Fearless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  And just off the foot of the mountains was Pendleton—one of the birthplaces of professional rodeo and maker of legends, from Yakima Canutt, to the bucking horse War Paint, to modern-day iron man Trevor Brazile. Cowboys dreamed their entire career of carrying home a championship saddle from the historic Pendleton Roundup.

  Johnny Brookman was a member of that elite club, even if he had almost nothing to show for it.

  Melanie couldn’t see the arena from her vantage point. Only the fringes of town were visible, the bulk of it crammed into the narrow river valley. No sense wasting precious farmland on something as trivial as homes and businesses. Joe had warned her that these lowlands in the gap between the Blue Mountains and the coastal range were drier than the Panhandle. This was not the Oregon of Portlandia and webbed feet. Instead of rain forests and waterfalls, row upon row of green wheat undulated over every tillable surface, tillable being a generous description. There had to be some serious pucker factor involved in driving farm equipment across some of those hillsides. Anything that wasn’t farmed or irrigated was already turning summer brown.

  She texted Wyatt—Be there in about fifteen—then leaned against the hood of the car to take in her temporary home, a welcome respite from her yammering thoughts. The clamor was momentarily banished by the startling abundance of light and space. Yes, Texas was wide open, but you couldn’t stand on the side of a mountain and see to the ends of the earth. And there was so much air. Infinite, unending air—above, below, and beyond. For the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe.

  Reluctantly, she climbed back into the car and followed Wyatt’s directions, taking an exit that dove off the south side of what Oregonians called a coulee. The steep street was flanked by houses stacked nearly on top of one another. A left turn, then a right, across the railroad tracks, and she found herself downtown—and immediately charmed. Each block was a row of stately brick buildings, either impeccably preserved or built to match the originals. Huge baskets of flowers hung from black iron streetlamps, and trees lined the sidewalks. The downtown section of Main Street ran only four blocks before it crossed the river and angled sharply up the North Hill. In the middle of the final block, she saw her destination.

  She parked across the street from the old-fashioned sign—a stark, black silhouette of a bullfighter dodging a bull on a white background, ringed by round, yellow marquee-style lightbulbs. A classic red muscle car with a broad, white rally stripe rumbled across the bridge to idle in the spot in front of the bar. Her pulse gave a little blip at the sight of the famous Camaro. Joe claimed that car was Wyatt’s one true love.

  Melanie could see why.

  She dragged in a deep breath and got out of her sensible SUV, rumpled and road weary in jeans and a T-shirt with a drizzle of coffee down the front. Wyatt emerged looking like a television ad for impeccably engineered Swiss watches.

  “You’re here,” he said as if he was almost as amazed to see her as she was to be standing there.

  “Sorry to disappoint you. I did consider making a U-turn south of Salt Lake City.”

  “If I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t have asked.” Wyatt tapped his knuckles once on the roof of the Camaro, apparently oblivious to how his statement could be misinterpreted, and tilted his head toward the sign. “Welcome to the Bull Dancer Saloon.”

  She waited as he unlocked the heavy wood door, then followed him inside, pausing at the end of the short entry hall as he flipped on lights.

  What the—

  She closed her eyes. Opened them again. She was still blinded by a dazzle of red and gold, velvet and gilt. She stepped into the middle of the room and turned a full circle as she tilted her head back to study the wrought-iron scrollwork on a narrow second-floor balcony ringed with half a dozen doors.

  “It’s a whorehouse,” she said.

  “Originally.” Lounging against the bar in a white button-down shirt, khakis, and loafers, his damp hair slicked back and that maddening smirk in place, Wyatt could have subbed for Paul Newman as Cool Hand Luke—pure trouble but possibly worth the consequences. “A couple of the rooms upstairs are still intact…furniture, clothes, even some photos and other personal items.”

  “Any of the original occupants hanging around?”

  His teeth flashed in the low light. “There are stories.”

  Awesome. Melanie dropped her purse on a table and sank onto the red vinyl of one of the circular booths. A week ago, she’d been contemplating whether it was time to update her résumé and make the next move in her corporate climb. Now here she was, in a potentially haunted whorehouse with Wyatt Darrington. “Well, that answers one question.”

  “Which is?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “I wondered if you really needed help, or just offered me the job because you felt sorry for me.”

  “Sorry? For you?” He sounded gratifyingly amazed at the idea. “Why?”

  Was he serious? He had heard everything Michael said. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I was just duped and dumped by my lover?”

  “Technically, you dumped him.” A frown creased the space between Wyatt’s brows. “And you weren’t in love with him.”

  She gaped at his calm certainty. “What makes you so sure?”

  “You said, I had all of you I wanted.”

  “He didn’t believe me.”

  Wyatt shrugged. “He doesn’t know you. If he’d mattered, you would’ve taken him to Earnest to see what your friends thought of him.”

  “Oh.” Damn. When he laid it out that way, it sounded pretty cold. She narrowed her eyes at his pressed perfection. “I thought you said you’d be working out with your trainees today.”

  “In the morning. They have a Concepts of Computing class this afternoon at Blue Mountain Community College.”

  Melanie blinked. “That’s a requirement for fighting bulls?”

  “It’s a requirement for life. There aren’t many decent jobs for people who don’t know basic computer operations, and how many do you know who make a living just at the rodeos?”

  One out of hundreds. Melanie took a moment to absorb the information. She’d assumed that, like most rodeo clinics, Wyatt’s classes lasted a few days, with a new batch of students each session. But if they were also enrolled at the college… “How long does this school of yours last?”

  “All summer.”

  “And you organize and finance all of this?”

  “The Bull Dancer Foundation does. It’s a registered nonprofit. I have people to take care of the details.”

  People. A.k.a. minions. Wyatt had had hordes of flunkies all his life, from nannies to tax attorneys. Now Melanie was one of them…and didn’t that just needle the ol’ pride?

  “What else?” she asked. “Do your boys learn how to use proper English and behave in public?”

  His gaze was cool and level. “I try. Some are more coachable than others.”

  Like Hank. Melanie dropped her gaze to the floor. If she had a dollar for every time she’d heard, “For Christ’s sake, Hank, what were you thinking?” she could start an advertising agency and hire her own damn minions.

  “In the evenings, my crew heads to the athletic club to work out,” Wyatt added, and something in his voice made her tense, like a warning whiff of smoke on the breeze. “The speed and agility program is Grace’s department.”

  Melanie’s heart clutched, then dropped. Shit. She’d been so wrapped up in her own drama, she hadn’t thought about Grace McKenna, even though she’d known Wyatt had helped her find a job as an athletic trainer somewhere in Oregon. “I thought she worked at a high school.”

  “Yes. This one.” Wyatt gestured toward what she guessed was the general location of Pendleton High School.

  “So convenient of them to have a job opening.” Melanie cocked an eyebrow at him. “How’d you pull that off?”

  He shrugged
lazily. “Their regular athletic trainer had been invited to work the Winter Games, but he had to take a whole school year off to prep at the Olympic Training Center ahead of time.”

  “What’s she going to do now?”

  “She’s applied in some other places.”

  Like Texas? The Lone Star State was one of the best job markets, thanks to legislation that required schools to have a certified athletic trainer on staff. Had Grace recovered sufficiently from her public shaming to come back to the Panhandle?

  Melanie gritted her teeth. Damn it, Hank.

  It had been almost a year and a half since he’d been fired by Cole Jacobs and had gone rampaging off, vowing to make them all sorry. He’d rolled back into town a few days before Thanksgiving, still packing that massive chip on his shoulder, and immediately got into a pissing match with their dad in the Corral Café before taking off again. No big surprise that he’d chosen to spend Christmas in Lubbock with their mother, but it had been a shock when he’d staggered into the Lone Steer Saloon on New Year’s Eve, falling-down drunk. Lord knew what had possessed Grace to even want to talk to him in that state, but it was no excuse for how he’d responded.

  The one time in Hank’s life that he’d been deliberately cruel, he’d chosen shy, smitten Grace as his target. Melanie still couldn’t quite believe he’d humiliated the poor girl in front of a packed bar, then told the stunned onlookers to fuck off as his friends dragged him out the door.

  Still, it hadn’t seemed like enough to drive Grace clean out of the state. Then again, who was Melanie to talk, considering where she was standing.

  Wyatt continued to watch her steadily. “Grace is very good at what she does. She’ll be able to find a job almost anywhere she wants.”

  Melanie nodded mechanically, studying her hands. She really should scrub off the rest of her nail polish. French manicures were one more hassle of corporate life she could cross off the list—along with matching contributions to her 401(k), dental insurance, and a sizeable chunk of self-esteem.

  And now here was Grace…one more reminder of how much of the rest of her life she’d let slide in the past two years. “She can’t be happy about having me here.”

  At Wyatt’s hesitation, Melanie looked up. The expression on his face was…pained? No. That was too simple. Like everything with Wyatt, there were shifting layers, but she’d caught the briefest glimpse of a real emotion before he decided what to put on display.

  He went with a neutral shrug. “She has nothing against you.”

  “But the sins of the brother…?”

  His eyes met hers, and there it was again. That complicated flash of…something. Unsettling enough to make Melanie’s skin prickle. “Go easy on her,” he said quietly.

  Melanie lifted her eyebrows. “I’m not the one with an ax to grind.”

  “But you’re a damned tempting target. She might not be able to resist taking a few whacks, and you’re not exactly in the mood to take any shit.” He’d switched on the intense gaze that was like being caught in a tractor beam. “She’s tougher than she used to be, but she’s still no match for you.”

  “And you want me to turn the other cheek, be the bigger woman, blah, blah, blah…”

  “Please.” A single, simple word, but his tone struck Melanie as more honest than anything he’d said so far.

  Grace was important to him. How important? Just one in the long line of his rescue projects…or something more? Melanie brushed the suspicion aside. Wyatt was almost fifteen years and a lifetime of cynicism older than Grace, and if she was no match for Melanie, she certainly couldn’t handle Wyatt.

  “I can take a few shots without punching back,” she said.

  Wyatt’s mouth quirked. “I’ll have to take your word for it, since I’ve never experienced it personally.”

  “You are a special case.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Her gaze drifted past Wyatt, over the glittering rows of bottles lining the bar behind him and a mirror mottled with age. “What do you expect me to do with this place?”

  “Make it profitable.” He folded his arms, and it wasn’t until his shoulders relaxed that Melanie realized how tense he’d been. “It’s had three owners in eight years. The last was his own best customer and got shut down by the health department. We have to erase that reputation and find our niche, preferably without losing the essence of the place.”

  “So…BDSM parlor?” Melanie suggested.

  Wyatt laughed, and the sound tickled parts of her that should not be feeling kindly toward any man right now. Especially this man. But old habits and all that.

  “In a town this size, it’s hard to maintain confidentiality, which I assume would be key to that venture,” he said. “But we’ll keep it in mind as a last resort.”

  “That doesn’t sound very positive.”

  “The competition is stiff.” This time, the wave of his hand encompassed the downtown area. “The Rainbow has been a local institution forever. Hamley’s has the Old West ambiance and good food for the tourists. And the casino out on the Umatilla reservation has pulled a lot of business from town since they started serving alcohol and added a top-notch restaurant.”

  Melanie frowned. “Why did you buy this place if it’s such a bad bet?”

  “It’s a historic landmark, and it’d been on the market for almost two years. I couldn’t sit back and watch it rot.”

  “Ah. I see.” She gave the bar another once-over, intensely aware that they were alone, and her body’s cursed awareness of him ignited a flare of anger. Hadn’t Michael taught her anything? She tossed Wyatt an insolent look. “Whorehouses, lost boys, wronged women…tell me something, Wyatt. How come my brother is the only thing you never figured was worth saving?”

  Before he could respond, the front door swung open. Melanie blinked into the shaft of sunlight, then again as the door closed. Her body tensed, bracing for attack when she recognized the newcomer.

  “Hello, Melanie,” Grace said.

  She didn’t bother to add, “Nice to see you.”

  Chapter 11

  Melanie stared at Grace. Grace stared back. She had the same mop of rusty-brown curls and the same scatter of freckles, but her posture was ramrod straight, and her gaze was direct to the point of a challenge. Melanie offered a smile. Grace didn’t return it.

  Hoo-kay then. At least she had a pretty clear idea of where she stood.

  And clarity was good, since this was the first time she’d spoken to Grace. Everything Melanie knew of the girl—woman now—was secondhand. Grace and Hank had been in the fourth grade when the McKennas settled their brood in Earnest. For reasons known only to Hank, he’d taken a liking to quiet, studious Grace. Lord knew, she hadn’t been a part of his usual crowd. Forget carousing with Hank and company, her uber-religious parents hadn’t even allowed television, movies, or pop music.

  But somehow she had become what Hank called his little red-haired girl. She’d been the student trainer on the sidelines at football and basketball games, handing him water bottles and towels; taping his ankles better than any of the coaches, he’d bragged. And instead of the jocks or whatever girl Hank was romancing, he’d sat with Grace at lunch nearly every day until graduation. To be honest, without her help, he might not have been offered a diploma.

  And all of that made the way he’d treated her more incomprehensible.

  Wyatt’s phone rang. He checked the number, hesitated, then said, “I should take this call. Grace, would you show Melanie the apartment? She can decide whether she’d rather stay there or out at a hotel.”

  Grace fired him a scorching look, then shrugged. “Sure.”

  She circled the bar and snagged a key from a hook near the cash register, then gestured Melanie to follow her out the front door. Grace made an immediate left beneath the Bull Dancer Saloon sign to an identical dark wood door. Behind
it was a set of long, narrow stairs lit by skylights in a roof a full two stories above their heads. Grace trotted up and Melanie followed, surprised that she was barely out of breath at the top.

  “What’s the altitude here?” she asked.

  “Eighteen hundred feet lower than Amarillo.”

  Huh. She never would’ve guessed from the proximity of the mountains. She sucked in a deep, appreciative breath of the oxygen-enriched air. The one thing she hadn’t let slip was exercise—biweekly sessions with a personal trainer and pickup basketball games at her gym. Regular opportunities to sweat, curse, and throw elbows and body blocks were probably all that had kept her from throat-punching the Leech. If there was a summer league in Pendleton, maybe she could join…

  She stopped dead.

  Grace frowned at her. “Something wrong?”

  “No, I…it just occurred to me that I can set my own schedule.” She would have free time. On weekdays. The possibilities swelled inside her like shiny bubbles. “I can jog outside in the daylight. Go to the post office. Do my banking in person.” She laughed again, downright giddy. “I could even go riding. You know…if I had a horse.”

  Grace cocked her head. “Is that why you quit roping? No time?”

  “Pretty much.”

  There hadn’t been a specific moment when she’d thought, I can’t do this anymore. If someone had told twenty-year-old Melanie that she would choose not to rodeo, she would have laughed in their face. She’d been a winner at every level from local junior rodeos to a national collegiate championship. Why would she quit? But with every month of squeezing in increasingly rushed practices, never spending the time with her horses that she should, and her mind always divided when she was there, it had become more of a burden and less of a joy. Of course her performance at the rodeos had suffered—and that really wasn’t fun.

  When her old horse had ambled into retirement, the colt that was supposed to be his replacement idled in the pasture until Shawnee had finally said, “If you’re just gonna let him go to waste, I’m taking him.”