Tougher in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  Cole, though, looked odd. Not like himself.

  Shawnee breathed through the adrenaline rush of being dragged out of a dead sleep, blinking hard to clear her head. It was his clothes, she realized, as a few brain cells came online. Cole was always buttoned up and clean-shaven. Now he had a definite shadow on his jaw, and instead of his usual collar and long sleeves, he wore a snug T-shirt that showed off powerful arms and a matching set of shoulders. Under the floodlight, his dark hair gleamed, mussed up as if he’d just rolled out of bed.

  The thought filled her head with visions of hard muscle and soft cotton, hot kisses and whisker burns. Eye to eye with an acre of well-developed chest, suddenly Cole’s bed didn’t seem like a horrible place to be.

  What the hell?

  Shawnee shook that craziness out of her head so hard her neck popped. “If there’s no dire emergency, why are you beating on my door in the middle of the night?” she snapped.

  Cole held out his hand. She gingerly plucked the weird-looking key from his palm.

  “For the arena lights,” he said. “Switch box is below the announcer’s stand.”

  She worked her eyes open and shut a few more times. “What time is it?”

  “Almost three.”

  Her fingers curled around the key and she considered punching him right in those smug chops. She refused to thank him when he could just as soon have handed over the key after the rodeo. He must have had it. He sure hadn’t dragged a committee member out of bed at this godforsaken hour to get the thing.

  “Just so’s you know, we do have to work the stock right at eight,” he said. “The Exceptional Rodeo starts at ten and the committee wants us out of the way so they can set up. And if you’re interested, we can always use more cowboys and cowgirls to help out.”

  “We?” She almost added something snarky about scaring the kiddies, but it might sound like she was poking fun at the special needs children who were the focus of the event.

  He gave her a dead-eyed stare. “I like kids.”

  “Yeah? Why don’t you have a passel of ’em?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Whoa. He was not joking. Naturally. Cole never joked. He waited a couple of beats, then gave her the usual clipped nod and turned away. She let him take a dozen long strides before she called out.

  “Hey, Cole?”

  He stopped and turned.

  “A deal’s a deal.” She spun around, whipped down her shorts, and mooned him.

  Chapter 8

  Well, that certainly hadn’t turned out like Cole had planned. But what ever did when Shawnee was involved? Yet more proof that in a battle of wits, Cole was the guy in the red shirt who always died first.

  Why hadn’t it occurred to him that he was basically knocking on her bedroom door? Then he might’ve been prepared to come face-to-face with all that rumpled, sleepy woman, close enough to breathe in the scent of hand lotion and shampoo.

  And a mouthwatering whiff of grilled chicken.

  Twelve hours later, Cole was still obsessing about those breasts. As in, the package of chicken breasts he’d seen in her refrigerator when he was fetching her sweet tea. Plus fresh collard greens, red peppers, green beans, and two kinds of melons. God, what he’d give for a piece of meat that wasn’t slapped between slices of bread and a big ol’ heap of home-cooked greens. A fresh-baked roll on the side, dripping with butter.

  He didn’t even know if Shawnee was a decent cook. He did know she’d laugh in his face if he invited himself to dinner, and it wasn’t like he could turn on the charm. He didn’t even have a tap. Cole Jacobs, putting the ass in Asperger’s for thirty-three years.

  But at least kids liked him.

  The one who currently had a death grip on his neck whimpered, and Cole gave his shoulders a reassuring rub. “We’re okay,” he said softly. “We’re just gonna go over here in the corner, and you can meet my friend Salty.”

  The horse was tied well away from where contestants guided the other kids around the miniature barrel racing barrels and taught them to rope and tie dummy calves. Hank and Cruz had a plush stuffed bull mounted on a wheelbarrow frame and were using it to chase each other and some squealing children as they demonstrated bullfighting moves. And, to Cole’s amazement, Shawnee was crouched next to a wheelchair, showing a little girl how to swing a loop.

  The boy’s mother gave him a tense smile. “Thank you. We came because Jamey loves animals, but all the noise…”

  Cole glanced around the arena, filled with cowboys, cowgirls, and ear-splitting giggles and shrieks. He never missed the Exceptional Rodeos. This was the one crowd that didn’t make him want to crawl in a hole and pull the dirt in after him.

  “I understand.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m autistic.”

  “Oh.” Jamey’s mother relaxed slightly. “Maybe that’s why he took to you.”

  “Could be,” Cole agreed.

  Even after three years, it was hard to say out loud. He hadn’t been diagnosed until he was thirty, and while it was handy to have a label for his particular brand of weirdness, it hadn’t made much difference. He’d read all the books, visited all the websites, even done some therapy. None of it had transformed him from a tongue-tied frog into gallant prince.

  Maybe it would’ve worked if they’d caught it when he was younger, when his brain still had some flexibility. Before the head-on collision that had wiped out the other three-fourths of his immediate family, and the avalanche of loss that had buried him, depositing layer after layer of grief in the spaces between his neurons, where it hardened like the mortar in a brick wall.

  In moments like this, though, with Jamey’s slender body rigid against him, Cole was nothing but grateful. On the grand scale of things, he had it pretty easy. But he could still see the world through the eyes of those who had it worse. That’s why he always zeroed in on the scared one. The rest would do fine with the regular people. This child needed more than an hour of fun and games.

  Cole kept rubbing the boy’s back as they moved away from the chaos, murmuring to him the way he would a frightened colt. He stopped beside Salty and the horse craned his neck around to snuffle gently at Jamey’s arm. The boy squeaked in alarm.

  “He just wants to get to know you.” But Cole pushed Salty’s head away, having allowed the obligatory sniff, and moved in so Jamey was sandwiched between his own bulk and Salty’s warm, silky body. The horse stood stock-still as Cole matched the rhythm of his breath to the easy rise and fall of Salty’s rib cage. After a few minutes, Jamey’s grip on Cole began to relax. His head slowly turned. Salty gazed back at him from one dark, soft eye. They considered each other for a while. Then Jamey slowly, slowly, reached one hand out to press the palm against Salty’s neck.

  And he smiled.

  Cole heard a breath whoosh quietly out of Jamey’s mother. When he glanced over, her eyes were shining with tears. She swiped at them with her fingers. “I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s been a really tough week, you know? I almost didn’t bring him, but now…” She sniffed and flashed a watery smile. “Well, obviously you do understand.”

  Cole just nodded.

  * * *

  The loop flopped onto the head of the roping dummy, then settled around its neck. Shawnee gave a loud whoop and high-fived Amber. “You see? I knew you could do it!”

  “I did!” The little girl’s grin split her face. “Can I try again?”

  “Honey, you can work at it ’til your arm falls off.” She leaned in and lowered her voice, like she was telling a secret. “That’s how you learn to rope like a girl. Then watch the boys try to keep up.”

  They exchanged a fist bump before Shawnee helped the girl build a new loop and stepped back. This throw was a little stronger and the rope hit the target with more authority. They whooped again and exchanged another fist bump. Then Amber’s parents stepped forward.

&n
bsp; “I’m sorry, baby,” her father said, waving his phone to show the time. “Your brother has a baseball game.”

  Amber’s smile faded. “But I’m just getting good at it.”

  “I’ll tell you what.” Shawnee retrieved the kid-sized rope from the dummy, coiled it up, and handed it to the girl. “You take that with you. Rope a bucket or a big teddy bear or whatever you’ve got at home, and next year you can come back and show…” She started to say me, but of course she wouldn’t be here. She was temporary. Always. “Show everybody what you’ve got.”

  Amber still looked like she might burst into tears. “I won’t remember all the stuff you told me.”

  Impulsively, Shawnee snatched the phone out of the startled father’s hand and entered her number before handing it back. “There. You can send me a video once in a while. I’ll give you a few pointers.”

  “Would you?” Amber’s eyes widened and her smile crept back. “And maybe you could send me a video of the next time you go roping.”

  An annoying lump swelled in Shawnee’s throat. “Sure. But it’ll be a while, ’cuz I’ll be busy being a pickup man until the end of September.”

  “That’s okay.” Amber reached up, leaving Shawnee no choice but to bend and give her a hug. “I’ll wave to you at the rodeo tonight.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Shawnee crossed her arms tight over the ache in her chest as she watched the dad maneuver the wheelchair through the soft dirt of the arena, both parents nodding and smiling as Amber talked a mile a minute and swung an imaginary rope. What the hell had gotten into her, promising to keep in touch? But how could she resist those eyes? That smile. And the way it made Shawnee’s heart feel like it grew two sizes.

  That’d teach her to get sucked into this touchy-feely crap.

  “They get to you,” Cole said quietly, coming up beside her.

  She glanced over and was caught by the softness in his face. A glow in his eyes—the same warmth that was toasting her innards. And an openness to him, as if he’d peeled off a Cole-shaped mask and she was really seeing him for the first time. She couldn’t look away.

  The moment stretched too long. Started to feel like a moment, and oh, hell no, not with Cole Jacobs, but—

  A woman flung herself at Cole and sang out, “I’m ba-ack!”

  He froze for an instant, then relaxed when he looked down into the face grinning up at him. Geezus. Who wouldn’t smile at that face? She looked like she’d strolled off the cover of one of those cowgirl fashion magazines, all cheekbones and funky jewelry and endless legs. Except you didn’t see many women in western wear ads with skin the color of Miz Iris’s chocolate silk pie, and unlike Shawnee’s tangled mess, her waist-length hair was a glorious mass of jet-black ringlets.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be up north, kicking ass and taking names?” Cole asked.

  The woman scowled. “My horse turned up lame. The vet found an abscess in his right front foot.” She gave Cole another squeeze. “So I thought I’d come down and hang out with you for a while.”

  Tyrell strolled over and tugged on her arm. “Turn him loose. He’s not a hugger.”

  “I know. That’s why I do it.” But she let herself be pulled free.

  “I swear you’re part cat.” Tyrell tucked her under his arm. “Shawnee Pickett, meet my daughter, Mariah. She’s gonna be my sound and music tech for a few rodeos.”

  What? Shawnee did a double take. This was the famous Mariah? Tyrell’s pride and joy, who had just become the Washington State All-Around Champion Cowgirl and finished in the top five in the barrel racing at nationals—as a high school junior? But that would make her…sixteen? Seventeen at the most? Shawnee blinked and stared some more.

  Mariah Swift looked at least twenty years old. Possibly closer to twenty-five, when you threw in her deep, throaty voice, her clothes, and the way she carried herself.

  Shawnee gave her head a slow, commiserating shake. “Geezus, Tyrell. Do you beat the boys off with a stick, or have you had to go with rubber bullets and tear gas?”

  Tyrell made a pained face.

  Mariah rolled her eyes. “I manage fine on my own, thanks. Boys my age are ridiculous.”

  “I’m sure that makes your father feel so much better,” Shawnee said dryly.

  “You have no idea.” Tyrell scowled down at his daughter, then gave her a squeeze. “I have to keep telling myself she’s not actually trying to drive me to drink.”

  Mariah grinned and hugged him in return. Shawnee had to wonder what the son looked like. He’d graduated last year and was attending Eastern Washington University on a basketball scholarship just like his parents—Tyrell imported from Southern California and his future wife recruited off the Shoshone reservation at Fort Hall, Idaho. If Mariah was any indication, their combined DNA must look like strands of gold under a microscope.

  Mariah sniffed the air. “That barbecue smells so good. I am starving, and somebody refused to stop at an In-and-Out Burger on the way from the airport.”

  “I didn’t want you to spoil your dinner.” Tyrell steered her toward the open gate, where Analise leaned against a post, waiting.

  As they followed, Shawnee glanced at Cole and found him watching Tyrell and Mariah, his expression…odd.

  “What?” Shawnee demanded.

  Cole shook his head and looked away.

  “You really do want kids,” Shawnee said. Then, as an afterthought: “And a wife.”

  Heads turned as the others looked around in surprise. There was a beat of silence, everyone probably trying to decide how to reassure Cole that there must be a woman out there who could live with him.

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting a family,” Cole said stiffly. “Most people do.”

  Most people had a choice. Shawnee gave an elaborately casual shrug. “Yeah, well, count me out. I intend to wallow in sin for the rest of my days.”

  Tyrell covered Mariah’s ears. “You are not allowed to listen to her for at least another ten years, or until I’m too old to see or hear. Whichever comes first.”

  Mariah swatted him away, focusing on Cole as they were all drawn toward the scent of grilled meat. “I’m really good with people. I can help you find your true love.”

  “Lord knows someone will have to,” Shawnee drawled. “Otherwise some poor woman’s gonna end up on a romantic stroll through the stock pens with Katie biting her ankles.”

  Tyrell snorted. Mariah laughed outright.

  “No sense dating anyone who doesn’t like my bulls,” Cole said, sounding a wee bit miffed.

  “What else is on the list?” Shawnee asked.

  “What list?”

  “Your requirements for a perfect mate. You must have a list.” She raised a hand, extending her fingers to tick off the line items. “Number one—loves the smell of manure in the morning. Number two—tolerates that hell hound. Number three…”

  “Bakes like Miz Iris,” Analise chimed in. She was minus the lip ring today, but her black tank top featured a half-decomposed zombie with a red rose clenched in his teeth. “And hates the Dallas Cowboys. Cole won’t even let Hank listen to the games on the radio when we’re driving.”

  “Isn’t that, like, blasphemy?” Mariah asked, wide-eyed.

  Cole’s shoulders crept up toward his ears. “I don’t hate the Cowboys. I’m just not into football.”

  “You played all the way through school,” Shawnee pointed out.

  “I live in Earnest, Texas. There were ten boys in my class.” He waved a hand, indicating his oversized body. “The coach started hounding me when I was in kindergarten.”

  Shawnee squinted, mental gears spinning. “But you never liked it? Not even as a kid?”

  “No. It’s too noisy and…” The corners of his mouth pinched as he caught her drift. He nodded, quick and sharp. “That’s why I didn’t
go.”

  Or he’d be dead, too. The crash that had killed his parents and brother on a Sunday evening, coming home from a Cowboys game, had been so horrific no one could have survived. Violet had confided once that they’d been scared it might kill Cole anyway.

  And now Shawnee felt like a jerk for bringing it up. She forced breezy humor into her voice. “Okay—that’s numbers one through four on the list. What’s five?”

  “Wants babies. Except that should be number one. Cole is awesome with kids.” Mariah linked her arm through his. “There are a whole lot of women in Texas who have no idea what they’re missing. You just need a little coaching. Like charm school—”

  Shawnee made a rude noise. “Don’t go teaching him to smile and lie through his teeth. The best thing about Cole is never having to wonder if he means what he says.”

  Tyrell’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that how you define charm?”

  “In my experience? Yeah.” And oh boy, did she have experience, and its name was Ace Pickett, otherwise known as Daddy Dearest. Self-centered bastard. Silver-tongued demon. She’d learned early and well that charm could turn on a dime and rip your face off if Ace didn’t get what he considered his due.

  They reached the park adjacent to the rodeo grounds and were swallowed by the crowd lining up to fill their plates with smoked chicken legs, pork chops, brisket, and heaping helpings of green beans, macaroni and cheese, and pinto beans. Hank popped up beside them, one pink bandana folded and tied on as a headband and another around his upper arm.

  His gaze caught on Mariah and his mouth went slack, his eyes a little glassy—the standard male response, judging by the faces around them. “Oh. Hey. You’re back.”

  “Hi, Hank.” She flashed a carbon copy of her daddy’s dimples at him, then waited to see if he had any remaining brain function. When he showed no signs, she asked, “Whatcha got there?”

  “Here?” He looked stupidly down at the bag he was carrying, then jolted out of his Mariah-induced stupor and reached inside to pull out several more bandanas. “I’m supposed to make sure y’all get one of these for Tough Enough to Wear Pink night.”