“God bless Texas,” he said, and twirled her again.
Like in the arena, Joe was a step quicker than anyone on the floor, his hands sure and strong, spinning her, swinging her, those laughing green eyes daring her to strut her stuff. She held back a little at first, self-conscious, but with every twirl her give-a-shit level slipped a tiny bit more until finally she just let go. The hell with it. Let the devil lead her where he would.
And lead he did. It was like jumping feet first into a tornado, bolts of lightning crackling around her, through her, sending her nervous system into overload. She was surprised her skin didn’t glow every place he’d touched her. If it did, she would have illuminated the entire bar, because there wasn’t a whole lot of her Joe hadn’t managed to brush up against. As the band crashed to the end of “Sweet Home Alabama” he spun her out, then back, and caught her tight against him on the final note, a whole lot of her parts pressed up nice and cozy against a whole lot of his. Hers lit up like a neon sign, flashing Take me now.
“Time for a break, folks,” the lead singer declared. “But we’ll be back for one last set.”
Joe’s hand splayed over her lower back, holding her so close she could see the flecks of gold around the irises of his eyes. He brushed a kiss over her mouth as the other dancers melted away toward the bar or the tables.
“Thirsty?”
“I could use a glass of water.” The colder the better. With a bucket of ice on the side to dump down the back of her shirt. She suspected it might evaporate, and only a fraction of her elevated body heat was due to exertion. Joe kissed her again, lingering for a moment, his hand curving her hips into his. Then he stepped back and all those parts of hers whimpered in protest at his absence. He steered her over to a narrow counter along the wall and commandeered the lone empty stool. “I’ll be right back.”
Then he was off, weaving and dodging through the crowd like it was an obstacle course he had to conquer. Violet grabbed a napkin from a chrome dispenser and dabbed at her forehead. Her feet throbbed like she’d run a half marathon, and the band still had another set to go.
Without Joe to overwhelm her senses, her awareness of the rest of the world seeped back in. Oh Lord. When had those three guys come in? Some of Delon’s buddies. At least one of them would be on the phone to him before closing time—assuming he wasn’t too busy with Stacy Lyn to answer. She met their gazes head on, chin up, challenging. They looked away first.
She searched Joe out in the mob and watched as cowboys passed by, clapped his shoulder, shook his hand, probably offered to buy him a beer from the way he shook his head and waved them off. There was more of the same as he edged through the crowd. He smiled and spoke to all of them, but kept moving, as if getting back to Violet was his one and only goal. When he handed her the plastic cup of ice water, she guzzled most of it without taking a breath. Lord, did that hit the spot. Joe skimmed his hand up to lift the hair from the back of her neck, his fingertips cold and damp. The brush of them sent goose bumps racing over her skin. She shifted, acutely aware that if he looked down, he might see what else had puckered.
He touched the rim of his glass to her bottom lip, like a toast. “Having fun?”
“Boy howdy.”
He laughed. She gulped down the last of her water. Joe did the same, stacked his empty plastic cup with Violet’s, and set them on the counter behind her, then nudged a space for his thighs between her knees, bracing his hands on either side of her. “You up for more?”
Oh yeah. An image of what they could do in that position if they were alone sent heat searing through her. Joe smiled as if he read her mind, his eyes glowing like a green light on the highway straight to hell. He had her surrounded, but he wasn’t touching her except for those two throbbing spots where the insides of her thighs pressed against his. The rest of her body was one giant nerve, quivering in anticipation.
Joe trailed his fingers down her bare arm and wrapped them around her wrist as the band blasted out the opening of the next song. “Time for round two.”
He yanked her off the stool and onto the dance floor and kept her there for every single song. Two-step, swing, the Cotton-Eyed Joe—they did it all. Her feet were screaming for mercy by the time the band polished off a foot-stompin’ extended version of a Turnpike Troubadours song.
The lead singer mopped his face with a towel, then said, “Hate to tell ya’, folks, but it’s time to say good night. Grab your Mr. Right—or Mr. Right Now—and let’s slow it on down for the last song.”
Not just any song. The most disgustingly romantic love song Kenny Chesney had ever recorded, and that was saying something. Violet didn’t resist as Joe molded her against him, hands on her hips, just enough taller that she could rest her cheek on his shoulder. Finally, he slowed down. Way down, the shift and sway of their bodies producing a nearly unbearable friction where they rubbed up against each other. He started to hum along, then sing, his voice low and amazingly good, vibrating against her cheek. She tilted her head back in surprise.
“What?” he asked.
Violet stared at him a beat, then said, “Nothing.”
He reached up to push a strand of damp hair off her forehead. The scratch on his wrist looked sore, puckered, and red. Without thinking, she brushed her lips across it. Joe stumbled slightly, eyes going dark.
“I was just kissing it better,” she said, embarrassed.
His smile came slow, so sweet it made her ache. “Then I expect it’ll be healed by morning.”
He slid a hand up to the nape of her neck, tilting her cheek back onto his shoulder. She closed her eyes and let herself be swallowed up by the moment—the two of them alone on the crowded floor with Joe’s arms strong around her, the lean grace of his body hard against hers, his fingers stroking circles low on her back and his voice singing softly in her ear, a song about how he could never let her go. The hunger hit her low and hard, an ache so powerful her hands clenched in his shirt. Her shirt. His arms tightened in response, and he brushed a kiss across her eyebrow, nearly taking out her knees.
Dear sweet Lord, she wanted him, with an intensity unlike anything she’d ever experienced. And with Beni safely stowed in her mother’s camper for the night, there was no reason she couldn’t have him.
Chapter 24
Joe nosed the pickup into the gap between Violet’s trailer and the semi he was calling home and turned off the engine. Violet hopped out of the pickup and met him at the front, letting him catch her wrist and slide his hand down to lace his fingers through hers. He walked her to her door, then leaned against the side of the camper, pulling her into the circle of his arms. The drive home had left him wishing for the old bench-style pickup seats where there was no console to keep her from snuggling. She nestled her face into the crook of his neck.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Mmm. Been a while since I danced holes in my shoes.”
I could rub your feet for you. And work his way up from there. She shifted, her mouth brushing his skin, and the jolt of lust wiped his mind clean. Sweet Jesus. He had to get her naked. But first, he had to get her inside. She nibbled along his jaw and he nearly groaned out loud. Just one kiss…but her mouth was so soft, so willing, he had to go back for more. His palms flattened, molding her against him so he could feel every inch of her warm flesh through his thin shirt.
He wanted to memorize her taste, the shape of her body, that little catch in her breath when he touched her just right. Something pulled deep inside him—a hard, tight ache that was more than physical: a craving to be a part of all that was Violet. Solid, strong, sure of her place in the world. Working beside her, laughing with her, sliding into her bed and all that heat at the end of the day—a man could get used to that life.
The thought had barely formed when something entirely different flared in his gut. A sharp sizzle, like an emergency flare, warning him of danger ahead. Suddenly, he couldn’t
breathe, as if his heart had jumped up and crammed itself into the space behind his Adam’s apple.
Violet eased out of the kiss, glancing over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Joe’s gaze fell upon her parents’ trailer. Was Iris sitting up, waiting to be sure Violet got home safely? Her dad peering out from one of those darkened windows, watching to see if Joe went inside with Violet? Or, God help him, Beni. How come you were kissing my Mommy? Did you tuck her in? Joe’s stomach twisted up and wrung itself out like a sponge at the thought of that conversation. Dammit to hell. He couldn’t do it. He could not drag Violet up those steps if there was the slightest chance any of her family would see and think less of him—or worse, of her. He had an amazing woman in his arms, hot and willing and ten steps from a bed, and he could…not…do it. A howl of frustration welled up, scorching his lungs when he refused to let it loose. He’d survived for thirty years without giving a damn what anyone thought. Why now, for Christ’s sake? Why these very temporary people? It made absolutely zero sense.
And none of that mattered, because this inconvenient conscience or sense of propriety or whatever he’d suddenly developed wasn’t listening. “Joe?”
He leaned in, groaning as he rested his forehead against hers. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“This.” He ran his hands up and down her back, torturing himself with the possibilities. “Your family would know. And everybody else.”
Irritation crackled through the heat in her eyes, like lightning in storm clouds. “If it doesn’t bother me, what do you care?”
Hell if he knew, but being able to look Steve and Iris square in the eye in the morning mattered a whole lot, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could about it. “I’m sorry. I just…there’s something about your parents. Knowing they’re right over there, maybe even watching us right now? I’m sorry, but I can’t come in.”
She pulled her head back and stared at him with patent disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I was.” He blew out a long, defeated breath. “I’m sorry. This is not like me.”
She continued to stare at him for what felt like eternity. Then she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and shook her head. “I do not believe this. I finally decide to do whatever the hell I want, and what I want won’t let me do him. Honest to God. It’s like I’m cursed.”
“It’s not you, Violet, it’s—”
“You?” She lifted a hand and curled her fingers into a fist and for a second Joe thought she might clock him. “Believe me, I know.”
“I’d better go.” Before he ended up with a black eye. Or worse. He gave her a swift kiss, then pushed her to arms’ length, even though the separation was like peeling off a layer of his own skin. “I’ll see you bright and early, for the timed-event slack. Sleep tight.”
“Sure. Great. Whatever.” She shook off his hands and yanked her door open. The trailer rocked as she stomped up the steps and slammed the door behind her. Joe plastered both hands over his face and rubbed hard. Geezus. What was wrong with him?
He jammed his hands in his pockets and strode around the stock pens, into the space behind the bucking chutes. Horses stirred, the orange security lights gleaming like reflected fire in their eyes. He hoisted himself onto the platform on the back of the chutes and let his legs dangle. Untethered. Like he felt. He dug his thumb and forefinger into his temples, which throbbed in time with the rest of his seriously annoyed body. A tiny square of light blinked on in Violet’s trailer. The water pump kicked on, a low, gravelly hum. She would be washing her face, brushing her teeth, peeling off her shirt and jeans and pulling on…what?
He touched a finger to the scratch on his wrist. Kiss it better. His own crude joke turned on its head. He felt the brush of her lips and his heart did that thing again, like out on the dance floor, as if it were gasping for air. Or blood. Joe swore. Dirt Eater turned his head and blinked, annoyed at the disturbance.
“Sorry,” Joe muttered.
The bull shook his head, long ears flapping, and slurped his tongue into one nostril, as if expressing his opinion.
The light in Violet’s window went dark. Snap! The last, tiny link between them was broken, leaving Joe to float away, up and up into a sky that was nothing but a black void beyond the security lights. The sense of weightlessness was so strong he scooted back, away from the edge, until his spine was pressed against the solid steel bars of the bucking chute. He could go back, knock on her door and say he’d changed his mind. Except his damn mind was the whole problem. Since when did it mess with him like this? He dug the phone out of his pocket and checked the time. Ten after two. He punched a button, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes.
“This better be good,” Wyatt snarled.
Joe heard a television in the background, the sound of gunfire and squealing tires. “Why are you awake?”
“Just popped a couple pain pills. I was watching Bruce Willis kill everyone while I waited for them to kick in.”
Uh-oh. “New pain or old?”
“Both. Rowdy did another dead man’s flop. I tripped over him and the bull stepped on my sore ankle.”
Joe winced in sympathy. “Bad?”
“Swelled up some. I’ll see the doc when I get back to Pendleton if it hasn’t settled down.”
Standard cowboy medical protocol. If it wasn’t dangling or hemorrhaging, it would keep. “Think you’ll be ready by the circuit finals?”
“I’d be ready tomorrow if I had to. And speaking of working together…”
“I haven’t decided.” Joe felt himself coming loose again, all the options in front of him, the conflicting needs warring inside of him. “You know George, the pickup man for Flying 5? What’s his kid’s name?”
“Peter,” Wyatt said, following the change of subject without missing a beat.
Peter. Not Pete or Petey because, as he’d informed them solemnly, that wasn’t his name. “You know how before he goes to bed, he makes his dad walk around with him to be sure all the horses are in their pens and the gates are locked? And how when you talk to him, he quotes his dad word for word, even does his voice? Cole Jacobs is just like that.”
Wyatt was silent for a few beats. “Do they know?”
“Violet says he’s always been different, but worse since the accident.” Joe assumed Wyatt knew Cole’s history. He knew everything else.
“If he doesn’t have post-traumatic stress, I’d be amazed. Have you asked him about it?”
“Yeah, ’cuz I’ve always wanted to have my face smashed.”
Wyatt made one of his thinking noises, taking his time about it. “You could toss some information at Cole on your way out the door—let him do with it what he will.”
No heart-to-heart chat, just a magazine article, or some brochures. Joe could manage that much. “I assume you know just the thing. What’s it gonna cost me?”
“What’s it worth to you?”
More than he would have expected, and the price wouldn’t be that hard to bear. Wyatt’s contracts added up to more dollars than Joe could stand to leave on the table. “Three rodeos.”
“Ten.”
“No way. I’d be away from the ranch the whole season.”
“Exactly.” When Joe remained stubbornly silent, Wyatt let loose an aggravated sigh. “Okay, five, but I get to pick ’em.”
A scary proposition, but there were no bad choices in that pile. “Deal.”
“Even if I pick five rodeos within a day’s drive of Amarillo?”
Joe stared at Violet’s dark trailer, enduring the low, hard ache when he imagined being in there with her. Self-deprivation really, really was not like him. He might as well admit it—he was a mess, and would be until he settled things with Dick. But once he got his life settled and was steady on his feet, he’d be able to handle it—handle her and her family—
without feeling like he was teetering on the edge of some unknown abyss, in danger of losing his balance. And then, if she’d let him, he could come back for a visit. Or two.
“I could live with that.”
Wyatt let out an amazed whistle. “If I were still a praying man I’d praise the Lord, but I’m not, so I’ll be damned instead. I intend to start making calls at daybreak, so don’t bother trying to back out.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Joe said, but the panic was already closing his throat as Wyatt hung up.
Five rodeos. Five more degrees of separation from Dick. How many before he couldn’t go back? He sat for a good long while, until fatigue dragged his eyelids to half-mast. Once in his bed, though, sleep only taunted him, letting him doze off, then jolt awake as panic slammed into his chest. What had he done, promising those rodeos to Wyatt? Dick would come unglued when Joe gave him a list of dates he’d be unavailable. Dread washed over him, cold and dark as a winter lake.
He kicked at the thin blanket, the weight of it too much against his sweat-sheened skin. Then he thought about Violet and a whole different kind of panic grabbed him by the throat. If he told her he wanted to come back and see her after he left, she might expect…stuff. Things he wasn’t capable of delivering.
His reconstructed knee started to ache from all the dancing and thrashing. Finally, as the eastern sky began to lighten, he broke down and popped a pain pill. Mixed with the exhaustion, it knocked him out cold.
Chapter 25
Dance with the devil and what do you get? Shin splints. Violet hobbled of out the arena gate toward the rodeo office muttering silent curses. Every step was like a knife in her arches and shot fire up her legs, despite the fistful of ibuprofen she’d washed down with her half-gallon mug of coffee. And there’d been thousands of steps. Saturday night’s performance might’ve been perfect, but Sunday morning slack was the equivalent of pushing a rope uphill through a patch of prickly pear cactus. No matter how she tried, Violet couldn’t get the damn thing moving.
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