by Kym Roberts
“Of course, of course. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.” A slick smile spread across Erik’s lips, the salesman in him ready lie his way through the interview for the sake of the rodeo and Dalton Hibbs. Only one deserved the support.
“And the world will be watching—is he ready for this round of bull riding?”
“Oh, yes. He’s been cleared by his doctor. He’s good to go.”
We all looked at Dalton who was mumbling incoherently. He wasn’t good for anything at the moment. I seriously doubted he’d be up for a ride on Joe’s mechanical bull in the back of the bar by the next day, let alone a real life eighteen-hundred-pound angry bovine.
“I heard you say he was taking pain medication—”
Scarlet winced and I wanted to box Peter Kroft’s ears. Did every reporter have supersonic hearing that allowed them to listen in on conversations through crowds, thunderstorms and earthquakes? How had he heard that particular bit of information?
“—is he really ready to go back on the circuit if he’s taking that much pain medicine?” Peter asked again.
“This is about exhaustion and dehydration. Not pain meds. You wait and see, Dalton will be as good as new in the morning,” Erik assured the reporter and all the fans behind the camera lens.
A black SUV with tinted windows drove up. A woman with long, flowing dark hair, who’s image I’d seen on Eric’s phone, rolled down the window. In her early thirties, she was an eye catcher. Cade’s glance stuck to her like jam on rye bread and my irritation rose. Not that I had any right, but still. Manners are manners and it seemed none of the men around us had any.
“Load him up. I can take him back to his hotel. I’ve got the medics on standby,” she told Erik as the camera turned and focused on her face.
Cade stepped up and pulled Dalton upright while the cowboy’s head lolled back and forth. He slung Dalton’s arm over his shoulder and stood him up straight, the taut strain in Cade’s arms the only hint that Dalton wasn’t helping in the least. For the camera, it appeared as if Dalton was just being assisted by Cade, not carried. I opened the back door and Scarlet and Joe loaded him into the back of the SUV. Before Erik hopped in the front seat, Joe grabbed his arm.
I was the only one close enough to hear the warning, but the message he delivered was loud and clear. “I’m not going to tell you again—no more smoking in my bar.”
Erik dismissed the warning as if it was something frivolous, and closed the front passenger door. But I knew Joe. That man didn’t get in anyone’s face with a warning like that unless he meant business.
Before I could ask him what that was about, Scarlet asked, “Are you sure he’s going to be okay?”
Erik smiled at her through the open window. “We’re pretty adept at taking care of minor medical issues for the cowboys.”
“Scar-let!” Dalton yelled. “Scar-let!” He sounded awful and desperate. A lot like Rocky Balboa calling to his wife, only Scarlet’s name had two syllables, not three.
The camera zoomed in on my best friend, capturing a tear sliding down her cheek. I immediately grabbed her and turned her toward home as the SUV took off. It was time Scarlet and I had a heart-to-heart—chased with a half-gallon of Blue Bell ice cream.
Chapter Three
I barely got the kids out of The Barn and the glue and clippings cleaned up the next morning before I had to open the doors for the PR event we were sponsoring for the rodeo. The media began pouring in the front doors of The Book Barn Princess like flies to manure—elephant manure. My family’s bookstore had been my mother’s dream. After she died, my dad carried on for me, to give me a place to remember her. Plus, we lived in the apartment at the back of The Barn. My dad had since bought a house in town, and now I lived in the apartment with Princess.
“What is that?” Peter Kroft was staring down at the armadillo as if she’d be better off stuffed.
“That’s Princess, our pet.” I probably sounded a little angry; it might have had something to do with my hair still being in a kink from his intrusion last night. I could still see spots from that news camera.
“Pet? You have a pet armadillo?” Peter scooted around Princess, who sat with her front legs in the air and her nose twitching at the scent of fruit on the counter behind Peter. She loved strawberries.
“I do.”
“Don’t they carry diseases?” asked a female reporter I had yet to meet. I glanced at her press pass and read her name, Liza Twaine.
Sensing my short fuse, my daddy stepped up and put them all at ease with his slow talking Southern charm. “They are known to carry leprosy. But Princess has been cleared by the vet. She’s disease free.” It seemed he was always correcting people who thought armadillos carried the plague, Ebola, or the Black Death. Not that leprosy was any better, but he had her tested regularly since armadillos are more susceptible to the disease because of their low body temperature.
Liza turned and smiled at my dad. At fifty-seven Bobby Ray Warren was a littler grayer and a little leaner than what he used to be, but still quite the catch.
“What’s that smell?” asked the squat male reporter next to Liza and her camerawoman, who turned out to be Aubrey Buchanan, a young teenager who’d just graduated from high school and had worked at our store a few months ago.
I wasn’t about to tell them Princess probably needed a bath. I was pretty sure Dad was just acting like he didn’t hear the reporter, who I finally recognized as Oscar Sanchez from a Dallas news station. Aubrey bent down, her blond curls dropping across the freckles on her nose as she scratched Princess behind the ears.
“It’s nice to see our local talent getting an internship for the summer. Channel seven?” I asked.
Aubrey smiled, showing off her gleaming braces with fresh rubber bands in a shade of pink. “Yes, ma’am. Ms. Twaine has offered to take me on and show me the ropes.”
“Congratulations, Aubrey.” I put on my best host grin and addressed all the reporters. “You can set up your cameras in the loft in preparation for the news conference,” I said. “There’s plenty of room.”
I’d prepared tables with name cards for all the bull riders coming to the event immediately after the kids left. I’d thought about conveniently leaving Dalton Hibbs’s name off the table—make him stand with the reporters while the other bull riders sat. But my dad gave me that look of a father scolding his ten-year-old, and I’d placed Dalton in the middle of the table, where the top-seeded star should be seated. Right next to his rival, Travis Sinclair. Dalton was only 170 points ahead of Travis on the season’s scoreboard, and the two were bound and determined to beat each other.
Peter had introduced his cameraman from the previous night as Aiden something or other, but the man had already gotten under my skin so I didn’t pay much attention to him. He was currently set up in a prime location directly in front of the table. Liza Twaine, who was wearing a purple outfit with purple glasses and purple pumps, strutted up and took the place to Peter’s left, crowding him as she turned her back and staked a spot for her crew. She was pretty in a studious, librarian sort of way, but would probably blend into the background if it wasn’t for her boldly colored outfit. It screamed “pay attention to me!” The exact opposite of Aubrey’s conservative white blouse and khaki pants. Oscar, who seemed completely taken with Liza, set up his own camera on her left even though he could have had a better camera angle elsewhere.
Other reporters filled the back of the room, while a couple photographers lay down on the floor in front of Peter and Liza, neither of whom seemed to care for the intrusion. Why anyone would want footage looking up the noses of the cowboys was beyond my comprehension.
The chatter among the reporters died down at the roar of diesel engines coming from in front of the store. The cowboys had arrived in what sounded like a stampede of pickups. Everyone turned to look out the windows at the dust storm rising outside the barn. I cringed, knowing all the dust would get sucked inside when they headed
in the front doors.
And sure as shootin’, in came the dust and the cowboys with their swagger and swoon. Most were average height with long lean muscles except for the oversized biceps supporting their riding hand. A few, like Dalton and Travis, were over six foot, making their female fans sigh and the competition write them off before the cowboys were ready to ride into the sunset. This year they were both at the top of the leader board and enjoying every minute.
The bull riders sported every shade of brown, black, and white cowboy hats as they ascended the stairs to the loft. Their boots were scuffing, their big belt buckles were shining, and their moods were high spirited. Every single one of them looked ready to steal the show. However, every single camera was scanning for just one face, a face that didn’t appear among them.
I couldn’t help it; my smile grew. Dalton Hibbs was absent. Whether it was due to his embarrassment over his obnoxious behavior, or from his inability to drag his sorry butt out of bed, I didn’t much care. He wasn’t in my barn, and that’s all that mattered.
Everyone took their marked seats, some choosing their own spot and tossing the name placards across the table. Travis sat in the middle. His blond hair was barely visible under the off-white silverbelly felt Stetson sitting low on his head. That hat cost more than The Barn made in a week, maybe two.
Peter was the first reporter to ask what everyone else was wondering. “Where’s Dalton?”
A few cowboys shrugged. Dad acted like he didn’t hear, leaving me to answer.
“I—I—” I looked around for Erik Piper, who apparently was also running late.
It was Travis who took the bull by the horns. “If you can’t run with the big dogs, you need to stay on the porch. I guess Dalton’s just starting to feel the pressure and can’t hang.”
The reporters laughed and a few cowboys snickered. A few others clearly didn’t care much for the jab at all. I wasn’t sure where I fit in.
“Why don’t we go ahead and get started,” I said. “Mr. Hibbs can join us when he gets here.”
“Do you think you can pull ahead of Hibbs at The Cowboy Ranch Invitational, Travis?” Liza asked.
Travis leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long, muscular arms. “There’s only one rooster in the coop at this invitational, and it ain’t named Dalton.”
Liza smiled, eating up the rivalry between the two lead competitors.
“No, it’s Dusty,” said the cowboy on the end, pointing to his paper name badge. His name fit his young age: Dusty Lamb.
“In your dreams young ’un. The hens will be celebrating my victory,” Sly Alexander added from the other end of the table.
“Y’all are a bunch of hens.”
I wasn’t sure which cowboy said it, but it resulted in some brotherly pushing behind the table.
The reporters loved the banter between the twelve men seated in front of them. But all the cockiness you would expect from the top twelve bull riders in the nation, didn’t squelch the effect of that one empty seat. I should have followed my instincts and left Dalton’s card off the table.
Liza and Aubrey kept gazing at their watches and then down at the front door. When the door did open, it wasn’t Dalton, but Cade and Mateo who strolled in. Our town’s mayor and sheriff lead the way for the circuit’s promoter, Erik Piper, and Taylor, the woman who’d driven off in the SUV last night with a drunken Dalton in the backseat.
“He’s always been a bum.” Erik’s voice carried up through the rafters. But it was the disdain in Taylor’s reply that affected the riders the most.
“Good riddance. After a stunt like last night, that snot-nosed punk is turning out to be no better than his brother. We should have known better.”
The cowboys froze. Even Travis hesitated to take a drink, his bottle of water resting on his lips. Everyone turned toward the scene below. I was the only one to see the sly grin start and stop before it completely formed on Travis’s face. His gaze met mine as he took a long, slow drink as if he could hide his glee. He winked and set his bottle back down on the table.
The reporters and cameras, however, missed his show of roguishness as they turned their focus toward the more interesting scene below. A few of the reporters sitting on the floor scooted toward the railing, capturing the thin line Cade’s mouth had formed, his disgust evident to all. And as I looked down the steps toward the newcomers, it was only Mateo who seemed unfazed by Taylor’s comment. He wore his ever-present sexy expression, which gave nothing away.
Erik looked up and began shushing his partner with the big mouth, who shrugged it off as if the public had a right to know the truth about their star bull rider. Maybe they did.
But then sometimes the truth was hidden beneath a pile of lies so deep, even the rats couldn’t find it. If I was to wager, I’d bet there were a few in The Barn who wanted to make sure the truth was buried good and deep, even if they had to help dig the hole.
Chapter Four
“What do you mean he didn’t make it to the press conference? He loves press conferences!” Scarlet’s voice rose in what could only be described as near panic.
I grabbed her arm and ushered her behind the pink velvet curtain and into the backroom before any of the reporters turned their cameras away from our collection of book art and decided to make the lead artist’s love life part of their story.
“Erik said that Dalton threw a fit last night and they ended up having to stop the car. Dalton was hell-bent on returning to your place to apologize, but Erik and his partner, Taylor—she’s the woman out there with Cade right now—refused to take him because they thought it would end up on the news.” I had no doubt that was a wise decision.
“But Dalton never showed up at my place.”
“According to Mateo, a cab dropped him off at Beaus and Beauties around twelve-thirty.”
“That’s impossible. I was home!” Scarlet was a talker, but I’d never seen her so riled up before. The emotions flashing through her eyes scared me. She shouldn’t have been this caught up over a man she barely knew. She’d mussed her perfectly coifed Grace Kelly up-do that she wore so well. As the owner of Beaus and Beauties Hair Salon, Scarlet was the most talented hairdresser I’d ever known. She’d rescued my curls on numerous occasions. But today, her normally perfect hair looked bedroom messy, like she’d just met Dalton for a rendezvous in the backroom of The Barn, instead of me.
I tried to deliver the blow gently. “The driver saw him head through the alley toward your trailer.”
“He never knocked!”
“Are you sure you just didn’t sleep through it?”
“I wasn’t asleep, I…” She turned away without saying she’d been too upset.
But I knew she had been. I’d walked her home before heading toward The Barn. The entire walk she’d made excuse after excuse for the cowboy’s behavior: I didn’t know he was taking painkillers. I bought him his drinks. He wouldn’t have drunk anything but water if I hadn’t pushed those beers on him. This is all my fault. Now the media will use this against him. He’s never acted like this before.
By the time we’d reached the refurbished Airstream trailer she lived in behind her beauty shop, I was ready to yank my hair out. Dalton should have been buying her drinks, not the other way around. The man made over six figures this year alone. But Scarlet had confided that she treated Dalton because he’d spent so much money on her artwork and she’d felt it was only appropriate.
Now she was going to blame herself for Dalton’s disappearance as well.
“Last night was not your fault, and this morning isn’t your fault. Dalton Hibbs is a grown man.”
“I’m well aware of that, but—” Scarlet’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears and I put my arm around her shoulder, knowing that a full-fledged hug would open the floodgates. And that was the last thing she needed.
“No buts. Dalton has brought all of this on himself. His mistakes, his cross to bear.”
“But
what if something’s happened to him?” One tear spilled over and I grabbed a Kleenex from the shelf, refusing to allow it to become two.
“From what Erik and Taylor told me about his past, Dalton has a history of giving the media the slip before the preliminary rounds and then making an entrance at the last minute.”
“What?”
“It’s a media stunt,” I explained.
“Dalton wouldn’t do that.”
“He’s done it twice before. Once already this season.”
“Once or twice does not make a history.” Her fingers rose to emphasize “a history” with air quotes. “I’m telling you, Dalton wouldn’t miss a media event. He loves them.”
But I couldn’t let her put her head in the sand. “Apparently, he loves it more when they speculate as to where he’s been.”
“I don’t think Dalton would ever do that,” she argued.
“Scarlet, you’ve only known the man a couple days.”
I waited for her to agree, then tell me she’d known his brother years earlier. Had even been questioned about his disappearance and that’s why she was freaking out now. Instead, she began to chew on her lower lip, and the woman who could chat my ear off ’til the sun didn’t shine, said nothing. She dried her tears and after a long period of silence, she finally talked. “We need to go talk up our art so we can raise more money for The Cowboy Ranch.”
My pride and my heart felt like they’d been poked with a cattle prod. Scarlet wasn’t going to confide in me like I would have confided in her, and our solid friendship seemed a little less stable.
Instead, she headed for the curtain. She stopped in front of the mirror just inside the doorway, straightened her hair, smoothed out her sage green midi pencil skirt, and adjusted her white silk wrap-over halter. She had pearls at her neck and wrist that she twisted to make sure they were laying perfectly against her body. Which they were, as usual. But I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Scarlet had put extra time into her appearance this morning for Dalton—a two-time loser in my book. Except my book apparently didn’t count.