Shawnee gave him a moment, then a nudge. She didn’t lead. Instead, she picked up his rhythm, using her hand on his back to direct him. He kept the steps small at first. The longer they moved without crashing, though, the more he loosened up. Breathed. Shawnee smelled different than the last time he’d held her. Better, obviously, minus the sweat and blood and horse puke. The noise and the crowd faded to the edge of his awareness, but unlike usual, Shawnee was inside the bubble with him, her feel and scent woven through the deep bah-bah-bum of the bass line, as if she’d dialed in to his frequency.
“What’s it like?” she asked.
He opened his eyes and missed a beat.
“Don’t stop.” Her fingers dug into his back, urging him to keep moving. “Close your eyes and tell me what you see. How it feels.”
“Why?”
Her gaze dropped to his chest. “Your whole body changed, like someone pulled a plug and drained out all the stress. I…” She flicked a quick glance up at him, then down again. “I was just curious.”
He pictured her trying to fight off the anxiety attack and understood. One more possible weapon against the monster. “I can try.”
He closed his eyes again and let himself sink into the music until he found the sweet spot. They danced for a few minutes, while he tried to maintain enough consciousness to study the sensations without getting pulled out of the flow. Finally, he said, “Most autistic people are hypersensitive to things like noise, touch, light, color, movement. For me, this crowd is like drowning in a river of static, and the bass line is a rope. As long as I’m hanging on to it, the rest flows around me. But if I let go, I get washed away.”
He opened his eyes and looked down to find her gaze fixed on his face, her eyes softer than he’d ever seen them. And somewhere during the time he’d been lost in the music, his mind had adjusted to this new version of Shawnee. She looked amazing. He’d just panicked when she turned herself into the kind of woman he’d never be able to talk to.
“I meant it as a compliment,” he said.
She blinked, as if coming out of a haze. “What?”
“When I said I don’t have to impress you. I don’t have to fake normal. I can just…be. It’s a relief. But I like this, too.” He lifted a hand and skimmed it lightly down her hair, from the top of her head to her waist. The curls tickled his palm. Then he traced his fingertip along the inside of the chunky crystals of her necklace, from one bare collarbone to the other. “And this. I just had to get used to it.”
She inhaled sharply when his finger made the return trip along the outside of her necklace, dipping dangerously low. Her lips parted and her eyes drifted almost shut as she exhaled, long and slow. God, he wanted to kiss her. He started to lean in, but she planted both hands on his chest and pushed out of his reach. “You should’ve stuck with the blonde.”
This time, it was Cole left standing on the dance floor. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, watching as she marched straight over to Hank, snatched the beer out of his hand, and gulped down half of it.
Cole smiled. Yep. He was getting to her.
He considered going after her, but there was no rushing a woman that stubborn, and he could feel a migraine brewing, courtesy of the trailing ends of last night’s disaster with Butthead and compounded by the racket in this damn bar. If he escaped and took his medication right away, maybe he could still dodge the worst of the headache.
He turned and walked out, into blissful solitude and darkness—and hummed that Aaron Watson song all the way to his trailer.
Chapter 23
Shawnee snatched Hank’s beer out of his hand, took four big gulps, then let the air explode out of her lungs. Damn Cole! If she didn’t know better, she’d think he did this crap on purpose. So vulnerable one minute, the next looking at her with such single-minded intent she could sympathize with every deer she’d ever caught in her headlights.
One touch and she’d damn near melted into a puddle of stupidity right there at his feet. But if he thought all he had to do was crook a finger, he’d better think again.
She spun around to say so, expecting to find him on her heels, but he was nowhere in sight. Where the—
“He’s gone,” Analise said.
Shawnee stared at the spot where she’d left him. “Just like that?”
“Well, you did practically shove him out the door.”
No. She’d given him a little push. He’d chosen to leave. She’d told him he had the wrong woman and apparently he’d taken her at her word. Smart of him. Better for both of them. So why did she have this sick knot in her gut, as if she’d been ditched by her prom date?
“I can’t believe Mariah dragged him here, as much as he hates crowds.” Hank swiped the remainder of his beer out of Shawnee’s hand and frowned at Analise. “Don’t the lights and noise bother you?”
She shook her head. “My weirdness is all about numbers. And not all of it is bad. Nines are the worst and fives can be real whiners, but sevens are wind chimes. Twos are my favorite—they gurgle like a rocky creek. And time has shapes.” She smiled as she sketched them with her hands. “Tomorrows are bell curves, skinny at the beginning and end and fat in the middle. If you say July, I see a purple staircase with a step for each day. August is orange, and September is dark chocolate.” Her expression went dreamy as she walked her fingers into the air. “The year just keeps climbing and climbing—a color-coded stairway to heaven.”
Hank stared at her for a beat, then said, “They probably make a pill for that.”
Analise screwed up her face, offended. “It’s my superpower. Why would I want to make it go away? Speaking of which—” She made a shooing motion at him. “You promised us a round.”
Shawnee took the opportunity to fight her way to the bathroom. When she got back, Hank was just returning with the drinks—another beer for her and a Coke for Analise, who, Shawnee realized with a start, was not legal drinking age. The bouncers had probably been so busy staring at the spider crawling around on her face they hadn’t thought to check her ID. Pretty neat trick. Shawnee sort of wished she’d tried it back in college, except for the part about having needles shoved through her flesh.
Analise lifted her drink and waited for Shawnee and Hank to do the same. “To Butthead. May he finally be able to chill out and find some peace.”
Shawnee tapped her bottle to the others and drank without comment. They stood for the requisite moment of respectful silence, then for a few more that grew increasingly uncomfortable as the three of them found nothing else to say. Damn Cole all over again for taking off. For once, he would’ve fit in. Awkward was right up his alley.
Analise set her cup on the nearest table and grabbed Hank’s arm. “Come on. As long as you’re just standing around, you can teach me how to two-step so I can blend.”
“Blend. Hah!” But Hank set his beer aside and let himself be towed onto the dance floor. Also weird, now that Shawnee thought about it. Why wasn’t Hank with his usual gang of baby-faced bull riders, on the prowl for groupies? Shawnee definitely wasn’t the attraction here, despite his blatant appreciation of her assets. But Analise…
She watched as Hank guided Analise through the steps. He didn’t treat her like the other girls. Because he saw her only as a co-worker? Or realized Analise would call his bullshit? They looked good together—both slender and graceful. Maybe this was the beginning of a positive thing. Even though Analise was two years younger, she could be a stabilizing influence on Hank.
Talk about old souls. She’d probably audited the hospital bill for her own birth.
But they had left Shawnee cooling her heels, the only bridesmaid at the dance who didn’t bring a date. The contestants generally cleared out as soon as the performance ended, headed to the next competition. That left locals and tourists, none of whom Shawnee recognized. Time to make her own exit.
A hand tapped her shoulder. “Hey, gorgeous. I was hoping I’d find you here.”
“Brady!” Her smile as she turned was brighter than it might have been if she hadn’t been feeling so pathetic. “Excellent roping tonight.”
Her former partner—roping and otherwise—grinned back. “Thanks. We got lucky, drew the best steer in the pen.”
“And made it count. I thought you’d be halfway home to Bandera by now.”
He shook his head—tanned and wiry, with a long, narrow face, unfortunate ears, and deadly aim with rope. “We’re stopping in Victoria to deliver a horse tomorrow, so we stayed over. Plus, I wanted to see you.”
Her scuffed ego lifted its chin. Take that, Cole Jacobs.
“Could we go outside where we can have a conversation without screaming?” Brady’s smile was relaxed, not knitted together from the frayed ends of his nerves; his suggestion born from practicality, not a desperate need to escape. He was so totally…normal.
“Sure,” she said.
He took her hand and broke a trail through the mob. Unlike someone else’s she knew, his palm wasn’t clammy, and his fingers didn’t latch on to her wrist as if they were the sole humans in a crowd of newly turned vampires.
But those other fingers had also held her hair while she puked.
Not that Brady wouldn’t have done the same—assuming he would have recognized the warning signs and followed her to the trailer—but she would rather have suffered alone than let him see her that way. Normal people didn’t grasp how your brain could turn your body against you. Brady would have been kind, considerate—and totally freaked out.
They’d had a great thing for almost six months. Just over a year ago, he’d been offered a sweet job in upstate New York by an investment banker who had bailed out with his golden parachute right before the crash. With all that money to burn and time on his hands, he had decided to fulfill his fantasy of being a cowboy, and team roping was the most accessible of all the rodeo events. But a man like that didn’t go to a clinic with the riffraff. He hired top-caliber ropers to be his coaches.
Brady had texted a few times to say it was working out better than he’d expected. As the filthy rich went, his boss was a reasonable man and had become a true roping addict. And since he’d started too late in life to be a world champion himself, he’d set his sights on the next best thing—he would own the horses that world champions rode.
With the price of elite horses climbing over the six figure mark, it was becoming more common for big name cowboys and rich breeders to partner up. The cowboy got to ride a horse he couldn’t afford to buy. And when that cowboy won Houston or Fort Worth or hit it big at the National Finals, the owner got a cut of the money, invaluable exposure for his breeding program, and bragging rights. Gifted trainers like Brady got plum jobs, which included competing on the up-and-coming horses, preparing them for the big time.
In other words, he got paid to rope on the best prospects money could buy. Did it get any better?
As they passed the dance floor, Shawnee glanced over and caught Hank watching her over Analise’s shoulder. His gaze dropped to her hand clasped in Brady’s and his eyebrows shot up. Shawnee flipped him a middle finger, irritated less at him than the sharp fingernail of guilt that scratched at her conscience. No doubt Hank would run tattling to Cole as fast as his scrawny little legs could carry him.
Well, let him. Shawnee was a free agent. If she wanted to drag Brady back to her trailer and have her way with him, she damn well would. And if she didn’t want…well, that had nothing to do with Cole, either. So Brady’s touch didn’t strike the old sparks. He’d caught her by surprise, that’s all. And besides, she didn’t like to repeat herself.
The moment they cleared the crowd, he dropped her hand, but kept moving toward the picnic tables scattered across the lawn for those who ordered up the barbecued chicken with mac and cheese and potato salad also served at the beer garden. The kitchen had closed for the night, so only a few of the tables were occupied. Brady chose one in the shadow of a massive pecan tree. He made no move to touch her, circling around to sit facing her instead.
“So you’re the new Jacobs Livestock pickup girl.” He cocked his head, curious. “Do you like it?”
She gave a reluctant nod. “More than I expected.”
“From what I hear, you’re damned good. Is this a permanent career move?”
“No!” The denial came out too sharp, and she tried to soften it with a laugh. “I’ve made it to one roping in the past month. I’d go stir-crazy at that rate.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “How would you feel about coming to New York?”
She gaped at him. Was he serious? Yeah, they’d had fun. The sex was good and the roping was even better. But move halfway across the country to be with him? “And I would be your…”
“Assistant. Roping partner. Although other benefits are negotiable,” he added with a grin.
She floundered, trying to get a grip on what he was offering. “Are we talking about a job?”
“Yes.” Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes gleam. “The boss wants us to start giving private lessons. It’s a good way to sell the lower-end horses. I need someone who is a good teacher and can really rope feet.”
Shawnee made a skeptical noise. “This rich dude is gonna hire a girl?”
“Not just any girl. You. I showed him the TV footage of you and Cole roping that bull out on the midway and told him you’re a genius with horses. He’s sold. And that’s not all.” He bunched his fists and tapped them on the table, as if he could barely contain his excitement. “The First Frontier circuit has come a long way, but the northeast is not Texas. You and I are a good team, Shawnee. With the boss backing us, we could kick ass out there next year. Next stop—the National Circuit Finals.”
Her adrenal glands revved up and set her blood pounding. Her and Brady. Taking a run at the Circuit Finals. It was…not impossible.
The circuit system was one of more confusing aspects of professional rodeo to an outsider. Basically, the governing body had recognized that a lot of great cowboys were either unable or unwilling to travel full time and compete for the world titles. But those same cowboys were the lifeblood of the mid- to small-sized rodeos, so the association had sketched out fifteen geographical regions—the circuits. The money won at those rodeos by the cowboys who called that region home was tallied toward the circuit championship.
Then they’d created the National Circuit Finals, where the champs from all over the country gathered to compete for a lot of cash and a national title.
For the majority of states, this meant competing primarily against people who had real jobs and rodeoed when they could. But Texas bred and attracted so many elite cowboys, winning the Lone Star circuit was as tough as making the cut for the National Finals Rodeo. Shawnee had given it a shot fresh out of college…and learned the hard way that she wasn’t capable of competing head-to-head with the best men in the sport.
But the East Coast was a different matter. Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and New York combined didn’t turn out as many arena sharks as Stephenville, Texas, alone.
Brady reached across the table and squeezed her hand as if he could inject his confidence into her. “Imagine the publicity we could generate if you were the first woman to ever rope steers at the National Circuit Finals. And if we won—”
Her heart leapt at the thought—then splatted back to earth. “I promised Violet I’d finish out the season with Jacobs Livestock.”
“No problem.” Brady made a broad gesture. “I’ll be down here until after Labor Day, recruiting a few top ropers to haul our horses to the big shows next season. Then I’m going to spend some time with my family before I head back. We didn’t schedule any clinics or lessons until the middle of October. That gives you plenty of time…” His gaze narrowed o
n her face. “Unless you’re committed to more than just this job?”
It took her a beat to grasp what he meant. “Of course not! You know that isn’t my style.”
“Neither is Cole Jacobs.”
“If you’re talking about what I said in that interview—”
“More like what I just saw with my own eyes. He doesn’t look at you like a guy who wants your contract to be up in a month.” Brady flashed a quick grin. “That’s part of the reason we’re out here, where there are no witnesses. This might not be a real pretty face, but I’d prefer not to have it rearranged.”
“Pfftt! Cole wouldn’t punch anybody on my account.”
But she couldn’t help a glance over her shoulder, on the off chance that he was making his security rounds early. There was only a man and a woman strolling past, arms around each other’s waists as he nuzzled her neck and murmured something that made her giggle. He lifted his head and the light caught his face.
Shawnee made a noise—close to gagging—and the man glanced her direction. Ace paused a beat, then tugged the woman along with him as he sauntered over to their table. Shawnee’s dinner curdled in her stomach as he smiled, in full silver-tongued devil mode.
“Hey, sugar. Looks like you found a cure for the blues.” He winked at Brady and Shawnee stifled another gag. Ace gave the woman a squeeze. “This is Cordelia. Her ranch is one of the major sponsors for the rodeo.”
Naturally. And just as naturally, the donation had been made in honor of her dearly departed husband. The woman was the definition of Ace’s target market. Those boots would be hand-stitched, and all that chunky turquoise jewelry would be set in sterling silver. In this light, Cordelia could pass for fiftysomething, but Shawnee would bet she was closer to seventy—the age group ripest for the plucking.
“You know my daughter, right? The pickup woman?” Ace said, delivered with just the right touch of fatherly pride.
Cordelia’s smile brightened. “Of course! We’re all so impressed.”
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