by Vicki Tharp
Finally, she put the pen down, and rested her chin on her bent knee. “That’s it, I think.”
Ian was almost afraid to look. The list had taken a while, but it wasn’t like she’d been scribbling the whole time and having to use two or three or four sheets of paper. Instead, she’d been thoughtful and methodical. Ian had little doubt that whoever was responsible would be on that list.
Reaching across, he spun the pad around and read through the names. “This all of them?”
“All of the ones who have been with the circuit since this nonsense started, but not all of them, no.” It came out as a challenge. As if she dared him to take exception.
As if she expected the admission to scare him off.
If that had been her intent, she’d have to try a hell of a lot harder than that, because besides the occasional flashes of misplaced jealousy, he found the way that she owned her sexual history with bravado and not shame, tripped his ticket. He reached a hand down and adjusted himself.
Together they went down the list one by one, ranking them in order of what Cora termed the creep factor.
Trouble was, many of the men Ian had already met and, good or bad, the reality was the majority of them seemed like decent men. Good, that it might be easy to narrow the list. Bad, because it was frightening to think that one of the ‘nice’ ones could be responsible. The man at the top? Levi Banks.
“Why’s Levi at the top?” Ian had gotten to know Levi a bit better over the past few weeks, even considered him a friend.
“Only because he was the last guy I was with, and because of the whole pregnancy thing with him. He’s ready to settle down. The whole wife and kids waiting for him back home. I’m nowhere close. I know he wants kids. That’s part of the reason I knew we wouldn’t work out. At least not in the long run.”
“How’d he take the break-up?”
“Harder than I’d expected.”
Which, to Ian, explained the whole way Levi hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off Cora that first night back at The Wheel.
“But he’s with Patty Bennet now. It’s not like I ruined him for women forever.”
Maybe. Patty or no Patty, Cora hadn’t seen the way Levi had watched her. The torch Levi still carried for Cora hadn’t been extinguished. Not by a long shot.
“How do you want to handle this?” Ian asked. Cora wasn’t the type of woman who waited around for a man to fix her problems—which he admired—unless it came to sexing her way to winning a barrel race—in which case he couldn’t complain.
“We start at the top and work our way down, asking questions.”
“They could lie. Most likely will lie, whoever it is.”
Cora said, “Short of catching this guy leaving the roses and clippings or finding a stash of dead flowers and a stack of newspapers from the El Paso Tribune, we’ll have to hope a little bit of pressure will make him confess.”
“Or in the very least back off.”
“I could live with that.” Cora spun the notepad around and around, deep in thought. Then her expression shifted from contemplative to concern. “Did I mess up earlier? Getting that list of photographers from the Times? I wasn’t trying to pry.”
In the back of his mind, his father’s—scratch that, Patrick’s words— came back to Ian, where he’d called Ian’s real father a pussy. As bad as Ian had had it growing up, and despite all of Patrick’s faults, at least Patrick had been there.
“I know. I’d just come to terms with the idea that my real father is out there, somewhere. The thought that I could actually find him is surreal. What do I do, get a list of phone numbers, call up a bunch of strangers and ask them if they fucked my mother?”
Cora’s expression went neutral, except for the fact that her brows nearly met her hairline.
Ian scrubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry about that. I’m not mad at you. That nerve’s a little raw.
“Don’t be sorry. You have a right to be angry, Ian.”
Ian chewed on her words. Cora was right. He had a right to be angry at his mother, at Patrick and his aunt for keeping the truth from him, for making his life up to that point feel like a total lie.
“Did you recognize any names on the list I made?” Cora asked.
“A few. Guys who’d moved on from newspaper work and got some notoriety in the bigger magazines like Rolling Stone, National Geographic, and GlobeTrotter. Guys I could probably get in contact with through the magazines. But there are names on that list that I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking to find the guys, unless they’re still in New York and are listed in the phone book. Thought I could get my aunt to look up some people that way.”
“I noticed Edward Lark is on that list. Your idol. Maybe when you win the contest and get to travel with him, you’ll get a chance to ask him face to face if he’s your father.”
Ian barked out a laugh. “As amazingly awkward and freakishly groovy as that would be, Lark is old enough to be my grandfather, not my father.
“At least now you know you came by your love of photography honestly.”
“Maybe that’s why my mother bought me my first camera and encouraged me along the way.”
“Maybe it wasn’t your mother who bought you the camera,” Cora said. “Maybe your real father bought it for you. Maybe that’s why Patrick was so opposed.”
Ian’s gaze went to the two open shelves above his kitchen counter, where he stored spices and whatnot. On the top shelf, in the corner, sat his first camera, the one his mother had given him. Could it be true? Could that camera have come from his father? “Maybe, but remember my aunt said he never knew about me.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone in your family lied to you.”
Ian had to laugh at that. Depressing as the thought was. “Touché.”
Cora toed out of her boots and socks and scrunched down in her seat, resting her feet on the seat beside him. He placed them in his lap and took her feet into his hands, pressing his thumbs into her insteps.
Her head fell back, and her eyes drifted closed. “Mmm...that’s almost better than sex.”
“Then I must be doing something wrong.”
“I did say ‘almost.’” She got a lazy, sexy grin on her face. “But I’m not opposed to some sex. Strictly as a direct comparison.”
The deep throated moan the extra pressure he placed on the balls of her feet elicited made the dregs of his anger fade and his arousal intensify. “Challenge accepted.”
* * *
In the sated aftermath of sex the night before, Ian had taken advantage of Cora and managed to extract a promise from her not to confront any of the men on her list without him. He’d been careful not to make the same promise.
The long haul over to Oklahoma meant he’d had plenty of time behind the wheel to think about what he’d wanted to say to Levi, but no opportunity to do so. Until now.
Ian had left Cora with Josephine as the women took advantage of an enclosed barn and a wash rack with hot water to bathe their horses and put on a spit shine for their runs later that night.
Cora might not appreciate him going behind her back, but with Levi becoming more of a friend, Ian had felt this was one talk he needed to tackle man to man.
Ian walked into the local bar down the street from the Oklahoma City rodeo grounds, the bar where the rodeo crowd had taken over for the weekend.
Mid-day on a Friday, there wasn’t a whole lot of drinking going on. More like eating, shooting pool, shooting the shit, or catching up on some much needed zzz’s in an out-of-the-way corner. Tables had been moved to the side and guys were laid out haphazardly on the mostly clean floor, their hats over their faces, the tops of their boots under their heads while they slept to keep their boots from being stolen.
Pulling the cap from his lens, Ian made adjustments for low light and snapped a couple of pictures of the sleeping men, trying to find inspiration for a follow-up story should he be lucky enough to be one of the finalists.
Too bad, none
had come.
That’s because you already found your story.
Ian shook his head. No. He wasn’t going there. Those other photos he’d taken of Cora, striking as they were, had been for him and for her. No one else. He’d promised her.
Though that didn’t keep him from wishing things were different.
Pushing his work to the back of his mind, Ian made his way through the bar to a front booth by one of the windows.
“Can we talk?” Ian asked Levi as he slid into the seat across from his friend.
Levi was busy applying conditioner to a pair of chaps, the scent of leather and oil heavy in the air. Levi bobbed his head—not to Ian’s question—but to the low beat of the country music coming from the jukebox near a couple of what looked like local rednecks playing pool.
“Why do I think this isn’t a social call?” Levi stopped rubbing the oil into the leather long enough to give Ian a wary eye.
“I could buy you a beer.” Maybe if Ian got Levi lubricated enough, he wouldn’t take offense at the question he needed to ask.
“I’ve gotta ride tonight. What’s on your mind?”
Okay, so no lubrication. As laid back as Levi came across, Ian couldn’t forget that the man wrestled steers for a living. That, and Ian had seen the man hold his own while out-numbered in a bar fight.
“I’m going to ask you straight. Are you the one leaving the roses and clippings for Cora?”
Levi’s face remained placid, but the dead-eyed glare he shot Ian could have stopped a charging bull. Ian was glad there was a table between him and Levi, though the man was big enough, strong enough, fast enough to come over the top of it before Ian would be able to do anything to stop him.
“Come again?” Levi’s words came out like a dare.
“You were the last one to be with her. I don’t think it’s a secret you still have unresolved feelings. I could understand if there was some hostility there, her breaking it off with you and all.” Ian skirted that fine line. The one where he might be able to get Levi mad enough to say something in the heat of the moment and maybe give himself away, and the one where Ian got himself killed.
With the number of rodeo guys in the bar, if shit went south, it didn’t matter how good of a fighter Ian was, he’d lose. Teeth for sure, if he were lucky, maybe a kidney or two if he weren’t.
“I’m with Patty now.”
“That’s doesn’t answer the question.”
Levi refused to break eye contact. So did Ian.
“There a problem?” One of a circuit guys from a few tables over asked Levi. A bronc rider if Ian remembered right.
“Give us a minute,” Levi said to the man, though his focus never wavered from Ian.
The man grumbled but got up and left. Ian broke eye contact long enough to glance around. There wasn’t another person within earshot. If Levi wanted privacy, this would be about as good as it got.
“Cora’s a great woman,” Levi allowed.
“I can see why you’d still want her, even if she’s moved on.”
With measured care, Levi placed the cap on the leather conditioner and set it and the rag aside, not to be neat, Ian decided, but to give Levi time to be precise with his words. “I’m not the guy you’re looking for.”
“But you still have feelings for her.”
Some of the anger left Levi’s eyes, allowing some of the hurt to flood in. Would that be how Ian was going to look when it came time to say goodbye to Cora?
Ian’s stomach twisted, knowing at this point that he was already in so deep with Cora, it would be less painful losing a body part.
The barest, briefest, of nods was all Levi allowed, before he said, “But I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t know what I can do to convince you of that. You have my word. That will have to do.”
“You could let me see your camper. Let me see you don’t have dead roses and extra newspapers.”
Levi’s eyes flashed, and Ian prepared to block a punch.
“I could also tell you to fuck off.”
“Or you could humor a friend who’s doing what he can to keep Cora safe.”
Levi leaned back, and a caustic laugh clawed its way past his throat as he grabbed for his chaps and cleaning supplies. “All right, asshole. Let’s go.”
* * *
On Sunday night, Cora and Panache continued their winning streak. Not first place, but in the money, which Cora would gladly take to the bank. Again and again and again.
Instead of hitting the bar with Josephine, Levi and the rest of the rodeo crowd for a celebratory drink, she followed Ian to the bank of pay phones by the rodeo office to place the awaited call to GlobeTrotter Magazine to see if the contest results had come in.
With a stack of coins and a number written on a scrap of paper, Ian made the long-distance call and waited with his foot tapping while it rang.
“Hello?” Ian said into the receiver. “This is Ian Murphy. Entry number twenty-three. I’m calling to see if the contest results are in.” He paused. “Yes. I’ll wait.”
They waited. And waited. In the distance, a truck pulled up and disgorged a load of people that laughed and giggled and staggered back to their trailers. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, drawing her in. She cuddled up against him, soaking up his warmth.
Tension coiled in his body and his heart beat a rapid staccato beneath his ribs, a sharp contrast to the facade of calm he posted on the exterior.
Like her, Ian internalized a lot, not wanting anyone, even her, to know how much this meant to him. Cora heard the tinny voice as the operator came on and at her prompt, Ian deposited more quarters. He pressed a kiss to the side of Cora head. “They’re killing me,” Ian muttered in her ear, talking about the interminable wait.
Cora gave him a squeeze of encouragement. At least with barrel racing, the only thing she had to beat was the timer. A win was concrete. Indisputable. Not subject to the fickle opinions of another person.
If it were up to Cora, Ian would win, hands down, and she wasn’t just saying that because she warmed his bed at night and had firsthand knowledge of his physical creativity.
As amazing and phenomenal as the sex was, the depth of emotion, the sheer provocativeness that he’d created with his camera, with his mind, was unadulterated genius.
Ian stiffened, and held her tighter. “I’m still here,” he said into the phone.
A series of ‘Uh, huh’s’ and ‘I understands’ and head nods came next, his expression never changing as he took the information in. “You’re sure,” he said at last. “There’s no mistake?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. Yeah, I get it. Okay.”
Cora’s heart dropped in her chest, the weight heavy against her diaphragm. He missed the cut. She couldn’t breathe.
As bad as she felt for Ian, there was this teeny, tiny horrible piece of her that was secretly glad because if he didn’t win, then maybe he’d stick around.
This isn’t his world, Cora. You can’t use sex as an erotic carrot to hold him hostage.
“Thank you,” Ian said at last, hanging up the phone. He pulled her against his chest as he leaned back against the wall of the rodeo office. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his fingers scraping against the scruff on his jaw. He sighed. “I don’t believe it.”
“They’re idiots.” Cora knew firsthand how much it sucked to lose. Maybe the judges weren’t idiots, maybe everyone else’s entries were just as good, just as moving, or even more so than Ian’s, but honestly, she couldn’t see how. Then again, all she knew was how his work had made her feel.
“I’m a finalist.”
“Wait.” Cora took a half step back. Did he say what she thought he’d said? “You won?”
Ian gave a little shrug, a smile of disbelief finally curving his lips. “Not won. I made it past the first round.”
“Same thing,” Cora said.
“Hardly.” Ian caught her when she jumped into his arms and planted a big wet kiss on his lips. “But I’m one step closer.”
She locked her heels behind him. Pinning her hands behind his neck, she pulled back enough to see his face. “You’re not nearly as excited as I’d thought you’d be. What’s wrong?”
He set her down. “They moved the deadline up. Finalists were supposed to have a week to submit their final entry, but the editors decided to put the contest winner in the next issue. So, if I don’t send my next photo essay out first thing in the morning, it won’t make the new judging deadline.”
“Don’t just stand there,” Cora said, “You’ve got work to do.”
“It can wait,” Ian said.
With that tight of a deadline, Cora knew it couldn’t. Catching the nutjob throwing a wrench into her life couldn’t come fast enough. Having a babysitter twenty-four seven got old...fast. “You go do what you have to do. Josephine should be back from the bar soon, and she and I can go ahead and pack up and get ready to head out for Shreveport in the morning.”
“I don’t—” Ian cut himself off, the conflict clear on his face—in the jump of the muscle at the corner of his jaw, the tension around his eyes, the taut muscles in his body as if what he needed to do, and what he wanted to do, warred within him. “This is fucked up.”
“No. It is what it is.” Cora took his hand and pulled him away from the wall and started dragging him back toward his camper. He’d gone above and beyond, supporting her in her dream. Now it was her time to return the favor. “I’ll wait at your trailer until Josephine comes back. Packing can wait. Your project can’t.”
Linking fingers, they walked back to Ian’s camper. A truck pulled in, its headlights raking across the gravel parking lot with that distinctive chug-chug-cough that could only be Josephine’s truck. They detoured to Cora’s trailer and met Josephine there. She climbed out, a big cheesy, half-sauced smile on her face. Good thing the bar was within walking distance and she hadn’t driven far.
“Tag, you’re it,” Cora said. “Ian has some work that can’t wait.”
As Josephine closed her truck door and took a staggering step, Ian leaned in and whispered in Cora’s ear. “I don’t like this. She’s going to be more of a hindrance than a help if anything happens.”