Wyatt had arranged this ride from the airport to the first rodeo—four hours west of Dallas—and Joe had been forbidden to offer to pay for gas. Whether Wyatt had called in a personal or professional favor Lord only knew, and Joe hadn’t bothered to ask. He snagged his duffel off the carousel, walked out the door, and stopped dead at the sight of the car parked directly across the street, its owner contributing to the traffic congestion in the loading zone as she lounged against the hood, her long, bare legs crossed at the ankles. Oh yeah. Wyatt definitely had personal business with this one. Joe blew out a breath that was half laugh and headed for the car.
He might not make a great first impression, but he was damn sure going to make an entrance.
* * *
Violet swiped away a trickle of sweat that oozed down her temple and glared at the last stinking water tank left to be cleaned. Emphasis on the stink. Whoever used these stock pens last had left water in the tanks to ferment into foul green soup. Violet’s father and Cole drained and upended all of them, propping them on their sides against the fences for Violet and Beni to attack with a hose and a scrub brush while her mother brought up the rear with a bucket of bleach water.
Violet smelled like the Swamp Thing after a hard day, probably looked worse, and their new bullfighter was due to pull in any time now. Not that she had to impress him, but she was nervous enough about bringing a stranger on board that she’d feel better if she at least combed her hair and put on a clean, dry shirt. She scowled at the green-black slime coating the bottom of the tank, steeling herself to move in, when a flash of canary yellow caught her eye. A Corvette turned into the rodeo grounds and crept along the dusty gravel driveway, its engine grumbling in disdain. Violet’s heartbeat kicked up. Could this be Shorty? She wouldn’t put it past a bullfighter to go for the flash, even if it would be hell to keep the dirt off all that gleaming paint and chrome.
The car stopped and idled for a moment as if the occupants were inspecting their surroundings—a bare dirt parking lot, the old wooden grandstand, a ramshackle hut that functioned as a rodeo office…and Violet. She was tempted to dive for cover behind the tank until the car passed, but the doors opened instead. The driver emerged first and Violet’s jaw dropped. Wow. Give this woman pom-poms and a pair of miniscule white shorts and she could stroll right onto the sidelines of the next Dallas Cowboys game. Her cloud of brilliant red curls seemed impervious to the humidity, and her elegant nose wrinkled as she surveyed the stock pens. She made a face and what sounded like a joke as a man climbed out of the passenger seat. He responded with a tight smile.
Definitely not their bullfighter. Shorty was, well, shorter, compact, and dark. Violet judged this guy to be close to six feet, long, lean, and as potentially hazardous as the car he stood beside. His shrewd gaze cataloged every rusty nail and weathered board of the aging rodeo grounds, snagging for a moment on Violet, and then moving on as if she were just part of the scenery. The intensity of that gaze contrasted oddly with his shaggy brown hair, bleached to gold at the tips, and the wrinkled T-shirt that hung loose on broad shoulders. When he turned to reach into the backseat of the car, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see him pull out a skateboard instead of a pair of road-weary duffel bags. Who—
“Hey, Mommy!”
A blast of water hit the stock tank and ricocheted, drenching her in slime. She shrieked, whipped around, and a second blast caught her square in the face. Beni cackled in delight as Violet choked and sputtered. She made a lunge for the hose, skidded, slipped, and landed flat on her butt in the middle of a rapidly growing puddle. Beni giggled louder and doused her again as she wallowed around, trying to get her feet under her.
“Beni!” she heard her mother say. “Give Grandma that—”
Then a shriek as Beni hit the trigger on the hose nozzle.
“Benjamin. Steven. Sanchez. You stop that right now!” Violet made another grab for him.
Beni ducked and dodged, howling like a hyena with the nozzle gripped in both hands, using the powerful spray to fend her off. Suddenly, the water stopped. Beni shook the nozzle and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. His eyes went wide and his mouth made an uh-oh shape. He dropped the hose and ran, diving under the fence and tearing past the skater dude, who stood with one hand on the lever of the water hydrant. Violet glanced over at the car then back at the hydrant, at least thirty yards away. He’d covered the distance in the space of a few heartbeats.
So he didn’t just look fast.
She started to wipe the water from her face before she realized her hands were coated in rancid mud, which she had now smeared across both cheeks. Awesome. She brushed the drips from her eyebrows with one forearm then squelched across the pen to where the stranger stood outside the fence.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
His eyebrows rose. “Looks like it’s the other way around to me.”
He wasn’t from around here. No sign of a Texas drawl in those lazily amused words. His gaze took a stroll from her bedraggled hair, down the front of her sopping-wet denim shirt, and over her mucked-up jeans and boots before returning to her grubby face. Her cheeks heated under the scrutiny.
“Thanks for that.” She spared a dark glance for where Beni had disappeared around the end of the bucking chutes, seeking temporary asylum with Cole or his grandpa. “My son and I will be having a chat later. Are you looking for someone?”
“You, I assume.”
Violet blinked. “Me?”
“You hired a bullfighter.” He spread his hands, inviting inspection. What she saw didn’t inspire confidence. His T-shirt was worn through at the collar and the Mint Bar logo was so faded and cracked she could barely read the Hangovers Installed and Serviced tagline. His jeans were, if possible, even more decrepit, and his face was rough with at least a few days’ worth of stubble.
“You aren’t Shorty,” Violet said, confused.
“No kidding. I was…” He stopped, a muscle in his jaw working as if chewing off the end of an unappetizing explanation. “Shorty got an opportunity to work Pendleton. I’m taking his place.”
Her gut went alternately cold then hot as she absorbed the implications. No way. This could not be happening. The one time she stuck her neck out, acted unilaterally to hire an unknown, and he had left them flat. Her father was going to be furious. Come to think of it, so was she.
“He doesn’t bother to call, give us a heads-up, nothing? Just sends”—her voice climbed an octave and she chopped a hand toward him, flicking mud onto the B of Mint Bar—“whoever? And I’m supposed to just accept it, assume you’re good enough to turn loose in our arena?”
His chin snapped up and his deep-set eyes narrowed. “I’m better than anything that’s ever set foot in one of your arenas, sweetheart. But if you want me to leave—”
Violet drew a breath to tell him yes, and provide detailed directions to exactly where he could go, when a small, damp hand closed around her arm, the grip like iron.
“Violet.” Her mother’s voice was soft, the tone unmistakable. Mind your manners, young lady. She extended her other hand to the imposter. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I’m Iris Jacobs.”
As he accepted the handshake, he angled a smile at Violet that glinted with a grim sort of triumph. “Joe Cassidy.”
Oh. Oh dear God, no. She hadn’t just… She couldn’t have failed to recognize… But of course it was him. So obviously him that she wanted to head-slap herself. Beni had an autographed poster of Joe Cassidy and Wyatt Darrington on his bedroom wall, for pity’s sake. Violet swore silently, closed her eyes, and prayed the puddle she was standing in would swallow her whole.
Chapter 4
Joe Cassidy was going to be trouble. Violet just hadn’t figured out what kind yet. Fifteen minutes on Facebook and she’d learned why he was in Texas. Rumors were flying fast and hard about the blowup between Joe and Dick Browning, starting with
Joe leaving the bar with Dick’s daughter-in-law, and ending with Joe punching Dick’s son.
Drinking, fighting, and adultery. Yep, her dad was real impressed with her decision-making skills. And now, to top it all off, their starstruck rodeo announcer had given Joe a wireless microphone, so instead of lounging around behind the chutes until the bull riding—the final event on the program—he was in the arena, schmoozing the fans. Violet tried not to glance over to where he leaned against the fence chatting with a trio of autograph seekers. Female, of course. They flashed a lot of tanned skin, white teeth, and big hair as they shoved their rodeo programs through the fence. He said something that made them giggle.
Violet felt her lip curl. Lord, the man put her teeth on edge, and not just because she’d made a complete fool of herself. He strutted around like he was God’s gift to rodeo, radiating energy like those big static electricity balls at the science museum. When one of the buckle bunnies put a hand on his arm, Violet was surprised the girl’s bleached hair didn’t stand on end. Violet was not surprised to see the blonde scribble on the corner of her rodeo program, tear it off, and tuck it into Joe’s hand.
“You’re in for a real treat today, folks. Our next bareback rider is a fan favorite…especially with the single ladies,” the rodeo announcer declared in a voice that was the equivalent of an exaggerated wink. “Delon Sanchez is a seven-time National Finals Rodeo qualifier, currently number one in the world standings!”
The crowd clapped enthusiastically, enjoying the exceptionally nice view as Delon leaned over the horse. His sleeve was rolled up to the elbow, exposing the muscle that bulged in his forearm. Little wonder his grip on the stiff leather handhold was nearly impossible to break. Riata Rose wasn’t nearly as awestruck. The mare slumped against the side of chute, sulking, as he worked his hand into the rigging, the squeak of rosin and leather audible. The chute crew massaged her mane and shoved on her hip as Delon lowered himself onto the horse’s back, but Rose wouldn’t budge.
Into the lull, the announcer’s voice boomed. “Hey, Joe, did you know Violet here is the only female pickup man in Texas?”
Oh hell. Not that again.
“Shouldn’t it be pickup girl?” Joe made it sound indecent, like she plied her trade on street corners.
The announcer grinned down at her from the crow’s nest, oblivious. “Well, now, I’m not sure. Do you prefer pickup girl, Violet?”
She gave an exaggerated shrug, but couldn’t stop the sidelong scowl she fired at Joe. He answered with a mocking smile. She snapped her focus back to the chute, but Riata Rose was in a mood and had no intention of cooperating until she felt damn good and ready. The mare sank onto her haunches. Delon shook his head and climbed off. In that position, the mare could flip onto her back in an instant and crush him.
While the crew tried to persuade Riata to play nice, Joe moved down the fence to an older couple, their knobby knees sunburned pink below baggy walking shorts. He held out the clip-on microphone so the woman’s strong German accent could be heard over the loudspeakers.
“What do you do? You don’t look like a cowboy.”
A valid question. If it weren’t for his white straw cowboy hat, he could have been mistaken for a soccer player, lean and edgy as a feral cat, in silky black shorts and a long-sleeved red jersey plastered with sponsor logos. His shaggy hair might be a fashion statement or just neglect, but either way it added to his general air of too cool for you.
“I’m a bullfighter,” he said.
“You fight the bulls? With the sword?” The woman made a stabbing motion, enthusiastic enough to make Joe step back.
“No, ma’am. I just jump in after the ride ends and distract the bull long enough for the cowboy to get away.”
“Oh.” The woman looked disappointed. “Why don’t you ride?”
“Have you seen the horns on those things?” Joe gave an exaggerated shudder. “You couldn’t pay me to get on one.”
Laughter rippled through the audience, for which Violet was reluctantly grateful. Joe was doing a good job of filling dead air, the same way he chatted with the cluster of fans that waylaid him every day after the bull riding. He’d also gone along with the impromptu autograph session the committee had included in their pancake breakfast. Three days in, even her dad couldn’t complain about Joe’s behavior.
Joe caught Violet’s glance—okay, maybe it was more like a frown—and his eyes narrowed. He held her gaze as he leaned closer to the German woman, his voice dropping to a purr. “I might consider climbing on a bucking horse if it meant Violet would pick me up.”
The crowd laughed and cheered in approval. Violet glared at Joe, kicking Cadillac up a few steps and angling the horse to turn her back on Joe. Big mistake.
“Hey, Vi?” he called out. “In case you’re wondering…those chaps make your butt look just fine.”
Her face went hot as a pancake griddle as every eye in place tracked straight to the back of her saddle. She slapped her hand against her thigh as if to encourage Riata Rose, hoping no one but Joe noticed her middle finger was extended. Three more horses to buck, then she could ride out of the arena, march up to the announcer’s stand and crank the dials on the sound system until the feedback fried Joe’s ears. And honest to God, if he made a crack about her not being any shrinking violet, she and Cadillac would run him down on the way.
One of the crew rattled the sliding gate at the front of the chute as if to open it and let Riata move forward. She fell for the fake, straightening. Delon slid into position and nodded his head. The chute gate swung wide and the mare blew straight in the air, all four hooves off the ground. The instant she touched down, she launched again, even higher.
Delon matched her, lick for lick, the loose rowels of his spurs singing as his knees jerked up and back, every stroke precise. Shoulders square, no wild flopping or bouncing, rock solid in the midst of a storm, while the silvery fringe on his chaps whipped around him. Violet kicked her horse into a lope to circle around in front of Riata Rose. The mare followed her lead, bucking in a tight loop in front of the chutes, clear to the eight-second buzzer.
On cue, Rose flattened out into a bounding lope. Cole closed in one side, Violet on the other. As she thundered up alongside, Delon yanked his hand from the rigging and grabbed Violet around the waist. The mare’s shoulder slammed into Violet’s leg, but the contact was routine, absorbed by her shin guard. She clamped her knees hard against the saddle as she veered left to pull Delon clear, then reined her horse to a stop. He dropped on his feet only a few yards from the bucking chute where he’d started.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for Delon Sanchez!” the announcer hollered. “If he keeps riding like that, this will be the year he brings a gold buckle home to Texas!”
Delon tipped his hat to acknowledge the cheers, then held up a fist. Violet bumped hers against it. He smiled up at her, out of breath and breathtaking with those sparkling brown eyes and chiseled cheekbones. His smile made her heart sigh a little, because it was the same one she saw on her son’s face every single day.
“And the judges say…eighty-two points!” the announcer boomed. “There’s your new leader, folks!”
Riata Rose flung her head up, prancing around the arena like a total prima donna, then ducked out the catch pen gate. Delon saluted the crowd then reached back and down to unbuckle the leg straps on his chaps as he stood beside Violet’s horse.
“Soon as I get my gear packed up, I’m gonna grab Beni from your mom and hit the road.”
“His backpack and suitcase are by the door in my camper.”
“Thanks. Don’t worry about picking up milk or anything—we’ll grab some groceries on the way.”
Thank the Lord above. They were all going home for the first time in three weeks. Tonight she’d dither as long as she wanted in a shower big enough that she didn’t bang her elbows when she shampooed her hair. “I can�
��t wait to sleep in a bed without wheels under it.”
“I hear ya.” Delon rolled his shoulders, then angled a look toward where Joe stood chatting with another fan, the microphone turned off. “Is he giving you a hard time?”
“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” Usually she could ignore it. Cowboys had been making her the butt of asinine jokes since she started picking up broncs as a teenager.
“Joe’s not like most of the guys you know.”
Yeah. She’d noticed. “We can handle him.”
Delon aimed another narrow-eyed look at Joe. Then he slapped Violet’s leather-clad knee. “We’re outta here. I’ll see y’all at the ranch.”
Chapter 5
Joe leaned against the fence, intrigued by the cozy chat Delon had with Violet after his ride. What was their deal, anyway? Other than the kid. That part was obvious, but the rest of it was hard to figure. The whole Jacobs family had fallen all over Delon when he’d showed up the night before, like he was one of their own. Even Cole had paused in the middle of his chores long enough to chat, and Cole took strong and silent to a whole new level. Or should that be height? The guy was a beast, just like his uncle. Joe had noticed, though, that Delon had bedded down in Cole’s trailer, not Violet’s.
It was hard to picture them as a couple, but Joe could definitely see the attraction. Violet wasn’t hard to look at when she hadn’t been mud wrestling. Joe allowed himself a grin at that memory. Wet or dry, she had that all-American thing going on—tall, strong, the one you’d pick first for your beach volleyball team—but the men’s jeans she favored didn’t do much for her, and she never slowed down long enough to fuss much with her hair or makeup. Violet was in constant motion, organizing this and fixing that when she wasn’t working in the arena…or chasing after Beni. Violet, her parents, Cole, Hank, and the truck drivers all pitched in, tag-team style, to chase Beni. The grown-ups weren’t winning. At best, it was a draw.
Reckless in Texas Page 3
