Reckless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  “You! Down!”

  “Why?” He cast a deliberate gaze around the yard. “Nobody here but us and the birds.”

  “Until you lay a hand on me. Then a troop of girl scouts will march through here on a bird-watching expedition. With cameras. That’s just my luck.” She scuttled out of reach, shaking her finger when he scooted after her. “Uh-uh-uh. No touching. We’re both covered in sweat and arena dirt and I smell like a horse.”

  He grinned. “My next favorite perfume after oranges and strawberries.”

  “Lord, you are shameless.” Violet sputtered a laugh. “But unless you’ve got a condom tucked in your shoe, we’re out of luck, so don’t even start.”

  “Afraid you can’t control yourself?”

  “Yep.” She scrambled to her feet, her hand extended to ward him off. “You just stand back and keep your hands where I can see them, hombre.”

  He laughed, then sprang to his feet with an ease that made Violet feel like a gravity-challenged hippo. She kept a full arm’s length between them as they walked around the side of the house and out front to her car. Owning her womanhood would have to wait until she’d had a shower. And a door with a deadbolt.

  When she opened the car door, Joe propped his hands on the frame and looked at her over the top, his expression grave. “What I did today…your dad was right. That stuff doesn’t belong in the arena. It won’t happen again.”

  Again his sincerity unbalanced her. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “And I’ll watch myself around Beni. I’ve had the pleasure of watching my mother date. I won’t inflict that on a kid.”

  “I appreciate it.” Her head bobbed as if it was on a string.

  “My pleasure.” His voice had that deep, suggestive rumble again. The one that made certain parts of her body hum in anticipation.

  She climbed into the car, squeezing her thighs tight against the ache. He shut the door behind her.

  “So does this mean we’re going steady?” she joked.

  “I guess it does, for as long as I’m here.” He smiled, a warm, wide-open smile that knocked her senseless. He braced both hands on the open driver’s window, his gaze taking liberties with her body before returning to her face. “How in the hell does Delon stay at his own end of the house?”

  “He, um, isn’t attracted to me that way.”

  Joe leaned in until they were nose to nose, eye to eye. “Delon is an idiot.”

  He kissed her, his mouth quick and hungry. Before she could react, he danced out of reach like a kid playing tag, both palms in the air.

  “No hands,” he said, and tossed her one last triumphant grin before bounding off down the driveway.

  Violet sat frozen behind the wheel, her system in utter chaos as she watched those effortless, gravity-defying strides carry him away. Hoo-boy. This was gonna get interesting.

  Chapter 19

  Halfway through breakfast on Thursday morning, Joe got up to help himself to more coffee. “Anybody else?” he asked.

  Cole waved his mug. As Joe did the honors, he realized he no longer felt like a guest in their kitchen. In less than a week, they’d converted him. Made him, if not part of the family, at least a temporary part of their whole. He suddenly had a bizarre urge to drop the coffee pot and run, as if an invisible trap was closing around him. But there was only Iris’s homey kitchen, with the long wooden trestle table and a flowering plant on every windowsill. Steve, engrossed in the weekly newspaper, and Iris, scribbling out a grocery list. Normal family stuff. Maybe that explained the weird twinge of panic. He was totally out of his element.

  He poured the coffee and took what had already become his designated seat at the table. Violet didn’t make an appearance, which was also standard procedure. He was beginning to suspect she wasn’t a morning person. Joe, on the other hand, had popped out of bed before dawn and considered wandering over to see what she wore for pajamas. He went for a run instead. Steve Jacobs had temporarily stopped looking at him like he had degenerate tattooed on his forehead. He should try to keep it that way.

  Joe kept his head down, letting Iris’s chatter and the men’s grunted replies wash past him while he plowed through four pieces of golden French toast with crisp hash browns and fluffy scrambled eggs on the side. Even the coffee was perfect. At this rate, he’d be packing a spare tire back to the High Lonesome. Helen’s food was amazing, but Iris Jacobs gave her a run for her money.

  Cole speared another piece of French toast, centered it on his plate, and buttered it precisely, edge to edge. Then he cut it into sixteen equal squares and drizzled it with syrup in four parallel lines, exactly like every previous slice, the steps as precise as if they were programmed into his brain. “I’m gonna check the south fence this morning and find where those cows crawled out.”

  “Need help?” Joe asked. Even fixing fence was better than another day of twiddling his thumbs. And thinking.

  Cole took his time considering the offer, no doubt weighing the benefit of an extra pair of hands against having to tolerate the presence of another human being. “If you want.”

  Joe didn’t particularly. He’d strung miles of barbed wire in his lifetime and always came away looking like he’d wrestled a porcupine. “Might as well make myself useful. Mind if I make a phone call first?”

  “It’ll take me a few minutes to pack some snacks,” Iris said, pulling out a full-sized cooler. “I’ll leave cold cuts in the refrigerator for lunch. We’ll be gone over to Childress until this evening.”

  And God forbid anybody went more than an hour without sustenance.

  Joe excused himself and pulled out his phone as he made a beeline to the bunkhouse. He was about to make a very Wyatt kind of move. Interfering where he hadn’t been invited felt wrong, but also right. He couldn’t help Violet reach her goals for Jacobs Livestock if they weren’t willing to make the necessary sacrifices, but he could give one small dream a nudge toward reality. Joe understood dreams. He ached with them. The things he could do if Dick would give him a tiny bit of rein…

  Besides, he hated to see a truly great bull fail to get his due, and that was something Joe might be able to fix. Dirt Eater deserved to buck at the National Finals. Joe knew the person who selected the bulls that would be invited to perform there. Why not put a bug in Vince Grant’s ear? It wouldn’t cost more than a few minutes of Joe’s time, and if anything, he was doing Vince a favor. After all, he wanted the absolute best.

  “Son of a bitch,” Vince declared by way of greeting. “Joe Cassidy. Didn’t figure on hearing from you in a while.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Rumor is you’re not really in Texas. Some folks figure you had to be on something to punch Lyle Browning, and Wyatt packed you off to rehab.”

  “Rehab?” Joe echoed in disbelief. For Christ’s sake, he hadn’t even laid on a good drunk in over a year. “What for?”

  “Pain meds. Everybody assumes you bullfighters live on ’em.”

  “Not lately,” Joe said, fighting the urge to snarl. “I really am in Texas, and there’s a bull down here you need to look at.”

  “Yeah? Who’s got him?”

  “Jacobs Livestock. Bull named Dirt Eater.”

  Vince took a minute to search the database inside his head. Far as Joe could tell, he recalled every bull he’d ever seen. “I’ve heard of him, but it’s hard to bring a bull to the Finals when none of the top guys have ever been on him. You think he’s really as good as they say?”

  “Yes.”

  “The money pen?” Which meant the bunch of bulls that were smooth spinners, the kind cowboys could ride for big points.

  “The eliminators.” The fifteen baddest asses of all the bulls in the country.

  “No kidding? Then I better put him on my short list.”

  Joe missed a step and stumbled over the threshold into the bunkhouse. “You’re just gonna
take my word for it?”

  “Ain’t nobody in the country knows bucking bulls better. Lord knows you see ’em all, right up close.” Vince paused, and his voice dropped a key. “Listen, Joe, what happened in Puyallup was pure bullshit. I have no idea what’s going on in your head, but you should know there are at least half a dozen contractors hoping they’ve got a shot at stealing you from Dick now.”

  “I…you mean as a bullfighter?”

  “No. As a stock man. You gotta stop underestimating yourself. Dick’s up shit creek if you walk. He can wheel and deal, but he has lousy instincts when it comes to bucking stock and he sure as hell can’t count on Lyle.”

  “I can’t take credit—”

  “And Dick ain’t gonna give you any, but he proved he don’t have a clue when he sold Lightning Jack. Dumbest move in the history of rodeo.” Vince’s sneer was audible. “Imagine where Browning Rodeo would be right now if he had all the bucking sons o’ bitches that stud has sired.”

  And Joe had used Lightning Jack as an example of why Violet should consider putting Dirt Eater on the auction block. No wonder she’d blown off his suggestion. Outside, the old chore pickup rumbled to life, the signal that Cole was ready to go.

  “Gotta run,” Joe said. Literally, or Cole might drive off without him.

  “I’ll spread the word that you’re not locked up in detox,” Vince said. “Tell Jacobs to send me video of their bull. You got my email address?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Vince. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  Joe was still pissed about the rehab thing. The other stuff Vince had said—about him, about Dick—that was gonna take some time to digest. Either way, pounding on something with a hammer sounded like just the ticket, so he tossed the phone on the table by the door, grabbed a pair of leather gloves, and hustled out to the pickup.

  Katie was planted in the middle of the bench seat of the pickup. The dog and Cole each spared Joe one disinterested glance. They bounced south along a dirt track that topped a rise, giving them an unobstructed view across thousands of acres of mostly nothing. Now, though, Joe knew the fold and crinkle of the landscape to the southeast was the Canadian River breaks, with its red dirt and grassy valleys so reminiscent of central Oregon—a familiarity that dug into his soul with razor-tipped claws.

  He propped his arm on the open window frame, drew in a deep lungful of dust-tinged air, and gave himself permission to wallow in the melancholy. Lord knew Cole wouldn’t force him to make conversation. But after ten minutes, Joe was sick of listening to nothing but his own muddled thoughts.

  “What’s the deal with Delon?” he asked.

  Cole gave him a blank look.

  “Delon and Violet,” Joe added. “For a guy who’s just Beni’s dad, he’s got some serious attitude.”

  “About what?”

  “Me.”

  Cole looked, if possible, even more blank.

  “Me and Violet,” Joe clarified, on the off chance Cole actually hadn’t noticed what was going on.

  “Dunno,” Cole said. “Ain’t like you’re gonna marry her.”

  True, so why did the assumption sting? “And Delon is?”

  “Wants to.”

  Joe examined Cole’s expression closely, to see if there was any chance he was kidding. “Why?”

  Cole gave him a look that did not speak highly of Joe’s intelligence.

  “Well yeah, Beni,” Joe said. “But Violet is sure Delon doesn’t have the hots for her, and I sorta think she would’ve noticed by now. So why get married?”

  “’Cuz of Gil.”

  Joe waited, but Cole didn’t elaborate. “Gil?”

  “His brother.”

  Gil Sanchez. The name trickled down into Joe’s brain, setting off faint sparks of recognition. He got a vague image, dark like Delon but taller, skinnier. More…whoa.

  “Gil Sanchez is Delon’s brother? I haven’t seen him in, wow, it must be ten years, at least.” Joe’s fingers drummed the window frame as his mind fired off random images. “Bareback rider. Had feet like lightning, could spur anything with hair. Made the National Finals his rookie year.”

  “Yep.”

  The picture came clearer as his memory painted in the details of the last time he’d seen Gil. Joe had been nineteen, working for Dick behind the chutes at the Finals. Gil had ridden the hell out of nine head, and only had to make the whistle on the tenth horse to win the whole shittin’ shebang, but he came out spurring like he had to be ninety-five points. The horse had jerked his hand out of the rigging at seven and half seconds.

  “I never saw him again. What happened?”

  Cole shook his head, then frowned, in what, for him, was an outpouring of emotion. “Wrecked a motorcycle a couple months later, messed up his hip. Typical Gil. Going too damn fast.”

  For an instant, Cole sounded exactly like his uncle. Same inflection, same tone, the words borrowed from an earlier conversation. Or years of the same conversation. Joe got a blast of déjà vu, as if he’d heard it before. Or something similar. Where though? The memory dodged him, sliding farther away the harder he tried to catch it.

  “Gil was a crazy son of a bitch. I remember one night in Red Bluff—” Then Joe stopped, because he also recalled that Gil hadn’t been the only one dancing on a pickup tailgate, stripping for dollar bills.

  “Always was wilder than an acre of snakes,” Cole said, still channeling Steve.

  “No kidding. He didn’t know the meaning of…”

  Safety up. That’s what Wyatt had said about Delon. How he put more stock in being safe than being first. And no wonder. He must’ve had a front row seat, watching his brother crash and burn. Literally.

  “What’s all that got to do with Violet and Beni?” Joe asked.

  “Gil’s got a kid.” Cole’s jaw tightened, his big hands clenching around the steering wheel. “Lives up in Oklahoma with his mother and a stepdad. Gil’s lucky to see him a couple times a month.”

  Lucky? Funny, Joe’s dad had never seen it that way. “Who’s the mother?”

  “Rich girl from Guthrie, figured she’d burn off some crazy with a cowboy. Stopped being fun when she got knocked up. She ran home to Daddy, then married one of her own kind and tried to cut Gil out of the picture. Lawyers bled him dry in the custody fight but he wouldn’t weaken.”

  “So what’s he doing now?” Joe asked.

  “He’s the dispatcher for Sanchez Trucking.”

  That had to suck, for a guy who’d had gold buckle dreams and the talent to back them up. The pickup lurched into a hole, snapping Joe’s teeth together and nearly nose-planting the dog into the dashboard, except for the hand Cole stuck out to catch her. She scrabbled back to her place and stuck her nose in the air, once again the Queen of Cool. “That’s why Delon wants to marry Violet?” Joe asked. “So he doesn’t risk losing his kid the way his brother did?”

  “Can’t blame a man for wanting to give his son a stable home.”

  “Like a wedding’s gonna guarantee that,” Joe said, with enough of a sneer to draw a considering look from Cole.

  “You don’t believe in marriage?”

  Joe shrugged. “It hasn’t worked out for most of the people I know.”

  Roxy went without saying, but she was only the start. By all reports, Dick’s marriage had been a war zone before his wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, and he’d shown no inclination to remarry after she died. Helen worked at the High Lonesome because her husband had run off with her cousin and left two kids to raise. Lyle fucked around, and Wyatt’s wife had given him a Get Out of Jail Free card for their first anniversary. No, Joe didn’t have a lot of experience with wedded bliss.

  “Maybe you need to hang around some different people,” Cole said.

  He wouldn’t have a choice if he couldn’t go back to the High Lonesome. Joe focused on Cole. “I notice
you don’t have a wife.”

  The dog curled her lip, as if the mere suggestion made her want to growl.

  “Women don’t exactly stand in line to put up with a guy like me,” Cole said.

  Cole said a guy like me with the same mix of resignation and defiance as Joe had heard in the voices of soldiers he and Wyatt had met at the Army rehab unit at Fort Lewis. Somewhere between, I’m broken and I can’t be fixed and Fuck the world if it can’t take me as I am.

  “There’s probably a woman somewhere who doesn’t like to talk,” Joe said.

  Cole gave the dog’s head a rub. “Already found her.”

  He stopped the pickup beside a spot where the fence was down and turned off the motor. They climbed out to inspect the damage. The top strand of wire was busted, the second and third pulled loose from the posts, mashed down and wound together into a prickly double-helix by the cattle that had crawled over, leaving a few telltale tufts of hair behind in the barbs.

  “Grab the roll of wire,” Cole said. “I’ll get the fence stretcher.”

  Joe set the heavy spool down in the middle of the gap, then reeled in the broken wire on his side. The end snagged on a weed. He yanked. It popped loose and sprang at him like a snake, whipping around his calf and inflicting half a dozen pinpricks through his jeans. Geezus, he hated barbed wire.

  “So Delon figures when Violet gets tired of the single life she’ll marry him, since he’s right there handy?” Joe asked.

  “Seems like.”

  “Think it’ll work?”

  “Dunno.” Cole clamped the fence stretcher onto the wire and gave it a tug to test that it was secure. “Violet doesn’t have much luck with men. Seems to like having you snortin’ around her flanks, though.”

  Joe’s fingers slipped and a barb raked across the tender skin on the underside of his wrist, right above his glove. He strangled a curse and sucked off the beads of blood that welled along the scratch. “How’s your uncle feel about all that?”

  “He likes Delon.”

  Cole gave no indication whether the same could be said for Joe. Not that it should matter. He might never see Steve Jacobs again when he left Texas. But there was something about the man—a quiet dignity, his reserve less standoffish than selective. He wasn’t stingy with his praise, but when you got it, you knew you deserved it, and that made earning his respect feel like a necessity. Especially when Joe was so damn uncertain of everything else. “I could use some help getting on Steve’s good side.”