They sat in silence, listening to the clink of ice in their glasses, the bartender grumbling under his breath at a defendant on one of those afternoon Judge Somebody shows.
“I’m still not sorry I sent you down there,” Wyatt said. “It was good for you.”
Yeah, just fucking great. It wasn’t enough, losing the High Lonesome. Might as well toss in those cold sweats every time he let himself remember how he’d put his hand on Violet’s stomach, imagined a baby there, and thought Mine. Icy fingers clamped around his windpipe and it was all he could do not to claw at his throat.
He jammed his hand into his pocket, dragged out a few dollars, and slapped them on the bar. “Hey, Chuck, toss me a bag of cashews, would ya?”
With a side of whiskey. Booze wouldn’t fix anything, but if he drank enough of it he might stop smelling and tasting and feeling Violet with every cell in his body.
“There are other ranches,” Wyatt said.
“Perfect. I could get my ass kicked down the road again in another five or ten years.”
“Not if you’re part owner.” Wyatt shot an arm out and intercepted the bag of cashews the bartender tossed to Joe, ripped it open and helped himself to a few before passing it on. “There are plenty of contractors out there who’d be willing to take on a partner in exchange for an infusion of cash.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.” Yet.
“Close enough to borrow the difference.”
Joe froze, cashews scattering onto the bar from the bag he’d upended onto his palm. “How do you know?”
“You leave your statements sitting around. How can I not look? What do you live on, peanut butter and ramen noodles?” Wyatt made a thoughtful face, ignoring Joe’s glare. “Frank’s been kicking my broker’s ass for the past three years. I don’t suppose he’d consider managing my portfolio?”
“Only if he marries your mother.”
Wyatt grimaced. “I wouldn’t even wish that on Dickhead. But if you need more capital, Frank would finance you in a heartbeat. He probably keeps that much in his checking account.”
Joe wouldn’t be surprised. He also wouldn’t dream of asking. Too damn awkward to be in business with Frank when Roxy decided to bail again. A smart man didn’t get his money tangled up with his personal life.
Wyatt took a slow, casual sip, then said, “I heard there’s an outfit in Texas looking to expand.”
The icy claws drove straight into Joe’s spinal cord. “They don’t want my money.”
Could he even buy his way back into Violet’s good graces after what he’d done, lighting out of her bed like a stray cat with a belly full of gunpowder and a fuse up his ass? Except she hadn’t been pissed. Hadn’t seemed fazed at all. She’d just shrugged it off, like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.
“Why not? Violet is perfect—”
“And I’m not. I’ve got nothing she needs.”
Wyatt popped a cashew in his mouth, chewed, eyeing Joe as he lined up his argument. “A woman doesn’t need a man who’s honest, reliable, works hard, and is crazy about her?”
“I’m not—”
“Bullshit. On top of all that, you’re damn good with bucking stock.”
Joe stabbed viciously at an ice cube with his straw. “And I suck at relationships.”
“How do you know? You’ve never had one.”
“My point exactly. I don’t even have a role model. Every relationship I’ve been anywhere near has gone to hell.” He shot a glare at Wyatt. “Including yours, brain child. And I’m not gonna practice on Violet, even if she was interested in letting me.”
Wyatt’s mouth twitched. “So…what? You’re saving yourself for a girl you don’t like?”
Joe shoved him off the barstool. Wyatt landed on his feet, cursing when his injured ankle had to bear weight.
“Hey! No picking on the wounded.”
Joe dumped the last of the cashews into his mouth and ground them to a paste between his teeth. “Then get off my ass.”
“Fine. I’ll shut up…for now.” Wyatt eased back onto his stool and sat sipping his Coke and contemplating the dusty jars of pickled eggs and pigs feet behind the bar, quiet for a few blissful moments. Then he dug out his money clip, waved the bartender over and flipped a fifty down in front of him.
“Top us off with a shot of Pendleton. And leave the bottle.” When Chuck hesitated, Wyatt reached over and plucked Joe’s keys off the bar, dangling them along with his own from one finger. “I’ll toss these in, if it makes you feel better. I think we can manage to walk home.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Chuck said, taking the keys. “But I’m off at six so someone else can haul you up those damn stairs.”
He doused both glasses with whiskey and thumped the half full bottle between them on the bar. Wyatt swiped a couple of dollar bills from Joe’s pile of change and hobbled over to the jukebox. Joe picked up his glass, sniffed, then took a healthy gulp of pure alcohol off the top. As it burned a trail to his stomach, Wyatt punched in a set of numbers. The jukebox twanged to life and George Strait sang, “Amarillo by morning…”
“I hate you,” Joe said, and took another long pull off his drink.
Chapter 37
Violet climbed out of her car and trudged up the metal stairs to Delon’s apartment over the office of Sanchez Trucking, her body sluggish, as if drained by the bucket loads of tears she’d shed since Joe left. She’d told herself he’d come to his senses once the plane left the ground, call her the instant he landed, but the hours had passed without a peep. Then she’d said okay, maybe when he got home, but the sun set and the phone stayed silent all through the cold, endless night. And the next. And the next.
She’d scoured the social media sites, Googled herself blind in the wee hours when sleep wasn’t an option, but hadn’t found a single current mention of Joe Cassidy or Dick Browning. She assumed no news was bad news.
She’d put all her cards on the table, gone all in, and it wasn’t enough. She’d lost. The High Lonesome had won. And it didn’t even help knowing that Joe was hurting, too, probably even more than she was. After all, she’d put him in an impossible situation. Forced him to choose between two futures. Two loves.
And she’d lost. At least she didn’t have to try to put on a happy face. Smiles had been thin on the ground at the Jacobs Ranch since the orthopedic surgeon had confirmed their worst fears. Delon’s knee was wrecked—medial collateral, anterior cruciate, cartilage. Forget the National Finals and any chance at the world title. He’d be lucky to ride again by the middle of next season. Delon was taking it as well as could be expected. Beni was heartbroken. Violet couldn’t do a damn thing to fix them, either.
She paused, made a concerted effort to wipe the doom and gloom off her face, and knocked on the door.
“It’s open!” Delon yelled.
She stepped inside and found him trying to maneuver into a seated position on the faded tweed couch. “Don’t get up on my account.”
He ignored her, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs as he swung his injured leg to the floor, strapped up from hip to ankle in a rigid brace. “Beni was bouncing off the walls so I sent him over to play at Gil’s with one of the drivers’ kids.”
Gil had a house out behind the shop, with a swing set and a basketball hoop and an actual white picket fence—a caricature of the perfect family home. No lawyer would ever accuse him of not providing a good environment for his son.
“You look better today,” she said.
“Finally got a decent night’s sleep.”
“That’s good.” God, could this conversation get any more trivial? All the years they’d been friends and suddenly they had nothing to talk about. “I’ll get Beni’s stuff gathered up.”
Delon reached out and snagged her wrist. “Would you sit for a minute? Please? I…we should talk.
”
Oh. Hell. The fatal words. She hesitated, then gave in, sinking down beside him.
He scooted around to face her, cradling her hand in his. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, Violet. Seeing that video, knowing how much worse it could have been for me or for you—well, it makes me realize maybe we don’t have all the time in the world.”
She nodded, dread gathering like a slow-moving cold front deep in her gut. Oh no. Not now.
“You and Beni are the center of my world, Violet. I couldn’t tell you how many times I was alone somewhere, too far from home, beat to hell and bone-tired, when being able to pick up the phone and talk to you was the only thing that kept me going.” He folded both hands around hers, his grip tight. “I know it’s not all sizzle and fireworks, but what we do have is real, and it’s good. If we just give it a chance…”
Violet could only stare at him. By Delon’s standards, he was a mess. Two days of stubble on his chin, his T-shirt, gym shorts, and hair all rumpled. And still, he was gorgeous. Solid. And here. Always here, whatever she needed. Maybe he couldn’t give her fireworks, but Delon would never blow her heart to pieces and disappear into the smoke. She had a sudden, powerful urge to crawl into his arms. It would be so easy to let him soothe away some of the pain…
And so completely unfair to both of them.
“Delon…”
“Just think about it. Please.” His voice dropped to a low, pleading note.
“I can’t.”
His grip loosened, animosity darkening his eyes. “Because of Joe.”
It would be easier if she lied, but only in the short term. This was another of those bandages that had to be ripped off, and it would have to happen when they were both so wounded. She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip to stop the trembling and said, quiet but final, “No.”
“So it’s just me.” His hands dropped hers and he slumped back against the couch.
“No! Lord, Delon. Look at yourself.” She sketched a frame in the air around him. “You’re amazing—a helluva bareback rider, a great guy, a wonderful father, and gorgeous on top of it. I’ve gotta be some kind of fool not to be in love with you.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Apparently, there are a lot of foolish women in the world.”
Her tattered heart shredded a little bit more because he had given her so much, and she did love him—just not in the way they both deserved. And here she was, kicking him when he was down.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
As sorry as she’d ever been in her life, but she couldn’t fix this, either, any more than she could conjure up the cash to buy out Buck McCloud, or be woman enough to make Joe turn his back on Dick Browning and the High Lonesome. Everything she touched lately seemed to crumble into dust and trickle through her fingers, leaving her with nothing but the gritty taste of failure on her tongue.
Footsteps hammered on the metal stairs and they both had time to brace themselves before Beni burst in the door. “Mommy! You’re finally here! Can we go right now so I can ride my pony and…”
Beni chattered the entire time she gathered his things, so excited to get home to the ranch he never noticed that his parents didn’t say a word.
She stopped to fetch the mail out of her box before continuing on down the driveway. The minute she parked, Beni was off and running to beg his grandpa or Cole to saddle up his pony. Violet went inside and slumped on the couch to sort through the mail. Junk mail. Junk mail. Grocery store sale flyer. Credit card bill. Phone bill. Pro Rodeo Sports News. She flipped the magazine over and sucked in a breath, the headline another punch in the gut.
Sanchez finishes strong. The cover photo was classic Delon, from the rodeo in Ellensburg, Washington. The magazine had gone to print before his wreck. Violet blew out a long, defeated breath. Lord, she could use a break. Just a tiny ray of light in this long, cold tunnel. Tears welled, blurring the words as she paged through the magazine half-heartedly, mostly stories about the cowboys on the bubble, just above or below the magical fifteenth slot in the standings that would get them to the National Finals.
And whoo-hoo. Another big-name contractor had hit the jackpot, selling shares in one of his top bulls to some country singer who’d divvied up major cash to be listed as owner, corner bragging rights, while the contractor kept hauling and bucking the bull as usual. Too bad Jacobs Livestock wasn’t in a position to tap that market. She could sell a piece of Dirt Eater for enough to finance the McCloud sale and then some. Celebrities and rich dabblers wanted the bright lights, though, not the back roads. It was all about hearing your name announced on television and…
Violet lowered the magazine to her lap. It was all about hearing your name…
What if she turned that concept on its head? She mentally poked at the idea, rearranging the pieces, chucking one here and adding another there until she had something worth considering. It could work. It would work for sure if Dirt Eater got selected to go to the National Finals, and they should be getting word on that any day now. There was only one very large obstacle to overcome.
Cole was at the arena, rebuilding one of the chute gates. He turned off the cutting torch and shoved the protective goggles up onto his forehead as she approached.
“What?” he asked.
“I have an idea. Just promise you’ll listen all the way through and really think about it before you say no.”
He squinted at her for several pained moments. Then he nodded.
* * *
That evening, she convened an emergency meeting of the Jacobs Livestock board of directors around her mother’s kitchen table. Her mother and Lily were openly curious, her father wary, and Cole a complete blank.
Violet cleared her throat. She smoothed a hand over her notes, incredibly nervous considering this was just her family. “Cole and I have been talking…as you’re all aware, we need a hundred thousand dollars cash money to buy out Buck McCloud without putting ourselves in a serious pinch. Dirt Eater is worth at least five times that much. If he’s picked for the NFR this year, his value will go up considerably.” She raised a hand to ward off their protests. “By my reckoning, we could sell shares up to forty-five percent, buy Buck’s stock, and have enough liquidity to operate comfortably.”
They stared at her for a moment. Then her father said, “But we keep the bull.”
Violet looked at Cole, who was staring down at the table, before answering. “First—and most important—no matter who buys in or where he bucks, we would require that Jacobs Livestock always be listed as the main contractor.”
The ramifications took a moment to sink in.
“We don’t keep the bull,” her father said slowly. “You’re proposing that we sell shares to another contractor. Somebody who’ll take him to the really big shows.”
“Yes. But we’ll still be the majority owner, so we’d be included in any and all decisions, and…” She glanced at Cole again, and now he was watching her. “We would be able to have someone there with him whenever we wanted.”
“And every time he bucks, they’d announce our name,” Iris said, a glimmer of excitement sparking in her eyes.
Lily reached over to squeeze Cole’s arm. “Are you okay with this?”
He flattened his big hands on the table top, as if counting his fingers. “If it meant seein’ my daddy’s bull buck at Cheyenne or San Antonio under the Jacobs name…yeah, I’d like that. Especially if I could be there with him, now and again.” Cole drew in a breath so deep it stretched the buttons on his shirt. “As long as you’re all here, you should know I’ve been seein’ Mrs. Davenport at the school.”
“Seeing?” Iris echoed, shocked. “As in—”
“She’s the special education teacher,” Lily cut in, without peeling her eyes off Cole.
“Yeah. She did some tests, and it turns out I’m not just an asshole. I’m autistic.”
Vio
let gaped at him. “But how—”
“Joe. He knows someone like me, and he gave me stuff—a video and some magazine articles. It fit.”
Silence reigned as they all tried to grapple with this new bombshell. Then her father said, “So now what?”
Cole shrugged. “Mrs. Davenport says we can work on developing my social skills.”
“She can teach you not to be an asshole?” Lily asked.
“Lily!” Iris smacked her arm.
“He said it first,” Lily shot back.
Violet laughed. Once she started she couldn’t stop because it was all too much and she’d been so twisted up with Joe and Delon and everything she just came unwound. Lily started laughing at Violet, and then Iris lost it, and the three of them practically rolled off onto the floor while her father and Cole stared at them like they’d lost their ever-lovin’ minds.
Violet’s phone buzzed and she had to wipe away the tears and try to sound halfway normal when she answered.
“This is Vince Grant,” a gruff voice said. “I hope you haven’t made any plans for the first week in December. We’d like to have that bull of yours at the Finals.”
And with that, the Jacobs Livestock business meeting turned into a party.
Chapter 38
The moonlit Mexican beach was deserted at three a.m. No one to see or care how long Joe stared out at the waves. But rather than soothing him, the rhythmic roar of the surf only echoed the ceaseless pounding in his head. He’d tried to outrun it. First by taking his mother up on her offer to fly off to Mexico. Then mile after mile after mile on the hard-packed sand, in the sun, in the wind, at god-awful hours of the night.
No matter how far he ran, there was no escaping his thoughts. The memories. The dreams that stalked him on the rare occasions that he managed to sleep. Violet, warm and naked in his arms, then suddenly not, her answer a cold, cruel laugh when he begged to see her again. Dick, snarling and cursing about how he’d always known Joe wouldn’t turn out to be worth a shit. In his dreams Joe hiked the hills of the High Lonesome. Then suddenly, it changed, and he was running through the Canadian river breaks, trying to catch up with Violet, but she kept disappearing, leaving him to stumble through the unfamiliar darkness alone. So he didn’t sleep.
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