Tangled in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  Again, she looked as if she might argue. Then she nestled into the beanbag and pulled the throw over her. “Thanks.”

  They sat in the dark, staring at the television and taking comfort from the presence of another human being. A fellow refugee from reality, if only for a few hours. Crazy, to get even this close when she seemed dead set on leaving again, but as long as he knew, as long he didn’t let himself dream, he was safe, wasn’t he?

  He woke to someone jostling his pillow. He forced his eyes open and found Tori leaning over him, trying to tug her coat from the arm of the couch, under his head.

  “What time is it?” he mumbled, twisting around to look out the window. Pitch dark.

  “After midnight. We both slept awhile.”

  She gave the jacket another tug, but it was pinned under his shoulder. He was warm and relaxed, still half asleep. Before his mind could fully engage, he reached up and caught her wrist. She froze, her eyes wide and wary in the dim light.

  “What if I said I don’t want to just be friends?” he asked, his voice raspy with sleep.

  She stared down at him, emotions flickering across her face so fast he couldn’t identify any of them. “I would say that’s probably not the smartest thing we could do, given the situation.”

  “And if I said I’m willing to take my chances?”

  She took her sweet time thinking it over. “I need some time to…adjust my expectations.”

  He stroked the tender underside of her wrist with his thumb, watching as her lips parted on a swift intake of air. He might not know her mind, but he knew her body, and he remembered exactly how she liked to be touched. “How long?”

  “I don’t know. This thing with my parents…”

  “Will you let me know when you’re ready?”

  She shook her head and his heart sank, but then she blew out a reluctant sigh. “Check back with me in a couple of weeks.”

  “The middle of February?” he asked, unable to leave it alone.

  She gave a halfhearted shrug, her gaze tracking to the door, though she still didn’t pull away from his touch. “Sure. Why not?”

  He could think of a dozen reasons—things he’d done, and she’d done, and all the ways they could hurt each other all over again—but he stroked her wrist one more time before sitting up to free her jacket. She pulled it on, tugged the zipper clear to her chin, and stuffed her hands in the pockets.

  “You realize I’m a lousy emotional bet.”

  “Unlike me.”

  She gave a low, short laugh. “Think of the magic we could make together.”

  He didn’t have to imagine. He had a perfectly good memory. As if reading his mind, she said, “I’m not that girl, Delon.”

  “You’re a lot tougher.”

  She smiled slightly at her own words. “I’m also a lot more…difficult.”

  No kidding. But he needed to borrow some of that toughness, from someone who’d gone through the worst and was emerging from the other side, singed around the edges but not destroyed. Tori understood the snarl of anger and guilt in his gut because it wasn’t so different than what she felt about how Willy died.

  “I’d like to get to know this you,” he said softly.

  “I might not be ready to decide who I am yet.”

  “Decide?” He laughed, incredulous. “You just get to make it up for yourself?”

  “Why not? Didn’t you decide who you wanted to be?”

  His fists clenched in the plush throw. “We don’t all have the luxury of reinventing our lives.”

  She gave him a long, level stare. His eyes dropped first. Her voice was low and surprisingly gentle. “Try it, Delon. You might be less likely to feel like punching strangers in bars.”

  She brushed a fingertip as light as a kiss across his cheek, and left him to sleep on it.

  * * *

  When Tori pulled into her driveway, the cat was perched on a fence post, a disapproving sneer on her mottled gray face.

  Tori stuck her tongue out at the hell beast. “Sorry, not the walk of shame.”

  But she was getting closer. Her heart kerthumped like a bass drum every time she recalled the stroke of Delon’s thumb across her skin, the husky timbre of his voice. What if I don’t want to just be friends?

  She shivered, huddling deeper into her jacket. Her body was a jittering mass of nerves, every one of them craving his touch. She could be smart about it, though. They’d both be crystal clear on what they expected. If those expectations didn’t match, she would walk away.

  And this time, she wouldn’t leave her heart behind.

  Chapter 24

  Sometime just after sunup, Delon levered himself off the couch and did a Frankenstein shuffle into the bathroom, leaving the door open and the light off. He wasn’t ready to face his morning-after self in the mirror. But instead of sinking, his mood bobbed like a duck on a pond. For the first time in weeks he felt a tiny ray of hope that his knee might come around. And he’d sort of asked Tori out, and she’d sort of said yes.

  He worked through a set of gentle stretches, bending his knee a little farther every time. He might not be kicking himself in the ass anytime soon—literally, at least—but he was a damn sight closer than he had been. When he finished, he stuffed his feet into running shoes, grabbed the gel pack from the freezer, and headed downstairs, intending to poke around on the Internet. Maybe even check out some rodeo results. The shop was quiet, the hard edges of tools and machinery softened by hazy morning sunlight angling through the narrow windows in the truck bay doors. The sight gave him the usual glow of pride, cut through with a twinge of frustration. Was Tori right? Could he just decide to claim his place at Sanchez Trucking?

  He was surprised to hear music when he opened the office door. Charley Pride was not on Gil’s playlist. Delon’s dad stuck his head out of the open door of the dispatcher’s office. He smiled, but it was wrapped in a question mark. “Hey, Delon. How’re you doing this morning?”

  Of course he’d heard. Probably from half a dozen different people. “A little sore, but no damage done.”

  “Well, good. That’s real good.”

  If his dad wondered why Delon had been drunk and punching redneck pricks on Beni’s birthday, he didn’t ask. Not that he didn’t care. Merle Sanchez was just more comfortable with the whats than the whys. He’d tended to their scrapes and bruises, cheered them on through flag football and junior rodeos and the National Finals, but he kept his feelings buried deep under that laid-back, cheerful surface and preferred everyone else to do the same. The Sanchez way.

  “What are you doing in the office on a Sunday morning?” Delon asked.

  “Jimmy’s back haul from Tuscaloosa got canceled. I’m trying to find him a load by tomorrow night, or he’ll be dead-heading home.”

  Burning up hundreds of dollars’ worth of fuel for zero return. Delon tilted his head toward Gil’s bank of computer screens. “You know how to operate that thing?”

  “Nope. I’m doing it the old-fashioned way.” His dad waved the cordless phone. Then he heaved an aggravated sigh. “And not having a damn bit of luck.”

  The main door banged open behind Delon and Gil stomped in, snarling. “This is the fourth time those fuckers have left us with our ass hanging in the breeze. I don’t care if they offer double our usual rate, we don’t ever schedule another load out of that warehouse.”

  “It’s your call.” Their dad shot out of the chair, slapping the phone into Gil’s hand. “I gotta run, I’ve got a…ah…thing this morning.”

  And he was gone. Delon trailed Gil into the office. “Has he taken up religion?”

  “A woman.” Gil plopped down in his chair and swiveled to face his computer screens. “Dottie, Dolly—whoever his latest sweet young thing is. They had a sleepover. Seems like there was a lot of that going on last night.”

  “
You took my keys and left me.” Delon’s mouth was speaking, but his brain was still processing latest sweet young thing. “Dad has a lot of…sleepovers?”

  Computer keys clattered as Gil took his irritation out on the keyboard. “What are you, ten years old? You didn’t think the old man got laid once in a while?”

  “But he and Mom are still married. I thought…”

  “He was pining away?” Gil snorted. “He just uses Ma to keep the Dollys and Dotties from getting ideas.”

  Delon braced one hand against the doorframe as his world tilted to accommodate Merle Sanchez, player. Of course he’d known his dad hadn’t strapped on a chastity belt when his mother left. Truthfully, he’d avoided thinking about his dad’s love life because, well, shit. Who wanted that in their head? But now…

  “How young?”

  Gil let loose a string of curses and pounded more keys. “He’s not cruising the high school for chicks, but you might recognize some of ’em from back in your college days.”

  The earth shuddered beneath Delon’s feet. “I really should have stayed upstairs.”

  “Fuck that. Why should I be the only one who suffers?” Clack, clack, clack, clack—Gil jabbed the same key repeatedly. “Hah! There you are, you sneaky little bastard.”

  Delon leaned closer, curious. The screen on the left showed a map of the Tuscaloosa region. The screen on the right was covered in lines of text he couldn’t read from a distance.

  Gil shot him a sour look. “Are you just gonna stand there, or sit your ass down and learn something?”

  “I can’t…I mean, I didn’t…” Think Gil would ever let him touch the dispatch system. With good reason. “I’m not very good at computer stuff.”

  “You’re about to get better.” Gil slapped the seat of the second chair. “Sit, Junior.”

  Delon sat, staring at a spreadsheet of distributors and warehouses in Alabama. Each name appeared to be a clickable link. “Is that a database?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t like any of the prepackaged stuff so I built my own.” Gil’s fingers danced over the keys, to a beat only he could hear. “You can filter based on the distance from a certain zip code, type of load, and my personal rating system. Are they on schedule, how they treat our drivers, how they pay, that kind of shit. Today we start by looking at five-star joints within a hundred miles of Tuscaloosa that ship refrigerated loads.”

  Delon settled the gel pack onto his knee and watched Gil perform what looked like magic. Screens popped up, then disappeared, with Gil providing a running commentary as he clicked, scrolled, typed, and cursed. The longer Delon watched, the more patterns began to emerge from the chaos.

  “It’s like a scavenger hunt,” he said.

  Gil flashed a savage grin. “The whole thing is a big game, racing other dispatchers to get the best loads, pushing the schedule to keep our guys on time but not sitting on their asses waiting. You watch the maps, the weather, traffic and construction reports, try to route our drivers through and around as fast as possible. At the end of the week, the dispatcher with the most paid miles per truck is the champ.” Gil jabbed a key for emphasis, then pumped his fist. “And we have a winner. A load of fresh peaches headed for Oklahoma, scheduled pickup cancelled due to a breakdown. Now we’ve just gotta grab it before anyone else.”

  Delon’s heartbeat had picked up, his system oozing adrenaline. Leave it to Gil to turn dispatching into a battlefield.

  Gil reached for the phone, but paused before dialing. “Speaking of missing out, I wish you’d get over this shit with Violet. I’d give my left nut for one of Miz Iris’s cinnamon rolls right now, and Dad’s so deep in withdrawal he’s hitting on women his own age just because they can make a decent meatloaf.”

  Delon gaped at him. What was he talking about? Gil always dropped by Iris’s kitchen for coffee and baked goods when Jacobs Livestock wasn’t on the road, and their dad wandered through around dinner time at least once a week. I miss my boys, Iris had said. Delon had assumed she’d meant him and Beni. He’d had no idea his dad and Gil hadn’t been making their usual rounds.

  “I’m not stopping either of you.”

  Gil shot him an impatient glare. “That’s not how it works, D.”

  Because they were his family. And they’d had his back all these months, without saying a word. Delon had to swallow a few times before he could speak without sounding all choked up. “Is that why you tried to hook me up with Tori? To distract me so you could get back on the cookie wagon?”

  Gil hitched a shoulder, his gaze glued to the computer screen. “Worth a try. I might be willing to give my left nut for a cinnamon roll, but I’d rather sacrifice yours.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Gil shoved his chair back and motioned Delon forward. “We need a load out of Denver next Thursday. The details are on that sticky note. Try not to fuck anything up before I get off the phone.”

  Chapter 25

  Tori avoided thinking about anything on Sunday afternoon by roping with Shawnee, but eventually even that had to come to an end. As Shawnee heaved her rope bag into the back of her truck, she asked, “You plannin’ to go to the roping in Lubbock next weekend?”

  “I don’t have a partner.” And it wasn’t a drawpot like the one in Canyon.

  “Yeah, well, turns out I’ve got a spot on my dance card.”

  Tori froze in the midst of buckling Fudge’s halter. “You want me to rope with you?”

  “Whaddya think we’ve been doing? Quilting club?” Shawnee screwed up her face in disgust. “My regular partner got herself knocked up and her husband’s being a dick, whining about how she shouldn’t be riding in her third trimester. Everybody else is already partnered up.”

  Tori stared at her. “You said your granny could’ve roped that last steer faster.”

  “Hey, Gran could fling some string in her day. So…you in?”

  Tori stared at her some more, until Fudge rubbed his head on her shoulder and knocked her back a step. She shoved him away. “Fine. But I don’t care where I rope the steer, you’d better be there when I turn the corner.”

  Shawnee just grinned. “As long as we’re on the subject, you might not’ve noticed, but I could use a new pickup.”

  “How is that on the subject?”

  Shawnee folded her arms and leaned back against the rust bucket. “They give pickups to the winners at the Turn ’Em and Burn ’Em roping in Abilene in March. That gives us six weeks to get you up to speed.”

  Tori stared at her, gobsmacked. The Turn ’Em and Burn ’Em was the biggest roping event in Texas short of the George Strait Invitational, but unlike George’s roping, it was handicapped like a Pro/Am golf tournament—anyone had a chance to win the big prizes if they had their best day. But there would be hundreds of teams. Shawnee expected her to turn five steers fast enough to beat them all?

  Tori swallowed hard. “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  Tori hesitated, delaying the moment when she had to be alone. Her mother was home, and her dad had broken the news hours ago. The knowledge was like standing under a ton of boulders in a fraying net. She could practically hear the ping, ping, ping as fibers snapped.

  “I suppose now that we’re partners, I have to offer you a beer,” she said, because yeah, she was that desperate. “I’ve got a six pack of Shiner and last year’s World Series of Team Roping on DVD.”

  Shawnee shot her a look, as if she thought Tori might be kidding, then shrugged. “I gotta be home before midnight or my royal carriage turns into a rusty old piece of shit.”

  When the horses were unsaddled, Tori led the way inside. She dragged out chips and salsa and they settled in, beers in hand, Shawnee in the recliner and Tori on the couch.

  “These walls are the color of baby calf shit,” Shawnee said.

  “I know.” Tori dug through couch cushions for the
remote. “I hate painting.”

  “There are people who will do that crap if you part with a few bucks from the ol’ trust fund.”

  “Too bad my family doesn’t believe in them.”

  Shawnee did a double take. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” Tori gave up on the cushions and started shaking out blankets. “The family corporation owns the ranch, the horses, the businesses, everything. Daddy is the CEO and gets a salary. We can live at the ranch and use the family stuff—with permission—but it doesn’t belong to any of us. Every kid gets tuition at the college of our choice and five years max to graduate. It’s assumed that we will excel to the point of being offered financial assistance for advanced degrees. Other than that, we’re on our own.”

  “That’s…not exactly how I figured.”

  “You and the rest of the world.” The remote fell out of the blankets and thudded onto the floor. Tori bent to pick it up. “Blame my great-great-granddad. After he got filthy rich, he decreed that there would be no deadbeats living off his hard-earned bucks, and subsequent generations have continued the tradition.”

  “So this place…” Shawnee circled a hand in the air.

  “Is mine. I made the down payment with Willy’s life insurance, but I’ve got a mortgage like everybody else.”

  For once, Shawnee didn’t have a smart-ass comeback. Tori turned on the television, still tuned to the news channel she’d had on earlier, keeping an ear out for any mention of her parents. Now her father’s face filled the screen. The blood drained from Tori’s head when she recognized the interviewer. Richard Patterson was a guest on the number one conservative political talk show in the country, with millions of viewers hanging on his every word.

  “…been the poster boy for family values for your party,” the talking head was saying. “How do you think your constituents are going to feel about your divorce?”