Tougher in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  “I wouldn’t put you and J.P. in the same class,” Cole said.

  “Yeah, he’s just a team roper,” Hank said with a sneer. “But it ain’t like she’s picky.”

  Irritation congealed into cold fury at the implied insult. “And you are?”

  “That’s different. I’m a guy.”

  “So you can stick your dick wherever you want, then call a girl a slut for letting you?”

  A smart man would’ve backpedaled. Hank just shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

  “I do.” Cole leaned down, grabbed Hank, and hoisted him up until his feet were thrashing in the air as he choked and clawed at the fist bunched in his T-shirt. Cole hauled him close, so they were eye to eye. “If I hear you talk about a woman that way again, I’ll take you out back in the bull pens and teach you some respect.”

  Hank tried to gasp out an answer. Cole let him work at it for a while, then tossed him on his butt in the dirt. “Get on my other horse. I need some help out here.”

  “I’ve got it,” a voice said behind them.

  Cole cranked around in his saddle as Shawnee led her buckskin through a side gate covered by a banner advertising the local Dodge dealership. Damn. How long had she been back there listening? And why was his face going hot, as if he’d been the one spouting off? “I didn’t expect you.”

  “Why not? This is part of the job, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Her face was still flushed from heat and exertion. She’d barely had time to pull on a baseball cap and…shit, don’t look…a dry shirt. She had to be down at least three quarts of fluid, some of which she’d replaced from the clear plastic water bottle in her hand. She stepped on her horse, polished off the rest of the water, and set the bottle on top of the nearest fencepost, all without a glance at Hank as he scrambled to his feet, knocking dirt off his jeans.

  “Whenever you’re ready, boss,” she said.

  If she’d heard even part of what had been said, she should be ripping Hank in two, with her tongue if nothing else. She just kept pretending he didn’t exist as he hightailed it out the gate to the stock pens. Her silence should have been a nice change.

  So why did Cole feel let down?

  He reined Hammer around and signaled to the boys in the back pens. Ten head would buck in each event that night—bareback, saddle bronc, and bull riding—plus three extras drawn for possible re-rides if the first animal didn’t perform up to par. They worked the stock through in groups of four, letting them trot around snorting and blowing as they checked out the fences, got a feel for the ground, and found the exit gate. Nothing killed the momentum of a rodeo performance faster than a horse or bull that refused to leave the arena. Plus, they’d be more likely to have their best trip if they were familiar with their surroundings.

  After every animal had made the tour, the crew ran them through the bucking chutes and turned them out one at a time, testing every gate hinge and latch in the process. Overkill probably, but that was Cole’s middle name. His job was to be sure the rodeo went off without a hitch, that every horse and every bull was prepared to give a hundred percent. If that made him an anal-retentive bastard, so be it, as long as the people in the stands got their money’s worth.

  Shawnee followed his instructions without a word, either plotting ways to murder Hank or on the verge of keeling over from heat exhaustion. The quiet was nerve-wracking. Cole kept trying to check her out without making her think he was, you know, checking her out. Which he wasn’t. Intentionally. Could he help it if his mind jumped in all the wrong directions?

  When the last bull had been herded out of the arena, Cole climbed off Hammer and loosened his cinches. Shawnee did the same. They both stepped toward the gate, then stopped, each waiting for the other to go first. Cole felt like he should say something about their encounter that morning. Apologize. Explain. Express his appreciation.

  No. Wait. That was not what he meant.

  She paused, then waved toward where Hank had hit the ground. “You can’t fight that bullshit.”

  “Habit.” When her head tilted in question, he hitched a shoulder and inspected the dirt between his boots. “You know, um, Violet…”

  “Ah. Small town, single mom, big mouths.”

  He was blushing again, for God’s sake. “I had to set ’em straight now and then.”

  “By setting them on their asses?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She slugged him in the arm. When his head jerked up, she smiled, and for once he didn’t feel like he was the butt of the joke. “Never thought I’d say this, but I like your style.”

  “Uh, thanks.” As she started for the gate he blurted, “We can run the stock at eight thirty from now on.”

  “Damn. I should have flashed you sooner. As long as you’re feelin’ cooperative, what I’d really like is the key to the arena lights so I can be done before the sun comes up.” She tipped her sunglasses down and cocked those eyebrows at him, her grin sharpening to its usual razor edge. “Get it for me and I’ll show you my ass, too.”

  Cole stared after her, dumbfounded, as she sauntered away. And damn it to hell, he could not stop himself from looking at the ass in question. He turned, folded his arms on his saddle, and buried his face in them. What had already been the longest summer of his life had officially become eternity.

  In hell. With his own personal demon.

  Chapter 7

  When she’d finished hosing down her horses and putting them away, Shawnee walked into her trailer and collapsed on the nearest horizontal surface—the massive couch that filled the entire slide-out of the living quarters. Tori’s first husband had been a big man, and the trailer was designed to accommodate him. Shawnee pressed her burning cheek into the cool leather. The morning had wrung her out like a wet sponge—then smacked her upside the head.

  Cole Jacobs had defended her virtue. Well, not exactly her virtue, but her right to be as unvirtuous as she damn well pleased. Cole freaking Jacobs. When Hank had mentioned J.P., there’d been something in Cole’s eyes—just a flicker—that she’d read as disapproval. Then he’d slapped Hank down like a fence-jumping hound.

  She’d have to think about that when her brain wasn’t cooked to the consistency of a soft-boiled egg. God, she was thirsty. She tried to lift her head and measure the distance to the refrigerator, but even that took more effort than she could muster.

  A knock sounded at the door, deep and heavy. Oh hell. What now?

  “Come in!” she hollered without moving.

  The door swung open and was immediately blocked by Cole’s broad body. His dark eyebrows drew into the usual disapproving line as he inspected her. “Are you sick?”

  “I’m resting. What do you want?”

  “You left this at the arena.” He held up her water bottle, his gaze narrowing on her face, which had to be the color of a ripe red tomato. “I shouldn’t have let you help run the stock.”

  “Since when do you tell me what I can’t do?” She meant to sound irritated, but her hackles weren’t up to rising, either.

  “Since you work for me.” He jiggled the empty water bottle. “You need to drink something.”

  “No shit.” She lifted a hand and let it flop back to her side. “Soon as I cool down a little. Might help if you weren’t standing there letting the heat in.”

  He grunted, but instead of setting the bottle down and leaving, he ducked his head to step inside and waited for that damn dog to follow before he shut the door behind him. “You got anything in the fridge?”

  “Yeah. Give me a minute—”

  One long step and he yanked open the refrigerator door, pulled out the big jug of sweet tea, unscrewed the cap of her water bottle, and filled it to the top. The dog plunked down to watch, tongue lolling.

  “Need help sitting up?” Cole asked, as he handed it to her.

 
“No. I got it.” She wallowed around until her feet were on the floor and her shoulders propped against the couch cushions. Her vision went white around the edges from the effort. “I’m good.”

  “Drink,” Cole said.

  Words faded into the mental fog, making it impossible to argue. While she drank, he strode into the bathroom. She heard water running. A moment later he emerged with a wet washcloth in one hand. He tossed it in her direction, but her reflexes were shot and it landed on her chest with a chilly splat.

  Oh Lord, did that feel good.

  Cole found the air conditioner vent in the ceiling—he could reach it without even stretching—and adjusted it so the air flowed through her sweat-soaked hair. She took another gulp of tea, then pressed the cold bottle against the side of her neck as she picked up the washcloth and scrubbed the sweat and dirt from her face.

  When she lowered the cloth, Cole’s face came into focus, the sugar in the sweet tea already working its magic. He stuck a banana in her hand, swiped from a bunch on the counter.

  “Eat that,” he ordered. “Unless you feel like you’re gonna puke.”

  “Yes, Master,” she muttered.

  He scowled at her. “You won’t be worth a crap tonight if you don’t replenish your electrolytes. Bananas have potassium.”

  She knew that. Nobody knew more about vitamins and minerals and antioxidants. She would make a smoothie chock-full of essential nutrients as soon as she got her legs back under her. “Well, thanks for your concern and all, but I can manage from here.”

  Cole folded his arms across his very broad chest and continued to loom over her. Geezus. The man could loom like no other, except his uncle Steve.

  She gave him her best stink-eye. “Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me?”

  “Until you stop looking like death? Yes.”

  The dog groaned and flopped onto her side, as if she could tell he was planted deeper than a big ol’ live oak. Shawnee gave an exasperated growl and ripped the end off of the banana. If she’d been in true fighting form, she would’ve done something profane with it to make him blush again—seriously, a man that size blushing was dangerously close to cute—but she was pretty sure even that wouldn’t make him go away this time. She broke off a third of it, stuffed it in her mouth, and chomped like a belligerent eight-year-old.

  There’d been no one to loom—or even notice—when she’d been knocked flat for three days by a case of food poisoning. She’d gotten so sick she couldn’t crawl off the bathroom floor to find her phone and call 911 when she decided it actually might kill her instead of just feeling that way.

  But that could never happen to her now.

  She stuffed the next chunk of banana in her mouth, chewing more slowly as she considered her change of circumstances. Nowadays, she exchanged texts or calls with Tori, Violet, or both most days. If she didn’t respond within a reasonable time or show up at Tori’s to rope, someone would come knocking at her door. As if she’d asked them to look out for her.

  As if she’d ever ask anyone to look out for her.

  She wolfed down the last of the banana and chased it with a gulp of sweet tea. “There. Satisfied?”

  “Yes—if it stays down.” In case it didn’t he slid the trash can over beside her, then finally stopped staring at her and inspected the trailer instead. “Not as fancy as I figured.”

  Shawnee followed his gaze around the interior of the living quarters. With the slide-out extended there was a good-sized chunk of floor space, with the couch on one side and the banquette-style table on the other. At the front, the nose that extended over the pickup box held a king-sized bed. At the back a short bar sectioned off the kitchen. In addition to a gas oven and cooktop with a microwave mounted above, it had double sinks and a good-sized refrigerator. The bathroom even had a full-sized shower stall. But none of it was fancy. Just functional.

  Nausea rippled through Shawnee’s stomach as it attempted to reject the banana. New beads of sweat popped on her forehead, but she refused to be sick. Not with Cole watching. She took a tiny swig of her tea and breathed carefully until the queasiness passed.

  “If you’re gonna hang around, find something worth watching on TV.” She picked up a remote from the couch and tossed it to him.

  He snatched it out of the air with one platter-sized hand and pointed it at the flat screen mounted on a wall swivel at the end of the bed. “Satellite?”

  “Seventy-eight channels. Get a glass of tea and sit down, for Christ’s sake. You’re cricking my neck.”

  He hesitated, then poured himself a large tumbler. “Can I borrow a bowl for Katie?”

  “Above the sink.”

  He found one, filled it with water for the dog, then settled in at the table to watch a show about rotational grazing on the ag channel. Shawnee closed her eyes and drifted, sipping her tea. Damn, he took up a lot of space. The whole trailer smelled like sun-roasted cowboy. Which wasn’t necessarily bad, but…

  When she woke up, someone on the television was droning on about soil impaction in cornfields. Cole was gone so she keeled over, stretched out, and went back to sleep for another two hours.

  After a shower, a couple more gallons of fluids, and a good meal, she was almost back to a hundred percent. When she arrived at Cole’s trailer that evening to saddle Salty, he gave her one long, critical stare, then got on Hammer and rode away. Didn’t even ask how she felt, the antisocial bastard.

  But he had made sure she was okay.

  * * *

  At exactly two fifteen, Cole’s eyes popped open, just like every other night on the road. Midnight might be the witching hour, but two a.m. was closing time, when idiots came out in force. Drunks wandering back from the bar or out of the beer garden, brains sufficiently pickled to drown their good judgment. Cowboys stoked up on beer bravado looking to settle a score, usually with their fists. And occasionally someone with truly malicious intent.

  Cole pulled on jeans, boots, and a T-shirt and grabbed his flashlight and cell phone. Unlike Shawnee’s plush accommodations, he could reach nearly anything in his living quarters while standing in the middle of the floor. He grabbed a silver key off the tiny banquette table and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans before letting himself out into night air so humid it condensed on his skin.

  On a Thursday postmidnight, all was reasonably quiet. A security light mounted on the power pole behind the announcer’s stand lit the stock pens sufficiently that he didn’t need his flashlight. Katie padded along at his heels as he worked his way around, bull by bull, horse by horse, senses tuned to any sounds or signs of distress. Sleepy eyes blinked at him, too accustomed to his nocturnal ramblings to do more than snuffle at being disturbed.

  Somewhere on the rodeo grounds doors slammed, an engine roared to life, and hip-hop blared from a stereo. Cole waved at a car crammed full of young bull riders, headed to either an all-night diner or a motel. Or so he hoped. This was no time to be hitting the highway.

  He moved on, checking the outer gates of the pens. Each was secured with a bicycle-style lock equipped with an alarm, triggered if anyone attempted to cut the cable or tamper with the lock, like when animal rights activists had invaded a rodeo grounds in Colorado, turned loose a herd of bucking horses, and shot off fireworks to send them stampeding. Four had been severely injured when they ran, panicked and blind, through a barbed wire fence, and three more died on the adjacent interstate highway, along with one motorist.

  In the unlikely event of fire, flood, or other natural disaster and the even more unlikely event that Cole wouldn’t be first on the scene, the Leses each had a set of backup keys. Plan B was an absolute necessity. Cole preferred to also have plan C, D, and even E, when possible.

  He didn’t expect human trouble tonight. At this rodeo, the parking attendants were on patrol twenty-four hours a day to be sure none of the rigs got a foot out of line—other t
han Shawnee’s. Pompous bastards, but an excellent deterrent to anyone up to mischief, or worse.

  Cole climbed the steps to the announcer’s stand to check that the door was closed and locked, then walked the entire outside perimeter of the arena, pausing to look over the roping cattle, even though they belonged to a subcontractor. He took his time strolling around the back side of the grandstand and watched the final two cars pull away from the now-darkened beer garden.

  Completing his circle, he worked his way through the contestant parking area, shining his flashlight down the shadowy corridors formed by the fifty- to sixty-foot length of the ropers’ rigs. Halfway down the first row of vehicles, he stopped short. A horse’s head jerked up when Cole’s flashlight beam landed on him, mouth full of the hay he’d pulled from a bale in the back of a pickup.

  Recognizing the legendary escape artist, Cole laughed softly. “Hey, Joker. Got yourself untied again, I see.”

  The horse gave what sounded like a guilty sigh. Cole caught up his dangling halter rope, took him back to his own trailer, and tied him with a nibble-proof knot. No need to wake anyone. The only thing in danger when Joker got loose was unsecured feed in the near vicinity.

  Cole finished his patrol without further incident, then turned toward the rig beside the big live oak in the middle of the parking area—and grinned in anticipation.

  * * *

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Shawnee felt as if she’d barely shut her eyes when the series of loud thuds jolted her out of dreamland. She was up and on her feet before she came fully awake, heart pounding in time with the fist beating on her door. She yanked it open and found Cole standing in the pitch dark, his devil dog guarding his flank.

  “Wha’s wrong?” she mumbled, heart tripping as she shoved the wild tangle of hair out of her face and hit the switch for the outside floodlight. “Somethin’ with my horses?”

  “No.”

  His gaze made a quick trip up and down her body, but there wasn’t much to see. She slept in an oversized T-shirt and gym shorts, used to being roused by drunk friends and, less frequently, equine emergencies.