His next stop was Iris’s trailer. She’d left a pair of huge coolers under the awning, one packed with iced-down sodas and jugs of homemade sweet tea, the other with tubs of potato salad and roast beef sandwiches on thick slices of homemade bread. It was worth working for Jacobs Livestock just for Iris’s food, as long as you made sure you got to it ahead of Cole. Joe loaded up his bag with lunch for two, tossed in a few oatmeal cookies and headed for Violet’s trailer. Either by chance or intent, she’d parked right next door to Joe’s Peterbilt bedroom, which might be more temptation than he could handle if Beni weren’t camped in her trailer, too.
Even that couldn’t dampen Joe’s mood. A cool front had eased in, dropping the temperature ten degrees and taking the humidity down with it, making it a damn near perfect day. He had a sackful of good food and a hot chick to share it with—not that he’d ever let Violet hear him call her a chick. She was out in the arena, with Beni and his pony bouncing along behind as she helped pen the timed-event cattle.
Beni had wolfed down his lunch while everyone else was unloading. When the last of the steers were sorted, instead of following his mother, he switched to trotting circles around Cole as he walked the fences, examining every gate, post, and fence rail for potential hazards to his precious stock. Soon as everyone else got some chow, the horses and bulls would have their turn for a lap or two around the arena to get a feel for the ground and where to find the exit gate. Animals handled easier and performed better when they knew where they were going and what to expect. Sort of like people.
Joe set his bag down and went to work, unrolling the awning on Violet’s trailer and pulling an outdoor carpet and folding chairs from the storage bin underneath. Behind him, the tractor fired up, rolling into the arena with a plow attached. They’d dig the ground deep first, water it, then work it again with the groomer, packing it for traction and speed. The smell of diesel fumes, damp earth, and manure was like a snort of cocaine, pumping up Joe’s system. For a few hours, before the contestants or the fans rolled in, the rodeo grounds belonged solely to the contractor.
Joe loved this part. He loved all the parts. Beginning, middle, and end, there was nothing about any rodeo he wanted to skip. At the big shows, where the committee just expected him and Wyatt to show up for the bull riding, he didn’t get to help with any of the good stuff. Yeah, Pendleton and Ellensburg and Red Bluff were great rodeos, but Joe would be perfectly satisfied with what Jacobs Livestock had, at least as a start.
He’d been working toward that start since the first summer on Dick’s ranch, soaking up every iota of knowledge that Dick was willing to share or Joe could steal. He scraped and scrimped, living in a dingy one-room apartment above the Mint Bar, driving a fifteen-year-old car, signing autographs at western stores in exchange for free jeans while he stashed every extra dime, all with an eye to the day he could offer Dick Browning the one thing he could never resist—a big chunk of cold hard cash. And now, with Lyle gone, Joe’s chances had more than doubled, unless Dick decided to hold a grudge.
But he wasn’t going to waste this spectacular day brooding about Dick. He was pushing at the little portable table, trying to find a spot where it didn’t rock, when Violet came out of the arena. She stopped short when she saw him. Compared to her ranch attire, she looked dressed up with her sleeveless denim blouse tucked into dark jeans and her hair loose around her face, glistening in the sunlight.
“Is this part of the courting?” she asked, both cautious and amused, as she joined him under the awning.
He jerked his head toward where the others were gathering at Iris’s trailer. “I know more about stock than women, so I figured I’d make like a stud horse and cut you out of the herd.”
Violet laughed. “Sweet talk like that, hard to believe you’ve never done this before.”
“What can I say? I’m a natural.”
He set out sandwiches, salad, and drinks on the table and they settled in, hungry enough to put food ahead of conversation. Joe wolfed down both of his sandwiches, polished off his potato salad, and washed it all down with sweet tea, then leaned back and gave a heartfelt sigh of contentment.
Violet offered Joe a cookie, then broke off a small piece of her own. “So, Wyatt. He’s sort of…”
“An ass?”
“I was going to say scary.”
Joe paused mid-bite. “Most women think he’s cool.”
“Only if that’s what he wants them to think.”
Joe lowered his cookie, surprised. Wyatt’s charm was generally foolproof. “You don’t like him?”
“Like is too simple. A person who likes Wyatt hasn’t bothered to look past what he wants them to see.” She shook her head again. “I can’t imagine living with someone like that.”
“Neither could his wife.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “He was married?”
“For eighteen months, to a stripper he met during the Reno rodeo. Picture Wyatt playing house with a woman named Bambi, and you can guess how well that worked out.”
“Was he temporarily insane?”
Joe shrugged. “She was okay. Smarter than you’d expect. She just needed a chance.”
“And Wyatt rescued her.”
“It’s the frustrated preacher in him. He’s gotta have someone to save.” Joe savored the first caramel-crisp bite of his cookie, then asked, ever so casually, “What did the two of you talk about?”
“Nothing important.” Violet was suddenly too busy cleaning up the table to meet his eye, but she paused in the midst of stacking their empty plates to give him a grave look. “He’s got your back, Joe. Always.”
Joe dropped his gaze to his cookie. “I know.”
Damn Wyatt. He’d told her things, probably stuff that would make Joe squirm. He could pry it out of her, but then he’d have to talk about whatever it was, so he reached down for the shopping bag instead.
“I bought you something.”
Violet froze, then set the plates back on the table. “Like…a present?”
“Yes. I saw it in the window of one of those places in the mall and I thought it was perfect for you.”
He reached into the bag, pulled out a box and set it on the table. She stared at it like he’d dished up a live snake. Even without the logo, there wasn’t much doubt what store it came from.
Violet’s cheeks went as pink as the box. “I, ah, you shouldn’t have. Really.”
Joe pushed it closer to her. “You don’t even know what it is.”
But she was making educated guesses that turned her cheeks even pinker. She glanced around quickly to see if anyone was watching, then snatched the box off the table and plunked it on her lap, trying to cover it with her hands.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Sure. Later.”
Joe folded his arms and gave her his best wounded look. “At least read the card.”
Her jaw worked a few times, then clamped hard as she tore open the little white envelope. Joe watched her expression as she deciphered his crappy handwriting. Rose’s are red, Violet’s are blue…
She slapped her hands down on the box again, crushing the card. “That is not funny.”
Joe grinned. “Actually, it is. See for yourself.”
She yanked the ribbon off the box, fumbled the lid open, and ripped out the tissue paper. Her face went blank. Then she burst out laughing. “You bought me Wonder Woman underwear?”
Joe stood and leaned close to her, breathing in the fruit of the day, crisp green apples. Different. Nice. “Like I said, they’re perfect for you. And there’s something else in there for you. Don’t throw away the paper until you find it.”
He kissed her cheek and sauntered away, feeling pretty damn proud of himself. He might not be a natural, but he didn’t completely suck.
Chapter 23
It was gonna be one of those nights. Violet coul
d feel the anticipation simmering in the hum of voices from the bleachers, see it in the quivering muscles of horses and bulls, the glint in the contestants’ eyes. From the soft, golden stillness of the evening air to the mouthwatering scent of hamburgers grilling at the concession stand, it was all movie-scene perfect. Magic time.
The cowboys rose to the occasion. Every one of them spurred and roped and wrestled like it was the last round of the National Finals. Every horse bucked like it was determined to kick the highest, score the most points. Even the buck offs were spectacular. The crowd hung on every jump, screamed and groaned and cheered like each contestant was their only child. And then the bulls rumbled into the chutes.
Through it all, Violet was intensely aware of Joe’s note in her breast pocket. Vince Grant wants video of Dirt Eater. Here’s his email. Just like that, Joe had put a lifetime dream within reach. A Jacobs bull bucking at the National Finals. It was like being picked to play on the Olympic basketball team. Joe had warned her it was only a chance, not a foregone conclusion, but Violet refused to be discouraged. Dirt Eater was good enough to be invited to the biggest rodeo of ’em all. Any fool would know the minute they saw him buck. Vince was no fool, and he would see Dirt Eater thanks to Joe.
Violet’s pulse thumped in time to the heavy rock beat the rodeo announcer’s girlfriend cued up to usher in the bull riding. Joe appeared beside her, dancing from foot to foot and shaking his hands at his sides, so charged with energy that tingles swept over Violet’s skin from mere proximity.
When the gate in front of them swung open, Joe looked up and gave her a smile that turned the tingles into a heat wave. “Party time.”
He bounded in to the announcer’s introduction and the roar of the fans. Caught up in the moment, Violet spurred Cadillac and galloped around the arena to slide to a stop in her usual position. She ignored Cole’s What the hell? look. Once in a while, a girl had to cut loose.
The bulls fed off the electricity arcing around the arena, launching their muscle-bound bodies into space, twisting, rolling, flinging dust and riders and glistening streamers of snot into the night sky. It was a beautiful thing. Joe was a flash of constant motion—darting, dancing, dodging horns and hooves and flying bodies, his eyes gleaming with an exhilaration so potent, Violet got high on the secondhand thrill. Damn, it must be something to be able to move like that.
The fifth rider out was a rookie from San Angelo. Tough kid. The kind that never let go, even when his heels were kissing the clouds and his head skimming the dirt. The bull whipped around hard to the right and jerked him down into the well on the inside of the spin. His hand wedged in the rope, and in a blink the kid was hung up on the side of a ton of stomping, hooking bovine.
Hank slapped the bull on the head as Joe threw himself onto the bull’s shoulders opposite the rider, one hand grabbing the kid’s elbow to hold him up, the other hand catching the tail of the rope and yanking. The wrap came free as the bull leapt again. The rock hard mass of its shoulder slammed into Joe and sent him flying as the cowboy tucked and rolled and hit his feet running for the fence. Joe landed on his butt and skidded across the dirt. The bull stopped, tossed his head in a gesture of pure, arrogant Take that!, then sauntered out the exit gate.
For an instant, the crowd was silent. Then Joe popped to his feet and pumped an arm over his head and the grandstand exploded, wave after thundering wave of applause washing over the arena. Violet shivered in pure delight. Nights like this should never end.
As the announcer wrapped up the show, wishing the crowd a good night and safe travels, Joe threw his head back and howled like a wolf, thumping a fist on his chest. “Now that was a rodeo!”
Violet laughed as she stepped off her horse. Hot damn. What a show. Even Cole was smiling. She peeled off her chaps and hung them on her saddle, but as she stepped toward the gate, Joe snagged her around the waist and spun her into his arms.
“Come dancing with me, Violet.”
Temptation tugged at her sleeve, whispered in her ear. How long had it been since she’d danced until closing time? She heard a wolf whistle and a couple of hoots and tried to wriggle free. “I can’t. Beni—”
“He can stay the night with us,” her mother called down from the announcer’s stand above them, where she was packing away stopwatches and clipboards. “You go. Have fun.”
Violet’s pulse jumped at the prospect, her system already revved from the rodeo. She looked down at her blue shirt and dusty jeans. “I’m not—”
“You can be by the time I get out of the shower,” Joe said.
“But I have to help—”
“Cole, take Violet’s horse,” her mother ordered. “Y’all can manage without her tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Cole plucked the reins out of Violet’s hand as he passed.
Joe planted his index finger under her chin and pushed it up to look her in the eye. “Get your dancin’ shoes on, Violet. We’re gonna show this town how it’s done.”
* * *
Driving one of the Jacobs Livestock pickups, Joe bypassed the bar designated as the site of the official rodeo after-party and headed across town to a low-slung concrete block building that could have doubled as a bomb shelter, which was probably the only reason it had outlasted decades of rowdy cowboys. The infamous Bootlegger.
Violet shot him a baffled look as he pulled into a parking space. “How did you know about this place?”
“Hank told me, on orders from his sister.”
Violet laughed. “Of course. This is where Melanie and I used to go when we had serious trouble to get into.”
“Then we’re in the right place,” Joe said, with a smile so full of the devil it was probably illegal in some parts of the Bible Belt.
She stepped out into the silky evening air, almost cool enough to raise goose bumps on her bare arms. She’d changed into her best jeans and a sleeveless white blouse, and added some turquoise and silver jewelry. Boots would’ve been smarter, but she’d opted for flat black canvas shoes that made the most of the small difference between her height and Joe’s. Once in a while it was nice to feel like the girl, and she’d come prepared this weekend, not knowing what Joe’s idea of courting would necessitate.
Joe grabbed her hand and towed her through the front door, pausing just inside. Not much to see—scarred tables, scuffed floor, dingy walls. The Bootlegger never had pretended to be about anything but drinking and dancing, and since it was after eleven, the crowd had a sizable head start on them in the drinking department. Violet scanned the mass of humanity. Plenty of cowboy hats, plenty of familiar faces. Joe plowed through the crowd, dragging her in his wake. At the bar, he waved a hand at the nearest bartender, pointed at a beer and held up two fingers. The bartender nodded and grabbed a pair of glasses. While Joe dug in his pocket for cash, Violet took the opportunity to enjoy the view. He was wearing his cowboy hat, thank God. That haircut was worse than the scalping she’d given Beni with the clippers from the As Seen on TV store. Joe had worn his boots and the same jeans from Tuesday night that made his butt look so spectacular, but he hadn’t bothered with a belt and buckle or tucked in his short-sleeved sports shirt.
Wait a minute. Violet inspected him waist to collar, then leaned to the side and craned her neck to examine his chest. Not a logo in sight.
“What?” he asked.
She plucked at the silky sleeve of his shirt. “I thought you didn’t buy clothes.”
“It looked like something Wyatt would wear on a date.” He smoothed his palm over the geometric black and turquoise print. “I figured I should get something nice if I was gonna take you out dancing.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
As if he’d bought it for her. But, well, he had, and it was the sweetest damn thing any man had done for her in a very long time—except maybe the Wonder Woman underwear, and that was…well, not exactly sweet, but special. Which pretty much described
Joe. At least the version of him that had been hanging around the last couple of days.
The band kicked into a better-than-average rendition of Toby Keith’s “Shoulda Been a Cowboy,” and the thump of the bass sent energy pulsing through her muscles. When the bartender plunked their beers down, Joe paid without letting go of her hand. He passed one beer to her, then took a big gulp of his own. She did the same, the first taste so cold, crisp, and perfect that she took a second, bigger gulp. She started to lick a dab of foam from the corner of her mouth, but Joe beat her to it, his tongue flicking over her upper lip. Then he moved to her ear and nipped at the lobe.
“You smell like apples. Makes me want to nibble.”
Before she could catch her breath, he kissed her. She tensed instinctively, thinking of all those watching eyes. Then she remembered she wasn’t going to worry about them anymore and kissed him back, savoring the cool-on-warm tanginess of the beer on his tongue. He pulled her closer, hip to hip, and she had to remind herself to watch where her hand wandered because she probably shouldn’t grab his butt in public. Especially this public, with all the curious eyes and wagging tongues. She dragged herself out of the kiss, resenting every millimeter of the retreat.
“I think we’re warmed up now.” Joe took another big gulp of his beer and set the glass on the bar.
Violet followed suit. Then he was off again, dragging her onto the dance floor and into a whirl of perpetual motion. The man just never stopped. At the beginning of the fourth—or maybe fifth—song, Joe twirled her, caught her close, and rocked her into a quick two-step. Violet’s head was spinning faster than the music, but she matched his rhythm without missing a beat.
He grinned his approval. “You’re good.”
“Pfft! Down here we learn the two-step in the crib.”
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