Tougher in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  Shawnee’s hand clenched on the reins as the cowboy pounded his gloved fingers shut around the handle and eased up on the rigging. At least she didn’t have to worry that they’d see her sweat. Everyone was sweating. She could feel it trickling down the inside of her calf, under the shin guards and stiff padded chaps that protected her from flying hooves. Another small river of perspiration meandered between her shoulder blades, plastering the royal-blue Jacobs Livestock shirt to her back.

  A surprisingly silky shirt. She’d expected heavy, starched cotton, to match Cole’s personality.

  Focus. Breathe. She blinked away a drop of sweat that had dripped from her eyebrow, playing back Violet’s last instructions. I know it goes against your nature, but follow Cole’s lead. Don’t question him. Don’t second-guess him. Inside the arena, he’s always right.

  Follow Cole. Don’t think. She could do that.

  The cowboy cocked his free arm and nodded his head. With the swing of the chute gate, his feet lashed out, heels planted in the horse’s neck as Thunderstruck took the first, explosive jump. Shawnee’s thoughts dissolved and she just reacted, shadowing Cole as the bucking horse swooped first left, then right, rear hooves reaching for the lights and head disappearing between his knees each time his front feet slammed into the dirt. The cowboy fought hard, but with each jump he fell a little farther behind. Right at the eight-second whistle he got jacked back off his rigging. His hips twisted and his butt dropped off the side opposite his riding hand, leaving him head down, spurs up, the weight of his body trapping his glove in the rigging.

  Hung up.

  Hustle, hustle, hustle. She and Salty closed in fast on the lunging horse, taking the left side as Cole took the right. Coming astride, he reached down and grabbed for the back of the cowboy’s protective vest. Get the flank strap. The bronc’s hip slammed into Shawnee’s leg as she leaned out and caught the trip mechanism with her fingers. The padded sheepskin strap fell away and Thunderstruck flattened out into a lope. Shawnee held her position, the three horses galloping abreast as Cole gave a heave, tossing the cowboy up and over the bronc and into her lap.

  The impact knocked her sideways. She hooked her knee under the swells of her saddle and one hand under the cowboy’s armpit—half rescue, half self-preservation—as he jerked his hand free of the rigging. Salty peeled away from the bucking horse. The instant they were clear, Shawnee lost her grip and dropped the cowboy square on his ass.

  Oh shit. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him skid on one hip like he was sliding hard into second base, then pop up and throw both arms out in a Safe! motion.

  The crowd roared. Shawnee exhaled for the first time since the chute gate had opened. Okay. Okay. Nothing like testing her right off the bat. And she had passed! Well enough, anyway. Like Violet’s dad had told her, “As long as the cowboy walks away, you did your job.”

  She loped along with Cole, herding Thunderstruck into the stripping chute, where the crew would pull off the rigging. As they turned back at the gate, she glanced over to see Cole’s reaction. Instead of a smile or an Atta girl!, his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. His chin jerked up a notch in acknowledgment. Then he reined Hammer off and trotted back to his position, ready for the next ride.

  Shawnee bared her teeth at him. Follow Cole’s lead…

  All right, then. If he was gonna be a jerk, she could do that, too.

  * * *

  By the end of the bull riding, Cole was ready to bust a vein. Shawnee hadn’t made a real mistake all night. Hadn’t given him a glimmer of an excuse to complain because—damn their eyes—they’d trained her to do everything exactly like Violet. Position, timing, even the cues she called out were the same. After the first dozen horses, he’d almost forgotten she wasn’t Violet.

  Until they rode out the gate and he had to look directly at her. She gave him another of those cheeky grins, a few stray curls sticking to the sweat on her round, flushed cheeks.

  Her eyebrows cocked up into sharp, inverted Vs. “Well, boss? Do I pass?”

  “You did okay.” The words were sour and scratchy as hairballs, and nearly as hard to cough up. “You had good teachers.”

  “They showed me just how you like it.” Shawnee steered her horse so close her padded chaps mashed up against his when she leaned in, lowering her voice to a suggestive purr. “Come by my trailer later, big boy, and I’ll show you how I like it.”

  Cole felt his jaw drop. He tried to say…to say…Jesus Christ, what was he supposed to say to something like that?

  Her laugh busted out, bawdy as a saloon girl, and she slapped a palm on her leather-clad thigh. “Oh my God! The look on your face—” She fired a triumphant finger pistol at him. “And me without a camera. Violet would’ve loved that face.”

  She flicked her reins and rode away, still laughing. Cole glared daggers at her back but they bounced right off, like everything else. He ground another millimeter off his incisors. This. This was why the woman should not be allowed in polite company. Or even impolite company. She was…hell, he couldn’t even think of a word to describe her.

  But if today was any indication, she was a passable pickup man. Okay, more than passable. She was good. Which meant—damn it to hell—he was stuck with her.

  Chapter 5

  Despite not crawling into bed until almost midnight, Shawnee was up forty-five minutes before sunrise the next morning, saddling horses. She stopped to give Roy a thorough rub between the ears as she passed by to fetch the other two. He was a good stick. The best she’d ever had. Hard to imagine now, as he nosed her shoulder in hopes of extra grain, that there’d been a time when he’d as soon come at her, biting and striking. Just went to show, an unbroke colt in the hands of a soft-hearted, clueless novice was as dangerous as a gun. Horses were like people. They didn’t have to like you, but they’d damn well better respect you.

  In Shawnee’s opinion, a whole lot of so-called problems would be solved if people did what had to be done, instead of what made them popular.

  She led the sorrel and the gray to the arena, wading through predawn air as thick as lukewarm soup. Her thin, sleeveless T-shirt was already sticking to her shoulders. Eighty degrees and eighty percent humidity—this was why she’d never live in southeast Texas. They could have their greenery. She preferred air that didn’t try to drown her one breath at a time.

  She tied the gray outside the arena gate and took the sorrel inside. He snorted at the wide expanse of the arena, the brightly colored banners that rustled in the slight breeze, and the looming hulk of the grandstand. Shawnee gave him a couple of minutes to inspect his surroundings. Then she clipped the lunge line to his halter and clucked her tongue. Within a few minutes the gelding was loping smooth circles, stopping and turning on cue. When she was satisfied that they’d worked out the jitters, she bridled him and climbed aboard to put him through his paces.

  Half an hour later, he dropped his head and walked sedately around the arena. Not bad. Tomorrow they’d rope the dummy steer she’d brought along. Too bad there was no one out at this hour who could be bribed into pulling it for her, but maybe next week would be cooler and she could work at a civilized hour.

  Outside the arena, the flea-bitten gray paced and pawed at the end of his lead rope. She’d hoped he’d wear himself down, but it looked like he’d only worked himself into a full-on snit. She got him calmed down enough to clip the long lead onto his halter, but the instant they set foot in the arena, he tried to bolt. She dug in her heels and yanked him around to face her. He reared, stamped his feet, and shook his head. She snapped the lunge line, reminding him who was boss. He backed off, but when she stepped to the side and clucked her tongue, he bolted again. Shawnee yanked him around, hitching the line behind her hip and leaning her weight into it for leverage.

  Sometimes an oversized ass came in handy.

  From there, what was supposed to be a training session disintegra
ted into an all-out brawl. The dumb bastard would not weaken. At home they would have gone back to the smaller round pen where the fences would contain him until he located his brain, assuming he had one. Here in the big arena, it was all on her.

  She hauled him around to face her yet again and they both paused to take a few heaving breaths. Sweat dripped from her eyebrows, soaked the strands of hair that escaped the wad on top of her head, and ran down to make muddy tracks in the dust coating her neck and arms. She was puffing like a freight train from alternately chasing and dragging the colt.

  Finally, when she was so overheated her vision was starting to blur, he managed one decent circle. Then something caught his eye and he tried to stampede. Shawnee swore, dragged him to a stop, and shot a glare over her shoulder. Cole Jacobs stood, arms folded on the top rail of the gate. She could hardly blame ol’ gray for spooking at the sight of the not-so-friendly giant, his canine minion peering under the fence beside him. Shawnee snorted, reminded of an old picture book illustration of a gnarly ogre with rotten teeth dangling a terrified horse by one leg over his open mouth.

  Cole was big enough to eat a horse, but he was definitely not gnarly. Some women might even swoon over that extra-large hunk of prime American beef. At least until he opened his mouth. Or didn’t, more likely. This morning he wore his usual nonexpression and an immaculate white straw cowboy hat. There wasn’t a hint of sweat on his clean-shaven, square-as-an-anvil jaw.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “It’s almost eight o’clock.”

  “So?”

  “We run tonight’s stock through the arena at eight.”

  The gray whinnied and sidled toward where his buddy was dozing on the other side of the fence. Shawnee yanked him around to face her. “I’ll get out of your way as soon as Butthead here settles down and pays attention.”

  “It’s almost eight o’clock,” Cole repeated, his voice sharpening with impatience.

  “You can’t wait half an hour?” She scrubbed at her sweaty forehead with the back of one grungy hand. “It’s not like it’ll get that much hotter.”

  His face took on the obstinate, ain’t-gonna-budge look that invariably goaded her into saying something rude so he’d get all stiff-necked and walk away. Yeah, she knew Cole had legitimate issues. Join the worldwide club.

  “We always work the stock at eight,” he said.

  “And what, they turn into four-legged pumpkins at the stroke of nine?”

  He scowled so ferociously his brows pulled into a single dark line. “I have a schedule. I like to stick to it.”

  “I’ll be sure I’m out of your way in the future.”

  He just stood there, glaring at her. The dog glared, too.

  Shawnee matched their heat and turned it up a few kilowatts. “I’m not leaving this arena until I’m done.”

  The furrows around his mouth deepened. “We can’t work around you.”

  “Then wait.” The gray tried to take advantage of her distraction. She jerked on the line to set him straight, then turned her glare back to Cole. “You of all people should know that when a horse picks a fight, you can’t quit until you win. Otherwise, you’re just teaching him to be an asshole. If you want to speed things up, take Butthead over there to the trailer where this mothered-up son of a bitch can’t see him.”

  “I thought that one was Butthead.”

  She blew out a loud, exasperated breath. “They’re all buttheads when I get them. As soon as they stop being buttheads I sell them, so there’s no sense wasting time with names.”

  Cole frowned, probably debating whether to bodily remove her from the arena. No doubt he could, but she’d get in a few shots in the process. Finally he gave a single, curt nod and turned to untie the other horse and lead it away, Katie marching along beside him. Christ. Even his dog had a stick up her ass.

  Shawnee glared after them for a couple of beats, then gave the gray her undivided attention. “It’s just you and me, fleabag, and you don’t even want to know how long I can keep this up.”

  By the time Cole came back, she had sweated out another gallon of fluids, but she had the horse trotting passable circles. She stepped out and flicked the line. The gray paused, then swung around to circle the other way. Intensely aware that Cole was watching every move, she worked the horse back and forth, made him stop, face, back a few steps, then start again.

  Showing off, just a little.

  Satisfied, she stopped the gray, brought him around to face, then walked up to rub his dripping forelock. She could feel sweat running down the crack of her ass, soaking the seat of her jeans. “Next time, you’ll know better.”

  The gray dropped his head and whuffled as if in agreement.

  She turned toward the gate and found Cole staring at her as if he’d never seen the likes of it. His eyes remained glued to her as he stepped back and swung open the gate.

  “Thank you for your patience,” she said sweetly, tossing him a mocking smile as she passed.

  “Shawnee?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You should change shirts before you run into anybody else,” he said, then strolled into the arena, closing the gate behind him.

  She glanced down. Her white T-shirt was soaked through with sweat, her nipples clearly visible through her equally soggy white spandex. Damn bargain rack sports bra. She considered being embarrassed, then shrugged. Wasn’t like it was the first time someone had seen her in a wet T-shirt, and she wasn’t even dancing on a bar.

  Then another thought struck and she huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. She’d been so sure Cole was in awe of her mad horse-training skills, and the whole time he was just staring at her tits.

  She laughed again and started for her trailer. In the interests of public decency she kept the horse between her and a trio of committeemen chatting in the shade of the grandstand. Then again, they were good tits. They’d put a smile on more than one face. She should probably share the joy whenever possible, while she still had them. That shoe could drop at any time, especially now that she’d made it past thirty.

  Cole, though—she shook her head. She’d figured him for the kind to toss her a towel and order her to cover up instead of hanging around to enjoy the view.

  Huh. He might be human after all.

  Chapter 6

  Cole was never going to unsee what he’d just seen.

  Prior to that morning, if he had been asked to describe Shawnee, he would have said something like stocky, or strong. He might have been thinking round. But not the kind of round that made a man raise his eyebrows and sketch her shape in the air with his hands.

  Yeah, she was that kind of round.

  Now he wouldn’t be able to stop noticing. Ever. And it wasn’t just her cleavage. It was the way she moved, the unexpected agility born of hours of the physically exhausting ground work he’d witnessed today. Cole had trained enough horses to know the strength and endurance it took. Shawnee had the muscle to show for it.

  He should have walked away the instant he’d realized he could see through her shirt. He’d damn sure been raised better. His ears stung from the thought of how his aunt would react if she’d caught him. Honestly, though, he’d been mesmerized even before the peep show. The way Shawnee handled that horse—fierce, powerful, and…well, it sounded stupid, but exultant. As if she reveled in the challenge. Worshiped at the altar of Equinus, as some horse magazine liked to say.

  Damn. Why did those useless snippets get stuck in his head? Now he was picturing her as a Greek goddess wearing nothing but a droopy sheet. But the way that flea-bitten gray had all but bowed to her in the end—words couldn’t describe that moment, when a horse gave you their complete trust.

  And the woman was so focused she had no idea she was as good as naked from the waist up.

  Cole hissed a curse that made Katie’s head jerk up from where she was hunkered in
the shadow of his horse. He was never, ever gonna get that out of his mind. And Shawnee would know. Probably use it against him every chance she got. He yanked up on his cinch hard enough to make Hammer pin his ears in protest.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, and backed it off a notch.

  As he swung aboard the blue roan, Hank strolled in from the stock pens. He flashed Cole one of the grins that, along with his slender build and baby face, made him seem like a perpetual teenager. “We took bets on how long before you and Shawnee butted heads. Cruz won—he’s the only one who thought you’d make it through the whole rodeo last night. ’Course, he hadn’t met Shawnee yet. She don’t step aside for anyone.”

  Cole refused to growl, tempting as it was. “She didn’t know the schedule.”

  “So we’ll be back to running the stock at eight from now on?”

  Cole shifted in the saddle, irritated. Shawnee had a legitimate reason to use the arena and was willing to get up before dawn to take advantage of the coolest part of the day. Cole had to respect her dedication. He supposed there wasn’t that much difference between eight and nine as far as running the stock went. If he said so now, though, it would look like she’d won.

  “We’re working out a compromise,” he hedged.

  “I wouldn’t mind lettin’ her compromise me.” Hank’s grin turned into a leer. “That’s a woman who knows stuff, ya know what I mean?”

  Cole snorted. “As if she’d look twice at a punk like you.”

  “I’m only a year younger than J.P. and she’s got plenty of use for him.”

  J.P. Azeveda? Cole had to fight off a scowl. Figured, Shawnee would go for a guy who was a genius with a rope. Age aside, though, J.P. was Hank’s polar opposite—polite, respectful, and thankful for every time he set foot in a rodeo arena. He’d come from Brazil with nothing but a suitcase and a rope. Six months later he was on track to qualify for the National Finals.

  Yeah, he could see Shawnee with J.P. But Hank…