Reckless in Texas (20 page)

“I am sorry for embarrassing you,” she said quietly. “I did warn you that I have a knack.”

His chin came up, his jaw tightening. “In other words, you're sorry everybody heard, but not sorry you dumped me.”

Was that hurt in his voice? Or just wishful thinking on her part? “You're leaving. And it's not like you were planning to jump my bones, since you've decided to be honorable or whatever.”

“And if I won't put out, you're not interested?”

“I didn't say—” Then she caught the glint of humor in his eyes and stopped before she gave him more reason to mock her. “I had a really good time the other night. Thanks for the dancing. It's been a while.”

“For me, too.”

She believed him, which probably made her several more kinds of a fool. Joe scrubbed his hands over his face, quick and hard. When he raised his head the humor was gone, replaced by resignation and a hint of regret. Or maybe that was her imagination, too.

Violet shoved up and out of her chair, locking knees that wanted to wobble. She hadn't humiliated herself yet. No sense pushing her luck by staying any longer. Joe followed suit, trailing a couple steps behind as she circled the house and went out the front gate to her car. As she reached the door, he cleared his throat. She paused, looking back to find him standing beside the hood of the Cadillac, fingers dancing on the gleaming paint.

His eyes almost met hers, then dodged away. He cleared his throat again. “Wyatt talked me into doing more rodeos with him, so I'll probably be getting down this direction a few times next year. In case you wanted to…you know. Go dancing or something.”

A sneaky burst of hope got past her guard, flaring so bright it nearly blinded her to what he was really asking. Not
Can I call you?
Not
I'd like to keep in touch.
Not, God help her wildest dreams,
I have to go home but I'll be back as soon as I can.

Just
Hey, darlin', if I happen to be in the neighborhood in a few months…

Her mouth was so dry the words came out as a whisper. “It's hard for me to get away with our rodeos and Beni and…everything.”

Which was a really weak excuse, but it was all she had. As much as he could expect. He was the one dead set on going back to Oregon, to a place that didn't belong to him and a boss he couldn't trust, instead of considering that there were plenty of stock contractors bigger and better than Dick Browning who would love to have him, with ranches a whole lot closer to Earnest, Texas.

There was even a contractor
in
Earnest that could make room for him.

Violet ducked her head and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't start thinking that way or she would delude herself into saying
Yes, please, do stop by whenever the mood strikes you,
praying he might eventually decide the High Lonesome wasn't the only piece of ground in the world. Talk about emotional suicide. She was still figuring out how to survive watching Joe leave her once. It wouldn't get easier with practice.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

He nodded, head bowed, eyes fixed on his dancing fingers. “Thought it was worth asking.”

For a few excruciating moments they were stuck, neither knowing how to leave. Then Joe lifted his head and stepped back from the car. The smile he gave her as he turned away was a twisted shadow of the real thing. She stared numbly as he set off down the driveway, the sense of déjà vu so intense it curled her toes. Every time she turned around, she was watching Joe Cassidy run away from her. But today…

She squinted, frowning. Something was different. Joe's strides were as long and graceful as ever, eating up the distance to the gate. Not a hitch or a glitch that she could tell. Then it hit her: the bounce was gone.

For the first time since she'd known him, Joe moved like he was carrying the full weight of the world.

It was gonna get ugly before the night was over. Forty-five minutes before the scheduled start of the Saturday night performance, Joe sat in the front of the truck he was once again using as a bedroom and watched a line of churning black clouds bear down on the rodeo grounds.

As an Oregon boy, he had no idea what a tornado cloud looked like, but Cole had shrugged off his concern. “The energy patterns in this system are not conducive to the development of severe weather or tornados,” he said, a perfect, monotone imitation of the guy on the weather alert radio station. “But I will continue to monitor conditions closely.”

There went Joe's last hope for getting plucked off the face of the earth and away from his hammering thoughts. He'd intended to drown them when he left the ranch on Monday, but he didn't even finish the first beer at a bar in Amarillo before the presence of other human beings drove him back out into the sunlight. He'd blown a few bucks on cheap camping gear, spent a whole day hiking the Palo Duro Canyon, and slept in a tent deep in its heart, but he still felt Violet's absence clear down to his bones. No matter how far or how fast he hiked, he couldn't leave the ache behind.

The second day, he drove around until he found the back road to Hank's ranch. He left Cole's pickup in the same spot Violet had parked the night of their date, followed the ancient trail clear down to the river bottom, and wandered for miles through the river breaks. At dusk, he made his way back to pitch his tent in the place she called the Notch. Fuck it. If he insisted on torturing himself with memories of how good she felt and smelled and tasted, he might as well do it right.

He had come away determined to at least salvage some pride. He'd show them all he didn't give a damn. Everyone knew he wasn't built for her kind of life. Home. Kids. Neck deep in family. She'd done them both a favor by saying no when he asked to see her again. At least he'd made sure she knew Wyatt was in charge of his schedule. Couldn't have her thinking she was the reason Joe had suddenly developed a fondness for the Lone Star state.

He stared at the boiling clouds, hands clenched on the truck's steering wheel. Within forty-eight hours, he would be in Oregon. The time for avoidance was long gone. He took a long, steadying breath, then picked up his phone and pushed the Send button. As he waited for it to ring, the breeze freshened, whistling around the truck cab.

On the other end of the line, the receiver was snatched out of the cradle with a clatter. “Browning,” the voice growled.

“Dick. It's Joe.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “You home?”

“No. Flying back tomorrow.” Joe fought the urge to clear his throat. That would be a sign of weakness. “We need to talk about next year's schedule.”

Another couple of beats. Then, “Come out for lunch Tuesday.”

“Okay. See you then.” Joe clicked off, petty enough to be sure he hung up first.

Then he stared out the window, his gut tumbling and churning like the clouds. He'd expected to feel better once he talked to Dick. Now he wondered why. Had he expected an apology? A speech about how much they'd missed him and thank God he was coming back? Not unless the old bastard had had a lobotomy since he left. Or a heart transplant.

Joe tossed his phone into the sleeper and hopped down out of the truck. Tonight there was a rodeo to put on. A few blessed hours when he wouldn't have time to brood. A violent gust scooped up fistfuls of dirt and flung it at him. He ducked his head to avoid a face full of grit and bowled into Violet as she strode out from between two parked pickups.

“Sorry.” He tried not to care that she immediately put space between them.

“Gonna be messy,” she said as they moved on down the road, parallel but not together. She shot a quick glance at Joe's hooded sweatshirt. “Mom's got extra slickers in the office if you need one.”

“I do. Thanks.”

And that was it. Nothing more to say. Hadn't been since that excruciating moment when he'd scraped up every ounce of his guts and laid them out there, asked if he could see her again, and she'd turned him down flat. Her quiet rejection had sliced deeper than the public humiliation. She wasn't tired or cranky or frustrated beyond measure and lashing out at the first available target. In the hushed solitude of the empty homestead, there had been only him, and even though he'd seen the regret in her eyes, Violet was smart enough to recognize a bad investment.

They hadn't really spoken again except for a few awkward moments on Thursday morning when Violet brought him a bulky envelope from Wyatt. Joe had started to rip it open, then remembered it wasn't anything he wanted Violet to see. He'd stood there holding it, looking guilty as hell. She probably assumed the DVD was porn instead of a copy of the movie
Temple Grandin
, the goddess of livestock handling—who was also autistic and, in some ways, very much like Cole. Before he left, he'd find time to slip that package into Cole's pickup—where it wouldn't be found until Joe was long gone.

The first fat drops of rain smacked him in the face as they rounded the corner of the office and jogged up the steps. Violet slammed on the brakes and Joe had to grab an arm to keep from knocking her flat. She stumbled, caught her balance, and pulled free. When she stepped aside, Joe saw Delon kicked back in a folding chair, arms crossed, feet propped on the table. Black hat, black shirt with white sponsor logos stitched down the arms and over the breast pocket, sleeves rolled to the elbow, looking like he'd stepped straight out of one of the ads he did for a Western wear company—which, no doubt, ended up taped inside high school girls' lockers.

“When did you take over as the secretary?” Violet asked, easing farther away from Joe.

“The judges are having trouble with the electronic timer for the barrel racing. I'm holding down the fort while your mom helps them set it up.”

Despite his posture, Delon didn't look the least bit relaxed. He didn't look at Joe at all. Another gust of wind shook the building, peppering the windows with gravel.

“Where's Beni?” Violet asked.

“With my dad, over in your mom's trailer.”

More drops splatted against the windows like miniature water balloons. Violet grabbed a yellow rain slicker from the pile in the corner and shrugged into the stiff, rubberized canvas. The long tails hung past her knees, split in the back for riding. She scraped up pieces of hair the wind had pried loose and jammed them back in her ponytail, then pulled a beat-up straw hat down tight. Her mud hat. Joe wished he had his along. If the rain kept up through the bull riding, his good one would be ruined, and he refused to wear a plastic rain cover that looked like an old lady's shower cap.

Violet started for the door, the slicker swishing around her legs as the rain thickened to a steady rumble on the tin roof. “I have to go saddle up.”

She spoke to the air somewhere between Joe and Delon, not looking at either of them. A week earlier, Joe would have offered to help her. Now he just nodded.

“I drew Pepper Belly,” Delon said. “How does she buck in the mud?”

“Not worth a crap.”

Violet dove out into the storm, leaving Joe and Delon alone. Great. As if to punctuate his discomfort, the sky opened up, and a solid sheet of water poured down. Joe would be tossing his leather cleats in the trash after this one. He dug a slicker out of the pile and pulled it on, his nostrils twitching at its musty scent. Delon stared down at his hands, thumb tracing the ridge of calluses at the base of the fingers of his riding hand, built up from years of being wedged into a bareback rigging. A muscle worked in his jaw like there were a whole lot of words jammed in his craw that he was trying not to say.

Join the club, buddy.

Best if Joe got the hell out of there before either one of them popped off. He got one foot out the door before his temper got the better of his good sense. He spun around to face Delon. “What exactly is your problem with me?”

Delon's black eyebrows drew into a sharp vee. “Who says I have one?”

“Anyone with a pair of eyeballs.” Joe shoved his hands into the pockets of the raincoat and found a couple of stray coins and what felt like a dirt-crusted Lifesaver, gifts from the previous owner. “Whatever. It doesn't matter. I'm out of here tomorrow, so you can move back into the spare room and keep your pieces of ass on the side. Sweet deal all around…except maybe for Violet.”

Delon's feet dropped to the floor with a thud, every overdeveloped muscle in his body clenching. Anybody else might have come across the table. Delon only stared Joe down. “You think you're what she needs? What Beni needs?”

Scorn dripped from the words and stung like acid. The truth always did, and everybody in the room knew Joe Cassidy was the last guy any woman needed in her life full time, let alone a mother or her son.

Iris scurried in, shaking off the rain like a chubby cocker spaniel, her gaze flicking from Joe to Delon. “Well, this is going to be fun,” she said, her smile a touch too bright.

“Good times,” Joe agreed, and splashed down the steps and into an ankle-deep puddle, the water oozing through the seams in his boots and soaking his jeans nearly to the knees. He cursed, then plowed straight through the next puddle on purpose. One way or the other, he was gonna be soaked before the night was done. A couple of hours and it would be over.

All of it. When the rodeo was over, he'd pack up his gear, hunker down alone in the semi, and first thing tomorrow morning he'd be on his way to DFW Airport with Cole. By afternoon, he'd be setting foot on Oregon soil—the moment he'd been dreaming of since his flight took off from Sea-Tac.

So why did he feel more like punching something than dancing in the rain?

As Violet hauled Delon off Pepper Belly, she felt Cadillac's hind feet skid. The rain had turned the arena into a mud-pocked lake, but there was plenty of sand mixed with the native clay, leaving only a few treacherous spots along the fences. Instead of dropping to the ground, Delon slung a leg over Cadillac's rump and let Violet carry him back to the bucking chute.

“As you know, folks, half of the cowboy's score is for how well he spurs the horse,” the announcer explained. “The other half is how hard the horse bucks, and since Pepper Belly didn't hold up her end of the deal, he'll have the option for a re-ride.”

Delon grimaced, knocking water from the brim of his hat, but nodded at the judges. Violet had a limited amount of sympathy. Between the stiff protective vest and his chaps, only the sleeves of his shirt and the butt of his jeans were wet. Unlike Violet. Despite her slicker, her back was soaked from the rain that trickled off the brim of her hat and inside her collar. She could feel specks of it on her cheeks and taste the grit between her teeth. Her boots, chaps, and calves were caked with the stuff, splattered from under Cadillac's hooves as they chased bucking horses that kicked more mud in their faces.

“What's in the re-ride pen?” Delon asked.

“Blue Duck.”

Delon eyed the arena, churned into a foot of slop in front of the chutes. “Is he gonna fire in this mess?”

“Why do you think we call him Duck?”

As Delon grabbed the top rail of the chute and hauled himself over without touching the soupy mud, Violet looked west. A streak of light glowed along the horizon, the lowering sun peeking under the back edge of the storm.

“We'll hold you until the bull riding. The rain will be done by then.”

As she predicted, the rain stopped midway through the rodeo. The fans who'd stuck it out huddled in clusters under the cover of the grandstand. They cheered mightily when, after being introduced, Joe tiptoed three steps into the arena, then jumped as high as he could and splashed down into a huge puddle.

“Might as well get it over with,” he told Hank, who followed suit, grinning like a baboon.

“We're bucking Delon's re-ride first,” Violet reminded them.

They both backed off to lean on the fence to the side of the first chute. Violet joined Cole in the middle of the arena. The rain had washed every particle of dust from the air, leaving nothing to dull the edges of the scene playing out under the lights. The hollow clank of bells as the bull riders tied ropes onto their bulls. The steel-gray gleam of Blue Duck's rump, shifting as Delon settled down on his back. The glitter of the horse's eye from beneath a tangle of jet-black mane when he shoved his nose up and over the top rail of the chute. The smell of mud, wet horse, and musty rubber slicker.

The metallic bang of the latch as Delon nodded and the gate swung wide. Blue Duck didn't tiptoe through the mud—he blasted, grunting as fountains of water sprayed from beneath his hooves. Delon was the eye of the storm, steady and calm, heels snapping into the horse's neck an instant before hooves met mud, chaps flashing under the lights. Just as the eight-second whistle blew, they reached the fence. Blue Duck threw on the brakes, intending to roll back on his hocks, but he hit one of the slick spots. His rear hooves skidded, momentum carrying his butt up under his shoulders until he was vertical.

For an instant he hung there, at the edge of his balance. Violet gasped along with the crowd, sure the horse would fall straight over backward, onto Delon. Blue Duck twisted midair and flopped onto his side. When the horse scrambled to his feet, Delon was still aboard, but cocked off to the left, both hands clamped around the handle of the rigging. Blue Duck bolted, Cole in close pursuit and Violet only a few strides behind. Delon's rigging slipped, dropping him even farther onto the horse's side, his head dangerously exposed to the rapidly approaching posts.

Violet had to keep Blue Duck off the fence. She kicked hard, driving Cadillac into the rapidly closing gap as Cole stood out in his left stirrup, grabbing for Delon's arm but missing. Cadillac plowed through the mud, his nose coming even with the roan's flank. Almost there…

Delon's hand popped out of the rigging and he fell—directly into her path. She had no time to react. Cadillac's forelegs slammed into Delon's body, drove him into the mud, pummeled by steel-shod hooves packing the force of a thousand pounds of horseflesh. Violet heard the shrieks from the fans as Cadillac stumbled, slipped, and fell, vaulting her over the front of the saddle. The side of her head hit first, then her shoulder. She braced for the impact of Cadillac's massive body rolling over her, but it didn't come. She'd been thrown clear.

She lay where she'd fallen, stunned.
Wow. Stars.
She stayed perfectly still, waiting for them to clear, trying to assess how much damage had been done.

Hands cupped her face, urgent but careful. “Violet? Can you hear me?”

She opened her eyes. Joe's face wobbled, wavered, then came into focus, only inches from hers. She pulled in a careful breath. Wiggled her fingers. Then her toes. “I'm okay.”

“You're sure? You went down pretty hard.”

“Yeah, but the landing strip is really squishy.”

Joe laughed, but it was shaky, and either her vision was still wobbly or his fingers were trembling when he scraped mud from her cheek and held it up for her inspection. “And a free facial to boot.”

Cole splattered up behind Joe and vaulted off his horse, eyes glittering, jaw clenched. “Anything broken?”

Violet shook her head and her vision blurred, then cleared.

Cole fisted his reins in his hand, glaring at her. “What the hell were you trying to do?”

Joe was on his feet and in Cole's face before Violet could open her mouth. He planted a hand in the middle of Cole's chest and shoved. “Back off, asshole.”

Cole lifted a hand to return the shove but they were interrupted by the arrival of the emergency medical technicians, slogging through mud. The tall, lanky one started to peel off and head their direction, but Cole cut him off, grabbing the largest of the bags he was lugging. Violet shoved into a seated position and winced at the twinge in her neck. Delon was on his hands and one knee, a cluster of cowboys hunched around him. His left leg was extended, as if too painful to bend.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Please don't let it be serious.
Not now. Not when he was so close to a world title he could see his reflection in the gold buckle. Joe crouched beside Violet again. She let him wipe mud from her neck and shirt as she watched the EMTs quiz Delon, poking and prodding, heads bent low to hear his answers to their questions. Finally they hooked their hands under Delon's armpits and eased him to his feet. He didn't put any weight on the left leg.

They took one tentative step. Then another. On the third, Delon's uninjured knee buckled. He clamped his arm across his ribs, face contorted, the noise he made part groan, part gurgle. Fear shot ice into Violet's veins when he folded, crumpling like a broken puppet. The techs lowered him to the ground and knelt over him, movements urgent, faces grim. As they worked, a single, plaintive voice echoed across the hushed arena.

“Daddeeee!”