Fearless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

“Deal,” he said before she could reconsider.

  Louie brought her a hot cup of coffee. She thanked him with a wide, genuine smile that made Wyatt want to kick something. And sure enough, as her gaze swung toward him, the smile tightened and he could see her take a mental step back. Always keeping a safe distance.

  Then her dark lashes lifted, and for the space of a dozen heartbeats, their eyes locked. Around them, between them, the fabric of the universe shuddered with that zing! of connection he’d felt the first time they’d met. And as always, he was torn between leaning in and running away. His fingers itched to stroke that crease from her cheek. Comb through the silky length of her hair, lift it to his face and inhale…until his brain offered up a single, smiling image that was every reason he couldn’t.

  And then her stomach growled. Loudly.

  She ducked her head, a slight flush rising on her cheeks. “I should have something more solid for lunch.”

  “I can fix that.” Wyatt practically jumped from the booth and gestured to the door. “You can brief me on your market research over dinner.”

  Chapter 13

  Well, hell. One dumb-ass, unguarded look, and they might as well have been right back on that dance floor at Violet’s wedding, the physical attraction between them a living, breathing entity that they’d only been able to drive into hibernation.

  She should have said no damn way to his dinner invitation, but that would have been admitting the moment in the bar had rattled her.

  So here they were, stepping out together into a twilight that had cooled enough to make Melanie shiver despite the hoodie she’d grabbed from her car. She expected Wyatt to lead her to any of the half-dozen restaurants within a block of the Bull Dancer. Instead, he unlocked the door of his Camaro and held it for her.

  Great. After all the fantasies she’d tried not to have involving this car…

  It gleamed under the newly awakened streetlight, a devil-red, four-wheeled aphrodisiac. When he closed the door, the leather-bound scent of privileged male wrapped around her—warm, spicy, mouthwatering. Too bad she was on a strict, no-Wyatt diet.

  Tilting her head back, she let her eyelids drift nearly shut as he climbed in, but that only intensified all of her other senses. The engine growled to life, deep and just barely domesticated. The vibration worked its way up from the soles of her feet and set every nerve on high alert. The space separating them was so narrow his hand nearly brushed her thigh as he wrapped it around the gearshift knob.

  She shifted away under the pretext of running a finger along the dashboard and inspecting it. No trace of dust. “Do you have this thing detailed once a week?”

  “Every other. And I keep it covered, even in the garage.” He angled her a look that sent another wave of prickling heat through her. “Some things are worth the effort.”

  She refused to let her breath catch. “I’m a low-maintenance kind of gal myself.”

  “I’ve noticed,” he said, and left her to wonder if she’d been insulted or complimented.

  He turned left onto the one-way that ran the long, narrow length of downtown. She was disappointed when he made another left after only four blocks and parked the Camaro across the street from what looked like a large, historic house. She’d been hoping they’d hit the highway and see what the car could do—as if she wasn’t already half-dizzy from inhaling too much undiluted Wyatt.

  She kicked open the door and got out. “We could’ve walked this far.”

  “I thought you might get cold.”

  His mild tone made her sound even bitchier. She realized she was hugging her arms across her chest and let them drop. Her stomach gave another audible growl at the aroma of grilled meat wafting in the air. And Lord, could she use that cup of coffee she hadn’t gotten around to finishing before Wyatt hijacked her. She didn’t get hangovers—a quirk that had annoyed the hell out of Shawnee and Violet in college—but she was in dire need of caffeine to finish the job of waking her up.

  Not that she’d let Wyatt know she was still muzzy around the edges. She’d heard him come into the bar—four years of having Shawnee Pickett as a roommate had made her hard to sneak up on—and played possum on the off chance she might overhear something interesting. A girl didn’t get many chances to catch Wyatt off guard.

  “This place looks like it’s been around a while.” They climbed flagstone steps to a wide veranda that fronted the building, the steep, gabled roof braced by wooden columns.

  “It was built in 1902 by the first president of the Pendleton Roundup, later converted to apartments, and now it’s a restaurant.” They stepped inside, and Wyatt held up two fingers for the hostess. “Consider this more research.”

  The weeknight crowd was sparse, but she and Wyatt still attracted a few glances as the hostess led them to a table by the front window. Obviously he was recognized, but no one waved or tried to chat. Melanie couldn’t help but contrast it with walking into a cafe in Earnest with Joe, where they greeted him like a native son after only a few years.

  Wyatt had lived in Pendleton for almost two decades. Was it the town…or was it him?

  “What?” he asked as she frowned at him.

  “I’m trying to understand why anyone would voluntarily wear a shirt that has to be ironed.”

  His gaze skimmed over her rumpled clothes. “I thought all Texans were addicted to starch.”

  “Not the ones who grew up doing their own laundry.” And Hank’s.

  And dammit, she really was soft in the head tonight, making a glib comment that sharpened Wyatt’s already assessing gaze. He knew her family situation, but she didn’t need to advertise the lingering bitter taste.

  The waitress came by to take their drink orders, forcing his attention away from Melanie while he listened to a recitation of the microbrews on tap. Melanie breathed a sigh of relief and tried to refrain from snatching the coffee and drinking straight from the pot. She gave her cup a meaningful shove. The woman grudgingly peeled her eyes off Wyatt to fill it. The first sip scalded Melanie’s tongue, but her gray matter immediately perked up.

  The waitress departed, and Wyatt folded his arms across his spotless white shirt. “You think I’m overdressed for the occasion?”

  Melanie shrugged. “No criticism intended. I just don’t know many cowboys who wear tasseled loafers.”

  “I’m not a cowboy,” he said flatly.

  Melanie paused in the act of stirring cream into her coffee. “You hold the record for the number of consecutive appearances at the National Finals, which makes you a shoo-in for the ProRodeo Hall of Fame.”

  “As a bullfighter. Not a cowboy. I’ve never worked on a ranch. I’ve never competed in a rodeo. I put on my gear, and I step into the arena the same way a football player steps onto the field. The rest of the time…” A flick of his fingers toward his chest invited her to take a good look. “I’m this.”

  The waitress set his beer down, and he relaxed into his chair as he thanked her. Once again, Melanie was struck by the unconscious release of tension. She would have pegged Wyatt as someone who didn’t give a damn about popular opinion, but his body language was telling her otherwise—over something as trivial as how he dressed.

  Which meant it wasn’t trivial at all.

  After they’d placed their meal orders, Melanie nursed her coffee, using it as an excuse to retreat into her thoughts. It was time to get serious about this job. If this was going to work on a professional level—and that was the only level she would consider—she had to stop thinking of him as Wyatt and start seeing him as a client.

  And if she wanted to prove that Michael was an anomaly and not a sign that she’d gone people-blind, there was no better place to start.

  She refused to believe she’d lost the insight that had been a lifetime in the making. At the tender age of eight, she’d realized she could predict how the day would go based on the way her father
sawed at his pancakes and how loudly her mother’s spoon clinked against the cup as she stirred her coffee. Those were the days she asked Daddy if she could ride with him when he went out to check the cows in the river breaks, and offered to pack the lunches they’d take along so her mother could leave early to meet with her study partners.

  Little Melanie, the world’s youngest PR specialist. A skill she’d honed in psychology classes and sales seminars taught by FBI interrogators. Everyone had tells, even Wyatt, and the longer she kept him talking, the more she would understand what he really wanted from that bar.

  More than a successful business venture. Otherwise, it wouldn’t still be sitting there in limbo—a shabby, woeful liability on his balance sheet. It struck her that as much time as she’d spent observing Wyatt in action, she had only the slightest grasp of what drove him. Loyalty, yes. A hero complex…possibly. But those were the whats.

  She was only vaguely aware of his closely guarded whys. The real reasons he wasn’t lounging on the terrace of a mansion on the Vineyard, sipping a rare vintage with heads of state and captains of industry. Back in Earnest, her life was an open book for anyone who bothered to read it, and she didn’t like the advantage it gave him, knowing her better than she knew him.

  She propped her elbow on the table, her chin on her fist, and gave him her rapt attention. “You witnessed my fall from grace. The least you can do is tell me about yours. Did you get disowned for using the wrong fork for the hors d’oeuvres?”

  He turned the beer glass, seemingly admiring the perfect head of foam before taking the first sip. “You could say I refused to swallow whatever was put on my plate.”

  Whoa. A real answer. Now that was unexpected. And calculated, no doubt, but she was willing to risk whatever he hoped to gain. “What were they dishing up?”

  “A version of morality I couldn’t stomach.”

  “Such as?”

  “Among other things…the unshakable belief that any version of religion, politics, or sexuality other than their own is a sin against God.”

  “Oh.” Not that she would ever bring any of those up over breakfast with her own father, but no doubt the stakes would be a bit higher in the vaunted Darrington family. “I thought the Episcopal Church was one of the most progressive.”

  His eyebrows twitched in surprise. Yes, the Baptist girl actually read about these things. “The church as whole? Yes. My family in particular? Not so much.”

  She tried to read any nonverbal cues, but whatever emotions had been strong enough to drive him to rebellion were locked up behind that impenetrable blue gaze. “You couldn’t just switch to a different…um, parish, or whatever?”

  “It was a little more complicated than that.” His mouth twisted, and for an instant his expression went bleak. “Let’s just say I lost faith in more than my family.”

  Wow. That was…well, sad. Melanie was by no means a Bible-thumper, but her beliefs had always been a solid foundation in her life. An anchor when the world seemed to be one huge, ugly storm. Shattering that connection…

  Would take more than an argument with her daddy. The complication that had caused Wyatt to lose his religion must’ve been a real doozy.

  “Now I’m even more curious,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the story of your first rodeo. How did you end up in Pendleton?”

  His expression barely seemed to change, but she could see him pulling on the mask he wore for reporters and fans. Friendly. Amused. Meaningless. “Call it a pilgrimage. I followed the Oregon Trail, and like a lot of the emigrants, this is where the wheels came off my wagon. Or in my case, the engine blew up in my Audi…which was no great loss. By the time I found the Camaro, I’d fallen in love with the town and decided not to move on.”

  A smooth, practiced line delivered with just the right touch of self-effacing humor, but not the whole story. He’d shifted as he spoke, and beneath the table he had crossed his ankles—classic signs he was holding something back. The trip hadn’t been some rich boy’s impulse, the decision to stay not so lightly made.

  Melanie made an educated guess. “And who would ever expect to find someone like you holed up in this little cow town?”

  “I didn’t have a pack of bloodhounds on my trail.” But he laced the fingers of both hands around his beer glass, a gesture she was beginning to recognize as his personal No Trespassing sign.

  She ignored it and plowed on. “So you set up your homestead here, all by yourself?”

  His fingers tightened a fraction before he lifted the glass and took a sip. When he lowered it, his slight smile was perfectly calibrated. “Why not? I was twenty-two years old, financially independent, and trying to find myself. This seemed like as good a place as any.”

  Liar. The best ones knew better than to look you directly in the eye.

  “Do you own any other property in town?” she asked, shifting her angle of attack.

  “The rest of my condo complex.”

  “Renters?” She lifted her eyebrows. “Seems like a hassle.”

  “A real estate agency manages them for me.”

  Just like the Bull Dancer Foundation. “You generally prefer hands-off investments.”

  “I travel a lot.”

  She let her eyes narrow just enough to indicate that she wasn’t buying his line. He took another sip of beer. She had another swallow of coffee. The moments began to weigh heavier, the strain of holding his stare without getting sucked into the blue, blue depths of his eyes growing exponentially with each beat of her heart.

  She was insane, challenging him to a stare-down when her emotions were still so raw she felt as if she was carrying an armload of nitroglycerin bottles. One slip, and kaboom! Just like in those old western movies.

  Wyatt broke first, circling a hand to indicate their surroundings. “What do you think? Would this suit the Bull Dancer?”

  The Bull Dancer. A name that referred to both the bar and the man. She took her time examining the room—the way gleaming wood floors set off a seamless combination of clean lines and rich, contemporary color. A waitress passed with more plates, the food artfully arranged, magazine perfect.

  Mentally comparing it to the shabby, degenerate glitz of the Bull Dancer, she had to squelch a laugh. Months after taking possession, Wyatt had changed almost nothing beyond cleaning and basic repairs, as if the place had him stymied. He wanted…something, but either didn’t know exactly what it was or couldn’t figure out how to accomplish it.

  Since Wyatt was the most self-analytical person she’d ever met, she had to assume the second. Knowing what he really wanted and admitting it were two very different things, however. But he would tell her, if she kept asking the right questions and paying very close attention to his reactions.

  The way you read Michael?

  The hand on her lap fisted, grasping at her slippery control. Damn him. Of all the things Michael had fractured—her heart not included, but she’d been all too aware of that before the wreck—her previously steadfast faith in her own judgment was the most devastating. How did she get that back?

  The same way she’d broken every rodeo slump of her career—with one big win. Many had tried, but all had failed to get to the true center of Wyatt Darrington. Even Violet and Joe accepted that there were parts of him they didn’t really know. Given her damnable weakness where he was concerned—one that was at least somewhat mutual—getting too close would be a huge risk. But if she could succeed in fathoming the unfathomable…

  He quirked an eyebrow, still waiting for her answer.

  “If this was your goal, you would’ve already hired a designer and a fancy chef,” she said. “Obviously it’s not your heart’s desire.”

  “What is?”

  Melanie gave him a long, thorough appraisal, ignoring the rev of her pulse. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  “Should I be afraid?�
��

  She smiled. He smiled. Their eyes locked again, and the tension level at the table ratcheted up several dangerous degrees.

  Then the waitress arrived with their entrees, and they made the mutual, unspoken decision to back off, concentrate on their food, and limit interaction to how, yes, the grilled salmon special had been an excellent choice and the huckleberry glaze was perfect.

  As Melanie was swabbing up the last of it, Wyatt frowned and pulled his vibrating phone out of his shirt pocket. A puzzled crease appeared between his eyebrows when he checked the screen, but he took the call. “This is Wyatt.”

  He listened for a few moments, then asked, “Did you find everything you need?”

  Melanie’s heart clutched. Was this about Hank? Wyatt’s expression told her nothing.

  He listened some more, then said, “That should be interesting. We’ll see you in about fifteen minutes.”

  We? What did this have to do with her? Wyatt hung up and casually tucked the phone back into his pocket, but when he met her gaze, there was a gleam in his eyes that made her chin jerk up.

  “What?” she demanded.

  He gave her one of those irritating half smirks. “We need to swing by my arena when we’re done here.”

  She wasn’t going to like this. Otherwise, Wyatt wouldn’t be so amused. Rather than peppering him with questions, she pushed her chair back and stood. “Let’s go, then.”

  * * *

  Before Wyatt slowed to turn into a gravel driveway, she spotted the rodeo rig parked beside his arena, but the outfit was fancier than anything her friends owned. Amber running lights outlined a modified, four-door semi-tractor attached to a massive, top-end horse trailer with a slide-out on the living quarters already extended. Someone was settling in for the night.

  But who? And what did it have to do with her?

  As she stepped out of the car, the scents and sounds hit her, loosing a wave of memories of nights just like this one. The cool air condensing the mingled smells of manure and fresh wood shavings from the trailer, dust and good clean hay, and amplifying the clomp and snuffle of horses. So many times this had been her and Shawnee making a pit stop between rodeos—minus the super-fancy rig.