by Kym Roberts
“I’m glad to see your dad hasn’t rehung the sign yet. I’d hate for your mom to give me stitches.”
“You don’t honestly believe my mom’s spirit rules that sign, do you?”
Mateo raised his left brow, his eyes dancing with mischief. My mom would have loved him.
“Let’s just say I’m not a gambling man.”
“Some would say you’re taking a gamble just being with me.”
“Risking life and limb is different. I do that for a living. But I aim to make nice with the mommas of the women I pursue.”
“Does that mean you’re pursuing me?” I asked as we climbed the steps to my apartment.
Mateo waited for me to dig my keys out of my purse and I opened the door. “That means I’m interested, but I’m also a patient man.” He turned and kissed my forehead. “Good night, Charli.”
“You’re the only one who doesn’t slip and call me Princess. Why?” I asked.
“That’s because I’m interested in the woman in front of me. Not the girl who grew up in Hazel Rock.”
“Oh.”
Mateo bent down and kissed my forehead again. “Good night, Charli.” Before I could say a word, he headed down the steps.
“Be ready at 7 AM,” he called over his shoulder.
“For what?”
“You’ve got self-defense classes in The Barn.”
“I didn’t hire anyone. Besides I told you, I can’t afford lessons.”
“For you, they’re free.”
“Who’s teaching me?” I asked.
He turned and grinned at me right before he disappeared around the corner of the bookstore. “Me,” he said, and was gone.
I sighed. One of those soft, pleasant sounds women make when a man does something that turns their brain to mush and their heart to Jell-O. A squeak at the bottom of the steps drew me out of my haze.
I looked down to see Princess. “Good evening, Princess. I hope you were a good girl while I was gone.”
Princess twitched. And when I say “twitched,” I mean she smiled, just like a dog or a cat smiled at its owner. Her nose wiggled. Her eyes glistened, and the corners of her mouth turned upward right before her entire body waggled and started hopping in my direction. I waited and scratched her ears as she did figure eights around my ankles.
“Come on girl. You need another bath.”
We went inside together and after her bath, we headed for the bedroom. I opened the balcony doors and let the breeze blow in while I watched the stars twinkle from my bed. It was the same thing I’d done as a kid, listening to the sounds of frogs looking for a mate on the river’s edge as crickets serenaded theirs. The water lapped softly against the rocks as I drifted off to sleep.
Luckily no zombies visited my dreams or disturbed my slumber until the alarm clocked buzzed at six-thirty.
I may have been a kindergarten teacher, but mornings were never my thing. I dragged myself out of bed and headed for the shower. After a quick rinse, I dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a tank top. Then I brushed my teeth and put my hair in a ponytail before slipping into my tennis shoes.
Princess was still in her bed, fast asleep. I’d say she was sawing logs, but it was more like fingernails scratching against a chalkboard. I didn’t bother going outside; instead, I made my way through the secret door in the front bedroom. I used it on my lazy days or days when someone wanted me to wake up with the rising sun.
I went downstairs to find Mateo waiting for me at the front door.
“You’re early,” I said.
“You’re late,” he replied.
His dark, almost onyx, hair was damp at the edges and his jaw was unshaven. I think it was the first time I’d seen him with heavy stubble. He was once again wearing basketball shorts, but today he had on a white T-shirt with sleeves that read Los Bravos Muertos on the front with a scary-looking skull.
“It’s a band if you’re wondering. I don’t have a death wish.”
“Good to know. Can you tell me what that is in your hand?”
Mateo held up a Styrofoam bat. “This?” He smirked. “This is my weapon.”
“And just exactly what do you plan to do with that weapon?”
“Beat you.”
“You really think so?”
Mateo chucked me under the chin like I was a little girl and walked past me.
“Before we get started, I need some caffeine. Would you like a glass of tea?”
He shook his head. “Water. A wedge of lemon would be nice.”
“Do you ever indulge in anything else?”
“Overtime makes me turn to black coffee.” He said it like he was admitting he hoarded chocolate in his closet.
“Ooooh! The horrors!”
I got our drinks and put them in to-go cups. We ascended into the loft and Mateo asked me to help rearrange the furniture to give us a large open area to work. For the next hour and a half, I learned high blocks and low blocks and middle range blocks. From the left, the right and straight on. It was an exercise in reaction time, and my reactions were pretty dadgum slow. By the time we finished, my arms felt like they had road rash from that stupid Styrofoam bat.
As we made our way back downstairs, I was pretty sure I was the only one who’d worked up a sweat. We went into the tearoom and I made us another round of drinks and then got out the leftover muffins from the media panel we’d hosted for The Cowboy Ranch. Mateo settled for a bran muffin that looked as good as cardboard and I chose a cranberry strudel with vanilla icing drizzled over the top. It was heaven.
We sat down at the table and began talking about nothing of importance. Then out of the clear blue Mateo asked, “When were you going to tell me about the pictures?”
I stopped, mouth full of muffin. “Pictures?” I mumbled over the crumbs tickling my throat that made it almost impossible not to choke.
Mateo sighed. “Did you really think we wouldn't be able to see that you had e-mailed some photos from Dalton’s iPad to your email account?”
I chewed the bite in my mouth, the heavenly taste gone, replaced by dry, gritty sawdust. It went down just about as easily, scraping and tearing at my throat. “No. I just didn’t expect you to find out so soon.” I gulped some sweet tea to get through the next few moments.
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know, I just didn’t.”
“So tell me what you planned on doing with them?” He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. His legs stretched out in front of him and brushed mine.
“If you’ll remember, I didn’t have the iPad long enough to do anything with it when I was with you and Scarlet.”
Mateo’s gaze was unwavering as he waited for me to continue.
“I did it before we found his body, while Scarlet was in the bathroom and getting her shoes.”
“So Scarlet doesn’t know you did this?”
I shook my head, a guilty smile forming on my face.
“What were you going to do with them?” he pressed.
“I was going to find out who he was cheating on Scarlet with and catch him in the act.”
His leg brushed my own. I was pretty sure he did it on purpose. But not entirely.
“Did you really think she’d listen to you when you delivered the news that Dalton was seeing other women?”
“I don’t know. I just couldn’t stand by and let her get her heart trampled on.”
His leg brushed mine again. That was definitely on purpose. I returned the favor—loving the way his leg hair tickled my calf.
“In my experience, only the owner of a heart can protect it from getting broken.”
“You’ve had experience with a broken heart?” I suddenly realized there was a whole lot I didn’t know about Mateo. But his eyes gave nothing away and he certainly wasn’t going to divulge any more personal information. He was waiting for me to capitulate. “You’re right. I just couldn’t stand idly by, and watch her get hurt
.”
“I need you to promise you won’t try to interview the riders about Dalton,” he said over the top of his water glass.
“But—”
Mateo put his glass down, his mood serious, giving me no options but to listen. Especially since his leg was now applying steady pressure to mine. “No buts, Charli.”
I blew out an exasperated breath. “Fine.”
“I need you to promise.”
I blinked. “You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t think you trust yourself.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Then promise me and put my mind at ease so I don’t have to worry about you being a victim.”
“Okay, I won’t interview them,” I promised.
“Thank you. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
The sound of my teeth grinding told him otherwise. What Mateo didn’t realize, was that I hadn’t promised I wouldn’t interview any paramours, promoters, or stock contractors. I knew I was pushing the envelope on trustworthiness, but I didn’t care. First, and foremost, was Scarlet—even though I knew it would damage any chance of Mateo rubbing against more than just my calf.
I was prepared to do whatever it took to clear Scarlet’s good name.
Chapter Sixteen
Mateo taught me several methods of strikes that wouldn’t leave me with a broken hand, but would stun an attacker long enough for me to escape. Pressure points turned out to be a very effective way to release some of my frustration while not really hurting Mateo. Much.
He left and came back forty-five minutes later in uniform. He gave me a ride to the rodeo and we found my dad’s truck still parked on the street where I’d left it. I decided to leave it parked in the same location so I could make a quick getaway after I did my volunteer shift at the ticket window that afternoon. Mateo left with a warning for me to keep my promise.
I planned to—I would not question any of the riders. Today, at least.
As he drove away, I waved and headed toward the stables behind the ranch. I still had several hours before I had to work, and I figured the best place to get information was from the cattle hands and stock contractors who owned the bulls. They traveled with these riders on tour and knew exactly who was doing what.
The Cowboy Ranch itself was about a four thousand square foot house that had been converted into a nursing home for old, and/or injured cowboys from the circuit. They were a staple in our community and kind of a treasured mascot for Hazel Rock and Oak Grove, since the ranch was located in-between the two towns. The house had been converted from an old dude ranch to the nursing home back in the mid-nineties when bull riders didn’t have the potential to make as much money as they did today. And although the pay could reach into the millions now, only the select few riders at the top of the leader board ever attained it. Everyone one else struggled to make ends meet and worked multiple jobs. Teams had started to form in the past few years and sponsorships were starting to come into play.
Behind the ranch, an indoor arena had been built by none other than the Calloway family. Cade’s family was the source of most of the money in the community. It always had been, and I suspected it always would be. They’d gone all out on the arena, making it handicap accessible and handicap friendly for those who had suffered life-altering injuries. It seated up to a thousand people, but most of those seats were only filled once a year at The Cowboy Ranch Invitational.
As a volunteer for the ticket booth, I had a pass to access the arena and the barn. The residence, was off-limits to everyone except those with special invitations. I made my way around the outside of the arena and watched some of the clowns entertaining the early birds. I nodded to a few of the riders I recognized from the press conference and ducked out of the way behind some rodeo tack when I saw Taylor walking by with a heavy-set man in a western suit too small for his belly. He had a cigar hanging out of his mouth and the cloying scent nearly made my breakfast muffin rise from the deep recesses of my stomach.
I pretended to be working on a saddle as they passed, and listened to what I could.
“There’s too much money at stake to risk it.” The man’s words sounded wet as he spoke through lips that were way too big for his face. Taylor’s mouth pulled back in a grimace, and I had no doubt the man had just given Taylor a nasty shower of spit.
“Everything will be fine. Erik’s in Austin handling it now. There’s nothing to worry about,” she replied.
The last thing I heard as they exited the arena was the man telling Taylor she had better hope everything went well.
I let go of the strap on the saddle, hoping I hadn’t messed anything up for the owner and walked down to the bull pens. The bull riding event wasn’t scheduled to start until noon, so the stalls were pretty quiet. The sixty-some animals had already received the required ten to fifteen pounds of protein-heavy grain and were quietly milling around their stalls. Quiet, for that many eighteen hundred-pound bulls that wanted sex when no cows could be found however, wasn’t exactly like visiting a library. Especially since they were housed next to a bunch of other males in the same situation.
I headed down the aisle, toward the back of the barn where the cowhands were known to congregate, but as I turned the corner a bull kicked the stall. He huffed and snorted and then bellowed. I jumped back and the pen door was flung open as two men emerged from the stall. To say I was alarmed would be an understatement. I knew exactly how mean those bulls could be and I expected an angry animal to come racing out after them.
But instead of a beast chasing us down the middle of the barn, I faced a cowboy I didn’t know, along with a skinny young man who had to be the traveling vet tech by the look of his white lab coat and name tag that’d been washed too many times to read. The cowboy cussed as he slammed the pen closed and latched the door.
“He’ll never make the buzzer.”
They stopped when they saw me and there was a moment of silence. Kind of like we were all saying, “Oh, shoot.” Yet I wasn’t sure why I’d be saying it, except from the looks on their faces.
“Ah, hi. Is everything okay?” I asked, not sure if that was the right thing to say or not.
“Who are you? This is a restricted area,” the cowboy demanded.
I never take well to demands. Especially the rude kind. I picked up the ID pass hanging on my neck and waved it in his direction. “Authorized,” I said, with probably too much sass.
“Then mind your own business.” He grabbed the skinny vet, who was clutching a medical briefcase and a red plastic trash bag that reminded me of biohazard bags in a doctor’s office—it was so thick, I couldn’t make out the contents. The tech looked over his shoulder as they walked off. His eyes were wide, his demeanor far from comfortable around the bulls…and me. A peek into the stall they’d exited yielded nothing. It was completely empty. The bull next to it, however, seemed agitated. I looked at his name plate on the stall.
Twister Mister
The Starlight Corral
Pierce Brown
Unsure of what I had just interrupted, I headed toward the back of the barn as I’d originally intended.
Forty-five minutes later, I emerged with the knowledge that the ranch hands had respected Dalton and didn’t have one bad word to say about him. I chalked that up to a strong male bond, I wasn’t about to crack. That, and their unwillingness to speak poorly of the dead. I did notice, that a few of them sported black eyes, busted lips, and one actually had a crooked nose. It looked like it hurt like the devil and when he talked he sounded like he was trying to communicate through layers of cotton.
On my way back down the rows of bulls, I heard a squeal and a groan of distress from the stall belonging to Twister Mister. I peered inside, but couldn’t see the animal. I heard another pathetic, guttural moan and felt the agony it was going through. It was one of those sounds that tugged at every thread of humanity in your body. To move on would be the mark of a cold, heartless person.
Unable to just leave and mind my own business, I called out to see if anyone else was around.
“Hello?”
No answer.
“Hello? There seems to be something wrong with this bull.”
The only sound that met me was the distressed groan of the eighteen hundred-pound animal that had a reputation of challenging the devil.
“Fuzz buckets.” I looked around for a stool but didn’t see any. Not willing to open the stall and meet the bull face to face, I climbed up the front of the door and hung on for dear life. I peered over the top and was surprised to find the bull lying down on its side.
“I’ll bring help. I promise,” I told the beast.
I was about to jump down when I felt hands against my ankles. I started to look back, expecting to see Mateo or some equally irritated male, who thought I was butting in where I didn’t belong. Except I didn’t have time for anything, but a gasp. My feet were suddenly lifted airborne; away from the railing, and shoved up over my head. I grabbed at the top board of the stall as my body leaned over the top rail in the balancing act of my life.
“Stop!” I yelled. “This isn’t funny!”
The bull’s eyes shot wide open below me. If I’d thought the animal was dying, I’d been mistaken. Lethargic, or lying on its death bed, obviously wasn’t in the animal’s vocabulary—especially when he made eye contact. It was the scariest look any creature had ever given me. I felt like I was viewing my death through his vantage point—possibly quick, but extremely painful. A second shove caused my body to teeter at the top of the gate, and then go completely over the edge, sending my feet over faster than my head.
“Ahhh!” I yelled as my head nearly slammed into the steel and wood fencing. Grasping at life with all my strength, I somehow hung on to the top of the stall. Shoulders straining, I faced the bull as my feet flung toward the ground. Pain radiated through my hands as something struck my fingers from the other side and caused my grip to fail. I tried to maintain my balance, land on my feet as the bull struggled to get up, but I couldn’t. The momentum was too powerful and I slammed to the pen floor on my hands and knees. I’d literally flipped into the stall; flying eight feet over to the floor with so much force, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t damaged my hands or my knees. The scent of manure and urine broke through my panic about the same time the bull snorted—hot, putrid air filled with spittle and foam blasted across my body. I didn’t have time to think, or worry, or do anything but look up into the bloodshot eyes of Twisted Mister, a white bovine with black speckles that made him look like chocolate chip ice cream. The look on his face, however, told me I was the one who looked like dessert, not him.