The bulls were in the first draw, lounging in the shade of the trees above the water hole, thankfully. The next likely spot was another half mile across the flat, and she’d had enough quality time with Joe. Bad enough she couldn’t talk her body out of responding to his physical presence—then he had to go and act semi-human. Imagining him young, confused, and caught in the crossfire between his parents was a whole lot more dangerous than any hot and tinglies, damn her sympathetic heart.
As they started down the side of the draw, Cadillac pushed at the bridle, nudging her back to the job at hand. The bulls’ heads came up and they clambered to their feet, a dozen in all, from silver gray to dark red to coal black, all lean, athletic Brahma crossbreds.
“What’s the plan?” Joe asked, pulling the rope off his saddle horn and building a loop.
“You know how to use that thing?” Violet asked.
“Well enough.”
“Watch that brindle,” Violet said, pointing to a black bull with orangey tiger stripes. “He’s one of Dirt Eater’s calves and he inherited his daddy’s jumping ability. Last time we brought them in, he cleared the barbed wire fence and got off down the highway.”
Yet another reason she’d wanted Cole along on this mission. Like her, he’d done this so many times he could anticipate almost every move a bull could make. As they started toward the bunch, two of the bulls waded into the water at the edge of the stock pond, belly deep. Violet gestured to the dog. “Come by, Katie.”
The dog blasted off like a rocket and bailed into the murky water, swimming out and around the two bulls. When one lowered its head, snorting, she nipped its nose. It bellowed, jumped back, and splashed out of the water. The second followed. Katie chugged after them, picking up speed when she hit shallow water and found the bottom. She paused on the bank long enough to shake off the water and throw Violet a triumphant look.
“Good dog.”
Violet kicked Cadillac up to circle the right side of the herd. She raised a hand to direct Joe to the left but he was already there, bringing up the flank and leaving the middle to the dog. Katie zipped forward to nip the heels of a bull that wheeled around to butt heads with one of his buddies.
Violet slapped her hand against her thigh, shouting, “Hyah, hyah!” until they moved out at a brisk trot. Like a bunch of teenage boys, bulls this age would conjure up all kinds of trouble if you gave them time to think. They crossed the flat without problem. Then the bulls hit the trail down off the bluff and broke into a lope, the brindle bull in the lead. Violet urged Cadillac to keep pace as they skidded down the loose dirt path.
As soon as she hit the bottom, she tapped Cadillac with the tail of her rope, pushing him into a gallop. She blew past the lead bull and swung Cadillac around hard on his hocks. The brindle hesitated. Violet swung her loop and shouted as the bull ducked left, then right, then sprinted straight for the fence behind her. She flung a Hail Mary shot as he passed. Miracle of miracles, it dropped over his horns in mid-leap. One hind leg failed to clear the top wire. Wire screeched, stretched, but held. Violet had just enough time to get the tail of her rope wrapped around the saddle horn before the bull kicked loose of the fence.
Cadillac staggered, jerked almost off his feet by the force of a thousand pounds of bovine brought to a halt. The big brown horse dropped his butt and dug in as the bull swung around, and the rope snapped taut, horse on one end, bull on the other…and four strands of barbed wire in between.
“You got him?” Joe yelled, pushing the rest of the herd through the gate.
“For now,” Violet yelled back. “Hold ’em, Katie.”
The dog plopped on her belly in the middle of the pipe-fenced lane, daring any of the bulls to try to get past her. Joe bailed off his horse and yanked open the wire gate leading out to where the brindle was slinging his head, fighting the rope. Vaulting back onto Dozer, Joe shook out his loop and eased close.
His first attempt snagged only the right horn. He cursed, coiled his rope, and rebuilt the loop. On the second attempt, it fit. He dallied the tail of the rope around his saddle horn and backed Dozer up until it was tight.
“I’ll come around to your side and help push him,” Violet said, and let go of her rope.
She loped Cadillac to the gate, out, and around. The bull squatted on its haunches, pulling hard against the rope, but he couldn’t budge Dozer.
Joe grinned like this was the most fun he’d had in a coon’s age. “You should call this one Flight Risk.”
Violet couldn’t help grinning back. “I’ll keep that in mind. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Joe reined Dozer around and kicked. The big sorrel lowered his head and grunted, metal-shod hooves carving divots as he plowed ahead, skidding the bull across the hard red clay. Violet rammed Cadillac’s chest into the bull’s butt. The bull popped to his feet, took three steps, then locked up again. Dozer kept going. After another bump from Violet, the bull weakened, still dragging, but walking now. Joe pulled him through the gate. When the bull spotted his companions clustered at the far end of the lane, he launched for the herd, blowing past Joe and Dozer. The rope burned through Joe’s gloved hand, the free end whistling as it spun loose of the saddle horn. Violet heard a pop.
Joe doubled over the front of the saddle. “Fuck!”
“What’s wrong?” Alarm shot a cold spear into Violet’s gut. “Did it catch your hand?”
Joe was too busy cussing to answer. Violet jumped off her horse, swung the big metal gate shut, and slammed the latch into place. Joe slid off his horse, face contorted with pain. He pressed his back against the nearest post and eased down, knees bent, hands clasped tight between his thighs, grinding out curses between clenched teeth. Violet dropped to a crouch between his feet, stomach churning at what she might find. Just a month earlier, she’d seen a team roper lose a thumb by catching it in his rope, and last year one of the tie-down ropers had crushed his wrist in a stray coil.
“Let me see.” She took hold of his forearms, trying to pull his hand out to where she could examine it.
“No.”
“Yes.” She slid her hands down to his wrists, not feeling any gross deformities or blood, but he still had his gloves on. “Is it your thumb?”
“Go. Away.”
“Stop being a baby.”
His right hand snapped up, whip-quick, and clamped on the back of her head, bringing them nose to nose, eye to eye. “It’s not my hand, Violet. It’s what’s underneath.”
“What’s—oh!”
Joe’s hand was cradling his crotch. That pop she’d heard? It was the knotted end of the rope whacking him where it counted. And her hand was right on top of his.
He bared his teeth. “Still wanna kiss it better?”
Mortification rolled over her, hot as molten lava. She tried to jerk away, but the force of Joe’s grip on her nape tipped her off balance. She grabbed his shoulders and her not-inconsiderable weight knocked him sideways. They tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs. She scrambled to get her knees under her. One of them made contact with something solid. Joe yelped, twisting hard and fast, flipping Violet onto her back. She arched, bracing to fight him off.
“Stop!”
Violet froze. Joe was sprawled on top of her, his body rigid. Air hissed in and out between his teeth and sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Just…don’t…move,” he panted. “Honest to God, you knee me in the thigh again, I’m gonna puke right down the front of your shirt.”
Violet held her breath. If possible, she would’ve willed her heart to stop beating, in case the thud, thud, thud disturbed his stomach. Motherhood had done nothing to disable her very active gag reflex. As her head cleared, she sorted out what was where. Joe was draped over her, chest to chest, her kneecap flush against the inside of the thigh Dirt Eater had nailed. She carefully rotated her leg, removing the pressure.
&n
bsp; “Thank you,” Joe breathed. “Just give me a minute to catch my air and I’ll get off of you.”
Her hands were still clamped on his shoulders, but she couldn’t find anyplace else to put them. The longer she stayed put, the more aware she became of all the hard, lovely muscle under his T-shirt. If it were Beni, she would rub his back to make him feel better. She imagined sliding her palm down the sleek curve of Joe’s spine. Imagined his reaction. Yeah. He would definitely misinterpret the gesture. Much like her body was beginning to misinterpret their current position, the lean length of him hot against her, his cheek pressed to her collarbone, his face buried in the curve of her neck. Each short puff of air was a hot stroke on her skin.
“You sound like you’re in labor,” she said.
He huffed a laugh that tickled her ear. “If having a kid hurts as bad as gettin’ whacked on the pecker with a nylon rope, I need to buy my mother flowers.”
“More like a new car,” Violet said drily. “And I thought it was your thigh.”
“It’s both now, thanks to you.”
“I was trying to help.”
“Uh-huh. I’m guessing this is why you’re a pickup man and not a paramedic.”
Degree by degree, the tension eased from his body, even as Violet wound up like a spring. Need coiled hot and low, and the urge to wiggle against him was almost intolerable.
“Up until then you were doing pretty good,” she said, by way of casual conversation. “I’ll have to tell Beni you can handle stock okay.”
“Gee, thanks.” She could hear the eye roll in his voice. He blew out a long, slow breath—then nuzzled his face into her hair and inhaled deeply. “You even smell good when you’ve been rolling in the dirt.”
She jerked her head away. “Do you always go around sniffing women like a damn stud horse?”
“Nah. If I were a stud horse, I’d do this.” He gave her a quick, light nip at the curve of her neck that electrified every nerve ending and shot a blue-white current straight to where his thigh was pressed between her legs.
She shoved at his shoulder. “Stop that!”
“Just wanted to see if you tasted good, too.” He pushed up onto his elbows, groaned, and eased sideways, an excruciating slide of body against body before he rolled clear and flopped onto his back, legs splayed. He lifted one hand in warning. “Stay back. I’ll be fine as long as you don’t help me anymore.”
No problem. Violet couldn’t move, paralyzed for a few breaths by the sudden, aching absence of his weight. Then she scrambled to her feet, slapping the dust from her butt and legs. “Take all the time you want, tough guy.”
His head snapped up. “You tackled me when I was already down.”
“I thought you were actually hurt.” She flipped a casual hand at him. “No, don’t get up. Katie and I can handle it.”
He made a noise like a pissed-off rattlesnake. She shook the dirt out of her hair, tugged her cap down low, and went to deal with the bulls before she lost her head and tackled him again.
Chapter 10
Violet slathered mayonnaise onto two pieces of squishy white bread, slapped a slice of American cheese between them, and took a huge bite, chewing furiously. She usually ate lunch at her mother’s house when Beni was gone, but facing Joe across the table would ruin her appetite. For food, anyway.
She choked down the mouthful, then took another huge bite. Maybe all the triglycerides would gum up her arteries so she couldn’t feel that low simmer in her blood. As if. She scowled at her pathetic excuse for lunch. Nothing short of a massive stroke could wipe the imprint of his body off hers. The man was a walking, breathing collection of all her biggest weaknesses, but didn’t they say abstinence was good for the soul? If she managed to keep her hands off Joe for two more weeks, she’d qualify for sainthood.
She crammed the rest of the sandwich in her mouth, washed it down with sweet tea, then picked up her phone and tapped out a text message to her best friend. Home sweet home. Got time for lunch tomorrow? Melanie would slap some sense into her. No one knew Violet’s baser tendencies better. She’d barely hit Send when the phone rang in her hand.
Violet checked the number and grinned as she answered. “Nothing better to do than hang around waitin’ on my call?”
“I wish.” Melanie blew out a gusty sigh. “My schedule this week is proof I sinned in a former life. One meeting after another all damn day. But I’ve got ten minutes before the next hour of hell, so dish.”
“About what?”
“Don’t play coy. Joe Cassidy. You’ve had him in your clutches for five days and I haven’t heard a peep. Please tell me he’s as hot as he looks on TV.”
Violet’s fingers curled around the phone as a full-body tingle swept over her. “He’s okay, I guess, but he’s not in my clutches.”
“Why the hell not? When fate drops a big ol’ hunk of man candy in her lap, a girl’s gotta have a taste. And I hear this one isn’t afraid to hand out free samples.”
“Stop!” Violet scrubbed at the spot on her neck where she could still feel the scrape of Joe’s teeth. “Dammit, Mel. You’re not supposed to encourage my bad habits.”
Melanie gave a little squeal. “I knew it! Has anything good happened yet? He is exactly your type.”
“Which is exactly why I’m trying to keep my distance.” Violet gave a growl of annoyance, more with herself than Melanie. “Everybody’s got their eye on Joe, and after that mess in Hickory Springs, the last thing I need is to draw more attention to my love life.”
Melanie snorted. “Honey, you don’t have a love life. You have a series of unfortunate events.”
Violet scowled, dumping her plate and silverware into the sink with a clatter. “I had a perfectly normal relationship.”
“Once. In college. Six years ago.”
“Well, I’ve been busy. I have this child, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Hard not to, when Xena, Warrior Cowgirl is hiding behind a five-year-old boy to avoid meeting a real man.”
Violet cranked the faucet, propping the phone on her shoulder while she scoured the plate like it had been infected with ptomaine. “I have so many real men in my life, I can’t take a step without tripping over one of them. Lord save me from testosterone and all of its carriers.”
“Uh-huh. Which is why you developed a sudden hankering for Cajun food last spring?”
Violet jammed the plate into the drying rack. “That was a serious error in judgment. When I do decide to date again, it will be someone sensible with zero potential for psycho ex-girlfriends.”
“You mean someone like…oh, I don’t know…maybe Delon?” Melanie allowed for a thoughtful pause. Violet didn’t bother to fill it with an argument they both knew by heart. Melanie blew out a gusty sigh. “The trouble with you, Violet, is you’ve got a head for business and a heart for thrills, and as far as I can tell, the two of them aren’t on speaking terms.”
Violet stared glumly at the water circling the drain. “Stupid heart won’t listen.”
“Maybe it’s not your heart that’s got it wrong.”
Violet scowled. “Gee, Mel, thanks for calling. You’ve been ever so helpful.”
Melanie was laughing as she hung up. Violet tossed the phone aside and stalked into the laundry room, brooding as she stuffed dirty socks into the washing machine. Silly to expect Melanie to be the voice of reason. After all, she was Hank’s sister, and blood will tell. Violet and Mel wouldn’t have spent half of junior high in detention if either of them knew when to say Whoa.
Violet left the socks sloshing in the washer and walked into the living room in time to see Joe stroll across the driveway, apparently none the worse for wear. She waited until he disappeared inside the bunkhouse, then hotfooted it over to her mother’s, intending to grab a snack on her way to the office. The lingering scent of pot roast taunted her as she walked into the kitchen
. Her stomach gurgled its disappointment. Her parents and Cole were sitting around the table. At the sight of their grim faces, Violet stopped dead, fear skittering cold fingers across her nape. Not again…
“What’s wrong?” Who died?
“Buck McCloud called,” her dad said stiffly. “His heart’s getting worse. The doctor says he’s gonna have to have an artificial pump implanted to keep it running.”
Relief whooshed through her. Bad news, but not the worst. She wasn’t sure they could survive the worst again. Violet plunked down in the chair Joe had vacated, vaguely aware that it was still warm. “That sounds scary.”
Her mother smoothed a hand over a lace-edged floral place mat. “Any time they go crackin’ your chest open, it’s a big risk.”
Violet’s heart clutched in sympathy. Buck was a crusty old bastard, but she’d always liked him. He and her dad were two peas from the same old-school pod. They were close geographically, too, but didn’t step on each other’s toes business wise. McCloud Rodeo stayed mostly north—Oklahoma and Kansas, with a few shows up in Nebraska. Jacobs Livestock didn’t venture outside Texas, no matter how hard Violet tried to convince her dad to do otherwise.
“Who’s gonna take care of his stock until he’s back on his feet?”
Buck didn’t have any family involved in the business. Like Violet’s older sister, Lily, both of his daughters had married town boys.
“He won’t be back,” her dad said, emotion graveling his voice. “Doc says he has to pack it in.”
“Pack it in?” Violet echoed. Buck? And do what? The man lived for his work. “You mean sell out?”
“Yes.”
Violet shook her head. Rodeo contractors didn’t retire. Look at the legendary Harry Vold, ninety years old and still an active part of the business. And her dad—they’d have to back the hearse up to the arena to haul him away.
“He offered us first shot at the whole string,” Iris said.
Reckless in Texas Page 7
