Texas Wide Open

by KC Klein

  The sun burned hot. Sweat stung Katie’s eyes. Wiping her forehead, she kept her gaze on the roan mare. She watched every muscle, every ear twitch, every flick of mane. Katie’s arms ached, and the muscles in her shoulders bunched into hardened knots under the strain. Every cell was focused on one thing . . . Sweet Thing.

  Time unraveled in the swirling dust and the pounding play for supremacy. Katie sensed rather than saw the ranch hands line up along the fence, and resigned herself to wrestling control from the horse before all and sundry.

  As God is my witness ...

  Hours, days . . . minutes.

  Then the dance changed. It was small. If Katie’s whole body hadn’t been focused on Sweet Thing, Katie would’ve missed it. The tiny rotation of an ear, the loosing of bunched muscles, a slight easing into her place. Sweet Thing’s silent acquiescence.

  Katie turned off her mind, and instead allowed her body to mirror what the horse told her. Katie stepped back and allowed Sweet Thing space. Allowed her freedom to choose.

  Come to me. Trust me.

  With a grace only the powerful possessed, Sweet Thing turned and faced Katie. Large dark eyes reflected Katie’s image, an acknowledgment of the better horse. Sweet Thing trotted up beside her, lowered her head, then came up, completing a bow.

  Katie forgot to breathe, forgot to think. And with no guidance but what felt natural, she grabbed the mare’s mane and swung herself up. She twisted her hands in the flaxen hair and squeezed the horse’s muscled body with her legs. She felt the power in Sweet Thing as the horse quivered beneath her. Felt the mare’s back legs push, front legs reach, and her head lower with the urge to run. Katie had ridden her first horse at five, and barely a day had gone by without horseflesh beneath her. With other horses there was a sense of control, a sense of forcing your will upon another creature. But this time was different. Katie didn’t merely sit on top of Sweet Thing as a separate being; rider and horse fused and became one like some mythical Greek character.

  And they flew. Wind in her hair, dust stinging her eyes. Katie knew she could ride Sweet Thing forever.

  But forever was short-lived. A sound of hinges creaking as a gate opened. A blur of blue plaid in a cloud of dust, then a man’s low yell. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Katie’s head jerked up. She might be one with the horse, but her body had long ago been claimed by Cole. She felt him. His anger. Her insecurities. And Sweet Thing, demanding the exclusive devotion of the better horse, wouldn’t allow it.

  Sweet Thing bucked. Katie flew. And in space there was nothing but the whistling of air and the undeniable law of Newton. And then, of course, the umph of the inevitable landing. Katie caught a glimpse of the fence line, and not knowing where Sweet Thing was, rolled out of the way. A fence post to the middle of her back stopped her momentum. Katie opened her eyes, and watched as Sweet Thing reared with teeth exposed, in response to Cole’s presence in the pen.

  Cole stood with his body between her and the horse, arms flung wide as he chased Sweet Thing away. He glanced over his shoulder at Katie, but she barely noticed. Her whole focus was on Sweet Thing as the mare screamed in anger and fear.

  “Get in here. Somebody help me tie her up,” Cole yelled.

  And for a second Katie didn’t know which her he was talking about.

  Soon ranch hands in dusty jeans and even dustier hats came running in with ropes. Then Cole was bent low over her, his face blocking the sun. “Honey, are you hurt?”

  She moved her head. He stood between her and Sweet Thing. Katie scooted forward and watched two ropes swing high and settle low around the mare’s neck.

  “No, stop! You’re hurting her.” But Katie’s voice was lost in the cursing and grunts of grown men as they fought to stay out of range of Sweet Thing’s hooves.

  The ropes snapped tight; Sweet Thing screamed. Katie looked away.

  Cole’s eclipsing body was back demanding an answer. “Are you hurt?” Then he yelled to someone behind her. “Call nine-one-one.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m fine.” She made to get up.

  “Don’t move. Something could be broken.” His hand pressed to her shoulder ensured her compliance.

  Katie shoved him away. She was angry—angry at him, angry at the men holding her horse. She grabbed hold of the post and pulled herself up. Seeing a swirl of colors and three of Cole, she stumbled back. Strong hands steadied her, then with a rough curse, his arms swooped and lifted her off her feet. Her body warred with her mind, and before she could decide whether she should snuggle in or throw an elbow, her butt smacked hard on the tailgate of his truck.

  His hands roved over her face, patted her arms, then checked each ankle. Satisfied she’d live, he let her have it.

  “Just what do you think you were doing?” Cole growled.

  Once when she was five she saw a tornado. She’d never forgotten how midday turned to night, and how the clouds gathered like the rolling mist of a witches’ brew. Nothing good could come from a sky like that. The same could be said of the darkening in Cole’s gaze.

  She should’ve thrown the elbow.

  “I’ll ask you the same thing,” she snapped back. “What possessed you to run in there and scare the crap out of my horse?”

  “Your horse?” Cole ground out. “Sorry, but if I’m not mistaken, I was the one who took on that she-devil. I’ve been feeding her two times a day, shoeing the beast, and in general throwing my hard-earned money into a pit of no return. And this is your horse? Don’t think so. She’s mine, and no one rides her.”

  She’d argued with Cole before. Usually she won. Out of the two men in her life, it was Cole who never liked to disappoint her. This time though, fear swirled around her heart. Cole wasn’t just upset or worried that she’d ridden the horse. No, there was more to it than that. Rage had its grip on him. She could see it by the pulsing vein in his throat.

  Katie bit the inside of her lip as she tried to hold her ground. “I know how to fall off a horse. You taught me.”

  “Never ride her again.” He didn’t yell, but the quiet was heard just as clear.

  She couldn’t agree, so instead looked away.

  He clapped his hand around her arm and shook to get her attention—her head snapped up—he got it.

  “Uh-uh, I know that look, but I won’t have it, Katie. You might be spoiled around here, daddy’s little princess, but this is still my ranch, and my word stands. No one rides Sweet Thing.”

  He released her, turned, and began to walk away. He was done, his point made.

  Tears blurred her vision, and she swiped at her eyes. What she had done today was wonderful. What Sweet Thing and she had was beautiful. He couldn’t take that away from her. “I’m not like your father,” she said.

  Cole stopped walking. “What did you say?”

  She was glad he hadn’t turned around. It was easier to show courage to his back. She gripped her fingers around the sun-heated metal of the tailgate. “I’m not him. I’ll be careful. You don’t have to worry. I won’t die.”

  There was no time to brace for impact. He was there, in her face. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  His lips hadn’t moved when he spoke. Nope, perfectly still, and she knew because he was close. Closer than he’d ever been.

  But her experience with Sweet Thing had empowered her. And she’d won—if only for a minute. She dead-eyed Cole and stared down the tempest. “I know the guilt eats you alive. I know you blame yourself.”

  They say after the storm there is calm, and she believed it as she watched the ice in his eyes ease. His lips parted, and she felt his hitched breath against her mouth. Her heart broke. Here was pain so loud it called a rising in her blood.

  “Oh God, Cole.” Her palms cradled his face. “What happened?”

  “I . . .” He blinked, his eyes searching hers. “I killed him.” Katie shook her head vehemently. “It’s not true. It’s not true, Cole.”

  He closed hi
s eyes as if trying to shut himself away. “And when I saw you there on that horse, I died all over again. But this time it was a hundred times worse.”

  She stroked his cheek, silently sighing at the way his whiskers bristled against her thumb. He sought comfort, and she wanted to give it. She widened her knees; his hips slipped between.

  His eyes opened—wide, ready. His gaze fixed on her mouth. And then she could only manage small sips of air.

  Panting, she parted her lips. A need, so strong, rose within her. Tears blurred her vision. “I lo—”

  The space between them narrowed. Cole’s head tilted.

  “Cole,” someone shouted in a thick accent.

  He jerked away, startled by the sound of his name. A quick hand over his face, and he recovered enough to address Lupe. “Yeah, what’s up?”

  Her blood had sung with the choir of angels at his nearness, then plummeted to wails at his departure. And she shook, trying to remember how she got caught somewhere between heaven and hell.

  Katie couldn’t make out what Cole said to Lupe. She didn’t care. And then they were alone, and her heart raced again. But Cole’s eyes had lost their soft depths, and a distance the size of Texas opened between them.

  “If I catch you riding Sweet Thing again,” he said. “I’ll put her down myself.”

  Chapter 6

  Present day

  Mike Pitt sucked air in through the open space between his front teeth and almost dropped the glass he was holding. Damn arthritis. The joints in his right hand seemed to seize up at the oddest times, making the chore of cleaning his bar glasses almost impossible. He set the tumbler down, threw his towel over his shoulder, and then surveyed his life’s work.

  The Pitt wasn’t much to show for twenty years of sweat and blood, especially at this time of day. It was quiet, not a lot of traffic this early on a Friday afternoon, but it would pick up. There was always an influx of men willing to spend their paychecks on booze and women. The sound of pool balls breaking had Mike stepping to the side to peer across to the back room.

  He should’ve long ago busted out the wall and made the poolroom into booths for private lap dances. What kind of owner was he? There was no money in a poolroom at a strip joint . . . ah, he meant exclusive club for men, that’s what it was called these days. Whatever his customers wanted to call his place, Mike knew business. And he didn’t need men betting their money on a game of billiards, he needed them out here tipping his dancers. But he knew he’d be doing no such thing. Having a billiards table at his bar was how he could keep his promise to the only woman he’d ever loved. Keep an eye on Nikki for me.

  Well, looking after Mary Beth’s daughter turned out to be more than he’d bargained for. What Nikki’s momma failed to mention was that Nikki was a hellion. Well, he guessed the apple didn’t roll far from the tree. Mary Beth had been a hellion herself. When they’d been kids, Mary Beth sure had brought him to his knees. Well, one knee and a ring to be specific. But that was years ago, when he believed in young love and when the thought of kneeling didn’t cause him to break out in a cold sweat.

  In Mary Beth’s day she had all the boys panting after her. Shocked the whole town when she up and married a half-breed. Not that Mike had anything against Indians, but he’d been shocked right along with the town—shocked and brokenhearted. So the Logans not only had to fight against the stereotype of being born on the wrong side of the tracks, they also had their mother to thank for adding half-breed to their lineage.

  He might not be able to do as much as he once had, but he could still keep the law in his own bar. His trigger finger still worked fine, thank you very much, which was just as well since the biker in the red bandanna had just grabbed Nikki and was trying to kiss her. Mike moved and grabbed “Billy” out from under the bar. “Billy the Shotgun” and Texas self-defense was the only law he lived by. His bar, his rules, and under his roof none of his girls got hassled.

  Nikki threw a quick elbow and moved away, but he could hear her teasing laugh from here. The biker seemed to get the point, but still never took his gaze away as he watched Nikki sashay around the pool table.

  Mike rubbed the swollen joints on his right hand as he assessed the other players. They were rough-looking men, part of a gang maybe, not from around here, but that was how Nikki liked it. A long time ago the locals had stopped playing pool with Nikki, that was if they wanted to keep their money in their pockets. Hell, Mike wasn’t against a little gambling. He ran a strip—a gentleman’s club—himself, but he sure would like to punch Dakota, Nikki’s old man, for teaching her how to hustle men at pool. What had the man been thinking? There were a hundred things Dakota shoulda taught his daughter—how not to date a loser, how to keep her legs locked at the knees, how to stay out of strip joints and two-bit bars.

  Nikki picked up her drink—whiskey neat—and barely wetted her lips. She’d been nursing her drink for the last two hours. Unlike Cole, Nikki’s devil had never been the bottle. No, her demon was the lure of easy money. But Mike didn’t fault her for that. Most men, himself included, had fallen into that trap.

  Cole hadn’t though. He’d made his money the old-fashioned way. By the grace of God and a whole lot of hard work, he’d pulled himself up and gotten that horse ranch out of the red. But Nikki was different from Cole. It wasn’t fair, but the world was less forgiving of women than men. Where Cole had stood proud, Nikki threw off attitude. She hadn’t had her momma around to show her how to hold her head high and keep some Texas pride.

  Nikki put on a tough show though, but what Mike saw was an angry girl so hurtin’ for love that anyone with half a brain could tell most of what she did was an act. But he’d known Mary Beth and what she’d wanted for her daughter. So if he cut Nikki a little more slack than the rest of this town, he forgave himself.

  There was a loud crack as a pool stick was thrown across the room. The red-bandanna guy pushed another biker. It was just a matter of seconds before a full-out bar fight ensued. Mike held up Billy and cocked the gun one-handed—terminator style. He might be old, but he was still strong enough to blow some loser to kingdom come. The sound of a sawed-off shotgun being locked and loaded had a way of silencing a crowd. All eyes were on him, well, him and the double-barreled gaze of “Billy.”

  Nikki looked away first, embarrassed. Should be, she was too old for this crap. Or maybe he was the one who was getting too old. He kept forgetting, she was only twenty-two.

  The others settled down, and finally one of the men laid down a few more dollar bills on the table. The pile of green had been increasing steadily over the last few hours and so were Nikki’s nerves. Oh, she held it together well enough—he wouldn’t expect anything less from a Logan. But he saw it in the way she pushed her hair behind her ears, held her pool stick, and studied the table like it was a complicated mathematical equation. Yeah, Nikki was sharp. She might hide the intelligence behind those piercing blue eyes, dye her hair a rebel black to cause a stir, but she was smarter than most everyone in this town.

  The pool balls were once again racked, and it was Nikki’s turn to break. Mike didn’t even have to watch to know that the break was good. The sound of the pool balls exploding into all four corners across the green was heard throughout the Pitt. Apparently, Nikki thought the hustle was over and it was time to close the deal. Mike didn’t want to cause trouble for Nikki, but if she didn’t change course quick, it wouldn’t be long before she’d be asking him for a job. And if he made Mary Beth’s daughter a strip—an exotic dancer—well, let’s just say he’d rather be in the place where pitchforks were the norm and the weather was like south Texas in the middle of summer.

  There was only one person who cared for Nikki enough to put up with her crap—cared enough to drag her kicking and screaming from herself. He just hoped Jett could pull his head out of his ass long enough to see that Nikki was worth it.

  Nikki’s gaze followed the small, white, spinning ball as it traveled across the green felt. Her heart and the cue bal
l were one as both dead-dropped into the pocket after the black eight.

  A freaking scratch. She never lost a game. Well, not when she wasn’t trying to lose. But she just had—lost a game when she should’ve won. There was a moment, ten seconds maybe, when she was dizzy, colors spun with the sickening reality that she didn’t have the money to cover her bet.

  She braced herself with a hand on the table and quickly tried to pull herself together. She licked her lips and gave a laugh that sounded fake even to her. “Hey, hey . . .” God, what was it? Bob or Bill? In her mind she’d referred to him as Bandanna-man. Who did he think he was kidding? Everyone knew what he was hiding—a receding hairline. Regardless, it would’ve been smart of her to figure out his name beforehand. Her dad would’ve been disappointed. She was better than this. “How about we go double or nothing? One more round. Winner takes all.”

  But even as she said it, she knew it was a no-go. Toward the end, her patience had run thin and she’d potted the balls with speed. There was no way she could pass her game off as a total fluke. And since everyone seemed to be packing a gun except her, there was also no way she was getting out without paying with money or her life. The problem was she only had one of those to give and twenty-two was just too young to die in a sleazy strip joint in the middle of Texas.

  “I don’t think so, sweetheart. A deal’s a deal,” said Bandanna-man. His pack-a-day habit had grayed out his skin, but color had seeped back in now that lust was wetting his eyes. Lust for her or the thousand dollars that should be coming to him, she wasn’t sure.

  She nodded and gave what she hoped was a good-sportsmanship smile. Monday-through-Friday, she was in trouble, but even in a time like this she couldn’t get her mother’s voice out of her head.

  Just because we’re poor doesn’t mean we have to curse like trash.