Relentless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  “Nope. Are you?”

  “Not until after the Diamond Cowboy.” He stubbed at a weed with his toe. “He probably won’t be very happy.”

  Typical roughstock rider. But Carma couldn’t help teasing Quint a little. “You could try riding a couple of those easy horses. You might be so terrible they’ll write you off after the first few tries.”

  “Fat chance.” He gave a gloomy snort. “I’m good at everything.”

  “There’s that Sanchez humility.” She picked up her loop and started it spinning. “Let’s see if we can teach you how to do a butterfly before it gets dark, Ace.”

  For the next hour, they spun ropes and talked about the highlights and lowlights of Carma’s career as a performer. She made Quint laugh with a story about singeing off the ends of her hair when she’d tried twirling a flaming loop. He made her choke on her own spit with the dry observation about fire-resistant fringes.

  And yes, by the time they finished, he could do a near-perfect butterfly.

  * * *

  “This may be the first time in my life I’ve been sweaty at a track meet.” Carma swiped an arm across her glistening forehead. “At our regional finals it’s always about fifty degrees with the wind howling off the mountains. Sometimes there’s a chance of snow.”

  And Gil wouldn’t be admiring how that white tank top clung to every curve and set off the bronze glow of her skin. There was a lot to be said for warmer climates.

  Everyone was staring at her, and it wasn’t entirely due to the fit of her khaki shorts. The regional track meet was her official Earnest debut as GIL SANCHEZ’S GIRLFRIEND. All caps, in neon orange, even though it was mostly being whispered between bent heads and muttered behind hands. She was an outsider, she was Native, and she was the first woman they’d seen him with since high school. The two of them couldn’t have caused a bigger buzz if he’d driven one of his trucks onto the field while she danced on the hood.

  Gil was not ashamed to admit he was enjoying it. Look all you want, assholes. She’s mine.

  He should have been disturbed by the hot surge of possessiveness. Instead he savored the burn. That night beside her van, when she’d forgiven his sins and rescued him from the devil temptation, something fundamental had shifted inside him. He had sunk close enough to smell the muck that coated rock bottom, and because he’d reached out to Carma instead of turning away, he’d been able to haul himself back to the surface.

  And he’d felt a hundred pounds lighter ever since. Even the pressure at the office had dialed down, and he wasn’t sure if it was because everyone was finally settling into the new routines or he was just handling it better.

  He peeled his gaze off Carma and called the next high jumper. Over in the bleachers, Bing, Miz Iris, and Rochelle had set up camp, complete with fans, wide-brimmed hats, and coolers of food and cold drinks. Beni and his buddies were lounging just far enough away to be cool, but close enough for frequent snack raids.

  They had plenty to watch, as Quint hustled from the long jump to the hundred-meter dash, back to the triple jump, then to the starting line for the two-hundred-meter hurdles. He flew around the track and through the air with such ease and grace that it made Gil’s heart twist in envy. He’d been that boy once—all wiry muscle, distilled energy, and cocksure grins.

  He wouldn’t go back for all the beer in Texas. He’d barely survived the first time through, and besides, look at what he might have missed if he changed the tiniest thing. One fewer mistake and he could’ve ended up somewhere else entirely. No Quint. No Carma.

  He just had to figure out how to hold it together this time.

  As they picked up either end of the downed high-jump bar, he grinned at her across the thick foam landing pad. “If the school had known we were bringing you, they could’ve sold tickets.”

  “And I didn’t even have to take off my clothes this time.” Shocked giggles erupted from a trio of Earnest girls who were strolling past. Carma rolled her eyes behind big movie-star sunglasses, lowering her voice. “Give it an hour, and half the town will be debating whether Carma is a stripper name.”

  He laughed and called the next high jumper.

  Cheers erupted from the triple-jump area, and Gil glanced over to see Sam Carruthers accepting high fives as he brushed sand from his legs. The fight had obviously served to break the ice for Quint. The eighth-grade boys appeared to be equally divided between the pro-Sam camp and the pro-Quint crew, with a few either brave or oblivious souls who tried to be both.

  Sam and Quint kept a careful distance from each other until the last event of the day. The 1,600-meter relay was the race that had started their feud. One lap around the track for each boy, with Quint running the cherished anchor leg. With Quint’s added speed, Earnest’s team had done well at the last few out-of-town meets, and today they finally had a legitimate chance to beat archrival Sunburst.

  But what in God’s name was the coach thinking, switching Sam to the third leg? Sure, he might match up better against that Sunburst runner, but it meant he had to hand off the baton to Quint. The exchange was all about timing, coordination, and communication…between two boys who didn’t speak to each other.

  Of course when Gil asked, Quint said it was fine.

  As the teams took their positions, Gil steered Carma to a prime viewing spot near the finish line and beside the exchange zone. Sunburst and Earnest had drawn lanes three and four, side by side and in the middle of the track, ideal for the expected head-to-head battle. As the first runners stepped into the starting blocks, a hush settled over the crowd.

  Bang!

  The gun fired and the runners burst out of the blocks, pushed by a roar from the crowd. When they rounded the second turn and came down the straightaway, Earnest was fifteen yards off the pace.

  Gil clamped tense arms over his chest as they watched the runners pass the batons without mishap. “We’re good. They led with their second-fastest guy, so we expected to lose some ground.”

  Carma nodded, her attention glued to the action.

  The rest of the teams fell back, but the margin between Sunburst and Earnest remained steady throughout the second lap. Then the baton slapped into Sam’s hand and away he flew, closing the gap stride by stride as the two runners raced down the back straightaway, while coaches and fans screamed themselves hoarse. They rounded the far turn, and both boys grimaced in agony as they fought through the last hundred yards.

  “Stay loose,” Gil muttered, remembering all too well how his hamstrings had felt as if they were tied in knots at that point. “He’s just gotta give Quint the stick with less than three seconds to make up.”

  Carma grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his biceps, her lips moving in a silent plea.

  In front of them, Quint stood waiting in the exchange zone, cocked like a pistol. The Sunburst runner arrived first, with Sam a dozen strides behind. As the baton passed to the Sunburst anchor, Sam yelled, “Go!”

  Gil cursed under his breath. “Too soon!”

  Quint went, but his head start was too much for Sam’s flagging legs. Realizing the error, he slowed just as Sam gave a desperate lunge, thrusting the baton forward. There was a collective gasp as Sam’s leading foot caught Quint’s heel and they both staggered. Sam pitched forward, the baton bouncing off Quint’s elbow and clattering onto the track as Sam fell, skidding on the rough, rubberized surface.

  The entire Earnest contingent groaned in unison.

  Quint stumbled to a stop and dropped his hands to his thighs as the remaining teams raced past and the Sunburst runner circled the track uncontested. Blood tricked down the back of his ankle from a pair of gouges left by Sam’s spikes.

  Son of a bitch. Gil took a furious step toward his son, but Carma held him back. “Wait.”

  Slowly, Quint straightened, then turned toward where Sam sat on the track, angry red scrapes marking both bent knees and
one of the elbows he rested on them, head hanging. Quint walked up to him and extended a hand.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I took off too fast.”

  Sam angled his head back, squinting suspiciously. “My legs were shot. I should’ve got closer before I told you to go.”

  “So we both screwed up.” Quint wiggled his fingers, and after a beat, Sam took hold and let Quint pull him up. They stepped off the track and watched with identical expressions of disgust as the Sunburst runner cruised through the tape, throwing his arms up in triumph.

  “Shit,” Sam said. “That was our last shot at them.”

  “This year.” Quint scowled at the celebrating mob of Sunburst athletes, then extended his fist. “But we’ve got all of high school to get even, and that’s the last time we let them beat us.”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed, his jaw squared, and he bumped his fist with Quint’s. “Bet yer ass.”

  They strode off shoulder to shoulder, refusing to limp or swipe at the blood trickling from their wounds. Gil let out a long, pent-up breath.

  Carma pressed a quick kiss on his cheek. “That’s some kid you’re raising.”

  He gave a strangled laugh. “Hey, I’m the daddy-come-lately. I don’t get to take the credit.”

  Carma gazed around, catching the approving nods among the parents and fans.

  “Sure you do,” she said, and dragged him over to raid Miz Iris’s cooler for cold drinks and cookies while Quint accepted back slaps and condolences from both his fan club and Sam’s.

  Gil looped his arm over her shoulders and squeezed, sure she could feel the pride that threatened to bust his chest wide open. That was his son, and dammit, he must’ve done something right along the way.

  And maybe—just maybe—Gil was more like the man Carma saw in him than he’d let himself believe.

  Chapter 37

  Earnest, Texas—one day before the Diamond Cowboy Classic

  Once again, Carma sprawled alone on her patio, brooding up at the pulsing twinkle of the planet Venus. In the old story, a young woman gazed at what the Blackfeet called Morning Star and declared that she wanted to marry him because he was the brightest of all. Hearing her vow, he took human form and came down to earth to claim her as his bride and take her up to the Sky world to live with him forever.

  In Carma’s experience, a man might be brought down to earth, but once she lifted him up again he floated away, glittering out of her reach.

  And yes, that was her damned insecurity talking, but it had an annoying habit of making valid points.

  Things had been better since the night Gil had all but collapsed. At least he let her really touch him now. But tomorrow he would step back onto the rodeo stage. It had already started. Carma had fielded the calls herself, after the list of contestants had been posted on the website last week and a few eagle eyes had spotted his name. Is that the Gil Sanchez? Delon’s brother? Isn’t he too, um…well, you know?

  Her answers had been abrupt. Yes. Yes. And no, whether they were referring to his age or his physical condition. If they were a member of the media, she’d emailed them the press release Delon had insisted they put together. Gil shrugged off the potential stir he was going to cause. Nobody was interested in his ancient history.

  Delon knew better. He was the reigning world champion, and Gil was the tragic could-have-been, a talent possibly even bigger than his brother. The story would be irresistible to the promoters of an event that billed itself as the David versus Goliath of rodeo.

  If Gil did make a splash—well, any man or woman could get swept up in the rush of attention and lose track of who they were leaving behind. God knew Carma could personally testify to that.

  In the dense branches above her, an unseen owl hooted and another answered. The cicadas whirred incessantly. And softly, a guitar joined the nightly serenade. She turned her head and found Gil leaning against the trunk of the nearest tree.

  He stepped out of the shadows, and her pulse took an uneven bound. Lord, he was something to look at, as chiseled as the jagged peaks of her mountains—something else she could never quite possess but still yearned for in a deep, indefinable way. She rolled to sit cross-legged so she could admire every cocksure inch of him, right down to the classic, toed-out bareback rider’s gait.

  “You’ve got your cowboy swagger back,” she said.

  He stopped at the edge of the blanket. “Nothing makes you strut like winning third at a podunk open rodeo where you’re the only one old enough to shave.”

  She shrugged. “You got more out of that horse than most would.”

  The previous weekend they’d slipped a few hours up the road into Colorado, where Gil wasn’t likely to be recognized on sight, and he’d entered as Gilbert Yazzie—borrowing his mother’s name and hometown. One competition to work out some jitters before the big day.

  Even on a belly-kicking nag he’d looked amazing. So strong. And so fast. The young punks had snapped to attention, while Carma’s heart—and a few other key body parts—had quivered at the sight of him sauntering back to the chutes, hat pulled low and shoulders thrown back.

  He sat down facing her now, also cross-legged, and settled the guitar in his lap. It was the first time he’d brought it along since the night of the thunderstorm. “What do you want?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He hefted the guitar. “Anything you want to hear. I’m taking requests.”

  Her heart fluttered. She’d never been serenaded. And she’d never heard Gil sing, but judging by Quint’s solo at the spring choir concert, she was probably in for a treat.

  Honestly, the Sanchez boys really were good at everything.

  “Um, what about ‘Wild Horses’?” she asked, then cringed. The Rolling Stones classic sounded romantic, but was actually about a relationship that never quite worked. Once, when it came on the pickup radio during one of their fights, Carma had told Jayden it was the story of their lives.

  Or maybe just hers.

  Gil’s forehead scrunched. “It’s been a while, but I think I can remember all the lyrics.”

  Then he started to sing, and she just melted. His voice was slightly rough, like velvet stroked against the grain. When he reached the chorus, the combination of the music, the moonlight, and the way he sang about wild horses not being able to drag him away was so achingly poignant that she couldn’t stand it. She toppled onto her back, the music washing over and through her as she watched the moon climb higher.

  When he ended the song with a flourish, her breath shuddered out. How many women had he slain with his music?

  “Do you do anything but private concerts?”

  “Just the odd party or wedding reception. I play with a trio of guys from Amarillo.” He shifted, straightening the leg nearest her to get more comfortable. “You meet lots of musicians in recovery.”

  “Is that why you haven’t taken a shot at fame and fortune? Too many bad influences?”

  “Music has never been about performing for me.”

  “Says the preacher to the choir. Plus I hated all the downtime. Sitting around in strange towns with nothing to do between performances.”

  “Yeah. That got me in a lot of trouble.” He adjusted a string on the guitar. “What else do you want to hear?”

  “Sing me a rodeo song.”

  He thought for a moment, then began to strum. She laughed when she recognized “He Rides the Wild Horses.” Instead of waiting for her next request, he went on from there, working his way through a medley of Chris LeDoux tunes—“This Cowboy’s Hat,” “Copenhagen,” and a kick-ass rendition of “Little Long-Haired Outlaw.”

  Then the music and his voice turned as soft as the moonlight, and he dismantled her with the first line of “Just Look at You, Girl.”

  Had Bing told him how much she loved that song about the woman with starlight in her hair? Or—her heart did a little
swoon—did he just think it suited her?

  The last notes faded into a silence so loaded that Carma was afraid to breathe. God, those lyrics. And the way he’d sung them, like they came straight out of his soul. Did she mean everything to him? Would he do anything to have her stay forever? It was so easy to believe when he looked at her that way.

  “Carma.” Her name was a sigh. A plea. A prayer. He cleared his throat. “Before things get too crazy, I just wanted to say…”

  She tensed, heart thudding in anticipation as he reached out to cradle her hand between both of his. Yes? Yes, please?

  He kissed her fingers, then pressed them to his cheek. “Thank you. Quint, my mom, all the insanity in the office—I don’t know how I would have handled any of it without you.”

  Oh. Oh. He was grateful. Intensely appreciative. That was…so not what she wanted to hear. “You’re welcome,” she whispered, not trusting her voice.

  He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, then kissed her fingers again before settling her hand back on the blanket.

  “I, um, have something for you, too.” Her fingers tightened around the stone, the broken edges digging into her skin. She’d had it in her possession since the day she’d found it. But there was a niggle in her gut that insisted this needed to be done. She held out her hand, palm flat, so the candlelight was reflected a thousand times over in the geode’s crystals. “Carry it in your gear bag this weekend.”

  Gil started to reach out, then pulled his hand back. “Are you sure? I mean, it was given to you, specifically.”

  “And now I’m lending it to you.” She fluttered her fingers in the air, going heavy on the drama. “The voices have spoken. I must follow their command.”

  Gil laughed, then gingerly picked up the stone and cupped it in his hand. “Thank you. I’ll take very good care of it.”

  “And vice versa.”

  He tucked it in his pocket with a grin, then strummed a chord on the guitar. “Listen close, I’m playing your song.”