Tougher in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  “Hey, Cole, whatcha got there?”

  Cole froze. He hadn’t seen Hank lounging in the shade of the tarp they had stretched between Cole’s trailer and the nearest truck. He stuffed the rest of the roll into his mouth, a lame attempt to hide the evidence. “Nuffin,” he mumbled.

  Hank sat forward in his chair, zeroing in on the covered dish in Cole’s hand. “Where’d you score a homemade roll? And what else have you got in there?”

  Shit. Busted. He should’ve known better than to bring his booty here, where any of the crew might spot him. And, as usual, under pressure his brain gave him the equivalent of a pixelated computer screen.

  He put a protective hand over the plate. “I, um, got it from a…friend.”

  Hank jumped up as if he intended to take a closer look. Katie bared her teeth and growled, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Hank glared at her, then turned accusing eyes on Cole. “Who do you know who can cook? Have you been holding out on us?”

  “No. I just found…just ran into her, and she gave me dinner.” Huh. Not too bad, by Cole’s standards.

  Hank drew a deep breath. “That smells awesome. I don’t suppose there’s enough—”

  Katie growled again.

  Hank heaved a dejected sigh, shoulders slumping like Cole’s nephew Beni when Cole ate the last cookie. “Guess I’ll have another rodeo burger.”

  “You’re not guilting me into sharing.” Cole wrapped his hands around the dish and tucked it close to his chest. “Lay off the buckle bunnies and you might meet a nice girl and score yourself a decent meal.”

  Hank’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what you did?”

  No. Yes. Maybe? Not that he’d ever really done the buckle bunny thing. When he’d been young and dumb enough to be tempted, he’d demonstrated a real talent for scaring off even the most aggressive rodeo groupies. And if anyone called Shawnee a nice girl to her face, she’d bust out laughing. But she could cook. And he had scored. Big time.

  He decided this was one of the rare times when a blank stare was the best answer.

  “Fine. Keep it all for yourself.” Hank jammed his hands in his pockets and hung his head, looking even more baby-faced than usual. “I sure do miss those big dinners Miz Iris made for the crew.”

  “I hear you.” But he still wasn’t sharing. Cole sidled toward the door to his living quarters with Katie stalking beside him like she was guarding an armored car full of cash. His hand was on the door latch when Hank brought him up short again.

  “Have you talked to Shawnee?”

  Cole’s head jerked up, guilty. “About what?”

  “Ace.” Hank’s lip curled. “He’s got some nerve, showing up here and expecting her to take him in.”

  Hank wasn’t just fishing for gossip this time, Cole realized. He was angry.

  “Do you know him?” Cole asked.

  “Not personally. But I’ve heard plenty from Melanie.”

  Hank’s sister and truly Violet’s best friend forever. She’d done her damnedest to look out for him when it became obvious their parents didn’t have much interest in the surprise package that had shown up ten years after they’d decided Melanie should be an only child.

  Shawnee had grown up south of Amarillo on her grandfather’s ranch and had never left the Panhandle, but after college she’d drifted away in terms of contact. Shawnee stuck to team roping–only events. Violet threw herself into Jacobs Livestock and the rodeos they produced. Their orbits hadn’t overlapped much until Shawnee had started roping with Tori, and Tori had married Delon and become Beni’s stepmother.

  Now they were all one big, happy…well, maybe not quite family, but crowd. Including Hank, who obviously knew things about Shawnee and Ace that Cole—big surprise—had missed.

  “What did he do?” A greasy knot curled in Cole’s stomach as he considered the worst of the possibilities.

  “Nothin’. That’s why Shawnee got so pissed off at that reporter. Ace never had time to waste coaching a kid. Her granddaddy taught her to rope, and how to handle a horse.” Hank held up two entwined fingers. “Her and that old man were like this. Ace just showed her off and took credit whenever it suited him. Then she got cancer and he bailed.”

  Cole frowned, sure he must have misunderstood. “Like, didn’t go with her to the hospital and stuff?”

  “No. Like left.” Hank made a fly away gesture. “Packed up his shit and cleared out. Said he couldn’t handle being around sick people.”

  “She isn’t people. She’s his daughter.”

  How in the hell did a father abandon his child at a time like that? And why would Shawnee offer him anything more than a boot in the ass when he hit bottom?

  It would make me no better than him.

  “That ain’t even the worst of it,” Hank said. “After Shawnee was all done with treatment, Ace tried to come back, ’cuz he couldn’t win shit without his father-in-law to keep a good horse under him. And her mama was gonna take him, but the old man said he’d shoot the bastard first. Ace convinced her Daddy would come around if they took off with his precious granddaughter, but Shawnee refused to go along, so her granddad just said good riddance to the two of them. A couple of months later her mom had a nervous breakdown and Ace dumped her at an emergency room in Waxahachie. Didn’t even have the balls to call her parents. They brought her home, but after that she was always sort of, you know…delicate. At least for as long as they lived around Amarillo.”

  “Why did they leave?” Cole asked.

  “Her granddaddy had to sell the ranch because of all the medical bills and shit. The Pattersons bought him out, then rented the place back to them until Shawnee was out of high school. Soon as she graduated the old folks and her ma moved up to Nebraska, by her grandmother’s family. Wasn’t a year later her granddad died of cancer. One of those deals where he was diagnosed and in a month he was dead. Shawnee was wrecked.”

  Cole knew that feeling. Dear God, did he ever. When he’d lost his parents and brother, he’d curled in upon himself until he’d barely found his way out again. Shawnee seemed like she’d done the opposite, turning her emotions loose on anything that got in her way.

  “What about her mother and grandmother?” Cole asked, forcing words through what felt like a noose woven from pain…his and hers.

  Hank shrugged. “Still in Nebraska, far as I know. Her mother never remarried. Lots of people think she never got over Ace.”

  Or at least what he’d done to her. And her daughter.

  “Are you gonna let him hang around, using her?” Hank demanded, hands fisted in fury. Just when you were tempted to write him off, he’d remind you that, underneath, he had a decent heart.

  Cole’s fingers crumpled the foil at the edges of the plastic tub, his knuckles white with the urge to throttle Ace Pickett. He’d be doing the world—and Shawnee—a favor. But…

  “It’s not my decision.”

  He had to respect Shawnee’s decision—unless Ace became a detriment to Jacobs Livestock. As he sat down to eat, it occurred to him that he was constantly tripping over reasons to respect Shawnee.

  * * *

  Cole had just polished off the last of his very excellent dinner when he heard voices outside his door—Tyrell’s unmistakable baritone, Hank’s chatter, and Ace Pickett’s lazy drawl. Cole dumped his dishes in the sink and stepped outside. The three men were sprawled in lawn chairs, sipping sweet tea. He caught Tyrell’s eye and gave a slight jerk of his head.

  Tyrell pushed to his feet. “A couple of people complained that the sound was a little muddy up at the top of the big grandstand last night. Would you run on over there and listen for me, Hank, while I do a sound check?”

  Ace didn’t volunteer to help. Annoying, but convenient under the circumstances. Cole planted himself right in front of the older man’s chair, forcing Ace to either stare at Cole’s crotch or tilt his head back
to see his face.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me,” Cole said. “But I’m not good with bullshit—dishing it out or taking it.”

  “Smart man,” Ace said, with an easy smile that faltered when Cole only stared down at him, deliberately cold.

  “We’re not gonna pretend you’re here to see a daughter you haven’t bothered to visit in three years. But unfortunately I was raised right, and I wouldn’t leave a stray cat to starve, so you get one chance to show me you’re good for something.”

  Ace took his time, rubbing a hand over his chin as he thought it over. “Your boy there,” he said, the inflection on the word boy making Cole’s hackles rise when Ace nodded toward the chair Tyrell had vacated. “Got a great voice, but he’s from up north. He could probably use someone in the crow’s nest who knows the cowboys in this circuit.”

  It wasn’t a terrible idea. Tyrell had been busting his butt to learn as much as possible about the contestants so he could add more color commentary, but with hundreds of entries in every rodeo it took time.

  Cole inclined his head. “I’ll ask. If he agrees, we can give it a try, and I’ll pay you in room and board. In the meantime, Shawnee talks to you if and when she wants. You don’t talk to her. You don’t mooch off of her. If I catch you aggravating her in any way, I’ll toss your ass in the pickup and dump you at the nearest bus station, with a ticket to anywhere we aren’t going.”

  Ace gazed up at him with a wounded expression, testing to see if Cole would weaken, even a hair. Cole didn’t.

  Ace heaved a deep, put-upon sigh. “I’m sorry my daughter has given you such a low opinion of me. If it weren’t for this—” He shifted the arm bound up in the sling. “But I guess talking is about all I’m good for right now.”

  Cole could’ve argued that, sling or no sling, being good for nothin’ was a permanent state of affairs with Ace.

  Chapter 14

  “Too bad I’ve got this bum shoulder,” Ace said, as Shawnee saddled Roy for the roping on Sunday. “Looks like it’s gonna be a nice little pot.”

  The sling was the reason they’d been saddled with Ace. His latest lady love was not the usual rich widow. She’d taken her MBA and her father’s unambitious plumbing supply company and built a multimillion-dollar chain, tearing through a few husbands in the process. Bored with semiretirement, she’d invested her spoils in Quarter Horses—the best rodeo bloodlines her money could buy.

  It was depressing to realize even a woman that smart could lose her head over a sweet-talkin’, good-lookin’ man.

  She’d turned over one of her best prospects to Ace, who—with his complete lack of patience and inability to resist the quick score—had tried to make it rodeo-ready in six weeks so he could enter a big roping in Albuquerque. He’d pushed too hard, too fast. It had returned the favor by flipping over backward in the roping box, very nearly crushing him. He was damn lucky to escape with only a separated shoulder and a stiff back. Especially after the horse’s owner got done with him.

  Cole had kept his promise, though. He’d found a use for Ace. After the first performance, Tyrell had even given him a microphone and allowed him to chime in with color commentary—backstory about the cowboys, their careers, their parents’ and grandparents’ careers. Ace had bummed around Texas rodeos his entire life. He knew everybody and their daddy and had probably tried to sleep with their mothers.

  He’d mostly steered clear of her, for which Shawnee was grateful. It wasn’t out of respect for her feelings, she was sure. She hadn’t asked Cole for details of their conversation. They all knew Ace was just biding his time, using them as his bolt-hole until his shoulder healed. Calculating all the angles until he figured out which one would get him what he needed to move on to better things.

  “Been a long time since we roped together,” he said.

  And whose fault is that? Shawnee slipped Roy’s bridle over his ears and bent to run the tie-down between his front legs and snap it to the cinch. “You don’t have a horse.”

  “I can always find someone to mount me.”

  Sad truth. And he wasn’t just talking about the ladies. Local cowboys would stand in line for bragging rights about how Ace Pickett had borrowed their horse that time. Even better if Ace happened to win something. Which was all they’d get, because Ace knew how to pick the ones who would happily decline the standard twenty-five percent mount money in exchange for a beer with the man of the hour.

  And speaking of money…“I doubt you have enough cash to ante up for penny poker, let alone entry fees.”

  “I am a little short at the moment.” He pitched her a sheepish smile with just the right amount of fatherly affection. “But I thought, for old times’ sake…”

  “That I’d pay to rope with you?”

  She snorted her derision. It still pinched at her heart, though, that fleeting, ridiculous moment of imagining how it could have been. There had been a time when she’d been as starstruck as all the rest. She had insisted on learning to heel steers because Ace was a header, and that way they could be a team. Look out, here they come—Pickett and Pickett. She would be his pride and joy, and he’d take her to ropings and together they would—

  Turning her back, she yanked a rope out of her bag. All of that was before. Now it was long, long after. Her cancer had struck the match, but Ace was the one who’d set fire to every bridge in sight. She refused to feel guilty or sorry or even bitterly triumphant as she slung her rope over her saddle horn and left him behind to go do the one thing he loved more than anything or anyone in the world.

  Damn sure more than his daughter.

  * * *

  Plunging into the chatter and bustle of ropers and horses in and around the arena was like jumping into a lake after a long, parched day. Shawnee could feel her soul expanding as she soaked up the laid-back atmosphere, so different than the intensity of the rodeo performances. She owed Cole a hefty chunk of her sanity for this, but she could pay him back in fried chicken and dinner rolls.

  As she started to join the parade of ropers circling the arena, a familiar white horse jogged up beside her. Mariah grinned from Salty’s back. She was dressed almost exactly like Shawnee—jeans, T-shirt, curls corralled in the back loop of a baseball cap—but Mariah’s jeans were the hundred-dollar super-bling variety, her cap was studded with rhinestones, and her turquoise T-shirt clung to her jaw-dropping curves. Beside her Shawnee felt like a dusty blob, even though she had made more than the usual effort with her makeup, and the peach-colored shirt was one of her favorites.

  She focused on Mariah’s horse instead. “You’re roping on Salty?”

  “Cole says he was a heading horse when they bought him and he probably hasn’t forgotten how.” Mariah lifted the nylon rope in her hand. “Wanna enter up with me?”

  “Sure.”

  Barrel racing might be her ultimate end game, but Mariah had won high school championships as a roper, and it would give Shawnee one familiar partner. For the other four that she was allowed, she would be at the mercy of a random draw. Plus now she would have someone to talk to between runs. Short of having Tori appear, it was as good as the day could get.

  Plus, Ace would be watching her rope for the first time since she was thirteen. She shoved that thought aside. She no longer gave a shit about impressing him. Right?

  Right, goddammit.

  Half an hour later, the draw lists were posted and the local announcer called for the ropers to clear the arena, then read off the names of the first twenty teams.

  “Team number eighteen, Mariah Swift and Shawnee Pickett.”

  At the sound of their names, a cheer went up from the grandstand. Shawnee twisted around in her saddle to see the entire Jacobs crew parked in the shade high up under the roof. Yes, even Ace, who had joined the Leses in a card game, using the usual beer cooler as a table. She’d be worried that he might skin them, but Cole and Tyr
ell lounged against the upper railing, with their long legs stretched out across the benches below like two powerful lions keeping a lazy eye on their pride. Katie was planted between them, chin up, the coolest dog in five states.

  The rest sprawled around a picnic lunch—buckets of chicken and what looked like the works, judging by the number of tubs. Analise toasted the ropers with one of her radioactive energy drinks. A person had to wonder if caffeine overload contributed to the girl’s tendency to be verbally assaulted by prime digits. Or at least turned up the volume.

  Hank did a Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh! football cheer, using a drumstick as a pom-pom. Mariah responded with one of her regal, mock rodeo queen waves. Half of the ropers in the arena turned to look. And Shawnee…blushed?

  Swinging down off her horse, she did an unnecessary check of her cinches. She even had a lump in her throat. What the hell?

  Maybe, she admitted grudgingly, she was a wee bit touched by the moral support. Granted, none of the crew had anything better to do, but a marathon team roping was most often likened to watching paint dry. Not exactly high drama if you weren’t personally invested. In their place, she’d be shaded up cool, taking a nap. Instead, Analise and Hank were holding up a sign scrawled on the back of a rodeo poster that said We Love S & M.

  Shawnee laughed, even as she blushed a little harder. It was bizarre, having a cheering squad. She’d had friends and college teammates who’d slap her on the back when she made a good run. And of course her mother and grandparents had always been there for her when she was younger, but they were more of the hold your breath and cross your fingers types. This—

  She frowned. This felt like Cole’s doing—the food, the whole happy family gathered together. If it had been her, it would have been part of a larger plot to irritate him, but the man was incapable of being truly devious. Which meant he was just being thoughtful. Or some other noble bullshit that made her squirm.

  Nothing about Cole Jacobs should be making her that kind of squirmy.