Five bars in she growled and kicked him in the thigh. He laughed, not missing a beat of Willie and Waylon’s “Good-Hearted Woman.” And she had to pretend every word wasn’t a blow as he sang her the ballad of a woman who kept hanging on to a man who could never give her the love she deserved.
Chapter 38
Amarillo, Texas—Diamond Cowboy qualifying event
Gil walked into the coliseum at a few minutes before nine in the morning. He couldn’t remember ever climbing on a bucking horse before noon, but for everyone except the five golden invitees, the Diamond Cowboy was a marathon.
Today forty-two bareback riders, forty-eight saddle bronc riders, and fifty-six bull riders would nod their heads, with the top ten in each event riding again in the evening. From there, the four with the highest combined scores would advance to Saturday’s semifinals, to compete against the winners from the three other qualifying events that had already been held across the country—a total of sixteen battling it out for the golden spot in the finale.
The odds of Gil being one of them were so long he didn’t waste time or energy worrying about anything but the first horse he had to ride.
There was no fanfare. This was down and dirty, no-frills competition, intended only to weed out the field. Most of the butts that were in the seats belonged to friends and family of the contestants. At least a dozen had come just to watch Gil, commandeering prime seats to the left of the bucking chutes, a few rows up from the rail, close enough for him to see every face. The same section where Sanchez Trucking bought a block of tickets every year for friends and employees.
And they’d left Jeremiah alone at Sanchez Trucking.
He’d be fine. Everyone had agreed Jeremiah could handle it for one day. Gil was not so sure, but what was he gonna do? He couldn’t tell his mother to stay at work, and he was counting on Delon’s support and expert assistance.
And he sure as hell wasn’t doing this without Carma—who’d showed up this morning despite Gil’s dumb-ass stunt the night before.
“You are such a moron,” he muttered as he waded through the mob behind the chutes.
“I assume you’re talking to yourself,” Delon said over his shoulder, running interference as if he was Gil’s bodyguard. “Having second thoughts?”
“About riding? No.”
About Carma? He’d second-guessed himself all night after he’d left her. It had been the perfect place, the perfect setup—music, candlelight, stars—to finally tell her.
I love you. I want you to stay forever.
But the timing had been all wrong. He couldn’t say something that huge, then turn around and deliberately shut it all out so he could focus on riding. They’d waited this long. He could hold off another couple of days.
Patience, he kept telling himself. Carma had agreed to proceed with caution. And she’d said he’d have to trust her to let him know when she was sure of both of them. Didn’t that mean he was supposed to wait until she gave him some kind of sign?
But then he’d gone and sung that song—schmaltzy and romantic and way too on the nose. The look on her face—well, hell, it was obvious she was wondering what he meant by it, but he couldn’t just blurt it out.
So he’d thanked her instead, like he was presenting her with a fucking Employee of the Month plaque. Geezus. He was such a moron.
He dropped his bag in the last unoccupied space against the wall and kicked it.
“Hey!” Delon punched him on the arm. “Respect the gear, dipshit.”
“Sorry.”
Yep. One sorry bastard. And he’d doubled down by making a joke with that Willie and Waylon song. “Good-Hearted Woman,” for Christ’s sake. The anthem to women who wasted their lives on worthless men, and he’d dedicated it to Carma, who’d stood by one for way too long. Of course she’d taken it as the kind of sarcastic assholeness Gil was famous for.
No damn wonder she’d suddenly declared it was getting late and they both needed to rest up for his big day.
By the time he’d realized how deeply he’d insulted her, it had been too late. What could he say? Sorry I reminded you that your ex is a dipshit? Yeah, that would make it all better.
He had texted her a GIF of a cartoon cat with a guitar, yowling on a fence, with Sorry for the torture. Did I do any permanent damage?
Then he’d crossed his fingers that she’d read the apology between the lines. Ten interminable minutes later, she’d texted back a classic Star Trek GIF of Captain Kirk clamping his hands over his ears and staggering in pain, and I think I’ll recover…eventually.
So…they were good?
There’d been no chance to ask this morning, in the chaos of getting everyone loaded in the Charger by seven thirty while simultaneously firing off last-minute instructions to Jeremiah.
“Hey.” Delon gave him another nudge. “You’re supposed to be savoring every minute of this, remember? What’s up your ass?”
“My head.”
Delon snorted. “How’s that different than usual?”
“Generally when I insult someone it’s on purpose.”
“Who…” Delon gave a low whistle. “Carma? What did you do?”
Gil braced his forearms flat against the wall, hands fisted, and resisted the urge to bang his head. “It’s too stupid to explain. Suffice it to say, I’m amazed she showed up this morning.”
Delon leaned one shoulder against the wall beside Gil. “Is this something you can grovel your way out of?”
“What I did last night? Probably.”
“Is there more?”
“What do you think?” Gil thumped one fist against the concrete. “I was trying to be straight with her.”
“So you said…”
“That as an addict, I have to question whether anything that happens this fast is real. And considering she’s on the rebound, she probably should, too.”
Delon rolled his eyes. “Geezus. Were you trying to run her off?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Or classic emotional distancing.”
Sometimes he wished his brother hadn’t started going to Al-Anon meetings. Delon was a lot easier to bluff back when he was clueless. Gil shot him a glare. “I know myself better than that.”
“Uh-huh. Gil Sanchez, confirmed bastard. Don’t even bother with him, sweetheart. Too bad you finally met a woman who can see through that load of crap.”
Behind them, hooves clattered and gates banged as horses were loaded in the chutes. “You really think it’s a good time to get into this?” Gil asked.
“You brought it up.” Delon hitched his free shoulder. “And you’re in the second section, so you’ve got at least an hour and a half to stew. Seems like as good a way as any to keep you from overthinking.”
“By counting all the ways I suck as a…whatever.” He could not bring himself to say the word boyfriend.
“Something wrong?” a familiar voice rumbled. Steve Jacobs towered over most of the crowd, flanked by his son-in-law, Joe, and Melanie’s husband, Wyatt Darrington. The two younger men looked all wrong in jeans and boots instead of the soccer shorts and cleats that had been their uniforms as professional bullfighters.
“It’s just cold feet,” Delon said.
Joe’s eyebrows rose. “About the horse, or the woman?”
“Her name is Carma,” Gil said tightly.
Wyatt and Joe exchanged a telling glance. “Yeah. We heard,” Joe said.
“Don’t even think it,” Gil warned.
“What?” Joe spread innocent hands. “Wyatt was just saying how we knew she’d catch up with you one of these days.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes. “If you want to blame me, you have to come up with something more original.”
“Iris sure does like her,” Steve said. “And the two of you seem to get along fine.”
Delon nod
ded. “That’s the problem. He’s freaking out because he’s ass over teakettle for her after less than two months.”
Joe shrugged. “Seems about right. Violet had me hooked in two weeks. And doofus there…” He jabbed a thumb at Wyatt. “He was halfway gone the first time he talked to Melanie on the phone.”
Wyatt smiled. “She finished me off by the end of their wedding reception. What about you, Steve?”
“Ah, well…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I took Iris home with me after our third date, and she never really lived at the dorm after that. Every time her parents called, her roommate said she was at the library.” When they all stared at him, he scowled. “It was the eighties, not nineteen-fifty.”
Huh. Gil had to make a serious mental adjustment, picturing the two of them rocking out to Bon Jovi and Guns N’ Roses instead of waltzing to Bob Wills. He eyed Steve and said, “Just swear you never had a mullet.”
Steve made a noise that wasn’t quite denial. Geezus. Really?
“I win, by the way.” Delon raised his hand. “Tori had me dead to rights in about three hours.”
“Had…as in literally,” Joe deadpanned. “On a barstool.”
A detail Tori had blurted out to Shawnee, of all people. Like that wasn’t going to haunt them all forever.
Delon grinned, until Gil pointed out, “It took you six years to seal the deal.”
“Which I mention every time Melanie hassles me about our five,” Wyatt said.
“Makes me look like a genius,” Joe declared. “It only took me two months.”
Wyatt shot him a look of patent disgust. “For Violet to finally lock you in a small, windowless room until you broke down and begged for mercy.”
“That too.” Joe raised questioning eyebrows at Steve.
“I proposed on our one-month anniversary. With roses and candlelight and the whole works.” They stared at him again, and his thick white brows drew into an irritated vee. “Hey, I knew how to romance my girl, unlike you bunch of lunkheads.”
Joe did a point taken shrug and turned to Gil. “So there you go. When the right one comes along, you gotta follow your gut.”
“Right now my gut says that it wants doughnuts and coffee.” Gil made a point of searching the crowd around them, sending a few eavesdroppers shying away. “Anybody else want to comment on my love life first? Beni must be around here somewhere.”
“He’s up in the stands sulking. The stock contractors only got two passes each. I had to flip Violet for this.” Joe flicked his badge.
“What are you doing here?” Delon asked Wyatt.
Gil blinked. Damn. Delon was right. Wyatt and Melanie lived in Oregon. Now that he’d retired from fighting bulls, he had no reason to be in Texas, let alone behind the chutes.
“They came to see the Gil Sanchez show. And he waltzed right by the security gal while she was gawking at that pretty face,” Joe grumbled.
Wyatt flashed the smile and brilliant-blue eyes that had opened a thousand doors. “Only long enough to tell you Melanie says to kick ass. Now I’m out of here.”
“Good,” Gil said, glancing around. A dozen cowboys had edged close, ears perked. “I was attracting enough attention before you legends of rodeo decided to gather ’round for a man chat.”
“Joe and I came with intel on the horse you drew,” Steve said. “They say if she has a good trip you can be eighty or better, but she’s young so you gotta help her out. If you don’t really set your feet and pick her up, she’ll want to move out down the arena.”
“Now that’s the kind of advice I can use.” Gil slapped Delon’s chest with the back of his hand. “Clear a path, Bruiser. I need to find a concession stand and someplace to watch the first section.”
And try to control the adrenaline that wanted to flood his system. Not yet. He was here. Not a fantasy. Not playing pretend. Soon enough, he would be nodding his head. Eight seconds after that, it might all be over.
He would savor it while he was here. And he wouldn’t be riding alone. Gil crouched to reach into an inside pocket of his bag and run his fingers over what he thought of as Carma’s sky stone.
If she trusted him with something that precious, her heart couldn’t be too far behind.
Right?
Chapter 39
The wait was killing her. Fifteen bareback riders, fifteen saddle bronc riders, and fifteen bull riders had to compete before they reloaded the chutes for Gil’s section.
An eternity.
Carma wasn’t alone. Everyone around her was tense—Rochelle, the Jacobs sisters, Miz Iris, Melanie. Only Tori and Bing were absent, both unable to take the day off from work.
But if all went well, they would get to watch Gil ride in the evening short round.
One ride at a time, as Gil and Delon had said about a thousand times over the past few weeks.
Needing something to do with herself, Carma had offered to cuddle Lily’s two-month-old baby. The alternative was to help ride herd on the notoriously rambunctious Ruby. Violet had finally pawned her off on Beni and Quint, collapsing into a seat beside Melanie while the boys played tag with the toddler in an empty section of the bleachers.
The background music died, and the announcer’s voice boomed out over the arena. “Welcome, contestants and fans, to this final qualifying event for the third annual Diamond Cowboy! Hope you’ve all got your tickets for tomorrow because it’s a sold-out show, but if not you can tune in…”
As he gave his spiel for the television coverage, the ambient energy level in the building shot up and set Carma’s pulse thudding so loud she was surprised it didn’t wake the baby. For the next few minutes, before the first chute gate opened, every glittering dream in the building was alive. As the day went on, some of those dreams would grow even brighter, but the majority would dim. Only this moment was filled with pure hope, untainted by disappointment.
A single rider carried the American flag into the arena for a recorded version of the national anthem. And then, without pomp or ceremony, the pickup men took their places and the competition began. Carma pushed everything from her mind but the action. Worries and discussions could wait.
Today was for chasing dreams.
* * *
The moment that Gil stepped up onto the back of the chute was so hyper-real that it felt like a movie—every sight, every sound, every sensation amplified by surround sound and in 3-D. He was ready—chaps buckled, vest zipped, glove laced—and he would never be ready. He’d waited too long, imagined this too many times. It was impossible to absorb.
“Gil Sanchez, you’re next!” the chute boss barked.
He dragged air into his lungs. The clock had ticked down to zero. It was time.
* * *
“It’s so weird, seeing him dressed like that,” Melanie said.
Plain blue denim shirt, plain brown chaps—and he still made Carma’s heart stutter.
“He’s trying to be low profile,” Quint said.
“Gil?” Melanie snort-laughed. “That’s gotta be a first.”
And impossible. Gil Sanchez was born to be noticed. As he lowered himself into the chute, Carma clenched her hands so tight, her knuckles cracked. Violet was keeping a list of the scores on her tablet, ranked from high to low. Miz Iris and Rochelle were doing it old school, writing the scores on paper day sheets—a bittersweet reminder of all the times Carma had watched her grandmother do the same. Currently an eighty-two point ride by an NFR veteran led the pack, and a high school standout was hanging onto the all-important tenth spot with a seventy-six.
Carma tried to swallow, but her mouth was bone-dry as she watched Gil go through his final routine—check the rigging was cinched tight, work his hand into the rawhide handhold, flip the bottoms of his chaps back over his thighs to leave his feet clear as he clenched his knees against the horse’s shoulders, then tip his shoulders and free a
rm back.
There was an interminable pause as the horse leaned into the back side of the chute, until Joe Cassidy caught a fistful of mane to pull her head around. The instant her weight shifted, Gil nodded.
With her first move out of the chute, his legs snapped straight, his heels planted solidly in the hollow where neck met shoulder. The mare responded by dropping her head and kicking high. For the next two, three, four jumps she barely moved from that spot as Gil seemed to lift her straight in the air, his spurs rolling clear back to his rigging. At six seconds, though, the horse’s head started to come up.
“Come on,” Violet muttered. “Don’t weaken, dammit.”
Gil didn’t, but the horse did, with less hang time on each jump. The eight-second buzzer sounded and Carma let out her breath in a ragged whoosh. The pickup men moved in, and Gil grabbed onto one of them to pull free of the horse and swing to the ground.
His fan club cheered and whistled, and he raised both hands in appreciation, but Violet slapped the tablet onto her thigh, hissing out a disgruntled breath.
“What do you think?” Melanie asked.
“Of Gil? He’s a freak of nature. I swear, he looks better than when he was twenty.” But Violet shook her head. “It depends on how many points they take away from the horse.”
And with the mare’s performance counting for up to fifty of the possible hundred points, the way she’d tailed off at the end could be costly. Had those opening jumps and Gil’s effort been strong enough to put him in contention?
He walked slowly toward the chutes, bending to unbuckle the leg straps of his chaps, his expression hidden by the brim of his hat. He’d done all he could do. Now it was up to the judges. On the back of the chute, Delon and Joe stood side by side, hands clenched on the top rail as they waited. Carma’s nails bit into her palms for the twenty-second eternity it took to calculate the score.
“Eighty points!” the announcer declared, to a burst of applause. “That’ll move Gil Sanchez into a tie for fourth and fifth place. With only a dozen cowboys left to ride, there’s a good chance you’ll be seeing him again this evening, folks.”
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