Fearless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  * * *

  They met Rowdy at the Roundup grounds, where he introduced them to a friend who was a fencing contractor. If he was at all upset about being left cold at the bar on Saturday night, he hid it well. The asshole.

  Melanie had measured the rear patio area of the Bull Dancer and taken photos. The contractor assured her that he could absolutely have a fence up by the end of the week. He also sketched out a design for a simple, retractable rain and sun shade—wide strips of canvas that slid along metal rails and covered the entire space.

  “Perfect!” She shook on the deal and gave him her address so he could email her the specs and a bid.

  They had just stepped into a coffee shop right outside the Roundup grounds when her phone rang. At the sight of the name on the screen, her stomach did a complicated swoop and twist—half thrill, half dread. A call from Wyatt could be anything from No, really, what are you doing to my bar to horrible news. Despite Hank’s declaration that he had no intention of doing himself harm and Bing’s promise to keep a close eye on him, Melanie couldn’t let go of the fear.

  “I hope you haven’t changed your mind about the checkbook,” she said. “I’ve already signed contracts.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.” But his amusement sounded forced. “Are you alone?”

  She glanced at where Gordon had struck up a conversation with one of his endless number of acquaintances. She caught his eye and pointed at the phone and then the door. He nodded. She stepped outside.

  “I am now. What’s up?”

  “Joe and I talked.”

  From the sound of his voice, the conversation hadn’t gone well. Damn her smart mouth all over again. She should have let Wyatt find his own way to tell Joe about their…whatever it was. “He doesn’t approve?”

  “I wish. They honestly meant well, Melanie. They just didn’t have time to really think it through.”

  She listened, stunned, as he told her what they’d done. When he was finished, she sank onto the edge of a concrete flower planter, her skin going cold despite the heat of the midday sun. “How could they do that to me? To us?”

  “They were trying to help.”

  “By throwing us together when I was a total disaster looking for another place to happen?”

  He sighed. “Like I said, they didn’t really think it through.”

  Her jaw clenched, and she shot to her feet. “They’re gonna have plenty to think about when I get done.”

  “Melanie, don’t do anything—”

  “Tell Joe thanks a lot. I’ll be sure and show my gratitude the next time I see him, so he should probably wear a cup.”

  She disconnected and paced down the short driveway that led to the back gate into the Roundup grounds, punching in Violet’s number as she went.

  “Jacobs Live—”

  “What the hell, Violet? You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  Violet had obviously been warned, because she barely hesitated. “I screwed up. Big time. I was just…shit. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was so furious about Michael, and Wyatt was right there.” She huffed out a disgusted breath. “It sounded brilliant in the heat of the moment. And then he offered you that job, and you accepted, and I thought, okay, maybe this wasn’t the worst idea ever.”

  “Is this where you tell me all you did was wave him under my nose, but I’m the one took the bait?” Melanie stomped on a weed that had sprouted between the cracks of the asphalt. “Because apparently I’m so desperate I’ll jump anything with a pulse.”

  Violet swore. “Wyatt isn’t just any guy. He is the guy. You know it. He knows it. Hell, even Hank knows it, or he wouldn’t have gotten so pissed.”

  “Hank never liked him.”

  “Wrong. I’m not saying they were tight, but they did okay until after our wedding. And honey, with the sparks you two were throwing off that night, even your bonehead brother had to notice.”

  Melanie snorted. “And what? Hank was gonna protect me?”

  “More like he was scared shitless Wyatt would take you away from him.” Violet hmphffed, sounding exactly like her daddy. “He was a total snot from then on, and he had no other excuse. Joe was the one who was constantly on Hank’s ass. And it was Wyatt who convinced Fort Worth and San Antonio and the others to hire him.”

  Melanie came up short at the wrought-iron gates. “What? I assumed—”

  “It was Joe?” There was a rustle, as if Violet was shaking her head. “Wyatt takes care of all the contracts for the two of them, ever since he persuaded Joe to leave Dick Browning. He decided Hank was ready to step up to the big leagues, so he made it happen.”

  When Hank had been acting like a jerk? “Why would he do that?”

  Violet gave a soft laugh. “Do I really have to spell it out?”

  “I don’t…he did it for me?” she asked in disbelief.

  “You had just changed jobs, and you were putting in filthy hours, trying to prove yourself. If helping Hank meant taking some of the weight off of you…”

  Wyatt might do that. Or she’d been completely off base when…oh hell. “I accused him of not even trying to save Hank.”

  “Wyatt didn’t want anyone to know. He figured it would only make things worse if Hank felt beholden to him.”

  He was right. After convincing himself Wyatt had it in for him, Hank would not have been grateful. So Wyatt had worked his magic behind the scenes, and gotten nothing but grief in return. Just one more reason that she…

  “Shit,” she said. “I’m in love with him.”

  Violet gave a little squeal. “Yes!”

  “No.” Melanie braced her back against the metal bars of the gate, her chin sinking along with her heart.

  “What do you mean, no?” Violet demanded, practically singing. “You love him, he’s crazy about you—”

  “He never wants to get married again,” Melanie tacked on, mimicking Violet’s tone.

  “What? Of course he does. He said so.”

  Melanie’s head jerked up. “When?”

  “Back at the beginning, when Joe was being a dumb-ass. Joe said guys like them didn’t get happily ever afters. And Wyatt said the hell with that. He intended to have the works, including a herd of kids and a house full of dogs. Or maybe it was the other way around.”

  “But he just…”

  Lied. He’d barely finished promising to be honest with her before he’d looked her straight in the eye and lied.

  And it made perfect sense. She thought of the notes she’d made that night in the canyon. Craves connection. Community. Family? If she hadn’t been on such an emotional roller coaster, she would have seen the inconsistency. Those weren’t qualities of man who feared commitment…or marriage.

  He just didn’t want to marry her.

  Why would he, after these past two weeks? Why would anyone? She was a rolling disaster with no end in sight. After Laura and Gabrielle, the last thing he needed was more drama.

  As if she could hear the running inner dialogue, Violet said, “There has to be a reason…”

  “Like what, Violet? Why would he say that other than to let me down easy? Geezus.” She thumped her head against the gate. “A classic, It’s not you, it’s me, and I fell for it.”

  “I don’t believe that. Something is not right. I’ll make Joe pry it out of him.”

  “Don’t.” Melanie heaved a weary sigh. “It doesn’t matter anyway. We already agreed this can’t happen. Not with Hank the way he is.”

  “Yeah. I heard.” And her tone said she was not happy that it hadn’t been from Melanie.

  “I’m sorry. I kept telling myself I was overreacting, and I was afraid you’d say I wasn’t. And then I saw him…” She fixed her gaze on the coffee shop, where Gordon was waiting. This wasn’t the time or place. “I can’t talk about it right now.”

  “Later,” V
iolet said. “You can tell me everything, and we’ll figure out what to do. But I need to know…are we okay?”

  Melanie blew out a shaky breath. “We have to be. You’re all I’ve got.”

  “That’s not true. You have the whole bunch of us.” Violet sniffed, getting teary again. “I am so sorry, Mel. You gave me a shove when I needed it, and I got Joe. I was trying to return the favor.”

  “And eventually I might appreciate the sentiment. But for now, you can start making it up to me with a phone number. What I need is a ranch cook, and Joe knows just the person.”

  “Helen! Oh my God, she will be thrilled. She’s been working as a lunch lady at one of the grade schools in Yakima and swears if she has to dish out one more Salisbury steak with fake gravy, she’s going to throw herself on her spatula.”

  If, as Joe claimed, the woman could hold her own with Miz Iris in the kitchen, Helen was wasted on a bunch of elementary kids. And Joe should know, since she’d fed him for the entire fifteen years he’d worked for Dick Browning. Melanie jotted down the number and started back toward the coffee shop. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’m going to the saddle club tonight.”

  “You’re roping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, hallelujah! At least something good has come of this mess.”

  Melanie thought of Wyatt, wet and slick and insanely gorgeous in that bathtub. Despite the ball of red-hot needles lodged behind her breastbone, she smiled. “Believe me, it has not been all bad.”

  By the time he came back from Reno, she would have the hurt tucked safely away and be prepared to take full advantage of the time they had left. She’d have to stay long enough to coordinate the initial marketing push and develop a long-term plan based on the results. And where she and Wyatt were concerned, she would have to constantly tread that fine line between too much and never enough.

  As she hung up, Gordon stepped out of the coffee shop, the twinkle in his eyes muted by concern. “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine,” she said, brightening her smile to prove it.

  Wyatt Darrington wasn’t the only one who could lie like a dog.

  Chapter 43

  The saddle club was exactly as Melanie had expected. She eyed the collection of ropers, ranging from around ten years old to one silver-haired gent mounted on the inevitable pink-eyed, broom-tailed Appaloosa that couldn’t outrun its own fart. There was at least one in every crowd, along with the cranky part-Shetland that had all of Betsy’s attitude and none of her talent.

  Several of the ropers fell into the same category.

  She waved Grace over as a pair of dads chased calves into the chute and the rest of the riders formed a ragged line down the left side of the arena. “Tie your horse up,” she said, stepping off of Roy and wrapping the rein around a fence rail.

  “But…” Grace glanced over at the others, waiting their turn.

  “Trust me.” Melanie backed Roy’s cinch off a few notches, then strolled over to the roping chute.

  The woman who’d accepted the check for her membership squinted at her from a narrow face, her skin fake-baked to years beyond her chronological age. “Aren’t you going to rope?”

  “Where I come from, the newbie works the chutes,” Melanie said easily. “We’ll let the kids go first, then Grace and I will rope at the end.”

  Donetta Jones frowned, not thrilled with this change in the routine. “There’s no need—”

  But Melanie had already escaped toward the catch pens, signaling Grace to follow. She plucked the sorting stick out of the hand of the nearest dad. “You go help your daughter. We’ve got this.”

  He hesitated, then flashed her a grateful smile and made himself scarce.

  “You do realize that we’re paying for this?” Grace muttered, as Melanie prodded a potbellied Hereford into the narrow lane. “Including the chute help.”

  “Who will sort off the best calves for their little darlings,” Melanie responded. “And leave us to rope all of the shitters. Besides, standing in line for five minutes between runs is a piss-poor way to practice. You need three or four in a row, minimum, for you and your horse to accomplish anything.”

  Grace pondered that for a moment, then jerked her head toward the arena. “Donetta is not pleased.”

  “Should I consider that a problem?”

  “I don’t suppose it is for you. You’re not scared of anyone.”

  “And you are?” Melanie shook her head. “If you let the parents and coaches push you around at the high school, everybody wouldn’t be singing your praises.”

  Grace flushed. “That’s different.”

  “No it isn’t. You’re just not used to sticking up for you. Next time, pretend it’s one of your athletes they’re messing with and…” Melanie swung the sorting stick like a baseball bat. “Pow! They’re outta here.”

  Grace snickered, forgetting for the moment that she wasn’t supposed to enjoy Melanie’s company. As they loaded the rest of the calves, Melanie kept one eye on the action in the arena, making mental note of whether each calf was fast or slow, ducked to the right or left, so she could plan accordingly when her turn came. Unfortunately, it also meant she had to watch the ropers, which was downright painful. If she made it through this night without shooting off her mouth…

  “Get your tip down!” Donetta screeched at a skinny girl. The Paint Horse was ducking left so bad when she tried to throw that it was a wonder the kid hadn’t been tossed in the dirt along with her loop. As the girl coiled her rope and rode back up the arena, Donetta stomped out to meet her. She jabbed a lethal fingernail into the girl’s thigh as she continued to rant. “How many times do I have to tell you? You have to follow through. I don’t know why you’re making this so difficult.”

  Maybe because it wasn’t as easy as it looked. Breakaway roping seemed simple enough. Rope the calf. Pitch your slack. Stop your horse. In competition, the rope was tied to the saddle horn with a piece of string that broke when the calf hit the end of the rope, thus the name of the event.

  The trick was you had to do it faster than anyone else—and at most rodeos that meant two or three seconds, max. The timing of horse, calf, and rope had to be flawless.

  As Donetta continued her tirade, the girl’s shoulders slumped a little lower with every word, and her bottom lip starting to tremble.

  Melanie clenched both hands. Shut up, shut up, shut up…

  “But Mom…” the girl began.

  “Stop whining.” Donetta planted her fists on bony hips. “Do you want to be a loser?”

  Okay, that’s it. Melanie tossed her sorting stick aside and swung over the fence into the arena. “She seems to be having a little trouble with her horse. Maybe if you got on and straightened him out a little?”

  Donetta’s eyes widened, and she glanced to either side as if she couldn’t believe Melanie was talking to her. “I don’t rope!”

  “Oh. My mistake.” Melanie forcibly removed any hint of sarcasm from her voice. “The way you were talking, I assumed you must have a lot of experience.”

  The leathery skin around the woman’s mouth drew into tight creases. “I have been to every clinic with her. I know what she’s supposed to be doing.”

  “At the moment, what she’s doing isn’t the problem. Her horse isn’t giving her a chance.”

  Donetta’s mouth pinched tighter. “Who the hell are you to tell my kid how to rope?”

  “She’s Melanie Brookman,” Grace piped up, in a tone that suggested any idiot should recognize her. “She and her daddy have trained some of the best horses in the state of Texas. If you know what’s good for Katelyn, you’ll listen to her.”

  The man Melanie had relieved of calf-pushing duty cleared his throat. “Grace is right, honey. Why don’t you go on over and sit down while we run this next pen?”

  Donetta glared at him, stunned. “You think
you know better? Fine. See what you can do with this kid.”

  She turned on her heel and marched straight out of the arena gate to her pickup. The last they saw of her was the rooster tail of dust as she squealed out onto the highway.

  * * *

  Well, hell.

  Melanie’s stomach jumped as she tightened Roy’s cinches, acutely aware of curious eyes watching her every move. She’d hoped if she and Grace waited until the others were done, everyone else would leave before she backed in the box for the first time in seven years. But no. After her altercation with Donetta, they were lining the fences to watch.

  At least she had helped Katelyn make a couple of good runs. That would make it slightly less humiliating if Melanie’s own roping was a total wash.

  She drew a long, steadying breath and swung aboard Roy. “I’ve never roped on this horse before,” she declared, loud enough for all to hear. “I’m going to just track those four big, black calves. Grace can run the others.”

  She checked to be sure her rope was tied securely to the saddle horn and adjusted the breakaway hondo that would pop loose when the rope came tight around a calf’s neck…if she managed to catch anything. Roy ambled into the box as if they were on another trail ride, but as soon as she turned him around, his ears perked and his muscles bunched, ready to launch. Since Shawnee had only roped steers on him for the past few years, he would need a little adjusting.

  Melanie tucked her rope under her arm, tightened the reins, and nodded her head. She didn’t bother swinging her rope, concentrating on her horse’s position. Roy broke wide but moved over easily, tracking the calf as it swerved first right, then left, then back to the right again. Twenty yards off the back of the big arena, she set the horse in a neat, smooth stop and let the calf run on out the exit gate.

  She repeated the process on the second, but this time picked her loop up and took a few swings before stopping. By the third run, Roy was back in the groove, arrowing straight out of the corner directly to the calf’s hip. She took several swings and threw, amazed when it settled over the calf’s head. Roy slid to a stop, and the rope snapped loose.