Tougher in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  But there were limits. “Touch that shoe, dog, and you’ve have your last taste of meatloaf until you get home.”

  Katie froze, her snout a bare inch from the toe of the nearest flip-flop. Her eyes swiveled toward Shawnee, narrowing as she debated whether the threat was serious and worth the trade-off. Then she heaved an infuriated sigh and crept backward, out of sight.

  “Hard to figure why you don’t date more,” Joe told Cole, who reclined in a lounger in one of those soft, clingy T-shirts, eyes half-closed, as relaxed as Shawnee had ever seen him with his clothes on.

  She’d been seeing a lot of Cole looking very relaxed lately.

  I didn’t fall for you…

  Shawnee fought off a skitter of panic, mixed with something she wasn’t even going to put a name to. In any other situation, Cole’s words would have sent her running far and fast. But he hadn’t repeated them and besides, even if she assumed fall for you wasn’t just a figure of speech, where was she gonna go? She didn’t welch on a promise, so she was stuck with Jacobs Livestock for the duration. Breaking it off with Cole before the end of the season would only make life miserable for everyone.

  And if he had meant it the way it sounded—well, it was already too late, wasn’t it? Indulging herself for two short weeks wouldn’t do any more damage. Especially when the indulgence was so, so delicious.

  A low growl sounded from under the trailer, as if Katie could smell the pheromones. Shawnee grinned and lolled her head to the side.

  Joe was sprawled on the chunk of outdoor carpet, loafing through a series of stretches, his skin glistening with sweat from his morning run. As usual, he’d tied a bandana around his head to contain his shaggy hair. This one was acid green, paired with a purple T-shirt and faded red shorts. Color coordination didn’t rank high on Joe’s priority list. As he spread his legs wide and reached for his toes, pulling miles of long, sleek muscles taut, Shawnee decided it was good that drooling over a friend’s husband was some kind of mortal sin. Otherwise, she might need a bib.

  His presence had more than filled whatever awkward gap Hank might’ve left. Joe had been trapped at home for most of the summer. His slightly guilt-ridden delight at his sudden freedom and the unapologetic joy he took in every aspect of every rodeo performance was contagious. Watching him from inside the arena was a rare treat. Damn, that man could move. Cruz was in heaven, working side-by-side with one of his idols—and more than holding his own.

  Of course, he’d been trained by the best. Cruz was the product of one of the bullfighting clinics that occupied Wyatt Darrington’s free time these days. Like the youth horse camps at the Patterson ranch, there was no fee to attend Wyatt’s clinics. Unlike the ranch, though, Wyatt didn’t offer a week of hugs and feel-goods. He recruited his students from the El Paso projects, the poverty-stricken Navajo Nation, the poorest pockets of Appalachia, even the urban ghettos of LA and Chicago. They were wary-eyed predators who had existed on little more than guts for most of their lives. Wyatt tore them down, and if their toughness went deeper than bravado, rebuilt them into budding rodeo superheroes.

  Cruz had been a star pupil.

  Despite Cole’s anxiety, the rodeo in Utah had been a resounding success. The stock had been energized by the rain and the cool desert evenings, and the committee was elated when they realized they were getting Joe Cassidy, future Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame inductee, for the price of Hank.

  They’d rolled out of town with a contract for next year practically in hand. This week found them in the southern Colorado foothills, another respite from the Texas heat and humidity. Cole had grilled steaks for the Tuesday crew dinner while Joe and Tyrell took to the outdoor basketball court at the adjacent park to play a full combat one-on-one, Joe making up for Tyrell’s superior talent with shameless cheap shots. They’d invited Cruz and Cole to join them, but both had declined on the grounds of having an allergy to asphalt burns.

  Currently, Cruz was holed up in his camper working. Analise was in the office, preparing tonight’s stock draw sheets and uploading last night’s scores to the Pro Rodeo website. The Leses and Tyrell wouldn’t wander in from the motel for a while yet. Shawnee, Cole, and Joe were recharging after two hours of signing autographs at the local western store. Yes, even Shawnee—and wasn’t that a kick in the ass. There’d been a whole line of women from eight to eighty who thought her scribble was worth waiting for since all that viral online video crap.

  She used to wonder how Violet could choose to produce rodeos over the adrenaline blast of competition. Now she understood a little too well. Each hour flowed into the next, slowly gathering momentum from the laid-back routine of the mornings to the hectic, hoof- and heart-pounding unpredictability of the performances—all spiced with anticipation of the nights with Cole.

  Yeah, she could live like this.

  Shawnee tensed again, then forced herself to relax before Cole noticed. For a guy who could be so oblivious, he was incredibly tuned in to every nuance of her body language. Like she was a bucking horse or bull. His.

  No. She couldn’t be. Not long-term. But the last rodeo of the season was rushing toward them. How could it already be the third week of September? She wasn’t ready for it to end. For Cole to end. But she had to cut him loose, as planned. And thank the Lord for New York, forcing her to make a clean break. With their proximity—only an hour from her place outside Amarillo to his near Earnest—it would be far too easy to open the door when he inevitably came knocking.

  Besides, there wasn’t nearly enough roping in her life these days. Her gaze focused on Roy, dozing in his pen with his bottom lip hanging slack. The craving curled like a fist and punched her in the gut. Since Mariah’s departure, Cole had been coming out in the mornings to tow the dummy steer around for her on either Salty or Hammer, but it wasn’t the same as roping live steers.

  As competing.

  Her heart thumped hard against her sternum, a prisoner banging on the bars of the cell. Ace Pickett wasn’t the only addict in the family, and Shawnee was in dire need of a fix. She scowled at Cole, suddenly annoyed at how much he reminded her of one of his precious bulls, a massive pile of man-flesh all smug and content. All he needed was a tail to switch at the flies.

  “Do you ever do anything just for fun?” she demanded.

  His sleepy gaze traveled down the length of her and back up again, and he raised his eyebrows.

  “Besides me,” she snapped.

  Joe choked, coughed, and sat up, holding his back. “Shit. I think I just pulled something.” If so, it didn’t seem to bother him as he sprang to his feet. “It’s bad enough, being cut off for months because of the baby. I don’t need to breathe your lust fumes.”

  Cole, now fully awake and wary, eyed Shawnee as Joe ambled away. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Dammit! She hated how he was so quick to assume that if there was a problem, he must be lacking in some way. She upped the heat in her scowl. “I don’t like to brag, but I have been called the Queen of both Obnoxious and Impossible. Her Highness does not appreciate you implying that I require a man to bring out the worst in me.”

  He grinned, just as she’d intended. She hadn’t meant to feel this good about it, though.

  “So…fun?” she repeated. “Got any hobbies? Guilty pleasures? Interesting vices?”

  He gave her another long, slow appraisal that raised her body temperature several degrees. “All of the above.”

  Oh, the hell with it. If he was going to be that way…She jumped out of her chair, grabbed his wrist, and hauled him into her trailer.

  * * *

  Saturday morning, Cole showed up as usual to help Shawnee work her horses. He found Joe sitting in one of the rodeo committee’s snazzy four-seater ATVs, the dummy steer hooked to its hitch. Why…

  “Don’t blame me, I’m just following orders,” Joe said.

  Shawnee looked up from tightening Roy’s cinc
h and flashed Cole one of those toothy smiles that made his warning antennae quiver. “Oh good. You brought Salty.”

  “What’s up?”

  “There’s a team roping tomorrow morning over at the saddle club arena. I need a partner. You need a bad habit. Time to create the monster.”

  She handed Cole a brand-new rope. “Here. You can figure out what weight and stiffness suits you later, but this’ll work for starters.”

  “But I don’t…” Compete. Not since his brother—his built-in partner and moral support—had died. When Shawnee pressed the rope into his hands, the memories slammed into him like an avalanche. Xander, grinning, joking, flipping him a pile of shit even as his eyes said, Hey, you got this, bro.

  For a moment, it was all Cole could do to breathe as he clawed his way to the surface. Xander had understood his debilitating nerves. His abject fear of failing his partner. In public. A simple miss that anyone else shrugged off was, for Cole, one more reason for folks to shake their heads in something posing as sympathy. Ah, well, at least he’s trying. And his brother is so patient, bless his heart.

  Xander never got upset, even though Cole’s miscues as a header meant his brother, as the heeler, didn’t get a chance to throw his rope. Team roping was a lark to Xander. Just a throwaway event to kill time until the bull riding.

  To ultracompetitive Shawnee, it was life.

  “I’ve never roped steers with anyone but my brother,” he said, the words choppy and uneven. “I haven’t…not in years…”

  “Then it’s time you got started again.” Shawnee braced her hands on her hips, impatient. “Just pretend you’re chasing this thing down the midway.”

  But…

  But. Shawnee was and would always be a roper first and everything else second. Forced to pick one or the other, she would not choose Jacobs Livestock. So she was right. He had to suck it up, if he wanted any chance at persuading her to stick around.

  He dragged air into reluctant lungs, his hands clumsy as he built a loop and took a few tentative swings. The new rope was stiff and waxy, with the peculiar aroma of all tack stores—a potent mix of leather, rosin, and dreams.

  He coiled the rope and hooked it over his elbow as he tightened Salty’s cinches. Then he swung aboard and faced Shawnee. “Tell me what to do, Coach.”

  Chapter 36

  As Shawnee piloted her rig across town the next morning, it occurred to her that she’d never been alone in a vehicle with Cole. Despite everything they’d done to and with each other—and she did mean everything—she felt weirdly awkward, like they were headed to a drive-in for their first date. Possibly because Cole was so tense she could feel it rolling off him in ultrasonic waves.

  And if you wanted to distract Cole, you asked about his stock. “Joe said they rode one of your bulls to win first at the Extreme Bulls event in Albuquerque.”

  “Yep.”

  Okay. This was gonna take a little more prodding. “One of Dirt Eater’s sons?”

  “Nope.” But despite his nerves, he couldn’t leave it at that. “It was Texas Smackdown. He’s out of a daughter of Carrot Top, crossed with one of Chad Berger’s best sires. They don’t make the whistle on him very often.”

  “It must be amazing, seeing your stock compete at that level.” Especially after decades of clinging to the very bottom rung of professional rodeo, producing the smallest, least profitable shows. In the past three years, with some savvy financial scheming on Violet’s part and the connections and influence Joe had brought to the table, they were moving up fast. “I bet you wish you could be there to see it.”

  Cole shook his head. “I get my fill at the National Finals and a few of the early winter rodeos. Besides, my aunt and uncle have earned it. They almost lost it all after my parents died. It took years just to get back to even.”

  Shawnee had never thought of the Jacobs family tragedy in financial terms, but of course it would have had an impact. One thing they hadn’t had to worry about when her grandfather died. Between her illness and his, there was nothing left to lose.

  She couldn’t even afford to fall in love.

  The ache was sharper than usual, when she was sitting this close to what might have been—in another, better life. But she could live with the pain of letting him go. She refused to die knowing she’d tarnished the bright, shiny future he and his family had fought so hard to rebuild.

  And on that cheery note…

  “I’d rather be the pickup man,” he blurted. When she stared at him, uncomprehending, he added, “At one of those big rodeos. Or the National Finals.”

  Okay. Wow. That was news. As far as Shawnee knew, Cole had never mentioned the possibility to anyone in his family.

  “Have you…applied or whatever?” She didn’t even know how you got those jobs.

  “No.”

  “Why not? You’re good enough.”

  “Maybe.” He spread his hands on his thighs and studied them. “I, um, don’t always work well with others.”

  She couldn’t argue. On the other hand…

  “You’ve managed to work with me. That must be worth something. And we’ve being doing our damnedest to put together an Internet highlight reel this summer. I think you should go for it.”

  He hunched his shoulders, Cole-speak for ain’t gonna happen. Dumb-ass. Shawnee made a mental note to talk to Joe. He’d know what it took to get on the short list for those jobs.

  And if she had a hand in making this dream come true for Cole, it might help soothe her conscience for what she was going to do to him when she left.

  She slowed and turned into the driveway of the saddle club. The parking lot was already crowded and a good number of riders circled the arena, warming up. Her pulse did an eager shimmy of anticipation.

  Cole gulped audibly. “I thought this was just some little local deal.”

  “It is.” Shawnee wheeled into an empty slot and shut off the engine. “Looks like there are a lot of locals.”

  Cole trailed behind her like a bewildered child as she strolled over to the entry office/concession stand. He got a Coke while she gave the secretary their names. They both paid their entry fees. As they stepped aside to make way for the next in line, Cole froze, staring at the poster that described the roping, taped to the table for quick reference.

  “It’s progressive?” The horror in his voice suggested she’d invited him to a ritual sacrifice.

  “Almost all of the ropings are nowadays,” she said, ignoring the curious glances from the others in the line to enter.

  “If I miss the first steer, we’re done. You won’t even get to rope.”

  He sounded so desperate, on the verge of panic. “Well, then, don’t miss,” she said, and walked away.

  If only it were that simple. When the position draw was posted, she and Cole were the fifty-seventh team out of ninety-eight, and with each successive bang of the chute gate, he got a little paler, sat a little more rigid in his saddle, until Shawnee was afraid if she tapped his arm he’d keel over.

  As team number fifty-one rode into the roping boxes, she nudged Roy closer until her knee bumped Cole’s. His eyes were glazed and he was barely breathing. She crooked a finger. When he leaned down within reach, she clenched her fist in the front of his shirt and slapped a long, hot kiss on him. By the time she let go, he had regained some of his color.

  “Just a reminder,” she said. “What you get later for being a sport.”

  “Even if I miss?”

  “Especially if you miss. Then you’ll owe me. Big. And I already know how I plan to collect.”

  His smile was a pitiful thing, but at least he seemed to be taking in air again.

  And he didn’t miss. The loop wasn’t a thing of beauty, but it fit. Cole dallied up and went left, and Shawnee was able to snag both hind feet. Roy buried his rear end and the big steer hit the end hard enough to jerk
two feet of rope through her gloved hand. Like a junkie snorting a line, her blood sang at the hot slide of nylon against her palm and the smell of burning rubber from her saddle horn.

  God, she loved this game.

  Her grin was made of pure joy. Cole’s held the petrified relief of a man who’d taken a single step into a minefield and hadn’t blown up…yet.

  While they waited for their next run, Shawnee wallowed in the singular aroma of horses and ropes and dirt, Roy’s quiet strength beneath her, the laughter and banter of the other ropers filling the air. Not a particularly friendly bunch. Or Cole was scaring them away with his Grim Reaper face. Shawnee stuck by him, rather than wandering around to chat up strangers. Funny, how much easier it was to make friends after they saw her double-hock a steer or two.

  Yeah, kiss this, boys.

  Almost half of the teams dropped out in the first round, so their turn came up quicker the second time. As the team ahead of them tracked their steer to the catch pen, Shawnee stuck out her chest and flipped back one side of her button-down shirt to flash Cole some cleavage. “Don’t forget. Catch now, or pay later.”

  He caught. Farther down the arena than Shawnee would have preferred, but her own loop was quick and deadly, so their time was still respectable. The two runs combined put them eleventh out of the top twenty that got to rope a third and final steer. Not bad. And as the saying went, a bad day roping was better than the best day doing anything else. Shawnee was buzzing with adrenaline. Cole looked like he was going to puke.

  Shawnee put her hand on his thigh and squeezed. “Dude. It’s a fifty-dollar jackpot. We’re not roping to win the world.”

  He just shook his head and rode over to the corner where he sat alone, muttering to himself.

  By the time they backed into the roping boxes for their final steer, he’d gone from pale to green. He nodded his head, took three swings, and threw a balled-up mess of a loop that swatted the steer on the side of the head and fell on the ground. Cole dropped his head, reined Salty up, and turned to ride straight out the gate, his rope trailing behind, without even glancing at Shawnee. He was already off his horse and jerking at the cinches when she caught up with him at the trailer.