“What’s a steed?” Drew asked.
“A powerful horse.”
“Cupcake’s not powerful.”
“Says who?”
While they were taking Cupcake to the barn, Mercer hailed Ryder. “There you are.”
“You go on,” Tatum said “I can unsaddle Cupcake.”
He waved to his father and kept walking. “Be right there, Dad.”
“Are you stalling?” She didn’t intend to be blunt; the question had simply slipped out.
“A little.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” He took her arm as if to hurry her.
Under different circumstances, she’d have appreciated the sensation of his fingers firmly pressing into her flesh. Instead, her hackles rose. The past forty minutes had been simply a ruse.
“You don’t have to use me, use the kids, as an excuse to avoid your family.”
“Is that what you think?” Ryder asked.
Tatum’s chin went up. “Frankly, yes.”
They stopped outside the tack room. Drew held Cupcake’s reins out of reach while Adam jumped up and down in place, crying, “Me, me, me.”
“Okay, it’s true. I am avoiding my family.” Before she could offer a retort, he reached up and cupped her cheek. He didn’t stop there and brushed the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip. “But I can’t think of a better diversion.”
Oh, to lean into his hand. Better yet, stand on her tiptoes and press her lips to his incredible mouth.
Steeling her resolve, she resisted. “Thank you. The boys appreciate it.”
“I wasn’t talking about them.”
“Ryder.” Her voice almost failed her.
“You’re right.” He let his hand drop. “Much as I’d like to explore possibilities, I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Because I work for your family?”
“That’s one reason.”
“I might not be an Easy Money employee for much longer if the school board approves the new budget.”
“Let’s see what happens.” He patted Drew’s head. “Come on, you two. I need help unsaddling this steed.”
Tatum fought off the pain. Ryder hadn’t exactly jumped for joy when she mentioned the possibility of returning to teaching. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? He might still be cupping her cheek.
* * *
RYDER AND HIS father sat in the rickety wooden stands. Third row. They were the sole spectators. The arena at the Lost Dutchman Rodeo Company in Apache Junction wasn’t set up to accommodate official rodeo events. These stands were reserved strictly for customers, such as the Becketts, in order to observe the available bucking stock in action.
And they were getting a lot of action this morning. The five bulls they’d seen so far were all prize-winning and in their prime. No one could fault their quality or potential.
The final bull scheduled to view was, at that moment, being herded from the narrow runway into the bucking chute. He was a tough-looking Brahma crossbreed with a large dark patch on his hind end that, if one used imagination, resembled the shape of a closed fist. Ryder wondered if that was any indication of the bull’s bucking abilities.
Slowly, the cowboy lowered himself onto the bull’s back, his spotter straddling the wall beside him and ready to pull the flat braided rope that would tighten the cowboy’s grip. Two other Lost Dutchman hands stood nearby, their boots on the bottom rung of the fence, arms slung over the top rail. If necessary, they’d jump in and pull the cowboy off, should, for any reason, the bull become agitated or threatening.
“Watch.” Ryder’s father nodded in the direction of the chute. “That brute will dive left the second he breaks free.”
“You’re wrong. He’s going to buck.”
“See him turning his head? He’s setting his course.”
“Nope. He’s pawing the ground with his back left hoof.”
An easy grin spread across his father’s face. They’d disagreed like this before. Often. All in good sport. “Winner buys lunch?”
“Get your wallet out.”
The wooden floorboard beneath Ryder’s feet vibrated, alerting him of Donnie Statler’s approach.
Though only in his late fifties, the owner of the Lost Dutchman moved like an eighty-year-old, as if every bone in his body screamed in agony. They probably did. A lifetime of rodeoing was hard on a man.
“What do you think so far?” Donnie slowly lowered himself onto the bleacher seat next to Ryder.
The three had chatted earlier when Ryder and his father arrived that morning. Donnie had taken them around to view the stock and given them a brief rundown on each bull, its history and potential. This was Ryder’s first meeting with Donnie, though his father knew the man from back in the day and his many years as a bucking stock contractor. Ryder would have to be deaf and blind not to notice the tension between the two.
They were about the same age and had, from the stories they’d shared earlier, once competed against each other. Heatedly. Both in rodeoing and, as Donnie was quick to point out, for the attention of Ryder’s mother—when they were on the circuit and later, after the divorce.
But Ryder didn’t think a long-ago rivalry was the cause of the tension. At least for Donnie. Ryder’s guess, and he’d bet money on it, was that Donnie didn’t appreciate the competition from the Easy Money, which had increased with the recent purchase of their own bucking bulls.
And, yet, here they were, looking at bulls to lease for their Wild West Days Rodeo. Not in competition with the Lost Dutchman at all but as its customer.
Donnie gave Ryder’s knee a friendly slap. One with remarkable strength. Apparently he wasn’t in as much pain as he appeared. “You can take a spin on that fellow, if you have a hankering.”
“Thanks.” Ryder chuckled. “Been far too many years for me to try.” Fifteen, to be exact.
“Like riding a bicycle, my friend. You never forget.”
Ryder had his doubts. “Maybe we can start with something smaller.”
“Got us a few young steers in the back.”
“I was thinking more of that bike you mentioned.”
The men indulged in a good laugh. A moment later, the tension resumed.
“Was a time you leased a whole lot more bulls from me,” Donnie said.
Ryder’s father was quick with a comeback. “For a while there, we didn’t lease any.”
That was true. After a bull-goring accident, which left an Easy Money cowboy permanently disabled, Ryder’s mother sold off their entire herd. From then on, during the arena’s four annual rodeos, she’d lease bulls from Donnie. It had been an agreeable and profitable arrangement for both parties, up until Ryder’s father had returned and purchased six new bulls. It was his plan to purchase more.
Donnie chewed thoughtfully on an unlit matchstick. “I’ve come to count on the income. The loss will cut into my profits.”
“That’s the way of business.”
Hearing his father’s retort, Ryder wanted to elbow him in the ribs. The day might come when the Becketts didn’t need the Lost Dutchman. Today wasn’t it. With entries pouring in for the rodeo, they’d need a lot more than their six bulls. Donnie’s were the best around and the least expensive to transport. Angering him would serve no purpose, even if he did seize every opportunity to goad Ryder’s father.
“Look, Donnie,” Ryder said. “You don’t have us over a barrel, but you have us edged up against one. For the moment, we’d like to continue doing business with you.”
The other man merely grunted.
Ryder’s father smirked. “He’s not the only bucking stock contractor in the state.”
“I could call my mother,” Ryder said. “I know you and she have always been able to come to terms.”<
br />
Donnie broke out in a wide, gap-toothed grin and slapped Ryder’s knee again. “Best idea you’ve had all day, young man.”
His father’s piercing glare could have melted titanium. “We can negotiate an agreement just fine without involving Sunny.”
That was what Ryder thought all along.
Conversation came to a stop when the chute door opened, and the Brahma bull exploded into the arena, first, two, then, all four hooves off the ground.
Beside him, Ryder’s father muttered, “Damn. Would’ve sworn that fellow’d go left.”
Ryder had no time to savor his victory. Beating impossible odds, the cowboy hung on, even spurring the bull to greater heights. The Brahma twisted to the left, to the right, and to the left again before raising his hind feet an easy six feet off the ground.
The display was great while it lasted. An instant before the buzzer went off, the cowboy lost the battle and was launched into the air, sailing high over the bull’s head. Having the sense to tuck himself into a ball, he landed well off to the side of the beast, which was quickly chased to the far end of the small arena and out the gate by two more Lost Dutchman hands. The cowboy was up and dusting off his jeans long before the hands reached him.
“Puño won’t disappoint,” Donnie observed.
Spanish for fist, Ryder thought. The mark on the bull’s hind quarters. It was an appropriate name. “I don’t think any of your stock will.”
“Damn straight.”
“We could use six more in addition to the ones we’ve seen, if you have that many available.”
“Might.” Donnie eyed him, the unlit matchstick bobbing up and down.
“Let’s talk.” Ryder rose and waited for the other man. Behind him, his father also stood. He half expected Mercer to insist on taking over. That didn’t happen. Good. His father was showing some sense.
Ryder hadn’t intended to assume control of the negotiations or step on his father’s toes. But this was business. Not personal. He had no history with Donnie and wasn’t about to lose sight of the bigger goal simply because his ego took a hit.
An hour later, Ryder and his father left the Lost Dutchman with a copy of their newly signed and dated commitment to lease.
“I’m hungry,” his father said the moment he was behind the wheel. He’d insisted on driving. “Let’s stop at the Flat Iron for that lunch I owe you.”
Ryder didn’t object and not only because he’d won the bet. Neither of them was much for cooking. If they didn’t eat out at least one meal a day, they’d starve.
“You were good back there, son. I’m glad you tagged along.”
“I am, too. If only to meet Donnie.”
Originally, Ryder had thought he’d stay at the arena. The farrier was due this morning, and he’d wanted to inspect Cupcake. A pony’s feet were small and different from a horse’s, which no doubt accounted for the ill-fitting shoe in the first place. But Liberty said she’d inspect the farrier’s work before paying him. Next to Ryder and his father, she was the best choice and most knowledgeable.
Just as well. Ryder wasn’t sure another encounter with Tatum was a good idea under the circumstances. Seemed every time they were together, he either said or did something to give her the wrong impression.
His fault. She’d looked so vulnerable yesterday, he couldn’t resist touching her. If only to assure her. Except, he’d done the opposite. She was more confused than ever. He’d be, too, if someone continued giving him mixed signals.
He expelled a long, slow breath. It had been worth it. Her skin was the color of gold and the texture of satin. He’d wanted to slide his palm from her cheek to her neck, then drive his fingers into that incredible hair. What might it look like fanned across his pillow? Better yet, across his naked chest.
Dangerous thoughts he’d best avoid. Tatum Mayweather’s desires were written all over her face. Gold ring, white picket fence and good stepdad to her kids. Ryder would disappoint her, sooner if not later.
“Those terms you negotiated were good,” his father said. “Better than our last contract with Donnie.”
They were in the truck, heading back to Reckless.
“It was a simple contract, Dad. Tatum could have done just as well.”
“She doesn’t know the first thing about marketing or promotion. And she sure as heck doesn’t know about bucking stock contracts.”
“She might surprise you. Have you considered giving her more responsibility?”
“She’s quitting and going back to teaching.”
What would his father think if he found out that Ryder was working with a headhunter? He wouldn’t be happy, that was for sure.
Ryder hadn’t promised forever. That didn’t mean his father and Liberty believed otherwise. She’d pressured him hard last night at dinner to reconcile with their mother, certain if he did, he’d stay. Ryder hadn’t wanted to disappoint her, but he wasn’t ready.
Three days home and he’d hardly seen or spoken to his mother, other than the homecoming lunch. She might be giving him time and space to come around. Ryder was choosing the path of least resistance.
“Three months.”
“What?” Ryder shook his head to clear it.
“That’s my target date,” his father said. “To buy more bulls. Enough so that we don’t have to lease any from the Lost Dutchman or anyone else. Also some heifers. Within a year, we’ll start breeding and raising our own bucking stock.”
“Then we will be in competition with Donnie.”
“There’s room enough for both of us. He’s strictly a contractor. We have the arena. And he doesn’t have your mother.”
“Aren’t you carrying an old jealousy a bit too far?”
“Not talking about that. Your mom’s smart as a whip. She and I, we were unstoppable once. Going to be again.”
What his parents did wasn’t really any of his business. Still, Ryder felt the need to caution his father. “Can you trust Mom?”
“Are you kidding? She’s great with money.”
“She threw you out.”
“I deserved that. I was a drunk and hell-bent on bankrupting the arena.”
“You didn’t deserve it, Dad. People make mistakes. You have to quit defending her.”
“If I’d have stayed, I might not have gotten sober. Sometimes you just have to cauterize the wound. Hurts like the dickens, but that’s the only way it’ll heal.”
“All right.”
“Your mother’s not a bad person, son.”
Ryder wasn’t in the mood to debate. “I’ll just shut up now.”
“Is that why you haven’t married? Because your mother and me couldn’t make a go of it?”
“I was married.”
“Not for long. And, as far as I can tell, there hasn’t been anyone serious since. Hate thinking it’s your mom’s and my fault.”
Ryder sat back and stared out the windshield. While he’d have liked to dismiss his father’s question as nonsense, he couldn’t and had asked himself the same thing more than once.
Putting his career first or not finding the right woman were his go-to replies when pressed about his bachelorhood. Could it be he didn’t believe in the institution of marriage? Not only had he failed at it, so had his parents. Miserably. Their divorce had wound up dividing his entire family.
With that kind of history, anyone would be scared of commitment, even with a lovely and appealing woman like Tatum Mayweather.
Chapter Five
Tatum wore a skirt today but not because she and Ryder were scheduled to go over the current bucking stock contracts together. Absolutely not. Sometimes, she abandoned her customary jeans in favor of dressier clothes. Like when a representative from the regional office of the PCA visited the arena or during the annual liability in
surance audit last month.
She tugged on the front of her skirt as she sat at her desk, making sure the material lay smooth. Right, who was she fooling? She’d totally dressed up for Ryder.
How could she be annoyed at him for sending out mixed signals when she wore an outfit meant to encourage signals? Just as well she hadn’t seen much of him the past few days. The upcoming rodeo and the Easy Money’s participation in Wild West Days was keeping them both busy. She’d heard from Liberty that he’d inspected Cupcake’s new shoeing job and gave the farrier a passing grade.
That was a relief. She really should remember to thank him.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, something she’d been doing all day in anticipation of Ryder’s arrival, she smoothed her skirt again. Not that it had wrinkled in the past five minutes.
Luckily, the phone rang, and she was temporarily distracted from stressing over what was nothing more than a work session between two fellow employees. She’d barely hung up when the Federal Express deliveryman arrived with a package. Tatum couldn’t wait to see the contents. Placing the large box on her desk, she opened it and rifled through the packing material like a dog digging a hole.
Carefully, she removed the navy banner with its gold trim and silver lettering. It looked good, great even, and she allowed herself a moment’s satisfaction.
Tatum had been put in charge of designing and ordering the new banner, the old one being a worn relic. She’d also convinced Sunny that, in order to be properly represented, the arena’s logo needed a redesign. If it turned out terrible, Tatum would have borne the responsibility entirely.
But it hadn’t, though she couldn’t be a hundred percent sure until she saw the banner unfurled. With little room to maneuver, and not wanting to soil the fabric, she draped all eight feet of it across her desk. The ends hung over the sides, distorting the effect. She was just rethinking her approach when Ryder entered the office from the barn door.
“Nice,” he commented, taking in the banner.
She could have said the same thing about him. In the week since his arrival, his clothes had gone from having that store-bought newness to casually comfortable. At first glance, he’d easily pass for one of the arena’s regular hands. Any better looking and Tatum would do something stupid, like preen or swoon or—heaven forbid—flirt.
Her Rodeo Man Page 6