The fucking nerve of Jayden, looking at her like she should be thrilled to see him. Screw that bullshit. But had she told him so? No. She couldn’t say a word while she was being gang-tackled by the ghosts of feelings past—hers and his.
But she’d managed to call Gil a prick for trying to salvage a few scraps of her pride.
She heaved a disgusted sigh and tossed the comb aside. The interior of Shawnee’s trailer was dim, the shades pulled tight against the midday sun. It was tempting to hide out in there for the rest of the afternoon. Bad enough that she had to explain herself to Gil, but she also had to face Tori. And Shawnee. And…everyone.
God, why couldn’t she just be normal for five stinking minutes? And had she mentioned—damn Jayden.
She pulled on a camisole constructed of layers of black lace and gauze to replace her sweaty tank top. God. It was like a bad dream, Jayden and Gil coming face-to-face.
But seeing—and feeling—the two men in close proximity had been a revelation. In contrast to Gil’s diamond-hard sheen, Jayden wavered like a candle, vulnerable to every breeze and in need of a constant outside source of oxygen. No wonder she’d sometimes felt suffocated. He used up a lot of air.
She pushed her hair back over her shoulders and tied on a beaded headband to hold it off her face. Then she made direct eye contact with herself in the mirror. Suck it up, Sunshine. Lord knew it wasn’t the first time she’d looked stupid where Jayden was concerned.
But thanks to Gil, it might be the last.
When Carma pushed the door open, she found Tori sprawled in one of the loungers, also in shorts and sandals, a snug red tank layered under a matching crocheted tee, sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head.
Carma curled her fingers in a Bring it on gesture. “Go ahead. Hit me.”
“If Gil hadn’t been here, would you have gone with him?” Tori said promptly.
Carma sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s honest at least.”
Carma slumped into a lawn chair, dropping her face into her hands so she wouldn’t have to read the judgment in Tori’s eyes. “I don’t even know how to explain to a person like you.”
“And that would be what kind, exactly?”
“Someone with too much self-respect to let that happen.” Carma flung an arm toward where Jayden had last been seen.
“I haven’t always been this cool,” Tori said dryly. “You’re looking at a woman who dragged some cowboy home from a New Year’s Eve party, jumped his bones, then let him waltz in and out of her door for months—no calls, no flowers, not even a damn Valentine’s card in between.”
Carma hands dropped limp between her knees. “You?”
“Me.” Tori shrugged. “I was nuts about him, and my self-esteem wasn’t the best back then.”
“Did you end it, or did he?”
“I moved to Cheyenne and didn’t leave a forwarding address, because I knew if he called, I’d cave. Then I met my first husband and he taught me what it means to be in a real relationship.” Her expression clouded, and Carma recalled that she’d been widowed in her twenties. Then Tori grinned. “For the record, Shawnee would’ve body-slammed you before she let you leave with that jerk.”
Carma blinked. “She doesn’t even know me.”
“Like that’d stop her. And she knows enough. If you want to do a really thorough background check, just talk to a few team ropers. And what they didn’t know, Analise told me.”
Carma’s stomach dropped. “So you also know…”
“About the semi mind-reader thing? Yeah.” She made a wry face. “You have no idea how hard it’s been not to ask you to guess what I’m thinking.”
“It makes some people uncomfortable,” Carma said carefully.
“So I imagine. But weirdly enough, Gil doesn’t seem to be one of them, considering how much he hates sharing his feelings.”
Carma stifled a grin at the hopeful note in her voice. “Sorry. He’s good at projecting what he wants the world to see. Even I can’t get past it most of the time.”
“Well, that’s disappointing, but I doubt you would’ve told us anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
Tori smiled. “Gil is also very good at knowing who to trust.”
Possibly past tense. Carma blew out a defeated breath. “He’s pretty pissed at me.”
“He’ll give you a chance to explain.” Tori settled her sunglasses onto her nose as the rodeo announcer launched into his welcome spiel. “When you live by the twelve steps, you don’t leave things to fester.”
She could only hope. Carma let the sudden blare of music be an excuse to stop talking and follow Tori—not to the bleachers, but to the space behind the bucking chutes. They stepped around bronc saddles, dodging elbows and knees as cowboys flexed and kicked, warming up. Carma spotted Beni and Quint over at the stripping chute, even more striking in their cowboy hats, pretending they didn’t notice a gaggle of girls ogling them from the stands. Lord, those two would be a hazard if they put their minds to it.
Or should she say when. Just give them a year or two…
Tori and Carma climbed up to a catwalk that led to the announcer’s stand and commandeered a space along the rail. The grand entry was already in progress, with flag bearers galloping around the arena, sponsor banners snapping. Tori gestured down at the bucking chutes. “One of the perks of being tight with the rodeo contractor. We get the bird’s-eye view.”
“Nice.”
Directly below, a cowboy squatted on the narrow platform that ran along the back of the chutes, knees splayed wide and head bowed either in concentration or prayer. His horse peered out between the bars of the gate as if picking the spot where it would like to head-plant him.
Tori nudged her with an elbow. Carma looked where she pointed, and whatever she’d been thinking dissolved at the sight of Gil in a white straw cowboy hat, his dark-purple western shirt tucked into starched jeans, a belt with a gleaming trophy buckle cinched around his hips. He bent to adjust the flank strap on a huge piebald sorrel and Carma whispered, “Oh my God.”
Tori laughed. “And bless Him for his generosity, for He gave the world a rare treat when He created the Sanchez boys.”
“Amen,” Carma said fervently. She could brood later. For now, she intended to enjoy the scenery. Recalling their stroll through the mob of contestants, she asked, “Do you ever run into that cowboy you used to…um…date?”
“Constantly.”
Oh. Well. “That must be awkward.”
“It was when I first moved home from Cheyenne.”
“And then?”
Tori grinned. “Since he was so determined to be underfoot, I went ahead and married him.”
* * *
Once upon a time, Gil had thought he would get over the aching void that opened up inside him every time he heard a rodeo announcer and smelled rosin. He never had. And now, with no pain in his hip to remind him why he couldn’t ride, it was actually worse.
As he stood watching the grand entry and the first couple of bareback riders, his muscles twitched in anticipation, expecting to hear, “Hey, Gil! We’re coming your way next,” from the chute boss, relaying orders Cole barked from out in the arena.
He glanced up to where Carma stood, her hair rippling in the wind, her brown skin glowing in the sun. Could she tell, just by looking at him?
He jerked his attention back to the pasty-faced rookie beside him. “You ready?”
“Yep.” But his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped.
Gil didn’t blame him. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend was a brute—her back nearly level with the top rail—and she had earned her name. Every trip out of the chute was an explosion of raw equine fury. Most rodeo broncs just loved to buck, and any injury to the cowboy was incidental. Gil was convinced this one enjoyed inflicting pain. As he double-checked t
he position of the rigging and flank strap, the mare’s ear swiveled, tracking him like a radar dish.
And taking aim.
He tapped the second highest bar on the chute and told the kid, “Keep your feet up here and try not to touch her while you’re getting set.”
Crazy-Ex rolled her eyes back to watch the cowboy work his hand into the rigging. Gil latched onto the kid’s vest, ready to haul him out of danger if the horse blew up inside the dangerous confines of the chute.
The mare shifted as noise welled from the crowd. Another horse bucked across the arena, half a jump ahead of a rider who couldn’t get his feet moving fast enough to catch up. Gil winced at every yank and slam. He remembered how that felt, too. Mercifully, the whistle blew and Cole and Shawnee closed in. She tripped the flank strap so the horse would stop kicking. The rider threw an arm around Cole and swung across the pickup horse’s rump to land on his feet on the other side, safely clear of flying hooves.
Gil paused a moment to admire their flawless teamwork as they escorted the horse out of the arena. Then the gateman and the judges moved into position in front of his chute.
Gil held his breath as the rookie eased down, knuckles white where he clutched the top bar of the chute. The mare’s eyes rolled again, showing the whites. Her nostrils flared. Gil could feel her winding up to explode.
Hurry up, kid.
He did, his butt barely making contact with Crazy Ex’s back before he gave a slight jerk of his head. His spurs lashed out, planting in the mare’s neck…a full beat before the gate opened.
Oh, shit. The horse had nowhere to go but up.
There wasn’t time or space to get clear as she reared and twisted, hooves lashing. Her foreleg caught Gil square across the chest and sent him flying. For an endless moment he was caught in the sickeningly familiar sensation of hanging in the air. He clearly heard every gasp and shout. Then he slammed into the hard-packed dirt—a one-point landing square on his so meticulously reconstructed right hip—and new agony exploded through him.
No. No.
Goddamn it, not again.
Chapter 18
Gil couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Hands grabbed at him, but he couldn’t respond to their shouted questions. If he stayed still long enough, kept his eyes shut, maybe it would turn out to be one more of the nightmares that had stalked him for so long.
Then a panicked voice cut through the pain. “Dad! Are you okay?”
Gil opened his eyes. Quint’s terrified face peered at him through the fence between Gil and the stripping chute, his usual calm shattered. Then he was blocked by what seemed like a hundred bodies until another voice snapped out a command to give him some space. A pair of EMTs dropped to crouch beside Gil, with Tori right behind them.
“Don’t move.” Firm hands gripped his shoulder and thigh to immobilize him as he’d fallen, sprawled on his right side.
He hissed air between clenched teeth. “I know the drill.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
Fingers poked and prodded along his spine, his neck, and over his scalp. Gil automatically responded to their questions, wiggled his toes and fingers, told them his name, the date, where he was and what happened, but he was focused on measuring the depth and quality of the pain in his hip.
“No sign of spinal cord or head injury,” the lead EMT declared. “Where does it hurt the most?”
“My right hip.”
Tori swore softly, then introduced herself as his sister-in-law and his physical therapist. “He has had a pelvic reconstruction and a total arthroplasty of that joint. Since I’m familiar with his previous injuries and normal functional capacity, if you don’t mind, I’d like to do the evaluation.”
Up in the chutes, the next bareback rider was climbing onto his horse. The EMTs stood. “If it’s okay with him, we’ll get back to the action.”
Gil nodded. They cleared out along with most of the onlookers, leaving Tori crouched beside him and Carma standing back a pace, eyes dark with worry. Beni tugged Quint away from the fence. “We gotta get back to work. Unless you want me to get someone else to help?”
Quint hesitated, shooting a fearful glance at Tori. “Is he…”
“I’m fine,” Gil said, waving his arm to demonstrate. “Nothing life-threatening.”
Carma moved over and squeezed Quint’s hand where it gripped the fence. “I can help Beni if you want to stay with your dad.”
“Dressed like that?” A measure of Quint’s composure slid back into place, and he squared his shoulders. “There’s only a couple more bareback riders. Then I’ll come see what Tori has to say.”
“Good call,” Carma said, and squeezed his hand again.
Quint let her, then straightened and went back to work with only a single, worried glance over his shoulder.
Tori waited until he’d turned away, then asked, “Can you roll onto your back?”
“Yeah.” Pain shot up to Gil’s armpit and down to his knee when he moved, and the new position left him staring straight up into the midday sun. He squeezed his eyes shut against both forms of torture.
Tori laid her hand on his rigid thigh. “You’re gonna have to relax.”
“Hah.” Not his strong point—which Tori knew well from the dozens of times she’d tried to get him to loosen up so she could test his joint integrity.
“Can I help?” Carma asked from somewhere above his head.
He opened his eyes, squinting against the glare that haloed her.
“How?” Tori asked.
“It’s a relaxation technique, sort of like meditation.”
“I’ve tried that,” Gil said.
Carma bit her lip, but persisted. “This is different. It’s hard to explain.”
Yeah. That’s what she’d said about Jayden. But he also remembered how good it had felt when she’d put her hands on him after Quint’s near-wreck. “Can’t hurt,” he said gruffly.
Tori waved a hand. “Go ahead and give it a try.”
Carma kneeled to cradle his head on her bare thighs, then leaned forward so her hair fell around his face, a thick, dark curtain against the heat and commotion. Her fingertips rested in a line along either side of his face, barely perceptible points of pressure from temple to jaw. “Close your eyes and try to focus on my voice and my touch.”
He did, and she began to murmur something between a chant and a song. The cadence rose and fell, and his breathing shifted to match as he struggled to make out what seemed to be verses and a chorus. With each repetition his eyelids grew heavier. He felt the knot between his brows release, and the relaxation spread from his forehead to his jaw, down his neck and into his shoulders. Once again he had the impression that she was pulling the tension out of his body.
He lost track of the minutes that passed, until finally Tori said, “Are we ready?”
“I think so,” Carma said softly.
Gil stiffened when Tori lifted his thigh, but relaxed again as Carma increased the pressure of her fingers, as if she’d pushed a series of buttons linked directly to the muscle fibers.
“Good,” Tori said, with a hint of amazement. Ever so slowly, she moved his hip—flexing, straightening, rotating—as they both waited to feel the all-too-familiar grind of broken or dislocated bone.
It didn’t come. There was pain, but not the sickening sense of wrongness. Hope trickled into his chest. Maybe—
Tori set his leg down, and he opened his eyes to meet her gaze as she rocked back on her heels. “There’s no obvious fracture or displacement.”
And now that the pain wasn’t being magnified by panic, it had decreased by half.
“So that’s good?” Quint was climbing over the fence with Beni right behind him, their job done for the moment.
“Looking okay so far,” Tori said, always cautious. “We need X-rays
to be sure.”
Overhead, the announcer was bragging up the first steer wrestler due to compete. Sliding gates banged as saddle broncs were loaded into the chutes. Beni handed a bareback rigging to the rookie Gil had been helping, who appeared to be no worse for wear. Gil breathed a sigh of relief. The kid could’ve been seriously hurt if he’d been caught inside the chute, crushed by the mare’s weight.
He peered down at Gil, worry and guilt etched on his face. “I’m so sorry. Cole chewed my ass for almost getting us both killed, jumping the gun like that.”
“Rookie mistake.” Gil pushed onto his elbows, then almost collapsed again as Carma sat back and all the noise and the heat rushed over him. “I’m guessing you won’t get trigger-happy again.”
The kid grinned. “No, sir. And they gave me a reride. Juniper Flats.”
“Definitely a lot more user-friendly.” Gil accepted the hand Tori offered to help him into a seated position and looked over the cowboy’s shoulder. “You’d better go get your rigging set or you’ll be hearing from Cole again.”
The rookie shot a fearful glance over his shoulder. “Right. Thanks. Sorry again. Hope everything’s okay.”
You and me both, kid.
“I’ll go get Cole’s pickup and pull it around.” Tori aimed a commanding look at Quint and Beni. “You two bring him out there and make sure he doesn’t put any weight on that leg.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused.
“I’ll come along,” Carma said. “If you don’t mind.”
Gil met her uncertain gaze, but their earlier spat seemed trivial now. “I’d appreciate it.”
She smiled, and a dollop of that odd calm filtered into his system.
Beni handed him a slightly worse-for-wear cowboy hat. While Gil dusted it off and put it on, Quint shifted from one foot to the other. “I could come, too.”
“If you want to,” Gil said. “But I’ve visited my share of emergency rooms, and I’m betting the rodeo will be over by the time they take X-rays and get us the results.”
And the waiting would be hard enough without having to put on a brave face for his son.
Relentless in Texas Page 15
