Chapter 3
Hank would rather have hauled a load of dynamite through Los Angeles during rush hour than make the fifteen-minute drive out to the Jacobs ranch on Saturday morning. But there was no avoiding Gil when his house was fifty yards from the apartment over the Sanchez shop, and Gil himself was directly downstairs in the dispatcher’s office, the sound of his cursing wafting up through the floor vents.
Facing the Jacobs clan was definitely the lesser evil.
Hank rinsed his coffee cup—he’d snuck down the rear interior stairs to the break room and filled up earlier—and set it on the draining rack, then had to walk all the way into the bedroom for a sweatshirt. He’d existed for nineteen months in a six-by-eight camper meant to sit on the back of a pickup, not be plopped down on a few rotting wooden pallets. By comparison, this was the penthouse suite.
When Gil’s younger brother had lived in this apartment, the walls had been covered with photos of Delon’s winning rides, National Finals Rodeo back numbers, and shelves full of championship belt buckles. It was stripped bare now that Delon had married Tori and moved to her place in Dumas.
Were Hank’s high school athletic trophies and all the photos and memorabilia from the early years of his bullfighting career gathering dust out at the ranch, or had his father dumped the works in the trash?
Still there, he decided as he shrugged into the canvas Sanchez Trucking jacket Gil had given him. His dad wouldn’t waste the time it took to clean out his room. More likely he’d left the old pictures on the walls so he could nurse his resentment along with the occasional beer.
It sure as hell wouldn’t be because he was proud of anything his son had accomplished.
Shut up, Bing’s voice told that insistent, mocking whisper inside his head. If you’ve got nothing good to say, go screw yourself. He imagined her meeting his father…and grinned. Now that would be a sight.
The cold wind slapped him in the face as he stepped onto the exterior second-floor landing. The Panhandle had seen fit to welcome him with glowering skies that spit a few fat drops of rain on his head as he clattered down the metal stairs. The keys to one of the Sanchez pickups were in his pocket and he had the next two days off. Gil had left him zero excuses and specific orders.
He would make an appearance at the Jacobs ranch before he was seen anywhere else in town. With all they’d done for Hank—right up until he’d forced Cole to fire him—they deserved that consideration.
With that in mind, he skirted the edge of Earnest, the better to be unseen. His heart twinged at the sight of dusty brown plains stretching to the horizon, broken only by the barely visible corrugated ridges of the Canadian River breaks.
Home. The recognition vibrated in his bones like a divining rod. Hank ignored it.
Ahead, brake lights flared as a snazzy short-box Ford slowed to turn into the driveway of what had been Cole Jacobs’s childhood home. The house was set well back off the road, surrounded by trees. It had been used as a rental after Cole’s parents and brother died in a car wreck and he moved in with his aunt and uncle. Now Cole lived there with his wife—the human wrecking ball named Shawnee Pickett.
Geezus. It had been hard enough to wrap his head around the two of them sleeping together that last season he’d been with Jacobs Livestock, but silent, tense Cole and loud, outrageous Shawnee…married? Hank just shook his head.
The Ford stopped just down the driveway, the driver either lost or fiddling with his phone. Hank wiped it from his mind as he drove on to the next turn.
Unlike Earnest, the changes at the main Jacobs homestead were obvious. A classy-looking manufactured home had taken the place of Violet’s single-wide trailer, and down by the barn, a shiny aluminum cattle truck gleamed beside the battered single-deck bull hauler with Jacobs Livestock painted on the side in plain block letters.
Hank parked the pickup in front of the big white frame house, surprised the space was empty. If you wanted to find Steve or Cole Jacobs during rodeo’s short off-season, you stopped by the home place after the morning chores were finished. There were plans to be made and fat to be chewed over coffee and whatever Miz Iris had baked. He’d spent his childhood racing up those steps to loiter in Miz Iris’s kitchen or trail along behind Cole and Steve until Melanie, ten years older and already driving when he hit kindergarten, came to fetch him.
Today the place that had been more home to him than his own family’s house was dark and vaguely forbidding, despite the pumpkins lining the porch and a scarecrow cowboy spurring a hay bale bucking horse.
They weren’t here.
Disappointment warred with relief in Hank’s churning gut. He’d counted on getting this over with, the whole bunch of them at once. Now the day stretched in front of him, empty as his pockets. He supposed he should call Korby, but his former best friend would want to grab a beer, and the advance Gil had given Hank had been barely enough to buy a decent pair of jeans and stock up on cold cuts, bread, cereal, and milk at the last Walmart along the road.
His stomach rumbled, annoyed that there was no sign of the promised bounty from Miz Iris’s kitchen. He could go skulk around his empty apartment, maybe fix himself a sandwich while he worked up the nerve to drive the dozen miles north of Earnest to the Brookman ranch and clear out his bedroom, solving his wardrobe and decor issues in the process.
Assuming his dad would let him in the house.
As he pondered his options, movement caught his eye. Out in the backyard, the door to the separate office building opened and a woman poked her head out. Miz Iris? He had to squint to be sure. She looked…odd. His fingers were clumsy as he turned off the pickup and fumbled for the door handle. When he stepped out, her hand paused mid-wave, hung for a moment, then fell—along with her smile.
She swung the door wide and it was Hank’s turn to do a double take, trying to fit the round, well-padded version of Miz Iris he’d always known into the slender body that stood before him. Why was she so skinny? His heart skittered in fear. What was wrong with her?
“Hank.” She said his name as if she was repeating a foreign word and wasn’t quite sure what it meant.
His knees felt like putty as he walked toward her, stopping a few yards short. He should smile, but his face couldn’t recall how. “Yes, ma’am.”
The corners of her mouth drew in as she studied him. He returned the favor, trying not to stare. The change was more than her weight. She looked different in a way that was hard to put his finger on. Something about the way she held herself that made her seem less like everyone’s mother and more…sophisticated wasn’t quite the word, but close.
He didn’t like it.
“I expected Gil when I saw the Sanchez pickup.” Her eyebrows pinched together—confusion, or annoyance?
“He’s catching up at the office. We got in late.” Now he should say something about how she looked or…damned if he knew what. He hadn’t rehearsed this part, assuming by now she would be scolding him, pelting him with questions, bustling him into a chair and shoving something to eat or drink into his hands. Anything but regarding him silently, her expression so…undecided.
She wasn’t sure she was happy to see him. And he hadn’t realized until this moment how much he’d been counting on her to be the one person who would welcome him with open arms. The familiar dark threads wound around his heart and squeezed.
Her gaze landed on the Sanchez Trucking logo on his jacket, then popped back up to meet his, her brown eyes sharpening. “You’re not just visiting?”
“No, ma’am. I’m back for…” He trailed off, unable to tell her what he didn’t know. “…a while.”
As long as it took to prove to Gil and to Bing that there was nothing here for him.
“Have you told your sister?”
“No, ma’am.” What difference did it make? It wasn’t like he could pop by Melanie’s place for dinner when she’d moved to Oregon to ma
rry that condescending bastard, Wyatt. One more piece of his former life that hadn’t waited around for him. He wrung the bitterness from his tone, leaving it tight and dry. “I expect I’ll see her at Thanksgiving.”
“They’re not coming. She just let Violet know this morning.”
“Oh.” Was he relieved? Disappointed? He’d have to decide later, when he wasn’t putting all his effort into navigating this encounter.
An awkward silence fell, during which they were both intensely aware that in a former life, Miz Iris would have insisted he have dinner with them and he would have jumped at the offer. He worked his fists in his pockets. She folded her arms tight over her chest.
The office phone rang, to their mutual relief.
She didn’t turn away immediately. “Joe and Violet are in Mexico with his mother and the kids. Delon and Tori went too. Everyone else is over at Cole’s place working bulls.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
She continued to regard him for another nerve-jangling brrrinnnggg of the old-fashioned black phone. “I suppose we’ll be seeing you.”
In Earnest? They could hardly help it. “Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded, then turned and hurried back into the office. As Hank strode to his pickup, he wondered if we’ll be seeing you meant come on back another day or get off my lawn?
He could hope for the first, but he’d earned the second.
* * *
Back out on the highway, Hank barely got up to speed before slowing to make the turn to the other Jacobs homesite. His palms were damp on the steering wheel as he rolled up to the house. Here were the pickups he’d expected to find at the main house—two beefy four-door duallys made for pulling heavy loads. Hank pulled in beside that short-box Ford he’d seen earlier—exactly like he’d always promised he’d buy himself when he started working the big rodeos on a regular basis.
Hank’s only memory of visiting Cole’s family was when he was around three, when he’d spun himself in the tire swing until he threw up—sort of like how he felt right now. He did know the kitchen was around the back of the low stucco house, so he followed a redbrick walk to the rear patio. The yard was immaculate, the late fall flowers warm bursts of orange and deep maroon in the flat light. There was no need to knock—the people inside could see him coming through the sliding glass doors.
The first three he’d expected, but it was the sight of the fourth that punched clear through him.
Grace. Shit.
He might have turned himself right around and made tracks if Shawnee hadn’t yanked the door open and stood, hand braced on the frame, to give him a long, insolent once-over. She had not changed a whit—still built on the generous side and more than comfortable in her skin, with the wicked gleam in her eyes that said she wouldn’t hesitate to bust his balls. Even her hair was the same, a waist-length snarl fighting the confines of the baseball cap she’d jammed over it.
“I’ll be damned,” she drawled. “It lives.”
Chapter 4
Hell, damn, and son of a bitch.
Grace had expected to have more than fifteen minutes to recover from the news of Hank’s return before they came face-to-face, but her shock wasn’t only due to his unexpected arrival. It was all she could do not to gawk at the person Shawnee dragged through the door and shoved into the chair opposite her.
If she had seen him on Main Street, Grace might not have recognized him.
His sister had tried to warn her, but the transformation from grinning, carefree Hank to this had to be seen to be comprehended. It was partly the hair, falling to his collar around a face that had been stripped of all softness. If she squinted, she could see that the bones were still the same. Everything else—the easy smiles, the spark of mischief in his eyes, any sign of warmth—was gone.
Now Grace understood why Miz Iris had been so flustered when she’d called to say Hank was headed their direction. He barely seemed housebroken, nostrils flaring like a skittish wolf that had wandered out of the Montana wilderness and didn’t care for the smell of humans. He met her gaze—he could hardly avoid it from where he sat—and for an instant there was a flicker almost like regret. Then, without blinking or breaking eye contact, he retreated to a place she couldn’t follow.
And didn’t want to, if the shadows she saw there were any indication of what she’d find there.
Cole, of all people, broke the silence. “You hired on with Sanchez Trucking?”
“Yep.”
The old Hank would have rambled on about how and why and his next scheduled trip. This person just stared them down with that half-wary, half-defiant tilt to his chin.
“They’ve built up a hell of a business,” Steve Jacobs said in his deep, elder statesman voice. “Drivers say they’re the best in four states to haul for.”
“So Gil tells me.”
Even his voice was different, the Southern drawl clipped and roughed up around the edges. They sat in an increasingly taut silence, Cole staring into his coffee cup, Steve’s thick fingers drumming on the table, and Grace wishing she could be as invisible as she used to feel.
“Damn,” Shawnee finally said. “And here I thought you were annoying when you wouldn’t shut up. What do you want, Hank? A cinnamon roll? A pat on the head? A kick in the ass? I can dish ’em all up.”
Hank blinked. Grace could’ve sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch as if he wanted to smile, but his voice was still flat. “Just checking in. Gil thought y’all deserved fair warning.”
“Yeah?” Shawnee folded her arms. “Do you have plans?”
“For what?”
“Revenge. Redemption. The rest of the day?”
“I…no.” For the first time, his composure slipped. He shot a sideways glance at the door, like he was fixing to bolt.
Shawnee clapped her hands together and rubbed them in satisfaction. “Excellent. Grace and I are heading over to Tori’s place to rope. We could use some chute help.”
What? Grace’s jaw came unhinged. Oh no. Please no.
Her sentiment was echoed on Hank’s face. “I have to—”
“You just said you didn’t have plans,” Shawnee cut in. “Don’t try to lie to me now. If Gil sent you here, he must figure you’ve got some makin’ up to do. You can start by givin’ us a hand.”
The air in the kitchen seemed to contract, pulled tight by invisible lines of tension. Cole gave Shawnee a what the hell look. Everyone else stared at Hank.
He made a sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh. “Why not? I’ve had enough practice I could do it in my sleep.”
He pushed his chair back, got up, and walked out. The door thumped shut behind him and the kitchen was quiet until they heard the sound of his pickup starting.
“I guess that means he’s gonna meet us there,” Shawnee said, and reached for her sweatshirt.
Cole narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you doing?”
“Just breaking the ice.” She gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry. Me and Grace got this handled.”
Speak for yourself. Lord knew Grace was beyond words.
“You can handle it, right?” Shawnee’s eyebrows peaked, offering both challenge and support. I’ve got your back…so suck it up, cupcake.
What could Grace say? As far as anyone at this table knew, all Hank had to be sorry for was getting drunk and informing Grace—and everyone else at the Lone Steer Saloon’s annual New Year’s Eve bash—that, yes, the sex had been great, but, no, he wasn’t interested in doing it again. After almost three years, any woman with a spine would be over it.
Grace stiffened hers and forced some conviction into her voice. “Sure.”
But as they pulled on coats and boots, she allowed herself the tiniest of sighs. This was the trouble with secrets. The people who had your best interests at heart could unknowingly force you to spend the afternoon
with a man who was a whole lot more than an old embarrassment.
He was the father of a child that even he didn’t know she’d had.
Order Kari Lynn Dell’s next book
in the Texas Rodeo series
Mistletoe in Texas
On sale October 2018
Rodeo 101
Professional Rodeo: Also known as pro rodeo, refers to rodeos that have been approved by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association. The PRCA sanctions around 600 rodeos each year across the U.S. and Canada, establishing the rules for competition, requirements for membership, and standards of care for livestock. Money won at rodeos throughout the season is tracked via the World Standings, and at the end of the season the top fifteen money winners in each event qualify to compete at the National Finals Rodeo.
National Finals Rodeo: Also referred to as the NFR or just the Finals. It is the culmination of the rodeo season, and qualifying is the goal of every full-time cowboy. The nationally televised NFR stretches over ten days in early December, with the money won during the ten rounds of competition added to a contestant’s season earnings to determine the World Champion in each event. Since 1985, the NFR has been held in Las Vegas, and is contracted to remain there through 2024.
Circuit: A large percentage of cowboys and cowgirls who compete at pro rodeos are not able to travel extensively due to work or family commitments. For their benefit, the 600+ rodeos of the PRCA are divided into twelve regional circuits (e.g., the Texas Circuit, the Montana Circuit, the Great Lakes Circuit). Money won by members within each circuit is tallied in a separate set of standings, and at the end of the season the top contestants qualify for their regional circuit finals. Champions of the twelve circuits then qualify to compete in the National Circuit Finals Rodeo. Usually held in April, the National Circuit Finals Rodeo provides an opportunity for these skilled part-time cowboys to win a national championship.
Fearless in Texas Page 38
