Until Joe showed up.
Joe rocked onto his heels, unsettled by the silence. “Any idea when you’re gonna be ready to get on some horses?”
“No.”
Joe’s eyes narrowed a fraction at the blunt response. “No sense rushing it.”
“So my therapist says.” It gave Delon a weird tingle of pleasure, knowing Violet would freak when she heard about Tori. Another of those petty victories he’d decided to savor, especially after this morning.
Bragging. His mind slammed up against the thought again and splattered a few more brain cells. All this time, he’d thought of himself as her dirty little secret, and Tori considered him worth bragging about? How was he supposed to…
Violet came bustling out of Beni’s room, her arms loaded with his duffel, a jacket, a handheld video game, and a backpack for preschool. Hell. How was Beni almost six years old already? Next thing Delon knew, he’d be fumbling through explanations about girls and sex. Then again, Beni probably already knew more than enough from hanging around the shop and behind the bucking chutes at his grandpa Steve’s rodeos.
Violet shot a glance at Joe, then bounced it over to Delon, measuring the tension in the room. Her mouth tightened as she dumped her load on Delon. “Thanks for letting him stay a couple extra days.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll call Mom, have her send Beni over.”
“I’ll go get him.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She folded her arms tight across her chest, shivering in the cold blast of air from the door. “I’ll see you Friday, then.”
“We’ll be here.”
And that was that. No coffee. Damn sure no sugar. Delon hobbled down the steps and across the lawn to toss Beni’s stuff in the backseat of his car. When he glanced back at the house, he saw them through the window, Violet’s head on Joe’s shoulder. Joe stroked a hand over her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead, a gesture somehow more intimate than if Delon had seen them naked.
He slammed his door, wheeled the car around, and drove the twenty yards to park across the driveway, in front of the big white frame house where Violet had grown up. Rapping once on the door, he let himself in. Iris Jacobs would’ve smacked him upside the head for waiting to be invited into her kitchen. His nose twitched at the mingled scents of vanilla cupcakes, pot roast, home-baked bread, and fresh coffee. Only two men sat at the table with steaming mugs, but they qualified as a roomful. Steve Jacobs and his nephew Cole both pushed the six-and-a-half-foot mark, solid as hundred-year-old California redwoods.
Iris smiled at him—round, soft, a half-pint version of Violet in thirty years. “Close that door and leave the cold outside.”
“Daddy!” Beni hopped down off a stool and bounded over to throw his arms around Delon’s waist, smearing cupcake batter on the front of his jacket.
Delon ruffled his inky black hair, amazed all over again at the miracle that was his son. Delon’s spitting image, but a little too much like his Uncle Gil for comfort. All out, all the time.
Beni pulled away to frown up at him. “How come I can’t go to the airport with Joe and Mommy?”
“They need some alone time,” Iris said, saving Delon the trouble of answering.
“Why?” Beni demanded. “Mommy and Daddy never have alone time.”
“Uh…” Stymied, Delon looked to Iris, who moved her mouth but didn’t make any words. Steve and Cole showed no inclination to jump in. Real helpful, those two. “Mommy and I are just friends.”
Beni opened his mouth, but Iris cut him off at the pass. “Joe and your mommy are a different kind of friends. And besides, haven’t you missed your daddy?”
Beni shrugged. “He’s here all the time now. And he doesn’t do fun stuff like Joe.”
The dismissal was an arrow straight through Delon’s heart. “We’ll go swimming tomorrow at the indoor pool in Dumas.”
“But I want to go to the airport today,” Beni whined.
“You can’t,” Cole said. “So hush, or I’ll eat your cupcakes.”
“Nuh-uh!”
Cole reached over, grabbed a cupcake off the cooling rack, and stuck the whole thing in his mouth.
“No fair!” Beni protested, but he hushed, knowing it wasn’t an idle threat. Cole would consider a dozen cupcakes a light snack.
“Come help me clean up the last of the batter.” Iris set the bowl and a spatula in front of Beni’s stool—another punch of nostalgia to Delon’s heart. How many times had he hovered in this kitchen, hoping for a chance to lick the bowl? Hell, he was tempted to fight Beni for it now.
Iris poured a cup of coffee and set it on the table. “Sit yourself down. You look tired. And sore. I suppose this weather’s got your knee acting up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Delon said, to all of the above.
“I’ll set you a plate,” Iris said, reaching into the cupboard.
Delon was sorely tempted—a man didn’t turn down Miz Iris’s food without a second thought—but picturing Joe and Violet together right across the road spoiled his appetite. “No, thanks. I stopped by the Smoke Shack earlier.”
Miz Iris could smell a lie from a mile off. Her mouth folded into a disapproving line. Then her expression turned sympathetic, and that was worse. “Well, you’ll need something for dinner. I’ll make you up some sandwiches to take along.”
“Do I have to go?” Beni whined. “There’s nothing to do at the shop.”
“You have all the same games as you have here,” Iris scolded.
Of course Beni dragged his feet about leaving the ranch. His pony was here, the dogs and cats, his grandmother’s bottomless cookie jar. Time with his dad wasn’t a novelty anymore. It was stupid to take it to heart, but Delon’s heart hadn’t been in a real common-sense kind of mood lately. He left his coffee untouched and bundled his reluctant child into coat, boots, and gloves.
When Iris handed him the bag of food, she held on for a beat, nailing him with one of those looks. “Don’t be a stranger, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” But his gaze dropped away from hers. How could he promise that when he’d been a stranger for months, even to himself?
Chapter 9
January in the Panhandle was a fickle bitch. Early in the week the temperature had climbed into the sixties. Today Tori tugged the zipper of her canvas jacket higher and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up over her baseball cap to ward off the needle-sharp wind, her chest a mess of tangled up emotions. There was nothing she’d rather do on a Saturday afternoon than go to a team roping—unless that roping was in Childress, Texas. Then she might prefer jogging naked in a winter breeze. It couldn’t make her feel more exposed than walking into this arena. An outsider. A stranger. Until that inevitable moment when someone realized who she was, and then they would think they knew her and that would be worse.
But she couldn’t just quit roping. Not after all the time and work she’d put into it, and Willy had put into her. She also couldn’t leave Fudge standing around, a good horse wasted. She tightened his cinches, then squared her shoulders, shrugging off the weight of curious gazes from ropers who read the lettering emblazoned on the side of her pickup. Willy Hancock. Wyoming Team Roping Classic. Champion Heeler.
Then they looked at Tori and wondered, Who the hell are you?
Excellent question. In Cheyenne, she was a Hancock, a name synonymous with team roping. They trained the best horses and took home more than their share of the prize money. As Willy’s wife, Tori had been smack dab in the middle of the crowd by default. Now it was just her again, but Willy had given her skills, and he’d given her Fudge. What she didn’t have was practice. Team roping, by definition, was not a solitary pursuit. She had an arena, and once they were delivered tomorrow, she would have steers. All of which were wasted without a partner. Yet another reason she had to bite the bullet and get to know the locals.
She walked the gauntlet of trucks and trailers parked in rows out behind the indoor arena. Eye contact. Smile. Nod. Try to look friendly instead of the keep your distance face she’d perfected by the end of her father’s first term in office. When she passed through the door and into the arena, her blood stirred at the sight of well-groomed dirt, the musty scent of dust and horses, the relaxed chatter and chuckle of ropers. Nothing else gave her that same shimmer of excitement, anticipation. Even Fudge felt it, tugging at the reins. Or he was eyeing that dandy little strawberry roan mare tied to the fence. Knowing his penchant for love at first sight, she tied him beside a homely sorrel that pinned his ears when Fudge tried to nuzzle up.
In the office, the secretary took her name without a flicker of recognition. “Head or heels?”
“Header. Put me in three times.” She’d chosen this roping because it was a drawpot. All she had to do was tell them she preferred to rope the horns and they’d draw three partners to rope heels for her. Tori handed over her entry fees and went back to her horse, dug out her best rope, and climbed aboard to join the parade of ropers circling the arena. On the second lap, she heard a big, bawdy laugh that made her jerk Fudge up short and look around for the source.
Shawnee Pickett. Shit. She would have to be here.
Tori gritted her teeth and kicked Fudge into a lope. He moved out smooth and easy, pushing into the bit more than usual due to the long layoff. She wrapped her fingers around her rope, tracing the hard twist of nylon with her fingers. She’d earned her place in the arena. One person couldn’t take it away.
“All right, listen up!” the announcer declared.
She began to recite team numbers and names. The roping was a three header, meaning Tori could rope up to four steers with each partner, but only if they made qualified runs. A miss meant she was out with that partner. If she and her heelers caught every steer, she’d get to make nine runs. A bad day would mean three no times and she was done.
She’d drawn up as team number thirty-two with someone named Randy, and team sixty-eight with John somebody. The announcer droned on and on, down through the list, until finally, “Team number one hundred and six, Tori Hancock and Shawnee Pickett.”
No way. Tori slammed her fist on her saddle horn. Like this wasn’t hard enough, she had to draw up with Shawnee? Tori eased through the crowd of ropers congregated on the left side of the arena, out of the way of the roping box, until she was only a few horses away from her nemesis. Shawnee looked exactly the same. Heavy-set body, round face, wild mop of dark brown curls yanked back into a bushy ponytail. But, Tori had to admit, her makeup was perfect as always, and today her sweatshirt was a vivid pink with Rope Like a Girl stamped on the front.
In fact, if you hadn’t experienced her personality, you might actually say she was attractive.
“Team number thirty-two, Tori and Randy, you’re up!” the announcer repeated loudly.
Oh crap. Her heeler was already sitting in front of the chute, waiting. Tori built a hasty loop, her face burning as necks craned to see the idiot who was holding up the action.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, hustling Fudge into the heading box.
Her heeler gave her an encouraging smile as he settled his horse in the right-hand box. Tori put Fudge’s butt in the corner of the left-hand box, cocked her arm back, and nodded. Too soon. She wasn’t set and Fudge’s first powerful stride slid her to the back of the saddle. She compensated by leaning out but that only got her shoulders too far forward, so when she let go of the loop it plopped onto the back of the steer’s head, limp as cold spaghetti.
Tori reined up and muttered another, “Sorry.”
Her heeler shrugged, as if to say It happens.
Not to her. Not very often. She might not be the fastest roper, but she was consistent. She planted Fudge at the back of the mob of ropers, yanking on the reins when he nosed the butt of the horse in front of him and nearly got kicked in the teeth. Okay. Deep breath. Relax. But she tensed again when Shawnee rode into the heeling box, said something to her header, then laughed, like she was so good she didn’t have to bother to concentrate.
Her header caught the steer sharp around the horns. As he wrapped his rope around the saddle horn and took the steer left, Shawnee’s buckskin zipped right in behind, giving her a perfect throw. Her loop floated in under the steer’s belly and scooped both hind feet cleanly out of the dirt. She whipped a dally around the saddle horn, the header pivoted his horse to face up as the ropes came tight, and the judge’s flag snapped down.
“Six point nine seconds,” the announcer said, to a smattering of applause. “That’s fast time, so far. Next up…”
Shawnee accepted hand slaps as she rode through the crowd, straight to where Tori was sitting. Tori stiffened, but Shawnee’s gaze skipped over her without pause as she swung the buckskin around and parked in front of Fudge. And of course Fudge reached out to sniff the horse’s butt.
Tori yanked on the reins. “Stop it!”
Fudge gave another halfhearted tug, then dropped his head to sulk.
Shawnee was too busy running her mouth to notice. “Hey, Lou, you buy any steers yet?”
“Nah. Too expensive. Been practicing on the dummy.”
Shawnee slapped her coiled rope onto the saddle horn. “Same as everybody. Can’t find a soul within an hour of Amarillo who’s ropin’ real steers.”
Tori eased Fudge away, to the front of the pack where she didn’t have to look at or hear Shawnee. More deep breaths. By the time the announcer called her name again, she had herself straight. Ready.
Her heeler was an older guy, potbellied, a bright red wild rag tied around his neck. “Watch this steer. He’ll stall and drop his head as you run up on him.”
Tori threw him a grateful smile for the tip. This time when she nodded she was ready, and got up and over Fudge’s neck the way she should. As predicted, the steer heard them coming and threw on the brakes. Tori checked up, but Fudge ignored her, nearly passing the steer. She hauled back on the reins and he bounced hard on his fronts, jacking her into the swells of her saddle as she threw her rope. The loop spun around the steer’s right horn and off.
“My horse is a little fresh,” she said to her heeler, by way of apology.
He just smiled, tucking away the loop he hadn’t had a chance to throw. Tori coiled her rope and steered Fudge into an empty space back in the corner where she could give herself a couple of mental head slaps in preparation for her next run. She would not let Shawnee screw with her. Never again. Beginning now. When the announcer called their names, Tori didn’t even glance at Shawnee as they rode into the boxes.
“Got us a good one, Blondie. You turn him, I’ll clean up the rest.”
Blondie? Seriously? Who said that to a partner who was about to nod for stock? Tori rode forward, then back, resetting both Fudge and her brain. Okay. Clear. She tightened up the reins and waited for the steer to look straight out the front of the gate. Then she nodded.
They got a perfect start, Fudge’s nose on the steer’s hip three strides out of the gate. Tori’s eyes were focused on the steer’s horns, but she heard Shawnee’s buckskin coming up hard on her right. Tori took two more swings, just to be sure, then threw. The loop felt as if it stuck to her hand. Like a wild pitch, it sailed high, arcing a foot above the steer’s head. Tori dropped her chin, wheeled around, and headed back to the corner, rope dragging behind. She hadn’t thrown a loop that bad in years. Her eyes burned with humiliation as she rode Fudge to where she’d left her rope bag and swung off.
And damned if Shawnee didn’t follow her. “Hey, don’t I know you?”
Tori shrugged, coiling her rope in quick jerks.
“I could swear…” Shawnee snapped her fingers. “Barbie! I’ll be damned. Should’ve recognized you by that loop you just threw.”
Tori’s chin snapped up and she glared across Fudge’s back. “Were you born an
asshole, or is it something you have to work at?”
Shawnee blinked. Then she folded her arms and leaned on the saddle horn, raising her eyebrows. “Somebody’s gone and got ’em some teeth. Where ya been, Barbie?”
“None of your business.” Tori grabbed Fudge’s reins to make her escape.
Running away again, Princess? The mocking voice in her head sounded a whole lot more like her own than Shawnee’s.
She stopped. Dammit. She would not let Shawnee—or her own lack of confidence—ruin one of the few things she had left that gave her real pleasure. As clichéd as it might sound, the best way to beat ’em truly was to join ’em, and Shawnee had unwittingly extended an invitation.
Tori turned around. “If you want to rope real steers, call me this week at Panhandle Orthopedics. I’ll give you directions to my place.”
Shawnee’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then I’ll talk to you next week.”
As they strode through the door and outside, away from the other horses, Fudge gave a sorrowful whinny.
“I hear ya, buddy,” Tori said.
But unlike Fudge, she didn’t look back.
* * *
Shawnee didn’t call until Wednesday, and then—thank the saints—she only left a voice mail. “If you meant what you said about roping some steers, I’m free on Friday evening. Let me know where and what time.”
Tori replied with a text. Her address and Seven o’clock.
Friday afternoon, Tori strolled into reception to find Beth, one of the other therapists, and two patients—all female—huddled around the narrow slot of a window that opened from the waiting room into the therapy gym.
“What are we watching?” she asked, pushing onto her tiptoes to peer over their heads.
Tangled in Texas Page 6
