Miz Iris gave a sly grin. “And the scenery is spectacular.”
Violet winced. “Mom!”
“Man-rule infraction!” Shawnee grabbed the tequila and the glass.
“Oh please.” Violet rolled her eyes. “She does it on purpose.”
Miz Iris toasted her and tipped back the shot without a blink.
Shawnee frowned. “I don’t think I like this. What if they hook up? It would be too weird.”
Tori snorted. “Like, say, you and Cole?”
“Exactly!” Shawnee flicked pie crumbs off her boob. “I mean, how bizarre was that? It still sorta freaks me out.”
Tori shook her head and looked back at Melanie. “When are you leaving?”
“I, um, haven’t decided.” First she would need to actually accept the job—and make sure there were paramedics on standby to resuscitate Wyatt when he got her email. She waved a hand to indicate her apartment. “I have to pack, tie up some loose ends, figure out what to do with this place.”
Tori peeled back the paper on the last cupcake. “We have a temporary therapist who’s filling in for a maternity leave. She’s in an extended-stay hotel, so she could move in by this weekend.”
“I can’t be ready—” Melanie protested.
“Sure you can.” Miz Iris set her plate on the floor so the dog could clean up the crumbs and stood. “Violet, you and Shawnee go find some boxes. I’ll take the bathroom. Tori, you’ve got the kitchen. And Mel, you tackle the bedroom. Set aside what you want to take along. We’ll haul everything else out and store it in the bunkhouse.”
Melanie shoved out of her chair. “Hey! I didn’t agree—”
They all ignored her, bustling off to tackle their assigned chores. Melanie looked at the dog. Katie gave her the canine version of a shrug and stuck her nose in one of the pizza boxes to pull out a slice they’d missed.
By nine o’clock, all of Melanie’s worldly possessions besides what she would need in Oregon were loaded in Violet’s pickup. The apartment was spotless, and her house sitter was scheduled to stop by before work in the morning to pick up the keys. Tori and Shawnee headed for the door, both facing an early-morning wake-up call. Miz Iris hugged Melanie and ordered her not to worry—they would keep an eye on things while she was gone.
Violet hung back, letting them disappear around the corner before she turned to face Melanie, folding her arms around her ribs. “Are you sure about this, Mel? I mean, you and Wyatt…”
“Are both capable of being professionals.” She hoped.
“If you say so.” Violet looked like she had her doubts. “It’s just…you’re not exactly at your most reasonable right now. Which is totally understandable. And Wyatt…”
Melanie’s antennae twitched at the odd note in Violet’s voice. “What about him?”
“He’s changed the last year or so. He’s quieter. And sort of distant.”
So it wasn’t just Melanie. A finger of unwelcome concern poked her in the gut. She brushed it away. “It’s probably a woman.”
“I don’t think so. Even if he fell for someone totally inappropriate—married, or too young, or whatever—he’d tell Joe.” Violet hunched her shoulders. “There’s something else.”
Something to do with Hank? It would explain how Wyatt had known he’d dropped out of sight.
Melanie shook off the ridiculous thought. She was just projecting her own worries. Besides, if Wyatt knew terrible secrets about her brother, wouldn’t he tell her instead of offering to find Hank?
She puffed out an impatient breath. “Are you saying I shouldn’t go to Oregon?”
“It’s too late now.” Violet glanced around the empty apartment, frowning, then sighed. “Just try to play nice, okay? I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.”
“I didn’t pack any weapons.”
“Sweetie, when it comes to Wyatt, your fuse is always lit.” Then she gave Melanie a hard hug and patted her back. “It’s good that you’re getting away. And don’t worry, this was just the first battle. We’ll make sure those bastards don’t win the war.”
Violet was gone before Melanie could decide whether she meant the fuse attached to her temper—or her desire.
Chapter 9
He was such a coward. And now he was going to pay…again.
In Wyatt’s defense, he’d barely gotten accustomed to being welcomed into the Jacobs fold when Melanie had strolled in and bowled him over. His fear of losing his place—combined with a well-earned, knee-jerk mistrust of instantaneous attraction—had skewed his judgment. By the time he’d realized his mistake, he’d damn near obliterated the chance that she’d want anything to do with him.
Then Gil had come along and finished the job.
Now here he was, once again faced with the consequences of misjudging her. Even after she’d faxed him the signed contract, he’d been so sure she’d balk that he’d kept her imminent arrival to himself. Then she’d texted him from Mountain Home, Idaho, last night to say she’d be arriving around noon today.
Which meant he’d given Grace less than twenty-four hours’ warning.
To say she wasn’t happy with him was a massive understatement—a fact she was underlining by taking her time in arriving for the morning training session. She knew how he hated to wait.
He paced the dirt alley of his practice arena, pausing to stretch and check the highway that passed his small acreage east of Pendleton and trying to ignore the random skips of his heart. She’s coming. Melanie is really coming.
He forced his scattered brain to focus on the here and now. Three young men lounged against the fence, dressed in shorts, kneepads, cleats, helmets, and Kevlar vests. Wyatt paused to study them, moving his focus from one to the next and noting how they reacted to his scrutiny.
They didn’t trust him. They’d never had much reason to trust anyone. But in this profession, success—and occasionally survival—depended on teamwork. You had to have absolute faith in your partner…and be a partner who had earned the same faith.
He expected a lot from his students. In return, he offered an escape from grinding poverty, addiction, violence, hopelessness. All they had to contribute were desire, guts, and a willingness to put their lives on the line.
They all had the talent, but did they also have the drive and the discipline? Look at Hank Brookman. No one had had a straighter shot to the top—blessed with a crazy amount of athletic ability, and growing up a member of the Jacobs Livestock crew. He’d still managed to screw it up.
And now Wyatt was dragging Melanie to Oregon. Talk about your self-destructive urges.
Of course, a lot of people thought his entire career was suicidal. Wyatt disagreed. A rodeo bullfighter was no different from a Coast Guard swimmer. His job was to jump in and save a cowboy who was in over his head. If that meant putting himself in harm’s way—well, in all of recorded history, there had been the rescuers.
Which was not the same thing as a savior, but Wyatt had never been able to stop himself from trying to be both.
Did any of these men have those all-important protective instincts? Bullfighting naturally attracted the adrenaline junkies, but if they only wanted thrills, they wouldn’t last. The rodeo season was a marathon, and nobody gave a good goddamn if you were tired and aching. You either gutted it out because the cowboys needed you, or you walked away. If you could still walk.
Finally he spotted Grace’s pickup coming down the highway and breathed a quiet thank-you that she hadn’t stood him up completely. He ignored the ache in his right ankle—courtesy of three surgeries and the chill that lingered beneath the June sunshine—and strode to the gate that closed off the large, round corral from the wide alley beyond.
“We’ve practiced the basic moves using the dummy.” He waved toward the set of horns and plastic body mounted on a wheelbarrow frame that functioned as a fake bull, then flipped t
he latch on the gate to the round pen. “It’s time to work with live cattle. I need two guys. Who’s first?”
There was a hesitation, glances exchanged, then Dante, the son of migrant farmworkers, stepped up. Three years earlier, at a cocky seventeen, he’d stayed behind in Pasco, Washington, while the rest of his family followed the harvest season to California. He’d immediately been sucked into the gang culture, and they’d had to notify his parole officer before Wyatt could bring him across the state line into Oregon.
Philip also stepped forward, lanky and solemn, with black hair worn in a single braid down his back. A member of the Blackfeet tribe on the windblown plains of northern Montana, he’d been a standout basketball player in high school who, like so many Native American athletes, hadn’t bartered his ability into a college scholarship. With Wyatt’s help, he might be able to turn it into a career.
Red-haired, baby-faced Scotty, the smallest and youngest of the three, hung back. Not out of fear, but from long, painful experience that had taught him to keep his head down until he’d seen exactly what he was getting into. When he’d turned eighteen and the foster care system had dumped him out in Pendleton, he had applied for a minimum-wage, part-time job scrubbing floors in the Bull Dancer—the only marketable skill he possessed. They were working on changing that.
Wyatt swung the gate open. His students exchanged more glances.
“What are those?” Dante asked.
“Cows.”
“Ain’t like no cows I’ve seen,” Scotty said.
“You’re used to beef cattle. These are mostly exotics.” Wyatt gestured at the animals, identifying them cow by cow. “Brahma, Corriente, Brangus Cross, Longhorn, Gelbvieh. That gray one’s called the Panther. And the black one on the end is Wild Woman.”
“I thought we came to fight bulls,” Dante said.
As if hearing the sneer in his voice, the cows threw their heads up, testing the wind. Their eyes glittered with evil intention. This was a game they had played often—and well. And unlike bulls, they weren’t inclined to bust down fences to get at the sassy purebred Angus heifers across the road, a benefit Wyatt had embraced after fielding angry phone calls when his Brahmas paid them a midnight visit.
“We’ll see how you do with these girls first.” From the corner of his eye, Wyatt saw Grace take up her position outside the fence as he pointed at the cow on one end of the little herd. “See that brown, tiger-striped cow? One of you go in and hold her there while we let the rest go down the alley.”
Dante gave a no problem shrug and strutted toward the cow. “I got this.”
The brindle tossed her head, then lowered it as she flung a deliberate hoof full of sand against the fence. Dante hesitated ten strides in front of her, then flapped his hands. “Uh…shoo!”
The brindle backed a step, snorted, and flung more sand. As if on cue, the rest of the herd wheeled and bolted for the gate. Scotty had enough sense to jump clear, but as the Panther burst through the gap, she kicked out to the side, caught Philip’s hip, and spun him around. He staggered, swore, and had barely gotten his feet under him when the brindle charged.
Dante made the fatal error of scrambling backward, getting caught on his heels. Her head slammed into his chest and sent him skidding like a turtle in his Kevlar shell. As the cow lunged for him, Wyatt leapt to intervene, but Philip was closer. He threw his body at the cow’s face as her hooves slashed at Dante. She flung her head up, flipping Philip ass over heels to crash into the fence. Before she could decide which of the downed men to go after, Wyatt stepped in, slapping her ear as he circled past, and sprinted for the gate, giving her a clear target. She took the bait, blowing snot as she feinted at him, then bolted down the alley to join the rest of what Joe affectionately called the Hell Bitches.
Scotty raced over to Philip, who was crumpled against the fence. “Holy shit, man! You okay?”
“Don’t touch him!” Grace commanded.
Scotty froze with one hand on Philip’s arm. Grace swung over the fence and trotted across the corral, dropping a medical kit on the ground. Wyatt squatted beside her as she placed a hand on Philip’s shoulder and began to talk to him, her voice low and calm.
“Just stay put for a minute. Get your breath. Can you tell me where you are? No…don’t nod. Tell me.”
He did. Philip’s voice gained strength with every response, and after a quick check of head, neck, and back, Grace allowed him to sit up, arms braced on splayed knees. He drew a few deep, steadying breaths, then lifted his gaze, eyes clear. “I’m good. Just lost my air.”
“Okay.” Wyatt held out a hand and pulled the young man to his feet. Then he clapped the shoulder of the woman who had risen to stand beside him, the top of her head barely reaching his armpit. “Boys, this is Grace. She’s our resident athletic trainer. Treat her right. You’re going to need her before you’re done.”
She nodded in greeting, looking all of fifteen years old with her pert, freckled nose and her ginger curls pulled into a short, bushy ponytail.
Dante grabbed at his upper thigh and smirked. “Yeah, I think I pulled my groin.”
“Wow. I’ve never heard that one before.” Grace reached into the medical bag, pulled out an instant cold pack, and gave it a twist. Then she marched over and thrust it at him, the antithesis of her name with her brisk movements and the pugnacious tilt of her chin. “Stuff this in your shorts.”
Dante grinned down at her. “How ’bout a massage instead?”
“Do it,” Wyatt commanded.
The grin melted. “But I was just—”
“Now.” Wyatt jerked his head toward the fence. “Out there. Fifteen minutes.”
The kid tried a hard-ass stare. Wyatt turned it back on him, double strength. Dante scowled, took the ice pack, and shoved through the gate to flop on the ground, only to yelp and jump up again, swiping at a scatter of dark, triangular thorns stuck to his butt.
“Goatsheads,” Grace declared in her sweetest Texas drawl. “Nasty buggers. Gotta watch your step.”
Dante glared at her. She smiled. He crammed the ice pack into place and lowered himself carefully onto a bare patch of dirt.
Wyatt made a disgusted noise, but Grace only shrugged. “There’s one in every crowd, and he’s not gonna last. He’s got no feel for it.”
Wyatt had come to the same conclusion. Some things couldn’t be taught, especially to a man who wasn’t good at listening, but he would let Dante figure that out for himself.
“That one’s a keeper…” Grace cocked her head toward Philip. “If he doesn’t get himself killed before he gets a clue.”
“We’re going to work on that. Bring ’em back!” he called to the remaining pair.
When they were out of earshot, Grace said, “Sorry I’m late. I can’t fathom how I let the time get away from me.”
Her tone was as chilly as the ice pack currently frosting Dante’s balls.
“I should have told you as soon as Melanie accepted the job.” The words stuck a little. Wyatt wasn’t accustomed to making apologies—or excuses.
She jerked a shoulder. “I assume you have your reasons. You always do.”
“It was unexpected—”
She cut him off with a quick shake of her head. “I get it. She was in a bind; you had to help. I suppose it’s time I dealt with this, and having Melanie around is as good a place to start as any. Maybe she can tell me what’s wrong with my roping.”
Wyatt made a sympathetic face. “Bad weekend?”
“I had a throw at both rodeos to win money and roped both calves around the ears instead of the neck. And I was being sarcastic, so don’t even think about asking Melanie to coach me.” Her tone was belligerent, but just beneath was a tremor of anxiety.
Way to go, Wyatt. And he hadn’t even told her the worst yet.
“There’s more.” When Grace narrowed her eyes, it was all
he could do not to shuffle his feet. “I promised to find Hank.”
Her gaze dropped to the ground. She didn’t move or speak for so long that Wyatt felt compelled to fill the dead air. “That’s all I’m going to do, Grace. Just find him, so Melanie can stop worrying.”
“Yeah, right.” Her laugh was short and bitter. “Whatever hole he crawled into, she won’t be able to leave him there. And neither will you.”
He didn’t bother trying to deny it. “Even if we can drag him out, he won’t come anywhere near you as long as you’re here.” In the same zip code as me.
She slanted him another of those sharp-edged glances. “But I’ll know where he is.”
“You’d rather be in the dark?”
“Yes.” She hitched the strap of the medical bag higher on her shoulder and started for her usual post outside the gate. “Makes it easier to pretend he never existed.”
Chapter 10
Melanie stopped to text Wyatt from a scenic pullout halfway down Cabbage Hill, where the interstate crested the eastern edge of the mountains she’d been winding through since crossing the Idaho border. She stayed for the view.
She’d been here before, of course, in the wonder years when her daddy was tall, handsome Johnny Brookman, one of the most respected tie-down ropers and horsemen on the professional circuit. Back when Melanie was too young to pay much attention to the scenery.
Like everyone else, she’d assumed she would always be back the next year.
Far off in the distance—fifty miles, maybe a hundred for all this flatlander could judge—the tips of glistening white peaks speared up on the horizon. She identified them on her map…Mount Hood, Mount Adams, and several other slumbering volcanoes. Directly below her, an expanse of flat ground rose and folded to the west, acre upon acre of cropland cut by the winding course of the Umatilla River and the deep groove it had carved from the rich, volcanic topsoil.
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