So much information in those few words. Her husband had been gone for over a year. And he’d been a roper. Victoria Patterson, of the Texas Pattersons, had married a damn Wyoming twine-twirler. Willy Hancock. Cheyenne. Something niggled in Delon’s brain, as if he’d seen or heard the name during Frontier Days and should remember.
“Do you still rope?” he asked, instead of the far less tactful questions buzzing in his head.
“Yes. Quite a bit better than I used to.” She gave a quiet snort. “But I guess you wouldn’t know.”
Because he’d never seen her swing a rope, let alone compete. They’d preferred indoor activities when he was in town. But he’d heard, via Violet. Yeah, Tori rode well enough. She should, after all the private lessons and years of scooping up awards on her family’s blue-blooded, professionally trained show horses. But roping? Not a clue.
She cleared her throat again. “So…you’re planning to come in on Tuesday?”
He hadn’t decided—until now. Even if her interest was only professional, she’d cared enough to worry, and to call, and she was the only person who knew what he might be facing and wasn’t afraid to be straight with him. Besides, Pepper had handpicked her, which meant she was the best.
Above all, he refused to admit it bothered him to see her. “I’ll be there, unless the snow in South Dakota is worse than they’re predicting.”
“Okay.” Her tone lightened a shade, as if in relief. “Drive safe.”
Her parting words triggered an avalanche of memories. She’d said the very same thing every time he’d dragged himself away from her and out the door to the next rodeo. And every time, it had been all he could do not to make a U-turn before he hit the city limits.
He shook the last three M&Ms out of the bag and ground the peanuts between his teeth, staring out at miles and miles of almost nothing. He was facing at least three days on the road, with nothing to occupy his mind but worries, regrets…and wondering what his life might be like right now if he had let himself turn around.
Chapter 7
After work on Friday, Tori exercised Fudge in the indoor arena, sharpened her own skills by roping the plastic, steer-shaped dummy, then lingered beside Fudge’s stall after she’d put him up, leaning on the wood planks and listening to his rhythmic munching. She didn’t want to go inside. Not yet. Talking to Delon, picturing him out on the open road, had put an itch under her skin. She was well aware that a trucker’s life wasn’t as cool as it seemed, but the thought of packing up and rolling clear across the country…
To Duluth. She rubbed a shiver from her arms. Definitely over-romanticizing. Tori frowned, mentally replaying her telephone conversation with Delon. She felt as if they’d resolved something. She just wasn’t sure what. He clearly wasn’t thrilled by her presence. Why should he be? What they’d had might not have been an epic love affair, but it had left a mark. Literally, on a couple of occasions. Rug burn. Ouch.
Funny, how she could recall with perfect clarity the way her jeans had chafed on her raw knees, and yet feel only a vague shadow of the aching and yearning she’d been sure would be the death of her. Showed what she’d known about pain.
She sighed, pushed away from the stall, then paused at the barn door to watch a car crawl down the gravel lane. A lost soul about to discover they’d turned onto a dead-end road—a nice metaphor for her own life. To her surprise, the car turned into her driveway. Only her family knew where she lived. Her mother was still in Chicago. Her sister was either holed up in her lab at Stanford or sharing takeout with Pratimi in their cozy, Spanish-style condo in Palo Alto. And her father…
The silver Lincoln whispered to a stop and Robert Patterson’s lean frame unfolded from behind the wheel. Alone. He had half a dozen minions who were retained solely for the purpose of herding him directly from meeting to legislative session to press conference with no detours. He hadn’t made a surprise appearance since her third birthday, and she only remembered that because she’d seen the pictures. Her pulse thumped and the too-familiar bile of terror rose in her throat. Had something happened to her mother? Elizabeth? But no, his body language and expression were too relaxed for bad news. She tucked away the knee-jerk fear and studied him as he surveyed the house with its ratty scrap of lawn and spindly shrubs. He didn’t look down his elegant Patterson nose. Despite everything, he had very few pretenses, which made him wildly popular with the working class.
It saddened Tori to see the lines scoring his face, the gleam of silver in his blond hair. That damn job was making him an old man before his time. And if his supporters had their way, it would only get worse.
She stepped out of the barn. “Hey, Daddy. This is a surprise.”
“Tori!” His smile was immediate and genuine. “What are you doing out here in the dark?”
“Just finishing up the chores.” She made a show of peering into the empty car. “You’re alone? What did you do, chew through your leash?”
He blinked at her unaccustomed bluntness, then smiled again with a twinkle of mischief. “Climbed out the bathroom window during the debate about whether to order Mexican or barbecue for dinner. I’ve been in meetings all day in Amarillo, and at the rate that we’re running in circles, we’re going to be at it until morning.”
“Seriously?”
“Which part?”
She laughed. “What did I do to rate a jail break?”
“I wanted to see your place.” He rested one palm on the roof of the car, letting his eyes take another tour that ended where she stood. “And I wanted to see you. I’ve barely said hello since you’ve been home.”
She heard the guilt, also familiar, and answered with the usual shrug. “You’re busy.”
“That’s a piss-poor excuse.”
Okay. Wow. That kind of ruthless honestly was new. “It’s okay—”
“No, it’s not.” He drummed his fingers on the car roof, his jaw set. “I’ve missed too much. I should’ve known your husband better, Tori. Should’ve at least been able to come to his funeral.”
“I appreciate that you didn’t.” As much as she’d yearned to have him there, the publicity had been crazy enough as it was.
He angled his head in acknowledgment. “Still, I should’ve managed more than a couple of flyby visits in all the time you were married. I’m not going to make that mistake again, now that you’re here.”
“Okay.” Because really, what else could she say? “Do you want to come in?”
“I’d love to, but sooner or later those people will stop yelling at each other long enough to notice I’m not there. If I don’t dawdle I can use the Very Important Call excuse. Top secret, matter of national security, blah, blah. But I did bring you something.” He opened the rear door of the car with a flourish to reveal…a pet carrier? Oh, hell. He’d brought her a damn puppy.
“Uh, wow. I appreciate the thought, Daddy, but I really can’t—” A low yowl cut her off, a sound that vibrated with raw fury. Tori angled her head, squinting. “What have you got in there?”
“A cat,” he declared proudly.
Oh Lord. That was even worse. “I’m not really a cat person, Daddy.”
“I know. That’s why I got this cat.”
“Uh…okay. And this cat would be what kind, exactly?” She started to reach out a hand toward the carrier.
He caught her wrist. “Don’t do that!”
She jerked back.
“It’s a barn cat,” he said. “A stray, probably feral. The guy at the animal shelter said it’d be best not to try to touch her. She’s, um, very aggressive.”
The yowl sounded again, raising the hair on the back of Tori’s neck. “You brought me a deranged cat?”
He laughed, but his smile faded to dubious concern as he gazed at the crate. “Your grandfather firmly believed the only good cats are the kind that don’t want a damn thing to do with people.”
&n
bsp; “That would explain why I’m not a cat person,” she said, recalling the hostile, skittish cats that had stalked their barns.
He reached in the car and hoisted the carrier at arm’s length. Claws flashed through one of the slats. “She’s spayed and she’s had all her shots.”
Including the tranquilizer dart to put her under so they could stuff her in that box, Tori assumed. She could see only a hunched shape the size of a large raccoon and the baleful gleam of yellow eyes.
“She’s just agitated from being carted around,” her dad said. “I’m sure she’ll settle right down. Keep a bowl of cat food up in your hayloft and you’ll hardly even know she’s here.”
His voice echoed with the sound of best-laid plans and all the disaster inherent, but what could she do? Tori followed along as he carried the hissing package to the barn door, set it down inside, and flicked open the latch. For an instant, nothing moved. Then the door slammed back and a streak of some nondescript color shot out and disappeared into the darkness, startling a snort out of Fudge.
“Well, that was easy enough.” Her dad closed up the crate, carried it back to the car, and handed her a twenty-pound bag of cat food. While she stood cradling it in her arms, he reached out to stroke her hair. “Call me if you need anything—a chore boy, company, somebody to fix a parking ticket. I’ll make the time, no matter what.”
“Okay.” Sure. When hell froze over, she’d drag him away from matters of dire national concern to hold her poor little hand. She shifted the bag to one arm so she could hug him with the other. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He hesitated, taking another long look around her dingy yard. “Tori…I don’t mean to pry, but have you tried…moving on? Seeing someone new?”
No. But the tawny, dark-haired image of someone “old” flashed much too quickly and easily into her mind. She shook her head. “It was too complicated in Cheyenne.”
“Are you ready?”
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I suppose it would depend on the man.”
And dammit, no, she didn’t mean one specific man.
He gave a single, thoughtful nod, then squeezed her shoulders. “Have a good night, sweetheart.”
If so, it would be the first in a year and a half. And now, on top of the ghosts of husbands and boyfriends past, she would have the company of the vague certainty that her father had decided to help.
Lord save her.
Chapter 8
Delon wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he walked into the physical therapy clinic for his Tuesday morning appointment. Tori had been so incessantly on his mind, the memories so vivid, it was a shock all over again to see this new, muted version of her.
This time she did smile, even if it was quick and impersonal.
The receptionist, on the other hand, had been smirking behind her coffee cup since he stepped through the door. What the hell? It would have been obvious at his first appointment that he and Tori had known each other before, but the gleam in Beth’s eyes made him feel vaguely indecent. Surely Tori wouldn’t have yakked to a coworker about just how well they’d known each other.
Would she?
“What did you tell her?” he demanded the moment he and Tori were alone in the treatment room.
She didn’t look up from poking at her tablet. “Tell who?” she asked absently.
“Beth. She was looking at me like…well, you know.”
Tori’s hand paused over the touchscreen. Then she closed her eyes and breathed out what looked like a very bad word. “That would be my fault.”
He goggled at her. “You told her?”
“Not intentionally.” She clasped the tablet in both hands and pressed it to her midsection like a schoolgirl, chin tucked. “Lately, things just…pop out.” Her eyebrows pleated. “I wonder if it’s possible to develop a form of post-traumatic Tourette’s.”
“Tour…what?”
She opened her eyes, her gaze apologetic, but so direct he would’ve taken a step back if his butt hadn’t already been pressed against the side of the table. “I’m sorry. It was incredibly unprofessional. And chauvinistic, now that I think about it. I made the unconscious assumption that you, as a male, wouldn’t be embarrassed by having your sexual exploits discussed.”
Geezus. Who talked like that? It was like having a conversation with an encyclopedia. “What trauma?” he asked.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You said post-traumatic something or other. What trauma?”
“Oh.” Her lashes dropped and she angled her head away, to stare at a spot on the floor. A breath pushed her shoulders up, then let them fall. “My husband’s death was very…sudden, and attracted a lot of attention. Willy knew so many people, and all the others…” Her mouth twisted into a bitter, distant relative of a smile. “It was amazing, how many of them felt it was their God-given duty to advise me on the proper way to grieve my husband. And point out what was improper, of course.”
Willy Hancock. Again, the name rang a distant bell. Someone important, well known in Cheyenne, she’d said. The kind of man a Patterson would marry. A big-time sponsor whose hand Delon had shaken during a publicity gig at Frontier Days? Maybe one of the local dignitaries—politicians and community leaders—introduced during the opening ceremonies while Delon stood on the back of the chutes, bouncing in place, mentally and physically gearing up to climb onto the bucking horse in the chute below him.
“I don’t mean to make excuses, but I suppose I do owe you an explanation.” Tori ran a finger along the edge of the tablet, still contemplating the pattern on the carpet. “For nineteen months after he died, I had to be so careful with every word. Every expression. Not just what I said, but who I talked to, or smiled at, in case someone got the wrong impression. Women hustled their men away from me like I was so desperate I might try to eat them alive. It was insane. I was on the verge of coming undone and it wasn’t going to be pretty. His family is already suffering enough…so I left.”
“And came here.”
“Where else?” She shrugged. “They would be devastated if they thought I was running away from them. But coming home…well, that’s different. Acceptable.” Her mouth twisted again, and her eyes glinted as her gaze came up to meet his. “But somewhere between here and Wyoming I seem to have run out of fucks to give. As you’ve probably noticed.”
“I’m getting the drift,” he said.
“No doubt.” She drew back her shoulders, her mouth set. “You have every reason to request a different therapist. And grounds to file a privacy complaint. I won’t dispute either.”
God. She sounded like a damn lawyer now. But underneath all the fancy talk, he caught a glimpse of scar tissue, still vulnerable and painful to the touch. She was as fucked up as he was. Possibly worse. Instead of firing her, he had a ridiculous urge to gather her up, pet her hair, and tell her it would all be okay.
As if he had any idea.
“What if I don’t change therapists?” he asked.
She blinked again. “You still want to be my patient, after…everything?”
“Is there someone here who’d do a better job?”
Her eyes went cool, her jaw firm. “No.”
“Then switching would be stupid, wouldn’t it?”
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she gave a brisk nod and lifted the tablet. “In that case, let’s talk about the changes I want to make in your exercise program.” Then she paused, and flicked him a lightning-fast grin that made his heart bump in surprise. “I also promise to refrain from bragging about getting to see you naked.”
And there he was, goggling again.
* * *
Two hours later, Delon parked in front of Violet’s house. Used to be, he wouldn’t have thought twice about walking into her single-wide trailer and helping himself to a cup of coffee and one of her m
other’s fresh-baked cookies. Today, if he’d dared, he would’ve sat outside, honked his horn, and waited for Beni to come to him.
He climbed out of the car, his knee stiff from the chill. Dark clouds hung low and spit a few snowflakes, the weather trying hard to be miserable and doing a damn fine job. His muscles twinged from Tori’s brutal workout. Until she got her hands on him, he’d thought he was in pretty good shape. They had to bring his entire musculoskeletal system into balance, she’d declared. Hips, core, shoulders, even his neck—she’d pinpointed every weakness, then tackled them one by one. He suspected that by morning it would hurt to lift an eyebrow.
The front door flew open before he could raise his fist to knock. Delon braced himself for a tackle-hug from Beni, but it was Violet who stood there, face flushed, dark hair mussed up like she’d been wrestling.
More like wrasslin’, as Gil called it.
Violet tugged her shirt straight, trying not to be obvious about it. “Delon! You’re early.”
“You said you wanted to leave for the airport at noon.” He looked over her shoulder at the clock, which read eleven thirty. “Is Beni all packed and ready?”
“Yes. I sent him…I mean, he went over to Mom’s for a bit. She’s making cupcakes.” In other words, she got rid of the kid so she could give Joe a proper send-off. Violet combed her fingers through her hair and gave a nervous laugh. “I’ll, um, go grab his stuff.”
She left him standing in the open door and hustled to Beni’s bedroom.
Joe Cassidy sauntered out of Violet’s bedroom, the tails of his faded denim shirt hanging loose over his jeans. He flashed a cautious smile. “Hey, Delon.”
“Joe.” The muscles in Delon’s neck and shoulders went tight, his voice stiff. He and Joe eyed each other, wary on Joe’s part, hostile on Delon’s.
This was his place, dammit. The Jacobs ranch had been his second home as long as Delon could remember, but since Beni came along it had become the hard rock center of his world, and Violet his touchstone. For the past six years, they’d shared everything except a bed, a mutual decision to avoid complicating their situation. He’d always believed that someday, some way, the time would be right and they would both be ready to take that final step.
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