Fearless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  What video? And what testimony? She skipped past a few more lines of legalese and opened the document file. There, in Wyatt’s careful, flowing handwriting, was a transcript of the telephone conversation between her and Michael at the Waffle House, minus the part where both she and Wyatt had threatened to make his life hell. It had been signed by five strangers, who were identified as either employees or customers.

  Her hands dropped to her lap, numbly cradling the phone. She didn’t need to watch the video. She’d been there for the performance. And that, she realized, was exactly what it had been. A show put on for the benefit of their fellow diners. Her chest constricted again as she replayed the scene. Wyatt turning on her speakerphone. Cranking up the volume so the others could hear every word Michael said. Not to embarrass her, as she’d so wrongly assumed.

  To guarantee there would be witnesses who could corroborate her version of events.

  A strangled laugh escaped past the tight band in her throat. Geezus. Leave it to Wyatt. Who else would even think…would be so cool-headed and cold-blooded…

  And have her back so thoroughly?

  She lifted the phone, her thumb hovering over the reply button, then tossed it across the room onto the fainting couch. After tonight, after everything, she had no idea how to respond. Didn’t trust anything she might say. Was she angry? Relieved? Grateful? Mortified?

  Something…else?

  The emotions balled up inside her in an impenetrable knot, and at that precise moment, she had neither the energy nor the fortitude to pick it apart. Instead, she let the towel drop to the floor, crawled between the cool, crisp sheets, and turned off the light.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, hugging one pillow to her aching chest and burying her face in the other, trying to ignore the sharp twist in her gut when she found no trace of Wyatt’s scent on either.

  * * *

  Wyatt sat on the hood of the Camaro at the scenic pullout on Cabbage Hill, nursing the one beer he’d allowed himself. From there, he could track the progress of the eighteen-wheelers that made up ninety percent of the traffic in the wee hours of morning, from the first rattle of jake brakes as they crested the summit, passing behind him to glide around the swooping curves of the mountain flanks, accelerate across the flat, then disappear momentarily into the Umatilla River valley at the southwest corner of Pendleton before crawling up the steep incline on the opposite side and fading away into the distance.

  He could guess at which of the lights scattered on North Hill was the security light at his condo. He didn’t need to see Main Street or the Bull Dancer to imagine Melanie lying alone in that bed. Sleeping? Crying?

  Cursing his name?

  The phone beside him had remained dark and silent long past the time when she would have read his email. No return message. No text. No call.

  By now, he shouldn’t be surprised. There might have been a time when her temper had ruled her actions, but it was long past. Her silence told him nothing except that she’d retreated into the emotional space she’d created for the express purpose of absorbing, contemplating…and plotting. An extended version of taking a deep breath and counting to ten. It was, he had decided, the most predictable thing about her.

  What she would do when she stepped back out again was anybody’s guess.

  Call him chicken, but Wyatt didn’t intend to be within easy reach when that happened. He couldn’t absorb any more of her hurt or anger when his own was already spilling over. Last night had pushed him perilously close to the end of his control, but he’d managed to just barely hang on. God only knew what might happen if he lost his grip. Something bad. Irreversible.

  Something like shouting that yes, dammit, he loved her.

  He always had.

  He rolled up his jacket and propped it behind his neck, using the windshield as a backrest while the trucks continued to rumble past, one after another after another, until the sky began to lighten. Then he got in his car and drove to the airport.

  He took flight just as the sun broke the horizon.

  Chapter 30

  When Melanie stepped outside for her Sunday morning run, she found her dress hanging on the outside doorknob of the apartment. Her shoes were nowhere in sight. Neither was Wyatt.

  Her insides gave a long, slow squeeze that released in a shudder. Wyatt.

  She could still feel him in all the subtle aches and ahhs of her morning-after body. She’d wanted to drive Michael’s touch out of her memory, but what had happened last night was more like an exorcism. At one point, she was pretty sure her head had literally been spinning.

  She had assumed Wyatt would be good in bed. Wyatt was good everywhere. But she had expected more…precision, like the way he fought bulls. Smooth, graceful, and always in the right place at the right time, with just enough flair to thrill the audience.

  Well, this audience was damn sure thrilled, but he’d shattered a whole lot of her preconceptions. Throw in what he’d done at the Waffle House, and it was gonna take a while to put those pieces together into a new whole—and she could not do it at the scene of the crime. She had to get out of this apartment. Away from that bed.

  Even after the jog and another shower, her mind felt muzzy, like she’d survived a natural disaster and was still in a state of detached disbelief, unable to calculate how much damage she’d sustained. Or inflicted.

  When she was dressed, she examined her reflection in the mirror and popped the collar on her sleeveless blouse so it covered most of the telltale red patches on her neck…except a tiny love bite under her ear. She combed her hair around to that side and wove it into a braid that fell forward over her shoulder.

  She had no doubt she’d left a few marks on him, too.

  She shoved her sunglasses on and studied the result. Better. Now to slip out, feed her horses, and hopefully sneak out of town unobserved. Wyatt did give his students Sunday off…respecting the Sabbath even if he no longer observed it.

  When she pulled into the driveway, both horses were loitering near the feed buckets she’d hung from the fence, hips cocked and ears lolling as they drowsed in the morning sun. She scooped sweet feed from the bag she’d bought the day after they arrived. Shawnee had sent her a message saying ol’ Roy appreciated a bucket of grain in the mornings. Cole had followed up with photos of the label of their usual brand and the ingredient list, plus exact daily portions.

  She leaned on the fence, resting her head against one of the cross braces and breathing the mingled scents of horse, dirt, and molasses as she listened to their rhythmic chomping. It was a gorgeous morning for a ride. Wyatt hadn’t said whether the roadside trail ended at the saddle club arena or went on up the valley toward the mountains. Her boots were in the storage shed, packed up along with the rest of her gear…

  Her phone trilled, and her pulse along with it. She fished it out. Not Wyatt. Her heart did a simultaneous clutch and sink, relief warring with disappointment as she frowned at the unfamiliar Oregon number.

  “Hel—”

  “Melanie?” Grace’s voice cut in. “Thank God. I’ve called everybody I know, and the only one who answered was Wyatt and he’s at the lake. He gave me your number.”

  Melanie’s imagination jumped into high gear at the note of panic in Grace’s voice. Car wreck? Appendicitis? Date gone horribly wrong? “What’s the matter?”

  Grace’s breath hitched, close to a sob. “I can’t catch this damn horse.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Melanie braced her hands on her hips and glared into Grace’s corral. First the cows, now this. Honestly. It was as if the ghosts of obnoxious animals past had followed her to Oregon.

  The horse glared back at her from dead center in the corral, the sun glinting off her silvery-blue roan coat.

  “You’re twenty-two years old,” Melanie said. “I thought you might’ve grown up by now.”

  Th
e horse gave a derisive snort. As if. This was Betsy—Shawnee’s main mount back in high school—who had once escaped at a rodeo and evaded twenty or so people, freight-training at least four parents in the process, until finally Cole Jacobs had said screw it and roped her like she was one of his bucking horses.

  Grace slapped at the dust on her jeans. “I always lock her up in the stall when I feed her the night before, but this morning when I opened the gate, she ran me down and got out.”

  Figured. The little wench was evil right to her core. If she hadn’t been such a killer rope horse someone would’ve shot her ornery little ass by now.

  The corral was about twenty yards square and had an open-faced lean-to shed off one corner, with steel portable panels forming the stalls and a hay feeder in the middle. One gate led directly out into a small, irrigated pasture, the other to a graveled driveway where Grace’s rig sat, the trailer door open and waiting.

  “I’m entered in a rodeo north of the Tri-Cities,” Grace said. “If I don’t get out of here pretty soon…”

  Melanie picked up the rope Grace had flung into the dirt and squared her shoulders. They couldn’t lure Betsy into the stalls. Nice horsey, have a bucket of grain didn’t work with the devil bitch. Chasing her would only end in a lot of sweating and swearing.

  “Okay,” Melanie said. “Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

  Together they dismantled the portable stalls and packed them out to where, using the hay feeder as a center brace, they strung them across the corral to form an alley across the end. Halfway through, Betsy recognized their intention, wheeled, snorted, and blasted past the panels to the opposite corner.

  They hauled the last panel out, secured it, and left it cocked at a forty-five-degree angle, forming an entrance to their makeshift alley. Now for the tricky part. Melanie built a loop in the rope and stalked toward the mare.

  “We can do this easy, or we can do it hard.”

  Betsy rolled her eyes as if to say, Whatever.

  Grace took a couple of practice swings with her loop. Melanie gestured her to the right. “You take that side.”

  Together they eased toward the mare, watching every twitch of her nostrils for a sign that she was ready to launch. She let them get within ten feet before exploding out of the corner, aiming for the gap between them. Grace took one swing and threw, the rope bouncing off Betsy’s shoulder. Melanie ran after the horse. The mare started to duck away from the entrance to the alley, saw Melanie’s loop aiming for her, and dodged through the gap. Melanie and Grace grabbed the end of the last panel and swung it around to close the trap…just as Betsy wheeled around at the far end and came roaring back.

  For an instant Melanie thought she would mow them both down, panel and all. At the last second the mare threw on the brakes and skidded to a stop, her nose slamming into the gate, which in turn banged into Melanie’s forehead. She let loose a filthy curse, but didn’t weaken. They glared at each other, eye to furious eye.

  The mare blew snot in Melanie’s face, then pivoted on her hocks and trotted off to the other end.

  From there, it was simply a matter of folding the panels in, one by one, making the alley shorter and shorter until the demon spawn was pinned in a space only sixteen feet square. Betsy huffed out a loud horse raspberry, then dropped her head.

  Fine. You win. This time. But she made a point of stepping on Grace’s foot as she tied on the rope halter.

  When Grace had latched the trailer door behind the horse, she turned to Melanie with a frazzled smile. “Thank you. I never would’ve got her by myself.” She eyed Melanie’s now dust-smudged clothes. “I hope I didn’t mess up your plans.”

  “I didn’t really have any.”

  Grace hesitated, then blurted, “Do you want to come with me?”

  “To the rodeo?” Melanie narrowed her eyes. Had Wyatt put Grace up to this? Melanie couldn’t imagine why he would, but you never knew with him. Maybe he didn’t want her to be alone after…last night. Or he might think watching other girls rope would light a fire under her. Because honestly, Grace didn’t seem all that crazy about her company most of the time.

  “Never mind. I’m sure it’s the last thing you want to do today.” Grace knocked her shoulders back, eliminating the slight droop. Shit. Melanie was getting way too paranoid. Grace had asked because traveling alone sucked, and it’d taken a lot of nerve for her to extend the invitation. It might mean she’d finally decided they could be friends.

  “Wait.”

  Grace paused, her hand on the pickup door.

  “I just…you caught me by surprise.” Melanie conjured up a smile that hopefully looked genuine. “I’d love to come. It’ll be…interesting.”

  Fun was pushing it too far.

  Chapter 31

  Melanie tipped the passenger seat back and relaxed, letting Grace do the talking. A lot of talking. Either Melanie made the girl nervous or Grace was still wound up from the skirmish with Betsy, because there were no uncomfortable silences to fill. By the time they crossed the Columbia River, Melanie knew all about the regional rodeo associations in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho, and Grace’s frustration with her own performance so far this season.

  Meanwhile, they retraced Melanie’s route from the day before, across the Columbia River to the Tri-Cities, but Grace continued on through. North of Pasco, the countryside became progressively more monotonous—huge, rolling farm fields cut by shallow valleys and low, rocky mesas.

  “Wyatt said you practice at the saddle club?”

  At the reflexive wrinkle of Melanie’s nose, Grace’s shoulders hunched. “There aren’t any breakaway ropers in Pendleton other than the girls on the Blue Mountain College team. Their practices are for team members only, then they all leave for the summer.”

  So Grace was stuck at the saddle club, which, if it was anything like the one in Earnest, was barely a step above no practice at all. The best ropers had arenas and cattle of their own, leaving saddle clubs to the young and the clueless—both horses and riders. The calves were invariably trashy, ducking, diving crap that knew every dirty trick short of pulling a knife.

  No wonder Grace wasn’t making any progress.

  “He also said you were job hunting,” Melanie said. “Do you want to stay in this area?”

  “I don’t know.” Grace pressed her lips together. “I’ve been here for a year, and as you saw today, I have zero friends outside of Wyatt and Louie. I just can’t seem to…”

  “Connect?” Melanie suggested.

  Grace shrugged. Another mile passed. “After what happened at Westwind…do you think you’ll go back to Amarillo?”

  “To work?” Melanie shook her head. “Not really an option after the exit I made. Are you thinking about moving home?”

  “Maybe. There’s a job opening at the high school in Bluegrass, and they want me to come for an interview.” Grace’s teeth worked her lower lip, as if the decision was more monumental than Melanie would have guessed. Yes, Hank had embarrassed her but…once again, who was Melanie to judge?

  Of all the McKennas—mother, father and seven kids—Grace was the only one involved in rodeos. Her father was a school custodian in Earnest, her mother a receptionist at a chiropractor’s office in Dumas. Even if her parents had been thrilled with her new hobby, they didn’t have the time or means to offer support. She’d worked part-time jobs in college to scrape up the money to buy Betsy—at a considerable discount due to the mare’s age and legendary disposition. And then she’d had to find someone to teach her to rope, and scrounge for places to practice.

  Suddenly, seeing herself from Grace’s perspective, Melanie had to fight the urge to squirm. In rodeo terms, she was everything she’d accused Wyatt of being the night before—a privileged white ranch girl with a father who’d provided her with an arena, practice cattle, expert coaching, and a string of good horses.

  Then sh
e’d left, and it had become obvious Hank had no interest in picking up the reins she’d dropped. If she’d become a school teacher, moved back to Earnest, married a nice local boy, and kept roping with her father, would the best in Texas still be coming to Johnny Brookman to buy their horses? Could he have let Hank be, instead of constantly pressuring him, until finally—

  Her thoughts slammed up against a terrible realization. Jesus Christ. Violet was right.

  She’d started with Grace’s roping, and in the space of four thoughts, it had become all about Melanie—a blueprint for every interaction with her mother she’d ever cursed.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth to cover the breath she sucked in.

  “Are you sick?” Grace jerked her foot off the accelerator.

  “I…uh…just need some fresh air.” Melanie rolled the window down and stuck her head out. The roaring in her ears wasn’t entirely from the wind. When…how had she let this happen? Image after image from her behavior at Westwind clicked through her mind—muttered insults, unseen sneers, petty little acts of rebellion—to form an ugly whole.

  God. God. It was exactly what she’d sworn she’d never be and more. And just like her mother, she’d blamed everyone and everything else for her situation. Leachman. The system.

  Michael.

  She slumped back in her seat, gulping in deep breaths, not bothering to smooth away the hair that had blown free from her braid to straggle in her face.

  “Do I need to pull over?” Grace asked.

  “No.” Lord, no. The last thing she’d needed was to add made Grace late for the rodeo to her list of sins. She waved a vague hand. “Go on. I’m okay.”

  Or would be, once the horizon stopping wobbling. Everything both Wyatt and Violet had tried to tell her had been right on target. And Fate had obviously thrown Michael Miller in her path for a reason. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else, he’d said. Well, ditto. The way she’d been going, it had only been a matter of time before she’d done something regrettable. In the pursuit of so-called success, she had lost her bearings. Now she had to find her way back.