Wyatt would’ve expected a hint of sorrow or bitterness—he’d seen how it was with most little girls and their horses—but she sounded amused. “It didn’t upset you?”
“Only when he sold my best mount a week before the junior high finals. The colt he put me on took three strides out of the box, bogged its head, and tried to buck me off. Shawnee edged me out for the championship.” She snickered. “I like to remind her she got that trophy buckle by forfeit, just to piss her off.”
“And you were how old?”
“Thirteen.” She laughed at his incredulous tone. “Hey, one thing about being my daddy’s girl, I learned to cowboy up and rope off of whatever I throwed a leg over.”
The same way she didn’t hesitate to step in and fight a few bulls just for fun, or bail over a cliff to Wyatt’s rescue. The woman was fearless—except when it came to dark woods and canned biscuits. He realized he was grinning and started to squash it…then didn’t. Alone on his deck he could enjoy the vision of a pint-sized Melanie schooling her horse and then going ahead and roping anyway, probably cursing like a sailor the whole time.
“And Hank?”
The laughter drained from her voice. “He is our mother’s son—despises cows and has no interest in roping, which didn’t stop Daddy from making him do it anyway and riding his ass the whole time. Hank wanted to ride bucking horses like the Sanchez boys, but that was out of the question.”
So he’d hung around the Jacobs ranch as much as possible, where he’d developed a love and a talent for fighting bulls. Potentially one of the best in the business…and a complete waste in his father’s eyes. Christ. Why couldn’t parents just let their children be? A question Wyatt had debated with dozens of therapists—Laura’s and his own.
Melanie’s Coke gurgled dry. “My father would’ve loved Michael. I even imagined introducing them—” She cut off with an abrupt curse. “God that’s pathetic. Still trying to impress my daddy.”
“It sneaks up on you. You think you’ve escaped their force field, then realize you bought a second-rate whorehouse just to picture the look on their faces.” Shit. Where did that come from? He imagined her eyes narrowing as she analyzed what he’d intended as a joke.
Then she made a dismissive noise. “Nope. That might be a fringe benefit, but it’s not what you want most.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“There’s the East Coast snob. Rah-lly dah-ling?” She laughed at her own horrible impression. “I think I’ve almost got it figured out. I’ll let you know when I’m sure.”
“To think I wasted all that money on therapy when all I needed was good marketing.” He injected a dose of sarcasm to cover the discomfort of knowing that this woman—who’d so effortlessly maneuvered him into her bed—had him under her microscope.
“Everybody needs good marketing.” Her voice softened. “Hey, Wyatt?”
Her soft drawl wrapped around his name, turning it to sweet, Southern music that made his heart soar and his voice catch. “Yes?”
“Even though I know it was really crappy of me…thanks for last night. I promise not to use you that way again, if you promise not to do things behind my back.”
And his idiot heart crashed back to earth, because of course he couldn’t make that promise. He couldn’t even answer without serving up another lie. “From this day forward,” he said, the best he could do.
His phone signaled an incoming call. He glanced at the number and froze. Laura’s father—who had only one reason to make contact.
“I have to take this.” Wyatt forced himself to sound vaguely annoyed, even as his heart thudded. It was either no news, good news, or bad news. The first would be frustrating, the second a miracle, and the third—well, it depended on how bad. And yes, he was already breaking his vow, but only temporarily. He would share what he learned, but not until they were face-to-face. “Tell Grace good luck.”
“Too late. She just missed her calf.”
Damn. “Well, then, I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.”
“I’ll be there.” The snark came back into her tone. “And afterward we can discuss the disappearance of one pair of kick-ass red shoes.”
Chapter 33
They arrived back in Pendleton late in the afternoon, so Melanie drove straight from Grace’s house to Wyatt’s acreage, saddled up Roy, and, leading the sorrel, rode down to check out the saddle club arena. Afterward, she roped the bale for a while. Her loop felt better than it should have, all things considered. By eight o’clock, she was back at the apartment, still restless. She hit the riverside trail for a long stroll. She had paused to sit on a bench and watch a fly fisherman work his graceful magic with line and lure when her phone rang.
She frowned at the sight of Wyatt’s number. What would he—
“How soon can you meet me in the bar?” he asked.
Her heart gave a hard, painful thump at his abrupt tone. “Depends on how long it takes you to fly home.”
“I’m already here. Half an hour?”
Shit. This was serious. She jumped up to retrace her steps. “Three minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
The Camaro rounded the corner and parked in front of the bar as she turned off the path onto Main Street. Wyatt stepped out of the car, an escaped Tommy Hilfiger model in sunglasses, gray jeans, and a red-and-blue-plaid button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He had a leather portfolio tucked under his arm. She could barely detect a limp as he locked the car and walked around to wait for her under the Bull Dancer sign. He still hadn’t shaved.
She should have felt awkward, considering the last time they’d seen each other they’d been in an advanced stage of postcoital shock, but her head and her heart were too full of fear.
“Hank?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He unlocked the door and held it for her. The lights were already on inside, even though the bar was closed for the day. Had Louie forgotten…
She yelped as Scotty popped up from behind the nearest booth, spray bottle in one hand and rag in the other. Belatedly she caught the lemon-ammonia scent of industrial-strength cleaner.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Wyatt took off his sunglasses, stuck them in the pocket of his shirt, and frowned at the clock. “You usually clean in the morning.”
“Me and Philip hit the river today with some friends.”
Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “Which friends?”
“Not the potheads, Grandma.” Scotty shook his head, disgusted. “We made a deal. You let me into your school, I stay clean. I am a man of my word.”
Who looked all of fourteen with his freckles and ginger hair sticking up from the cowlick he’d given up trying to tame.
“Is marijuana legal in Oregon?” Melanie asked.
Scotty grinned. “And Washington.”
“If you’re twenty-one,” Wyatt added.
“What are you doing here?” Scotty asked, ignoring him.
“Business,” Wyatt said, and gestured Melanie to the far end of the bar.
Scotty shrugged and went back to work swabbing down the booth.
Melanie plunked onto the last stool, waiting impatiently while Wyatt settled next to her. “Well?”
“I have a…contact in the financial services business.” He set the portfolio down and smoothed a hand across the engraved leather surface, with the ubiquitous Let ’er Buck bronc rider logo in the center and Wyatt’s name underneath, probably a token of the Roundup’s appreciation. “Money is the easiest way to trace a person…if you can access the right information. Credit cards, bank accounts, bills—”
Melanie slapped a hand down over his…hard. “The longer you diddle around, the more time I have to imagine Hank bleeding out in a ditch.”
“He’s not dead.” She’d barely started to breathe a sigh of relief when he added, “Or at
least he wasn’t in January.”
January? But that was only a month after… “I thought you’d found him.”
“I didn’t say that, but I’m a big step closer.”
“What do you know?”
He opened the portfolio and pulled out several sheets of paper. “He has a bad debt that was turned over to a collection agency in April.”
“What kind of debt?”
He slid the stack of papers toward her. “A hospital bill.”
Fear jerked at her heartstrings as she tried to focus on the lines of medical gibberish, each with a designated dollar amount. Leafing through the bill with trembling hands, random items jumped out at her. Anesthesia. Surgical assistant. Radius and ulna. CAT scan, abdominal. Dammit. Where was Tori when you needed an interpreter? Melanie reached the end and sucked in a breath. “Sixteen thousand dollars?”
“He broke both bones in his left forearm, which required plates and pins. That’s the internal fixation.” Wyatt tapped a line item. “He also had a bruised kidney. And no insurance.”
Hell. Hank had always been on the ranch policy, but even if their father had been willing to carry him, their local insurance agent was well aware that Hank was no longer employed at the ranch in any capacity. Melanie had enrolled him in an individual plan…which he had obviously let lapse.
“It could have been worse.” Wyatt was cool and matter-of-fact. Heartless asshole, she would’ve said two months ago. Now she suspected he was muting his own emotion, the better to help her keep a grip on hers. “According to the nurse, he checked out against doctor’s orders. They wanted to keep him at least another day to monitor for infection and internal bleeding.”
But he’d left under his own power. That was good. Or not, if the feared complications had become reality. “All by himself?”
“No.” Wyatt’s forehead creased as if the gaps in his information physically pained him. “He left with a woman.”
Of course there was a woman. Wasn’t there always with Hank?
“The nurse remembered that the pickup had Montana plates,” Wyatt added. “And she introduced herself as Bing.”
Melanie frowned. “Bing? Like the cherries?”
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute.” Melanie swiveled to stare at him. “A nurse told you all this? Have they ever heard of patient privacy?”
“Have you ever seen a woman who could resist when the Man bats those baby blues?” Scotty asked, making her jump again when his voice came from the booth directly behind her.
Wyatt shot him a withering look. “Eavesdrop much?”
“I didn’t realize you were telling secrets,” Scotty retorted, unfazed.
Wyatt turned back to Melanie. “I told her it was an urgent family matter, and it was imperative that I find him.”
“You pretended to be a lawyer,” she accused.
Wyatt’s fingers curled as if he wished he had a glass or mug to cradle, his classic defensive move. “I may have implied that if I could locate him, he would come into enough money to pay off his account. And since I already had all of his personal information and the itemized bill…”
Melanie opened her mouth, then closed it again. She’d provided Hank’s social security number and birth date. What did it matter how Wyatt had gotten his hands on the rest? Then she realized she’d overlooked the most important piece of information. She searched the top sheet of paper and found the name and address of the hospital. Her jaw dropped. “Yakima?”
“Yeah. That’s why I was able to speak to the staff personally.”
“It’s only what…two hours from here?” She glared at him. “He was practically in your backyard.”
Wyatt’s expression became even more pained. “I was gone nearly all of January and February working Denver and Fort Worth. If I’d been here when it happened, I might have heard something. And he got hurt at a rodeo sponsored by the casino in Toppenish. I’ve never had anything to do with the Indian rodeo association and until a few days ago, I didn’t know you and Hank were descendants.”
“That’s one of Philip’s goals.” Scotty gave up all pretense of working to plop down at the end of the booth. “To work the Indian National Finals Rodeo.”
Melanie slapped her forehead. “Shit. Philip. The Indian Rodeo Association isn’t that big. If he’s been around at all, he might know this woman, or know someone who does.”
“I texted him the same time I called you.” Wyatt checked the clock. “He was at the gym, but he’s coming right down.”
Philip ambled in a few minutes later, freshly showered. Free from the usual braid, his hair fell black and glossy to his waist. Either he had great conditioner, or it was like with men and eyelashes—they were just naturally blessed, the bastards.
“Have you heard of a woman named Bing?” she demanded, without preface.
Philip’s eyes went wary as he looked first at Melanie, then Wyatt. “What do you want with her?”
“You know her?” Melanie jumped from her stool, barely restraining herself from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking out the answers.
Philip sank down opposite Scotty and slid back in the booth, more guarded by the second. “Everyone knows Bing. Her grandson was my friend.”
Grandson? Melanie had to do a quick mental shuffle. She’d been picturing a girlfriend, or that weekend’s fling—a questionable and very short-term source of information. But someone’s grandmother…
“Where does she live?” Melanie advanced another step. “Do you know how to reach her?”
Philip folded his arms. “First you gotta tell me why.”
“I’m looking for my brother.” Melanie forced herself to unclench her fists. “She might know where Hank went after he left the hospital in Yakima.”
“Hank?” Philip’s face cleared, and his eyebrows shot up. “That’s your brother?”
Her breath whooshed out like she’d been punched. “You know Hank?”
“I seen him a couple of times. He lives out north of Babb with crazy old Norma.” Philip squinted at Melanie. “If you didn’t know where he is…did you hear about the other guy?”
Melanie stiffened. “What other guy?”
“The one who’s paralyzed. Bull stepped on him and broke his back.” Cold dread settled into her gut at Philip’s grim expression. “Hank might’ve been able to stop it if he’d been in position…” Philip gave a shrug that invited them to fill in the ugly blanks. “Hank took it pretty bad.”
“How bad?” Wyatt asked.
“Dakota was freaking when they packed him out of the arena, practically screaming that he couldn’t feel his legs. Everybody was shook up, but the rodeo must go on, ya know?”
Philip’s dark gaze swiveled to meet Melanie’s. “When they turned out the next bull, Hank never moved. Just stood right there and let it run him down.”
Chapter 34
Wyatt had to give Melanie credit. For a woman who’d never been in a small plane, she’d stayed pretty calm, even when the going got rough. With atmospheric wave activity causing turbulence over all four mountain ranges between Pendleton and Babb, Montana, they’d been bounced around for most of the trip, and it was a whole different experience in a six-seater.
Conversation had been nonexistent. There wasn’t a whole lot left to add after their text and telephone chat. She’d needed a safe outlet for the emotions she could no longer keep bottled up. He’d provided one. Then he’d removed all traces of himself from the room, as close as he could give her to an anonymous one-night stand.
And once again, they would put it behind them and never speak of it again. It was their way.
Besides, Melanie was distracted enough between worrying about Hank and riding out the periodic bucks and jolts of the small aircraft. It took all of Wyatt’s concentration to keep the plane on a relatively even keel—especially when it came time to lan
d. The web page he’d checked had been very generous when they called the scrubby strip of grass an airport. Throw in the gusty crosswind, and their touchdown had been a lot more adventurous than he preferred.
The wind rocked the Cherokee and plastered Wyatt’s jacket against his back as he ran a rope through the ring on the underside of the second wing, pulled it snug, and tied it off in two practiced, well-spaced knots. He gave the rope a tug to test that it was secure, then turned to where Melanie stood huddled against the fuselage. His instrument panel claimed it was sixty-three degrees, but the air had a biting edge that cut right through his clothes—and he was a northerner compared to Melanie.
He tapped his fingers on the door. “You can wait in the plane if you’re cold.”
“No. The fresh air is good.”
He studied her face for signs that she might be about to upchuck her breakfast burrito. “Feeling a little green?”
“You think? Between buzzing the runway to chase off the cows, and the holes—” She took a couple of steps to kick dirt from one of the mounds that pocked a runway marked by rows of old car tires painted yellow. “Didn’t your plane used to have two engines? It seems like a spare would be a good idea.”
“I traded the Cessna in. This one is a lot cheaper to own, and just as safe.”
“If you say so.” Melanie hugged her ribs, shivering as she scanned their surroundings. The rocky flat was cut off to the east by the river that flowed along the base of a ridge and into Canada, close enough that Wyatt had had to be careful not to encroach on international airspace. Beyond that ridge, they’d glimpsed the plains that stretched east to infinity. To the south, the choppy surface of Lower St. Mary’s Lake gleamed an unearthly blue. At their backs, clouds piled up behind the jagged peaks of Glacier National Park. Snow still clung on the highest precipices and in shady niches, contributing to the chill. Fifty yards away, a steady stream of RVs, cars, and pickups rolled by on the highway. Wyatt could almost sort the locals from the tourists at a glance.
“Are we early?” Melanie asked.
Fearless in Texas Page 24