknowledge there was an “or what,” but Sol knew there always
was one.

“Or she’s gonna start seeing other guys,”
Terry said grimly.

“She want you to quit rodeoin’?” Sol
asked.

“She ain’t said so, but I figure that’s
coming.”

Sol waited to see if this was Terry’s way
of working up to telling him he was quitting.

“The thing is,” Terry said, “I’m on a hot
streak, and if I stay healthy, I could make the finals.”

Which could lead to a gold championship
buckle. Or, in noncowboy parlance, the brass ring. Terry wouldn’t quit while he
had a shot at that.

“But I don’t want Molly seeing other guys
either,” Terry said.

Which meant that, even knowing the odds
were against them, Terry was probably going to marry her.

“She’ll give you an ultimatum,” Sol said.
“Sooner or later. They always do.”

“Yeah,” Terry agreed. “Sooner or later.”

Georgia
sat on the concrete step of her parent’s back porch, her cell pressed against
her ear. The line rang three times, and just before it kicked over to voice
mail, Daniel answered.

They’d fallen into a pattern of talking
every few days, so she’d already moaned to him about her decision to let Eden ride in the barrel racing. He’d commiserated but only for a few seconds, then he’d
pointed out the positives she hadn’t allowed herself to consider. Things like
how hard work and competition built character and self-esteem. He was right, of
course, but he’d been so calm and rational, she’d wanted to drown him like a
litter of unwanted kittens.

“Update me on your soap opera. How’s the
Tommy situation?” he said, pumping her for details the way only women usually
did.

“It’s a mess. One minute, Missy acts as
though her heart’s breaking because we went out; the next, she’s treating him
like he’s a wife beater.”

“How’s he holding up?”

“Surprisingly well once he figured out it
was mostly her pride that was hurt. I think she got off on being able to lead
him around by the nose—”

“It’s not his nose she’s been leading him
around by,” Daniel said with a snicker.

Georgia
ignored him. “So now she’s pissed that he’s standing up for himself.”

“It sounds like you did a good deed
there. I’m proud of you.”

His praise warmed her, but she was still
disappointed she hadn’t gotten even a hint of jealousy from him. Was he that
certain of her, or was he really not interested?

When they were first getting to know each
other, he’d told her he had no intention of remarrying. She’d figured he’d
change his mind once the pain of the divorce faded. She still believed that.

Maybe it was time to risk a little. “I
think Tommy’s going to bounce back just fine. I’ll even bet he remarries before
Missy does.”

“You playing matchmaker for him?”

Georgia
scowled at the phone. What was wrong with this man? Didn’t it even occur to him
that Tommy might see her as potential wife material? If she’d made a comment
half as provocative to Sol, he’d have been busting-out-all-over jealous. But
no, not Daniel. “No, but I don’t think he’s going to let Missy ruin his life.”
She paused then decided she needed to know. If he answered with a vehement no, maybe
she should scrap her plans. She struggled to keep her voice even. “What about
you? Are you still dead set against getting married again?”

“What’s going on here, Georgia? What’s all this talk about getting married? Are you missing the sound of wedding bells?”

Damn. She’d worked up her nerve to ask
him something straight out, and he’d ducked the question. “Oh, no! Not me.” The
denial was instantaneous and reflexive. She hated the idea of being mistaken
for one of those women who cared more about being married than about who they
married.

“I mean, well, sometimes I think it would
be good for Eden.” God, she was making a hash of this. If she ever did manage
to get Daniel to consider marrying her, he’d think it was just for Eden’s sake. A little voice that sounded like a ventriloquist’s dummy piped up from her
deep, dark psyche.
Well, isn’t it?
She told it to shut up and changed
the subject. “Speaking of our dynamic duo, what do you hear from Deanne? Is she
still happy at her mama’s?”

“Well.” The way he drew the word out then
paused, Georgia knew something was up. “I’m going down for the weekend.”

“Again?” She grimaced. That hadn’t
sounded good. “I mean, that’s good. You’ll get to see Deanne.”

“Yeah, it is good,” There was a smile in
his voice as though he found her foot-in-mouth disease amusing. “It’s doing me
a lot of good, too. I’m seeing things differently. Letting go of a lot of the
old animosities I’ve been carrying around. I’m starting to see that, when Tracy
and I were married, I expected her to be perfect.”

From the stories Daniel had told her, Tracy had been a long way from perfect. So far, in fact, that Georgia had to admire his
ability to get past it and forgive his ex. She had a momentary twinge that
maybe there was more than forgiveness going on, but a quick mental review of
some of those story highlights put that worry to rest.

“Back then, I thought whatever she did
reflected on me,” Daniel continued, “but she’s only human, and she’s got her
own baggage that didn’t have anything to do with me. She’s worked hard to face
her problems. I kind of admire her for that.”

This sounded like good news. And she was
proud of him. He was really growing.

Should she try again? Oh, what the hell.
What did she have to lose? “So does this mean you’re going to stop being so
negative about getting married again?”

Daniel laughed. “Have I been that bad?”

“Hmm. Let’s see.” Even though he couldn’t
see her, she pressed her index finger to the side of her face, tipped her head,
and stared wide eyed toward the sky. “‘Not even if she looks like Catherine
Zeta-Jones, has more money than Trump, and thinks I walk on water.’“ She
dropped the pose. “Does that ring any bells? Now stop evading the question.”

“And what was the question?” he asked
through his laughter.

If he’d been standing in front of her, Georgia would have beaten him with her phone. “The question is: Are you going to stop being
so antimarriage?”

“I was never antimarriage. Not for other
people.”

“Argh. You are impossible.”

“No, I’m terrified you’ll decide to play
matchmaker if I tell you I’ve softened my position.”

“I would never do that.” Not with another
woman, anyway.

“If I can hold you to that, then I might
be willing to say that I’m opening up to the possibility.”

Score!
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a proposal, but it was a first
step. If this was the results of Daniel spending time around his ex, then Georgia was all for it. Before they hung up, she sent her greetings and Eden’s love to
Deanne. The girls would adore being sisters.

She was still reveling in her conversation
with Daniel when the door opened behind her. “There you are,” Grams said. “I
wanted to let you know I’m leaving as soon as Delores gets here.”

“Are you sure you don’t want something to
eat before you go?” Georgia brushed off the seat of her jeans before following
her grandmother inside.

“Not a chance,” Grams said, walking and
talking as she checked the contents of her purse for the forty-seventh time. “Cecelia’s
son was up from the gulf last week, and he always brings her a butt load of
cracked crab that she serves on these fancy crackers. I ain’t spoiling my
appetite when I can pig out on that.” She closed her purse. “Oh, there’s
Delores.”

Georgia
looked out the living room window to see an older Cadillac pull in. Grams hung
the handle of her purse over her arm and headed out. Georgia stood in the open
screen door, ready to grab for her if she missed her footing on the steps. When
Grams reached the yard without mishap, Georgia looked toward the car.

Had Delores gotten out? She didn’t see
her anywhere. A movement from inside the car caught her attention. It looked
like . . . She squinted. A hand. Was someone waving at her?

Holy hell. Delores had always been
petite, but age had shrunk her to the size of a squirrel. She could barely see
over the steering wheel. In fact, she probably looked through it.

Georgia
’s
hands itched to grab Grams and forbid her to ride with Delores, but since she
wasn’t Grams’ mama, grounding her wasn’t an option. Grams would just call her a
worrywart and insist on going anyway. Hoping this wasn’t the last time she’d
see her grandmother alive, Georgia waved hesitantly back as Grams got in the
car.

Her daddy’s pickup pulled in as Delores
and Grams were about to pull out. The pickup stopped next to them as though her
daddy planned to talk to Delores from his open window, but Delores pulled out
as if she hadn’t noticed, and Georgia again questioned why she’d let Grams get
in that car. Was this a preview of what she had to look forward to when Eden
and her friends started driving? Hell, no, Georgia decided as her Daddy parked
the pickup to come in for dinner; Eden she could ground.

He washed up while she chicken fried a
steak.

“Where’s your mama?” he asked as they sat
down to eat.

“She was tired so she laid down about an
hour ago.”

Her daddy nodded. They ate as they
listened to the kitchen radio giving the noon farm report. When the radio went
to commercial, Georgia said, “The speech therapist thinks Mama will recover
faster if she sees her five days a week.”

“Well, if you think it’ll help.”

“It’s worth a try.” And Lord, Georgia hoped it worked. Every improvement was a step closer to ensuring she made it back
to Dallas in time for the start of the school year.

They were finishing up when the phone
rang. Her daddy wiped his mouth on his paper napkin and got up to answer it.

She listened with half an ear as she
gathered up the dishes and scraped the plates. Since it was only a few dishes,
she filled the sink, squirting dish soap into the water. Georgia knew he was talking to Bethany even before he said, “I’ll let you talk to your sister about
the details.”

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and
took the phone, knowing whatever the details entailed, they were going to add
something to her schedule she’d rather not do. “Hey, Bethany. What’s up?”

“You know Mama and Daddy’s anniversary is
coming up in the middle of August.”

Oh, Lord. With everything else going on,
she’d completely spaced it. And it was their thirty-fifth. A big one. “Sure, I
remember.” She glanced at the calendar. Only a couple of weeks away, but damn.
It fell on a Friday. Maybe they could celebrate it on Saturday. Yeah, sure.
That would work—not. Living in a rural community where every day but Sunday was
interchangeable meant her mother had never been flexible about dates.

“I was thinking about a party at the
grange hall”—Exactly the sort of shindig Bethany loved putting together. Before
Georgia could protest all the work that would entail, Bethany continued.—”but
Mama would be too self-conscious with all those people around and her not able
to visit properly, so I thought we’d have a barbecue here at our house. Invite
a few of their friends. The Johanssons, maybe the Coles. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea.” And all Georgia would have to do was get her parents there and maybe whip up a few dishes. “What do
you need me to bring?”

“I thought a potato salad and maybe that
pineapple pie you make. And of course, Mama, Daddy, and Grams.” Bethany laughed as though she’d made a joke.

The salad and pie weren’t a problem.
Getting her parents and Grams all heading in the same direction at the same
time was the very definition of herding cats, but Georgia knew she was getting
off easy, so she didn’t complain.

After they hung up, she went back to the
dishes. As she put the last one away, her daddy walked through the kitchen
toward the laundry room. She heard the
pfft
of a spray can and stuck her
head around the door to see him rubbing the back of his right hand, a WD-40 can
sitting on top of the dryer.

“Is your arthritis acting up?”

“Yup.” He put the can on the shelf where
it belonged. “Don’t tell your grams I’m doing this.”

“Never.” Georgia crossed her heart the
way she’d done as a child. She’d never have guessed he’d try Grams’ remedy
after the way he always teased her about oiling her joints. “Does it work?”

“Seems to.” He flexed his hand. “I think
I’ll still stay in and rest it.” He looked up and met her gaze. “Why don’t you
go out and see Eden? I’ll take care of your mama ‘til you get back.”

His offer felt like manna from heaven. “Are
you sure?” Georgia asked.

He gave her a small, closed-lip smile. “Give
my regards to Sol.”

“Sure,” a stunned Georgia said before she remembered Sol wouldn’t be there because he was off rodeoing. She decided
not to mention that.

Give my regards to Sol.
Even knowing her father’s view of Sol
had softened, the statement
give my regards to Sol
was pretty close to
the top of the list of words she’d never expected to hear from either of her
parents.

“I’ll start a load of laundry before I
go,” Georgia said, knowing how limited her father’s domestic skills were.

When she got to the ranch, she found
Daisy working a new horse in the paddock, but Eden was nowhere to be seen.

“I told her to go have some fun with the
kids,” Daisy said when Georgia had finally caught her attention.

“Do you know where they went?” Georgia asked.

Daisy’s gaze turned inward as though
trying to pull up a memory. A couple of seconds later, she shook her head. “Sorry.
They probably told me, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

Georgia
waved good-bye as Daisy returned her focus to the black gelding in the arena.