Fearless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  “But your battery—”

  “Isn’t doing me any good down here. As long as you’ve got a charge on yours, we’re fine.” Rather than waiting for her to decide, he dropped the phone in her lap. “At least lie down, even if you don’t sleep.”

  He wheeled around and thumped off into the trees. When he was sure he was out of sight, he turned to see her scowling at the phone. She pushed Play, set it on the ground beside his makeshift pillow, then toppled over onto her side, back toward him and knees curled into her chest—closing him out even as she trusted him with her safety. He choked off a silent laugh. Wasn’t that the perfect metaphor for their relationship? She did trust him in certain situations, and respected him up to a point. Wanted him in a purely physical sense.

  She just didn’t like him much.

  He stalled as long as possible, waiting for her to doze off. His teeth were chattering when he crept back to the fire. He fed more sticks into the flames and stood as close as he dared. To the east, the outline of the mountains was beginning to emerge against a gradually lightening sky.

  Melanie had one hand tucked under her cheek again, and the other fist clenched loosely under her chin. Again, the likeness was a knife slash to his chest. He jerked his gaze away. Turning slowly, he roasted his body like a chicken on a spit until the last of the shivers subsided. Then he settled down to sit and whittle at his crutches, watching the stars fade and blink out, one by one.

  * * *

  Melanie woke to the sound of her name, spoken softly from a near distance. She gathered her sleep-logged thoughts and oriented herself before responding. Forest. Cold. Wyatt. She opened her eyes to find him watching her from across the dying embers of the fire. The sky was a soft iridescent gray, pearly morning light chasing the shadows into the depths between the trees. She pushed up onto one elbow, blinking the grit from her eyes.

  “It’s almost four,” he said, his voice as muted as the colors of the landscape.

  She nodded, stifling a groan as she forced her tight muscles to unwind. Wyatt stood and moved as if to offer her a hand, then stopped, thinking better of it. Smart man. If he pulled her anywhere close, she might wrap herself around him like a kudzu vine, seeking heat.

  He held up a bottle. “Ibuprofen?”

  “Please.”

  He tossed it to her. She fumbled, her fingers awkward with cold and sleep, but managed to trap it against her chest. While she washed down a couple of tablets with a swig of tea and combed her hair, he used the empty tea bottle to dump water on the fire, poking at the embers until he was sure they were extinguished. She emptied the pine needles from the poncho sack and gave it to him to tuck in his pack.

  All the while, he avoided meeting her gaze. Impulsively, she put a hand on his arm. He froze.

  “It was bound to happen,” she said quietly. “We’ve always known it would if we got too close.”

  He stared down at her hand for a long moment. “And that’s it? Chalk it up to the circumstances and move on?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  The next silence stretched even longer.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said, even though a tiny part of her had been hoping for…something. She shook off the stab of disappointment, squared her shoulders, and turned to face downstream. “Lead on, Chuck.”

  * * *

  The going was as hard as she’d expected. Wyatt clambered over rocks and fallen logs, through brush and ankle-grabbing grass with amazing dexterity and barely a wince, but it had to be brutal. By the time they stumbled onto the wide, well-worn trail, the sun was full up and she had peeled off both her jacket and her hoodie. She could have cried when she saw the sign pointing up the hill that read Trailhead, 1.8 miles.

  God. It was never going to end. And if she was dying, she could only imagine how Wyatt felt. He damn sure wasn’t going to tell her. Three switchbacks and a wind-sucking climb later, she nearly did weep when they finally topped the ridge and saw the Camaro, gleaming like a red-and-white rescue beacon.

  Behind her, Wyatt blew out a long, relieved breath. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  “Sure.”

  She checked the time before handing it over. Today’s practice wasn’t going to happen. It was after seven, they were over an hour out of town, and he was in no shape to waltz with bovines this morning.

  Wyatt dialed, then turned slightly away as he spoke. “Hey, Grace. This is Wyatt.” He paused. “Yeah, it’s Melanie’s phone. Long story. I need to cancel this morning’s session. Would you let the guys know? My phone is dead so I don’t have their numbers.” Another pause. “I will. Thanks.”

  When he hung up and held the phone out to her, she waved him off. “Hang on to it in case Grace needs to call you. Hand me your backpack.”

  He frowned, but passed it to her. She unzipped one of the side pockets.

  “The ibuprofen is in the other one,” he said.

  “I know.” She plucked out the car keys and tossed the pack at his chest, forcing him to grab it with both hands, dropping one crutch. She was a dozen steps down the trail before he recovered enough to yell after her.

  “You are not driving my car!”

  She lengthened her stride when she heard him stumping along behind her at a faster pace than she’d expected. “That ankle is killing you. Give it a rest.”

  “I’m perfectly fine—”

  “Yeah? Great. Then whoever gets to the car first drives.” And she kicked her tired legs into a sprint.

  She was already behind the wheel when he limped up to the car. He didn’t argue, just tossed his pack into the trunk and climbed in. The silence vibrated with annoyance.

  “Don’t pout.” She fired up the engine, and her heart revved along with its throaty rumble. “I promise I won’t even squeal the tires on the curves.”

  No matter how tempting.

  Wyatt folded his arms and stared straight out through the windshield.

  “Fine. Be grumpy. Meanwhile, I will enjoy the drive.” She might as well, considering it might be the last time she was ever allowed anywhere near the Camaro. Or Wyatt.

  She got the feel of the manual transmission as she crawled down the pitted gravel road. At the highway she turned right, toward where the signs promised she would find a gas station and convenience store in Tollgate. And most importantly—a restroom with running water.

  Wyatt remained stubbornly silent as she parked in front of the rustic log store. She turned off the car and palmed the keys before he could make a grab for them, then made a beeline for the bathroom. The sight in the mirror was enough to make her wince. Her makeup had coagulated beneath her eyes, accentuating the lovely purple bags. Her hair hung lank and stringy, and she was still sporting a few pine needles.

  Scrubbed and plucked reasonably clean, she wandered into the store, reaching for a pack of mini donuts, then replacing them with a sigh as she imagined powdered sugar scattered all over the interior of the Camaro. She settled for a crumb-free banana with her cup of coffee.

  Out front, she found Wyatt lounging against the car. Her pulse did a big ker-thump at the sight. His hair was damp and rumpled, his eyes hidden by aviator sunglasses. With a day’s stubble and that grim set to his jaw, he looked lean and hard and a little dangerous in ratty jeans and a faded black T-shirt.

  The effect was only slightly diminished by the bag of frozen peas in his hand.

  They climbed in the car without a word. Wyatt kicked off his shoe and packed the bag of peas around his ankle. Then he peeled the wrapper off a roll of antacids and popped two in his mouth before tipping back his seat and closing his eyes. Obviously, their adventure hadn’t agreed with his ulcer.

  She wheeled onto the highway, the big engine chomping at the bit like a horse fresh off spring pasture. The temptation was huge to give the Camaro its head and see what it could do, but she kept it in check. When she’d
reached cruising speed without dropping the clutch or grinding the gears, the hands fisted on Wyatt’s knees relaxed. Five miles down the road, she heard a soft snore.

  She grinned…and hit the gas.

  Chapter 23

  Wyatt woke when she drove past the bar, crossed the bridge in downtown Pendleton, and started up North Hill. “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice gravelly with sleep.

  “I’m taking you home.” She tapped the phone on the console between them. On-screen, the map function was silently guiding her. “I put your address in my contacts before I left Texas, just in case.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, frowning. “Why didn’t you stop at the bar? I can drive across town.”

  Of course he could—but then she wouldn’t have an excuse to see where he lived. “It’s not far to walk, and it’s all downhill. Plus I can grab some breakfast along the way.”

  She waited for him to insist that she turn around, but he only reached down to remove his melted pea ice pack and put on his shoe. The navigation system led her to a condo fourplex, all dark wood and high, angular rooflines, fronted with generous expanses of glass to maximize the mountain view.

  “I’m in number one,” he said—as if there was any doubt—waving her to the far end of the narrow parking lot and a double-stall garage.

  He pushed a button on the remote clipped to the sun visor. The right door rolled up to reveal what looked like a sporting goods warehouse. Three bikes, water skis, snowboards, a pair of kayaks, a canoe, a paddle board, and what she thought might be a windsurfing whatever-they-were-called…all mounted on special racks in the extra stall.

  Not hard to figure out what Wyatt did in his spare time. Or to picture him racing over the waves in water-soaked spandex. Great. She really needed that image stuck in her head. But Lord, it would be a sight to see. He would be good at it. Wyatt was good at everything.

  She parked the car in the exact center of the empty stall, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and dropped them into the palm he held out. “Well, it’s been—”

  “I have bagels,” he said abruptly. “And eggs and sausage.”

  She blinked at him in surprise. “Are you offering to make me breakfast?”

  “I have to cook for myself anyway.”

  She opened her mouth to decline but immediately thought better. Hell yes, she wanted to see the inside of his condo. After all the times Violet had gushed about the granite, the custom furniture, the artwork—how could she resist? And seeing how he chose to live could give her valuable information she could apply to the bar.

  Yep. Purely business. Nothing personal, like how the more she learned about Wyatt, the more she wanted to know.

  “Thanks. That sounds great.”

  He did the slightest double take, as if it was another offer he’d made not expecting her to accept. Really, you’d think he’d know better by now. He pushed open his door, swung himself out of the car, and grabbed a pair of real crutches conveniently hanging on a hook right next to a tennis racket. Of all the equipment, they looked the most worn.

  “How bad is your ankle?” she asked again as she followed him to the door into the condo.

  “Nothing major. A couple days’ rest—”

  “I mean in general. I know you’ve had a couple of surgeries…”

  “Three,” he said. “The last one was to clean up the cartilage inside the joint. It’s not pretty in there, but as long as I wear my brace and don’t fall off of cliffs, I get by.”

  Until a bull decided to rearrange his plans. “For how long?”

  He reached up to swing the door open before crutching up the two steps into a mudroom. “Cutting my schedule back and being very selective about which rodeos I work has been a big help. I’ve got a few more years in me.”

  “Barring another major injury.”

  He shot her a dry look over his shoulder. “Me and every other bullfighter.”

  A truth universally acknowledged. Every time they stepped into the arena could be the last. It was a reality they accepted the same as a cop, a firefighter, or a soldier.

  She followed him into the laundry/mudroom, closing the door behind her and deliberately not looking at the basket of clothes on the dryer. She did not need to know whether Wyatt was a boxer or briefs guy. They passed through a short hallway and into the living room. Melanie had a moment to get an impression of a soaring, vaulted ceiling, gleaming hardwood floors, a wall of shelves packed with books, a pair of waist-high, glossy black abstract figures that curved around each other in a way that was incredibly sensual, and pieces of pottery and glass that were clearly works of art.

  Then a woman sprang from the nearest chair—a leather recliner that had swallowed up her slender form. “Wyatt! Where have you been?”

  Silvery blond hair, enormous green eyes, and a face…damn. She was too exquisite to be real. It was like walking in and finding a…a…unicorn, or some other magical being you assumed only existed on-screen, courtesy of liberal airbrushing.

  “Laura.” Wyatt had gone stiff as a board. “This is a surprise.”

  And not a good one. Laura made a sheepish face. “I know. I should have called, but…”

  She trailed off, and her gaze locked on Melanie with an intensity that was unsettling. Not angry or jealous. More…excited. And nervous. As if she’d hoped and prayed for this moment and couldn’t believe it was happening. She stepped forward and held out a slender hand. “It’s so good to meet you.”

  “I…” Melanie accepted the greeting, feeling like an Amazon shaking hands with a fairy. “Hello.”

  Laura laughed, a sound like the ring of priceless crystal. “I’m sorry. I’m freaking you out. It’s just that I’ve heard so much about you that it seems as though we already know each other.”

  “Really?” Melanie shot Wyatt a baffled look. Why on earth would he talk to this woman about her?

  His face was utterly blank, but his eyes… “Did you come alone?”

  “Of course not. Julianne was bored, so she went downtown to poke around in the antique shops.”

  At eight thirty in the morning? Melanie had walked by most of those shops during her tour of the bars. None of them opened before eleven. She’d made note because she intended to do some poking around of her own.

  The skin on her back began to tighten. Something was off. The way Laura was studying her. Wyatt practically vibrating with…tension, or fury? Possibly both. And Laura lying about her friend’s whereabouts. It was just…Melanie couldn’t define the feeling other than wrong.

  She took a step back. Then another. Then waved toward the door. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Oh, but I was hoping we could chat,” Laura protested.

  “I really need a shower. And a nap.” Melanie kept backing toward the door. “I’ll touch base with you when I have some ideas sketched out, Wyatt.”

  She turned and bolted, her gut screaming at her to run, the same as when she’d watched a potential tornado cloud bearing down on the ranch. She didn’t know what was causing this disturbance in the atmosphere…but she had no desire to be caught up in the storm.

  * * *

  Wyatt waited until the door slammed shut behind Melanie, then let out the curse that had been boiling on his tongue.

  Laura made an attempt to look chastised, but her eyes were bright with excitement. “Oh my God. The resemblance…”

  “Are you insane?” Wyatt snapped.

  Laura made an oh pooh gesture. “I didn’t expect you to bring her home with you.” Her green eyes sharpened as she took in his clothes and the crutches. “What happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Where is Julianne?”

  Laura’s eyes shifted to the window. “I told you. She’s—”

  “Don’t feed me that bullshit. The antique shops aren’t open yet.” Hell, even Melanie had
caught that lie, and she’d only been in town for three days. “Where is she?”

  Laura made a face, then sighed. “She’s staking out the bar from that coffee shop across the street.”

  “With Maddie?”

  “Of course.”

  Dammit. He grabbed the phone mounted on the kitchen wall. “We have to get her out of there.”

  “But if we wait a few minutes, she’ll get to see—”

  Wyatt jabbed at buttons, cursing when he hit a wrong digit and had to start over. Yes, the coffee shop was right across from the bar, making it the most convenient place for Melanie to grab breakfast. He expected this kind of idiocy from Laura, but Julianne…

  Laura clamped her hand around his on the phone. “Relax. It’s not like she’s going to take one look and just know.”

  “The hell she won’t. You have the damn pictures, Laura.” Pictures he’d snapped with his cell phone when no one was looking of photos scattered around Miz Iris’s living room, some so old the colors had begun to fade. Smiling girls from the ages of two to twenty. And boys. Wyatt ground his teeth, wanting more than he ever had to shake Laura, and that was saying something. He settled for shoving her hand away.

  He drummed his fingers impatiently on the handgrip of his crutches as he waited. One ring. Two. How long would it take Melanie to walk twelve blocks downhill?

  Laura pushed out her bottom lip, a pouty Tinker Bell. “You’re overreacting.”

  “No, I am not. You, on the other hand—” He cut off when a woman’s voice answered. “Get out of there now, Julianne.”

  “Well, good morning to you, too, Wyatt,” she drawled.

  “I don’t have time to screw around. Melanie could walk in there any minute. What do you think is going to happen if she comes face-to-face with Maddie?”

  Julianne hesitated a beat, then sighed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have let Laura talk me into taking the chance. We’re out of here.”

  Relief weakened Wyatt’s knees. Thank the damn stars, one of them had some sense. “Use the back door, just to be safe.”