He opened his eyes and found Violet watching him, her expression guarded. “You okay?”
“I’m awesome.” He worked up a cocky grin. “Give me few minutes and I’ll prove it.”
Chapter 35
Violet was awake to see the light around the motel curtains soften from phosphorescent blue into golden sunrise, torn between watching Joe sleep and waking him so they could make the most of every precious moment. She’d given it her all and then some. Was this what it would feel like to cast a spell? Toss in your heart, your soul, a huge dollop of pure sexual desire and a pinch of desperation—then wait, barely breathing, to see if it had worked its magic?
She had hoped she would know by now. That he would say something, anything, during the long, hot night to let her know what he was thinking. The sex had been everything she’d expected, a mind-blowing whirlwind that had spun her nearly to the edge of endurance, only to bring her back to earth cradled in his arms like a treasure too precious for words.
But she needed those words, and they were the one thing, the only thing, he hadn’t given her. There was still time, though, for her to work up the courage to ask for what he hadn’t freely given.
She rolled onto her side and flattened her palm between his shoulder blades, savoring the warm gold of his skin, the sleek lines of the muscle beneath, as she slid her hand down his back to the base of his spine.
“Mmmm.” He shifted, then gave a low, appreciative groan when she increased the pressure on the return trip. “I’ll give you a day and half to stop doing that.”
She kneaded the ridge of muscle along his spine, earning another approving groan. He opened his eyes, gave her a drowsy smile, and Violet’s heart jerked.
There he was. Her Joe. His eyes warm, his smile sweet and open. “Mornin’, sunshine.”
“Mornin’.” Not easy to say when you’re holding your breath. Afraid to move or speak in case she scared him into hiding again.
He reached up to trace a line along the side of her neck and down her shoulder. His eyes followed his fingers along her collarbone then down, skimming the side of her breast. He paused where the skin was faintly mottled.
“Stretch marks,” she said.
His hand hesitated then drifted lower, over her stomach. “But not here?”
“Beni was two months premature. I didn’t have time to get that big.”
His palm flattened against her skin, the gesture protective, almost fearful. “But you were okay? And him?”
“I was fine. He had to spend some time in neonatal ICU before he could come home, but we were lucky. He’s perfectly normal. Health-wise, anyway.”
Joe’s smile flashed, then faded, pushed aside by a troubled expression. “Could you have another baby?”
“I’d have to be careful, pay close attention to the signs, but…yes.”
She watched the light brighten like dawn in his eyes—hope, possibility, a future so full…
Then suddenly it blinked out. Joe’s face went blank, his eyes glassy with panic, like a horse cornered by a pack of dogs. When he moved, it was with the same explosive swiftness, jerking away from her and scrambling out of bed with none of his usual grace.
“I need to go.”
Violet gaped at him. “Where?”
He snatched his boxers and shorts from the floor and dragged them on with quick, jerky movements. “Out. For a run. Before it’s too late.”
He grabbed his bag and was gone, the door slamming behind him.
What the hell?
Hot tears pooled at the corners of her eyes and she sat, paralyzed by shock, while they trickled down her cheeks. So close. She’d been so very close to reaching him, taking hold. And then, like a mustang sniffing the wind, he’d scented danger and bolted.
Eventually, she scrubbed away the tears with a corner of the sheet and went to take a shower, cranking the knobs until the water was just short of scalding. By the time it went cold, she had smoothed down the frayed spots in her nerves. She dried her hair, did a more particular job than usual with her makeup, and ran through all the channels on the television four times before Joe knocked. Her heart thumped, tight and painful, as she opened the door.
Sweat dripped from his face and arms, soaking through his shirt and shorts as if he’d tried to run himself to death. His gaze dodged hers. “I forgot to grab a key.”
Violet stood back. He edged past like he expected her to make a grab for him. Their eyes met for an instant and her breath caught at the depth of the panic and guilt she saw in his. She reacted from a horse handler’s instinct, not wanting to provoke another stampede. If she was too aggressive, she might chase him right back to Dick Browning, this time to stay. But if she didn’t press the issue, if she let him go without declaring herself…
Maybe he’d find his way back to her.
She crossed her fingers and retreated, praying it was the right choice. “We have to leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll wait out by the pool.”
He blinked. Then nodded and relaxed ever so slightly, as if he’d been braced for an attack. He came out in five minutes, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes and his bag slung over his shoulder. Violet met him at the pickup, ignoring the desperation clawing at her throat as the clock ticked down. Pushing might just send him over the edge, if he wasn’t already there. The next move had to be Joe’s.
She walked straight up to him, cringing at the way he stiffened, and handed him the pickup keys. “You drive. I’m worn plumb out for some reason.”
He stared at her, mouth jacked open, while she strolled around and climbed in the passenger’s seat. She settled in, tilted the seat back and closed her eyes. After a long moment, Joe started the pickup and pulled out of the lot. As they turned onto the highway, he found a radio station to fill the empty, echoing space in the cab. She felt his occasional glances, as if he were trying to tell if she was really asleep or just faking it to avoid him.
Her head throbbed with the effort of pretending to doze by the time she felt the pickup downshift and slow. Violet sat up, rubbing her eyes as Joe took the exit to the Northwest terminal. He parked in a zone labeled Loading and Unloading Only and turned off the engine, then sat with both hands on the wheel, staring out through the windshield. “We’re here.”
Violet nodded.
Joe climbed out, grabbed his bag from the backseat, and circled around the rear of the pickup. She kicked the door open and jumped down in time to meet him on the curb. Say something. Anything. Don’t let him go.
She folded her arms tight across her ribs and gave him a tense smile. “Well. Thanks. For, um…everything.”
He nodded. Their gazes caught, held, the moment stretching to the point of pain. His eyes were dark. Desperate. For what? She’d give it to him. Anything he wanted, anything he needed, if it would make him stay, or at least leave the door open for him to come back.
“Joe—”
He cut her off with a kiss. Deep, then even deeper, his hunger a wild, frantic thing that threatened to devour her. On and on, until a cluster of teenagers a few yards away began pointing and giggling.
He eased back to cup her face in his hands and kissed her again, gently. Then he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry. I can’t…I have to…”
She swallowed hard and whispered, “I know.”
Joe pushed her chin up with his thumbs, his voice low, strained to the edge of breaking. “Take care of yourself. And Beni.”
She nodded. He let his hands drop and stared at her like he was trying to memorize her face. Then he stepped back. “I have to go.”
And he did, his strides long and swift, dodging through the crowd as if it were a race to see who could get the most gone. Violet waited, hoping, but he never looked back. A horn honked, echoing in the concrete bunker of the terminal. The wheels of a luggage cart clattere
d on the pavement. People scurried around her, rushing to and fro, caught up in their own lives, their own problems, oblivious to the quiet shattering of Violet’s heart as she watched Joe run away one more time.
Chapter 36
The scrape of knife against plate in Dick Browning’s otherwise silent kitchen grated like a serrated blade on Joe’s nerves. Which, granted, were so raw he could barely tolerate the sound of his own breathing. He set his fork aside and swabbed up the last of his gravy with one of Helen’s home-baked rolls, the likes of which he’d never had until he met Iris Jacobs.
Of course, if good company really made everything taste better, it wasn’t a fair comparison. Helen had given up trying to make conversation five minutes into the meal and Dick Browning was stubbornly silent, his mere presence as abrasive as the shaved stubble of gray hair on his head. If he’d ever had any soft edges, they’d been worn away a million miles ago, leaving only gristle and bone.
He pushed his plate aside, stuck a toothpick between his teeth, and tipped his chair back. “I’m finishing up next year’s contracts. I assume we can plan on you for all the usual rodeos?”
As if the fight in Puyallup had never happened. Dick intended to just go on, business as usual, and expected everyone else to do the same. No harm. No foul. And why not? It had always worked that way before.
Joe’s knuckles went white around his coffee mug. Goddamn Wyatt and his perspective. He’d known—or at least hoped—that this would happen. They’d ruined him down there in Texas. Stripped away his layers of protective cynicism with their hospitality and honest regard, and left him wide open. Too sensitive. Too aware. Now, sitting in a kitchen that managed to be cold and dingy despite all of Helen’s efforts to the contrary, he could see the future much too clearly.
Yeah, Joe could step right back into his place here at the ranch, and at Dick’s rodeos. All it would cost was everything he wanted to be as a man. A human being. Dick wasn’t going to bend an inch. Wouldn’t, couldn’t—it didn’t matter which anymore. Joe had run out of excuses, justifications, tolerance. As he’d always said, Dick was Dick, take him or leave him.
So now, Joe had to leave.
He let the thought settle, grim and undeniable, like a frozen rock in the pit of his stomach. Then he peeled his hand off the mug, crossed his arms and leaned back, mimicking Dick’s posture. His pulse pounded in his temples and his lungs burned as he held a match to the fuse that would blow this particular bridge out of the water, but he sounded amazingly calm. “I’ve had a lot of offers. Accepted a few. I’ll have to see what else I can squeeze in.”
Dick’s eyes went squinty, the grooves around his mouth digging so deep they nearly cut through the leathery flesh. The legs of his chair thumped to the floor and he spit his toothpick onto his plate. “Is this your way of tryin’ to squeeze more money out of me?”
“No.”
Dick’s head jerked at the flat tone, as if Joe had thrown a legitimate offer back in his face. Joe shouldn’t have been surprised. It always came down to the money with Dick. “Well, I can’t twiddle my thumbs while you’re dithering around, waiting for the highest bid,” Dick snapped.
“Then find someone else.” The words felt like jagged pieces of his soul, ripped out one by one.
For a moment, Dick just glared. Then he stood, grabbed his hat from the rack and jammed it onto his head. “I’ve got work to do.”
He didn’t ask if Joe planned to help, which pretty much said it all. The door cracked into the frame behind him, followed by the bang of Helen’s coffee mug onto the table. “That miserable old bastard. He’d cut his tongue out of his head before he’d admit how much he needs you around here.”
She heaved out of her chair, multiple chins quivering in fury. The eyes that usually sparkled with good humor were spitting fire as she snatched up plates and slapped silverware on top. She dumped the pile of dishes in the sink with a clatter loud enough to make Joe flinch.
“A man who can’t admit he made a mistake doesn’t deserve to call himself one. Best thing for you, getting out of here.”
Tell that to his gut when it felt like it was turning inside out, threatening to reject everything he’d just eaten. He shoved his chair back and stood, knowing there were things he should say, but at a loss. The end had come too quickly, and too quietly. After all the years, all the miles, there should be more. Shaking fists, shouting, a decade and a half of suppressed rage and frustration, exploding into words.
He should have known Dick wouldn’t even allow him that much satisfaction. That much importance.
A long, weary sigh trickled out of him. He didn’t have the energy to fake a smile. “Thanks for lunch. I’m going to miss your pot roast. I probably will waste away to nothing without you to feed me.”
Helen studied him for a long moment. Then she dropped her dish towel, walked over and gave him a hug, wrapping her bulk around him like a warm blanket. When she stepped back, tears glistened in her eyes. “You’ve been the best thing about this place for a long time, Joe Cassidy. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stand it with you gone.”
While he tried to muster a response, she grabbed the leftover beef off the table, carried it to the counter and covered it with aluminum foil, her movements swift and efficient.
“I don’t know when I’ll get your dish back to you,” Joe said, as she pressed the plate into his hands.
“Leave it at the bar. I’ll pick it up.” She squeezed his arm. “Take care, Joe. Better yet, break down and let someone else give it a try.”
Yeah. Like people were lining up for that job. He lifted the plate. “Thanks for this. I’ll see you…around.”
Helen patted his shoulder. “Be sure to say hello. And Joe? If you ever need anything—a meal, an ear to bend—you just let me know.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
He walked outside, set the plate on the hood of his Jeep and braced his hands on the car as he drank in the landscape. Clouds hung low, trailing shreds of fog through the draws, the sky a solid sheet of gray that sucked what little color there was out of the parched brown hills. The air was dry and brittle in his lungs, the chilly breeze whistling across the flat and through the yard. Joe hunched his shoulders against its bite, but still he stood, trying to imprint the scene on his mind. Down in the corral, the newly weaned colts wandered around, bickering amongst themselves and nosing at the hay in the feeder, bewildered by their unexpected change in circumstances.
Joe could relate. It didn’t hurt as bad as he’d expected, though. It was worse. Like having his guts carved out, leaving nothing inside him but a massive, hemorrhaging wound. A giant vise squeezing his chest until it cracked right down the middle. He dragged in a lungful of the sage-scented air, held it as if he could absorb the molecules into his bones, but it wasn’t his to keep any more than the land. It never had been. Judging by the way he felt right now, losing it all might actually kill him.
His gaze was glued to the rearview mirror as he drove slowly away, until he topped the last rise and the High Lonesome disappeared.
Back in town, Main Street was scattered with the usual assortment of battered ranch pickups and dusty SUVs, nobody in a big hurry to get anywhere on a Thursday afternoon. Joe flipped his turn signal on to circle around to his parking space in the alley behind the Mint Bar, then flipped it off again when he caught a flash of gleaming, fire engine red at the curb out front. A ’69 Camaro with a broad white racing stripe up the middle and BLLDNCR on the vanity plates.
Bull dancer. Hell.
Joe parked behind the Camaro. He felt weird walking in the front door of the Mint instead of the back hallway, adjacent to the stairs down from his apartment. He paused on the threshold to nod hello to the bartender and take note of the crutches leaning beside the only man sitting at the battered wooden bar.
“Nice haircut,” Wyatt said. “Planning to buy a suit and go door-to-door selling Bi
bles?”
Joe pulled off his hat and ran a hand over his head. “It isn’t any shorter than yours.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got choir boy in my genes. It suits me.”
Joe slid onto the next barstool and nodded at Wyatt’s ankle. “Is it broken?”
“Just a chip off the end of my ankle bone. The plate held where it was broken before.”
So no surgery. Some good news in an otherwise shitty day.
“Whatcha need, Joe?” the bartender called down, with an eye still on the television.
“Coke.” Joe assumed Wyatt’s glass held the same. They’d outgrown the days of afternoon drinking that stretched into an all-night binge. “Did you drive all the way down here to insult my hair?”
“Nah, but that was almost worth the trip.” Wyatt plugged one end of his straw with a finger, lifted it from his glass, and sucked it dry, his gaze dissecting Joe the whole time. “How’d it go with Dick?”
“I quit.” When Wyatt didn’t say anything, Joe slanted him a bitter smile. “What? No victory dance?”
“I’ve got a broken ankle and you look like you just had to shoot your best horse.”
Joe jabbed his straw into his glass. Wondered what the bartender would say if he asked for a shot of grenadine, like the Rob Roys his mother used to buy for him here when they had something to celebrate. Yee-haw. He was moving on up whether he wanted to or not.
“Fifteen years,” he said, stabbing an ice cube. “Half my life, I’ve worked on that ranch. I saw most of those horses and bulls born. Watched them grow up. I’ve hiked or ridden every inch of that ground, strung damn near every strand of barbed wire on the place. How do you expect me to feel?”
Wyatt didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. “It’s hard for me to relate. I’ve never felt that way about a chunk of land.”
A chunk of land—like it was just dirt and didn’t have a soul of its own. Joe almost felt bad for Wyatt. Wouldn’t it be worse to have never felt grounded, even if being uprooted ripped you in two? Joe watched bubbles weave between the ice cubes in his glass, wishing it was something stronger than Coke. What did it matter? Wasn’t like he had any place to be tomorrow. Or the next day.
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