His mother was not helping. She hadn’t batted an eye at the men who tried to flirt with her, and there were plenty. Roxy ignored them, content to read her book—a biography, for Christ’s sake—sip a drink and bask in the sun. Roxy and Frank really were solid. And that was great. Frank was good for her, not to mention Joe’s stock portfolio, but her serenity only threw Joe’s ragged edges into sharper relief. A fine time for his mother to go and grow up on him.
His fingers clenched tighter around the phone in his hand. It had been almost two weeks since he’d left Texas, and not a word from Violet. Not that he had a right to expect any, the way he’d left, but every time the phone chirped, his heart nearly exploded. Didn’t she worry if he’d made it home safe? Wonder how things had turned out with Dick? Did she give the slightest damn what he was doing at this very moment?
Nothing eased the ache. Not fatigue. Not distance. Not time. If anything, the need to see her, to talk to her, got stronger every day. He wanted to tell her he’d left Dick. Hear her say he’d done the right thing. Maybe she could tell him what came next, because he sure as hell couldn’t find a direction. He understood now how an addict felt. Just one call. One quick hello. But it wouldn’t be enough. He’d want more. And it would be that much harder to stop himself the next time.
His thumb caressed the Send button. Her number was already there, on the screen. One touch and he could hear her voice. He stared down at the phone for several beats. Then he reared back and heaved it out over the moonlit waves.
* * *
A week later, Joe parked his Jeep in front of Wyatt’s condo, went around the back and hauled out two black trash bags full of clean laundry. That, plus a few boxes of trophies and pictures, were all that was worth keeping.
Wyatt opened the door before he could ring the bell, stood aside, then followed Joe into the living room. “What did you do, jog home from Mexico? You look like a starved greyhound.”
Joe felt it, too. Hollowed out, whittled down, nothing but corners and angles that rubbed everything wrong. “I couldn’t hold down solid food for three days after you showed up at the Mint.”
The details were blurry, but around the time they’d drained the first bottle, Joe had started talking. Not about getting dumped—he wasn’t that pathetic—but he’d spilled enough for anyone who was paying attention to figure it out. Wyatt was always paying attention, even when he was so hammered he couldn’t sit up straight on Joe’s sagging, secondhand couch.
Wyatt’s couch was cowhide, with rolled leather trim and brass studs. The coffee table was a work of art, handmade by a local woodworker, the top an intricate pattern of inlaid swirls. The pictures on the walls were original watercolors. In the midst of all that class, Joe felt like a hobo.
“Why is your phone out of service?” Wyatt asked.
“I dropped it in the ocean. I have a new number. Which room?”
“The one with the attached bath.”
Plus a whole set of dark wood furniture and a flat-screen TV. Throw in a minibar and he could be staying at the Holiday Inn. Joe dumped his bags on the bed and wandered over to look out the window. The condo was perched high on Pendleton’s north hill, with a view of the Blue Mountains to the east, and a line of sight down the steep slope into the Roundup grounds ten blocks below. In Pendleton, the higher up the north hill you lived, the cooler you were. Wyatt liked cool. He also liked real estate with high appreciation potential.
Wyatt propped a shoulder against the door frame and hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “I’m ordering out for dinner. You want Chinese, ribs, or chicken?”
“Whatever.”
Joe wandered over to the dresser to finger the buttons on the television remote. Satellite, with DVR. Good to know he’d have a couple hundred channels to choose from during those hours he used to waste on sleep. He pushed the remote aside and picked up the manila envelope underneath.
“Those are the contracts for the rodeos we agreed on,” Wyatt said.
Joe considered dumping it in the trash, but what was the point? “I’ll read and sign them later.”
“Already done.”
Joe shot him an irritated glare. “You forged my name?”
“How could anyone tell? You write like a chicken on meth.”
Joe peeled back the flap and dumped the contents out on the dresser. His guts twisted as he saw the names. The dates. Wyatt had him working somewhere in Violet’s vicinity every six weeks from January to October. An entire season of torture.
“I suppose it’s too late to weasel out,” he said.
“For the first two rodeos? Yeah.” Wyatt cocked his head, studying Joe. “I can find a replacement for the rest, if you can give me a valid reason that you’re not already in Texas.”
“She doesn’t want me there.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I said, ‘I’d like to come back sometime’ and she said, ‘I don’t think so.’ I took that as a no.”
Wyatt frowned. “That can’t be right.”
“It’s never right.” Joe mashed the balled-up envelope between his hands, the stiff paper digging into his palms. “For guys like us, this is as good as it gets.”
“What do you mean, guys like us?”
“Some people aren’t made for the marriage and family thing. It’s better for everyone if you just accept it.”
“And what? Live with you for the rest of my life?” Wyatt shook his head. “Not fucking likely. Decent human beings deserve better.”
“Who are you calling decent?”
“You, dipshit.” Wyatt paced over to the window and braced his hips on the sill. “Who else would crawl out of bed at two-thirty in the morning and drive to Butthole, Idaho, to pick me up when my sweet little wife dumped me at a rest area?”
“Athol,” Joe muttered.
“What?”
“It was Athol, Idaho.”
“That’s what I said.” Wyatt glared at him, impatient. “Give yourself a chance, Joe. So your dad bailed out on you. Your mother wasn’t exactly the poster child for healthy relationships. My family traded basic compassion for social standing about five generations back. That doesn’t mean you and I have to settle for half a life.”
Joe snorted in derision. “What, one wreck of a marriage wasn’t enough for you?”
“No.” For once, Wyatt’s expression was completely unguarded. “I want the whole goddamn works. In-laws. Out-laws. Holidays from hell with a house full of screaming kids and five dogs.”
Joe stared at him for a beat. Then he said, “They’d definitely be hell on that fancy leather sofa.”
“Fuck the sofa. I’d rather have a family.”
Since when? First his mother, now Wyatt—the two people he could count on to be as dysfunctional as he was. Joe tossed the crumpled envelope into a brass-and-leather wastebasket. “Bash your head on the wall again if you want, but people don’t stick, Wyatt.”
“How would you know?” Wyatt dragged frustrated hands through his hair and laced his fingers on top of his head like it might pop off. “You’re gone before anyone gets close enough to try. We probably wouldn’t even be friends if you could outrun me.”
He should be running now. Fast and far before Wyatt talked him into some new form of self-mutilation, but he was just too damn tired.
He slumped onto the side of the bed. “Why me? Out of all the guys you could’ve picked to torture.”
“You’re the best. In the arena or out.”
“I’m just a hick from the sticks. You went to Yale.”
“That only means I’m more educated. It doesn’t mean I’m smarter.”
Joe snorted again. “You are so full of shit.”
Wyatt jabbed a finger at him. “That’s why I need you. Because I am full of shit and you’re not afraid to tell me so, while everyone else smiles and nods and back
s away slowly.” The old gleam came into his eyes. “Violet isn’t afraid of me, either. Something else you have in common.”
“It’s not enough,” Joe said flatly.
“So she’s mad at you. Apologize. Grovel, if necessary.”
“She’s not mad.” That was the whole problem. He gripped the edge of the dresser so tight his knuckles cracked. “I acted like a lunatic and she should’ve been furious, but she didn’t care. Just shrugged and dumped me off at the airport, good riddance.”
“You’ve got to be reading her wrong.” Wyatt shoved off the windowsill and started for the door. “I’ll get the real story.”
No damn way. Joe scrambled to block his exit. “You can’t call her.”
“I’m supposed to just let you sit here and rot?”
“Yes.” At least this way, he had a shred of pride left. Joe held his ground, chest to chest, refusing to budge out of the doorway. “She already said no. Don’t make her repeat herself.”
Their eyes locked, Joe’s desperate, Wyatt’s measuring.
“I’m not kidding, Wyatt. Promise me you won’t call her.” Then Joe remembered who he was talking to, and added, “No letters. No texts. No emails. You do not contact Violet, even by fucking carrier pigeon.”
“Fine. Christ. Make it difficult.” Wyatt gave him a shove and side-stepped around him. “I’m going to order food. State your preference or eat what you get.”
“Ribs,” Joe said, because the sauce irritated Wyatt’s ulcer but he’d slather it on anyway. They might as well both feel like they were bleeding internally.
Joe turned to unpack his bags. He made a couple of halfhearted attempts to loosen the first knot, then ripped a hole in the side, scattering socks and underwear across the bed, tempted to just kick them off onto the floor instead of putting them away. This wasn’t his place. For all intents and purposes, he was homeless. His body was parked in Wyatt’s guest room, but his chest was still hollowed out, as if his heart had been incinerated and the ashes scattered, half on the High Lonesome, half across the Texas Panhandle. He couldn’t visualize a future where he would be whole again.
“Here.” Wyatt strode through the door and shoved a blanket into Joe’s hands. “Helen dropped that off. She decided to follow your example and told Dick to take a leap. She’s moving up to Yakima to live with her sister, but she wanted you to have something to remind you to stop and visit once in a while.”
Not just a blanket. A quilt, patchwork squares of soft flannel on one side and plush, velvety stuff on the other. He slid his hand between the folds and it wrapped around his arm, as soft and warm as a hug from the woman who’d made it. Joe clenched his hands in the fabric, run clear through by a pain so sweet and sharp he could taste the blood.
Wyatt folded his arms. “Tell me again how nobody cares fuck all about a worthless bastard like you? I’m having trouble seeing it.”
Chapter 39
Everything Violet had ever wanted was spelled out in the paperwork scattered across her desk, but she couldn’t concentrate. Possibly because she’d done nothing but paperwork for the past two weeks. As of yesterday, the McCloud deal was final, with twenty percent down and the remainder due after Dirt Eater sold. They already had commitments from half of Buck’s rodeos for next year, and another quarter were strong possibilities.
Violet should be downright giddy. She was, most of the time. Underneath the smile, though, there was still a low throb of pain, like a bad tooth. She frowned, annoyed with herself. She’d decided against regrets. Waste of time and some damn good memories. Besides, moping was selfish considering everything Joe had done for them. Dirt Eater was going to the Finals and Cole…well, that remained to be seen. He was still Cole, anal and stiff-necked, but his relief at having a name to put to his struggles was obvious. So, no. She would not regret bringing Joe Cassidy into their lives, even if she had to suffer for it.
She propped her chin on her hand and stared at the copy of the Pro Rodeo Sports News on her desk, open to the current rodeo entry information. Upper right-hand corner, in bold black, the listing read Redmond, Oregon. The first performance was tonight. The last on Sunday. And down at the bottom, under personnel, the bullfighters were listed. Wyatt Darrington and Joe Cassidy.
For the first time since his plane left Dallas, she knew exactly where Joe was. Fifteen hundred and thirty-four miles from where she sat, according to the internet map site. Might as well be the moon. The words began to dance before her eyes. She blinked, then reached underneath the paper for her vibrating phone.
“How’s the wheeling and dealing going?” Melanie asked.
Violet tipped back in her chair. “I’m trying to estimate an advertising budget. What’s up?”
“We-ell…I called because I learned something today.”
Her tone made Violet sit up, as if she might need both feet solidly on the floor.
Melanie spit it out in a rush. “Joe and Wyatt are working the rodeo in Amarillo next fall.”
The announcement was another jab to a heart that felt like a dartboard. The rodeo wasn’t until next September, almost a year away, but still…
“Wyatt called me,” Melanie added.
Violet almost dropped her phone. “Wyatt Darrington?”
“The one and only, and wow. You were right. The man is scary. How did he find out who I am and where I work? That’s borderline creepy.”
“What did he say, Mel?”
“He wanted to talk about their contracts. I tried to tell him I don’t handle those things, I’m just the facility coordinator, but he said he wasn’t allowed to get in touch directly and he knew he could count on me to pass along a message, which was when I finally got a clue that we weren’t talking about contracts.”
“What message?” Violet demanded, the pounding of her pulse shifting to a different gear. “From Joe?”
“Not exactly. Let me look at my notes.”
“You wrote it down?”
“I wanted to be sure I got it right. Plus Wyatt said, ‘You should write this down.’” There was a rustle of paper, then Melanie quoted, “‘Joe wants to back out. He says someone told him they didn’t want to see him around there again.’”
“I did not say—” Violet protested.
But she had. She cringed, remembering that evening over at the other place, when he’d asked to see her again and she’d been too scared to say yes.
“Okay, I did say that, but it was before I…I mean, we…” She trailed off.
“And yet you say nothing to your best friend.” Melanie clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I’ll be needing details, Miz Violet, but not right now. So, you blew him off. Twice. At any point did you actually look him in the eye and say, ‘I take it back’?”
“Well, no, but I showed him…”
Melanie chuckled. “Honey, as soon as you showed him the girls, he went deaf and dumb. Didn’t the two of you talk afterward?”
“I meant to, but he bolted.”
“And you didn’t try to stop him?”
Violet huffed out a breath. “Remember when we were in the fifth grade, and tried to corner that calico barn cat of yours because it was so pretty?”
“I still have a scar on my arm.”
“Joe had that exact same look in his eyes.”
“Oh.” Melanie paused a beat. “Well now, that would make a girl take a step back.”
“You see? I thought he just needed space. A little time to adjust.” Violet tilted her chair back to glare at a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. “I can’t believe he’s dumb enough to think I’d jump him if I wasn’t serious.”
Melanie snorted. “Did I mention he’s a man—and a cowboy? That’s clueless squared. Wyatt said, and I quote again, ‘Joe is going through some major personal and professional changes that have affected him deeply. He won’t go back to Texas unless he’s convinced he’s we
lcome.’”
“Idiot,” Violet muttered. She’d practically thrown the man over her shoulder and hauled him into her motel room, and he wasn’t sure she wanted to see him again? Then she blew out a guilty sigh. He had asked to see her again. Offered her exactly what she’d told her sister she wanted—an occasional no-strings fling—and she’d tossed it back in his face. Twice. So who exactly was the idiot?
But on the other hand, what had changed? She’d always known Joe wanted more than one night. And she knew more than ever that part of him wasn’t enough. “What difference does this make, if he’s still chained to Dick Browning?”
“This is why we take notes,” Melanie said, with exaggerated patience. “You weren’t paying attention, Violet. I repeat—Joe is going through some major personal and professional changes.”
Oh. God. Did that mean—hope flared, a small but stubborn flame that had never quite died. “If he left Dick, why hasn’t he come back? At least called? He must realize it changes everything.”
“As I believe I mentioned earlier—man, cowboy, clueless?”
Violet drew a deep, resolute breath. “Then I guess it’s up to me to educate him.”
“Atta girl,” Melanie said. “And Violet? Good luck.”
“Thanks.” She might need every bit she could get.
As soon as she hung up, she pulled Joe’s number out of her contact list and hit Send, before she lost her nerve. She tensed as the phone clicked, but instead of Joe’s voice, a recording declared, “The number you dialed has been changed, disconnected, or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this message in error…”
Violet frowned, grabbed the Sports News, and fumbled through the pages to the classifieds at the back, where Joe was listed with the other contract personnel. The number was the same. She keyed it in from scratch, just to be sure, and hit Send again.
Reckless in Texas Page 29
