He climbed out of the pickup, wincing. His thigh had tightened up, but it was nothing an ice pack and few days of jogging and stretching wouldn’t fix. He kept his limp to a minimum as they crossed the parking lot. Couldn’t let Hank think he was a wimp. Or worse…old. Beyond the parking lot, the plains stretched off in every direction, barren and featureless in the moonlight. No comfort for the lonely out there. Joe shivered, gooseflesh rising on his back as if the ghost of a lost soul had trailed its finger down his spine.
Inside, the Lone Steer was classic honky-tonk: rustic wood, a bar that stretched the length of the back wall, and a big dance floor off to one side with a stage crammed into the corner. On a Sunday evening the barstools stood mostly empty, but over half of the tables were full. The prime rib must be as good as it smelled. Cole skirted the edge of the dance floor, nodding a greeting at every table as he crossed the room, but not pausing to chat—big surprise. Through the door to a small banquet room, Joe saw a single long table that held the rest of the Jacobs crew. Steve held court at one end, wife and daughter on his right, a pair of empty seats on his left.
Joe stalled, suddenly claustrophobic. That wasn’t his place. These weren’t his people. He was sore and bone tired and beyond capable of playing nice with strangers who couldn’t figure out what the hell he was doing there. Cole started for the empty seats, glancing over his shoulder when Joe didn’t follow.
“I’m gonna grab a beer,” Joe said.
Cole absorbed that for a beat, then shrugged and went to sit down.
Joe escaped to a stool at the far end of the bar. When he tried to pay for his beer, the bartender shook him off. “Steve’ll take care of it. How do you want your prime rib?”
“Medium rare.” Joe tapped his beer glass. “And bring me a refill when this one’s gone.”
Considering what they were paying him, Jacobs Livestock could afford to kick in a couple of beers. When the bartender handed him the frosty glass, Joe sucked down a third of the ice-cold brew in the first few gulps. Not the best way to rehydrate, but screw it. He had four days to recover what he’d sweated out, and not a damn thing to fill them.
He’d been on the road almost continuously since the Fourth of July. When he did have a break, he made a beeline for the High Lonesome, if only to ride the pastures, check the stock, and let the vast emptiness suck the clutter out of his brain. Even if Steve Jacobs would turn him loose on their ranch, he doubted strange country could work the same magic. And if he’d ever needed to clear his head…
His phone buzzed. He checked the number, contemplated letting it go to voice mail, but answered on the last possible ring. “What?”
“I see Texas is doing wonders for your disposition,” Wyatt said.
“Maybe I’m sick of some nosy bastard calling to check on me.”
Wyatt clucked his tongue. “It’s the first time we’ve sent you off without even Dickhead for company. We worry.”
“What we?”
“I lent you my favorite redhead, so I’m having dinner at Hamley’s with yours.”
“I thought Roxy was going home this morning.” Joe frowned, suspicion flaring from long experience. “Are she and Frank having trouble?”
“They’re solid. Frank’s trip to Japan was extended. The usual.”
Meaning someone was gonna lose a billion dollars if Joe’s stepfather didn’t stay to take care of it personally. One thing Joe had to say for his mother—every time she got married, she did better for herself.
“Why is she still in Pendleton?” Joe asked.
“She wanted to spend some quality time with her other son.”
“She’s not old enough to be your mother.” She was barely old enough to be Joe’s mother.
“Unfortunately she is your mother, so I have to keep my thoughts in the maternal realm.”
Joe groaned. “Just once could you talk like a normal person?”
“No. You really are in a crappy mood. What’s up?”
“Besides the mess with Dick?”
Wyatt made a dismissive noise. “After the flogging he got from the Roundup directors, he’s ready to kiss your ass.”
Or kick it clear to Hell.
“What else?” Wyatt asked.
Joe kept him waiting while he swirled his beer, took a swig, and set the glass down. “Obviously it was a mistake to assume these people would be thrilled to see me.”
“Short of going myself, I sent them the best bullfighter in the country. How is that a problem?”
“Hell if I know.”
There was a rattle and Wyatt’s voice went muffled, calming. Great. Now Roxy was wound up. Just what Joe needed, his mother on a tear.
Wyatt came back on the line. “From what I hear, Steve Jacobs is a decent guy, but extremely old school. Probably takes a while to warm up to new people.”
“I’m not new,” Joe snapped. “I’m a pro, and he looks at me like I’m gonna whip out a crack pipe behind the chutes. And his daughter…”
Now she had a perfectly good reason to be mad. He’d let his temper get the best of him again, and this time he’d shot off his mouth. Sexually harassed her in the middle of a rodeo performance. His mother would not be impressed. He couldn’t erase the damage, but he had apologized, hadn’t he?
Right before he did it again.
“I did tell you to get a haircut,” Wyatt said. “And Shorty said the daughter seemed high-strung.”
“Violet?” Joe snorted. “Hardly.”
“So what is she?”
“A pickup man.”
“Really?” Wyatt pulled the word out into two syllables, a rare lapse into his New England drawl. “Is she any good?”
“She and her cousin are as solid as any pair I’ve seen.”
“What’s she like outside the arena?” Wyatt asked.
Bossy. Busy. All business, with one exception—him. “Pissed off.”
What he’d said in the arena was nothing compared to that stunt he’d pulled out back, mocking her, crowding her. Close enough to know that under the dust and horse sweat, she smelled like a fresh-peeled orange, which was a lot sexier than he would have guessed. He guzzled another third of his beer.
Wyatt was talking to Roxy again and hadn’t bothered to cover the phone. “I know. They usually aren’t like that until after he sleeps with them. Did you sleep with her?” he asked Joe.
“I’ve only been here three days!”
“He says no. Maybe that’s why she’s annoyed.”
“Thanks for discussing my sex life with my mother,” Joe said, then winced when the bartender shot him a startled look. “Tell her I’m fine. I’ll call her tomorrow so she can hear just how fine I am.”
“He misses you,” Wyatt said to Roxy. “And he’s homesick.”
“I am not homesick.”
But the ache caught him up under the ribs, sharp as one of Dirt Eater’s horns. He could picture them sitting at their usual table at Hamley’s, the historic steak house in the heart of downtown Pendleton. East balcony, second floor, right below the red stamped-tin ceiling so Wyatt could observe and critique the sea of humanity in the bar below. Joe dragged in a long breath, then froze. Shit. Oranges. He glanced over his shoulder. Yep. There was Violet, and if she was close enough to smell, she was damn sure close enough to hear.
“I have to go.”
He hung up and swiveled around on his stool, prepared to be as much of an asshole as necessary to chase her away. Then he got a good look at her and the words dissolved on his tongue.
She’d tossed the men’s Wranglers in favor of dark jeans that rode low on her hips, doing a stellar job of showing off her curves. Holy hopping hell, she had curves. Firm and proud under a snug-fitting, vivid pink shirt. She’d done something with her hair, made it fall around her face in a smooth, shimmery curve, the lights over the bar picking out glints of red in the dark brown.
And how had he missed that mouth? Full and soft and shiny with gloss that had just enough color to make him want to take a bite, to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked.
“Joe?”
He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. She’d done some work there, too. Put on more makeup so they looked bigger, darker. Concerned.
“What do you want?” he asked, snapping out the words.
She folded her arms, which only served to lift and frame a particularly stellar set of…curves. “I hope you’re not sitting out here alone because of me.”
“You? Why?” Although with as much trouble as he was having keeping his eyes from straying, it was probably best he wasn’t sitting at that table across from her dad. Steve already acted like he was a convicted goat rapist.
“I called you a sexist asshole,” Violet said.
“Oh. That. Nope. Didn’t bother me.” Much. He spun around and hunched over his beer. “I wanted some space.”
He waited for her to go. She hesitated another beat, then settled onto the stool beside him, pointing at Joe’s beer to indicate to the bartender that she wanted the same.
He threw her a scowl. “What part of that sounded like Sit down and stay awhile?”
“I don’t need your permission.”
Joe blew out a sigh that rippled the foam on what was left of his beer. “What? You’re bored, so you come out here to irritate me?”
“Nope. I came to use the bathroom. Irritating you was a bonus.”
He glanced in the direction she waved. Yep, he was sitting by the hallway to the restrooms. “Mission accomplished. You can go back to the party now.”
“I’d rather not.” She shrugged off his glare. “You’re not the only one who could use some space. We’ve been on the road for a month, practically on top of each other.”
Oh geezus. He did not need the rush of heat, imagining what it would be like to be on top of Violet, buried in those killer curves.
The bartender set a beer in front of her. “You want the tab or should I give it to your dad?”
“Me. He’ll lose the receipt before he gets out the door.”
Joe took a long, slow swallow of his beer. What did she want? Not that it would be hard to figure out. Up close, Violet had the opposite of a poker face. Every thought and emotion played out in those big brown eyes, across that mouth. He’d seen her trying not to look at his bare chest earlier. She was attracted and not the least bit pleased about it. Joe smiled to himself. So that was it. She wanted to prove she could handle him. Fine. Let her try.
He angled her an insolent smile. “If you’re gonna sit there, you have to tell me something about yourself.”
“I can’t imagine there’s anything you haven’t heard.”
“Everybody’s got secrets.”
“In a town this size? Not hardly.” She took a sip of her beer and licked the foam from her top lip, sending another pulse of heat through Joe’s system.
“Tell me about your kid.”
Her eyes went cool. Protective. “His name is Beni. He’s five.”
“And you and Delon are…”
“Friends.”
“With benefits?”
“Only once,” she said, as matter-of-fact as if they were discussing the weather.
Joe felt his jaw drop. Had she just admitted her kid was the result of a one-night stand?
“Like I said, no secrets here.” Her mouth curled into a sneer as she glanced past Joe to the tables beyond. “There are a dozen people in this bar who’d be thrilled to tell you the whole story.”
Joe glanced around. Sure enough, most of the other patrons were looking back and didn’t bother to pretend otherwise. “Why did you hook up that one time?”
Violet gave a slight shrug. “Delon and I were both nursing a case of the blues. Relationships gone wrong, blah, blah, blah. One shot of tequila led to another and…well, you can imagine.”
Oh yeah. Joe could imagine. Way too clearly. He gulped down the last of his beer and shoved the glass toward the bartender, who replaced it with a full one.
Violet fixed Joe with a steady gaze. “Anything else you’re dying to know?”
Hell yes. “Why don’t you want me here?”
She barely blinked. “You’re not the person I hired.”
“I know. I’m better.”
She flashed him a disgusted look. “And I’m sure we should feel blessed, but I was in the market for someone who might come back next year.”
“And you figured Shorty was that guy?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Joe lifted his eyebrows. “If he’s good enough to replace me at Pendleton, he’s out of your league.”
This time, she took a beat to recover. “Well. I guess that puts me in my place.”
Her voice was husky, with a slight tremble that made Joe feel like a complete prick when he was only telling the truth. “For the record, I’m no happier about it than you are.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Same reason you’re sitting on that barstool.” At her blank look, he added, “Tryin’ to prove a point, darlin’.”
The reminder sliced at his gut, severing the frayed tether on his always limited supply of discretion. He cocked his head toward her, breathed deep. Her scent was magnified by the warmth of the bar. Along with the beer he’d guzzled on an empty stomach, it made his head do a giddy spin. “Why do you smell like a bowl of oranges?”
She rubbed a hand over her bare arm with a self-conscious smile. “Mandarin cream lotion. Beni gave it to me for Mother’s Day. He likes stuff that smells like fruit.”
“Me too.” Joe let his arm brush hers and got a nice zing! at the contact.
She edged away, sliding a quick glance toward the banquet room. “I, um, should…”
“Running off so soon? We were just getting to know each other.” He swiveled his stool so his thigh pressed against the warm, firm length of hers and heard the quick catch of her breath. “Besides, I have one more question.”
Her eyes were wide, cautious, that soft mouth so close he could practically taste it. “What?”
He leaned in until her hair brushed his cheek as he whispered in her ear. “Can I buy you a shot of tequila?”
Chapter 8
Violet woke up Monday morning exhausted from beating the crap out of her pillow. Imagining it was Joe. That arrogant bastard. She should have punched him in the mouth and told him what he could do with his shot of tequila. But no. She’d stuttered a lame ass No, thank you and scurried back to her parents like he was the Big Bad Wolf and she was packin’ a basket of her mama’s cookies.
Even if he did look as tired and homesick as he swore he wasn’t to whoever was on the phone, she shouldn’t have parked next to him at the bar. Nothing good could come of it when he appealed so strongly to her worst instincts. He’d been a complete jerk and her stupid skin still hummed where he’d brushed up against her.
What the hell, Violet?
She jammed her toothbrush into the holder and followed the sound of her son’s excited chatter to the kitchen. Her single-wide mobile home had a bedroom and a bathroom on each end with the kitchen and living room in the middle. A perfect setup for her not-so-usual living arrangements, especially on the nights when it was more convenient for Delon to crash in the extra bed in Beni’s room.
Father and son sat at the table scooping cereal out of matching Sponge Bob bowls. Delon looked disgustingly good in the morning. He looked disgustingly good most of the time. What the man did for a plain white cotton T-shirt should be illegal. So how come she never got hot flashes when he brushed up against her?
Again, What the hell, Violet?
Delon lifted one dark brow. “Feeling a little rough?”
She curled her lip at him. “Feeling suicidal?”
He jumped up, poured a cup o
f coffee, and shoved it into her hands.
She inhaled, then drank, then sighed. “Okay. You can live.”
“Whew!”
She smiled, relaxing for the first time in days. They’d agreed from the beginning that sex was off the table. Well, not the very beginning. First Delon had insisted they get married. And Violet had asked if he’d lost his ever-loving mind, and he’d sulked for a while. Then they’d agreed. There was too much at stake—a lifetime of friendship, the infinite connections between their two families, Beni’s happiness—to muddle it up with sex.
Not that they’d never been tempted. What woman wouldn’t be tempted by Delon, especially when the rest of the male species seemed hell-bent on proving that she was an idiot to even glance elsewhere? More than once, when one or both of them had been worn to the bone by life and the rodeo road, they’d nearly given in. Offered and accepted the comfort right at their fingertips—but somehow they’d always stopped before crossing the line. Was it crazy to think a relationship should be based on more than mutual respect and love for their child?
Delon pulled a bowl out of the cupboard, filled it with raisin bran, and set it in front of her on the table. “Hey, Beni, why don’t you run over and say good-bye to Grandpa and Grandma?”
“And Katie, too?” Beni asked.
“Sure.”
Beni was off like a shot to inflict a hug on Cole’s red heeler dog and bum snacks from his grandmother, warding off any chance of starvation on the ten-mile drive into town.
Delon sipped his coffee, letting Violet suck down half of her first cup before he spoke. “So how’s it going with Joe?”
Heat climbed into Violet’s face. Stupid. She hadn’t done anything. And she didn’t intend to, dammit. “He’s a hell of a bullfighter.”
“That’s a given.” Muscles bunched in Delon’s arms as he cradled his mug, suddenly fascinated by his coffee. “How’s he fitting in, um…personally?”
Violet paused in the act of pouring milk on her cereal. “How do you mean?”
Delon flicked a glance at her as he rotated the mug between his hands. “I heard you were together at the Lone Steer last night.”
Reckless in Texas Page 5
