Tangled in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  The door to Delon’s apartment flew open and he started down the stairs, shouting to be heard. “Sorry. I can change—”

  Tori turned the volume down, amused. So this was what he played in those earbuds while he worked out at the clinic. She examined the stack of CDs next to the player. Nothing but hard rock and heavy metal. This playlist belonged to the Delon she’d met on that crazy New Year’s Eve. Bold. Shameless. The accelerator mashed to the floor with the music cranked up loud.

  “You can switch over to the radio if you want,” Delon said.

  No way. She liked this side of him. “This is fine.”

  He angled past her to dump his gear bag on the weight bench. “I need to stretch out first.”

  “Take your time.” Please.

  Delon’s warm-up routine was a slow, graceful dance to the beat of the song playing on the stereo, muscles bunching, then uncoiling as he moved from one position to the next. Her fingers itched to stroke the length of his leg, his arm, across his shoulders, down the curve of his back…

  Damn. She was staring. Not that it mattered. Delon was used to warming up in front of an audience. Blocking out distractions was part of his pregame routine, the familiar movements centering his mind and body like yoga or Tai Chi. She should try it. Maybe she could learn to block out Shawnee.

  Then she shook her head. As aggravating as the woman could be, she was making Tori better. The more obnoxious Shawnee got, the harder Tori worked to prove her wrong. It felt good to throw herself into something, heart and soul. Her nerves jittered as she thought about the coming weekend. The roping in Lubbock would be the first test of her newfound aggressiveness. Could she really push that hard, take those chances in competition? Risk making a fool of herself?

  Yep. Or Shawnee would humiliate her instead.

  Delon finished his warm up and strapped the rigging onto the spur board. The initials D.S. were stamped into the heavy leather, blocky and unadorned. The rigid handhold—constructed of multiple layers of rawhide—was black with rosin, the body nicked and gouged. Before his injury, Delon had routinely dragged his spurs over that rigging, right up to his butt.

  Her job was to figure out how to make it happen again. His left-handed grip would make it more difficult. Simple biomechanics decreed that the leg opposite his grip had more strength and freedom of motion. If he’d injured his right leg…but he hadn’t, so they would deal with what they had.

  He pulled on his glove, then clenched one end of a leather lace in his teeth while he wrapped the other around his wrist and tied it off, ensuring that his hand and the glove would not part company in the middle of a ride. Then he glanced at Tori. “Ready?”

  “If you are.”

  He replied by slinging a leg over the spur board and settling in. She strolled around to the front. Rosin creaked as he worked the glove into the handhold, using his other fist to pound his fingers tight, then scooted his hips up flush against the rigging. She turned on the tablet she’d brought along and activated the camera. “I’ll video from the front and both sides, then we’ll watch it together.”

  He cocked his free arm back and started to spur. Thump! His heels hit the neck of the spur board. Scrape! His heels dragged up toward the rigging. Then thump! His legs snapped straight and his heels hit the board again, so fast the movement was a blur. Scrape-thump, scrape-thump, scrape-thump, rapid-fire as a machine gun. Tori could feel herself goggling. She’d always known he had quick feet, but she’d never appreciated just how fast until she saw it close up. Even through the camera, though, she could see a noticeable deficit in the length of the stroke on the left side compared to the right side.

  Delon finished off with two more strokes and then stopped. Tori paused the camera. Delon let his feet drop and waited, hand still in the rigging, while Tori moved around to the front of the spur board and focused the camera.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded. The muscles of his riding arm bunched as he leaned back and repeated the routine—scrape-thump, scrape-thump—with the same results. When he’d finished the third bout, he pried the glove out and braced his hands on his thighs, winded. His bare arms shone, the pumped muscles standing out in relief. Tori’s pulse fluttered at the memory of tracing the shape of those muscles as they quivered under sweat-damp skin.

  She cued up the videos and handed him the tablet, stepping around so she could watch over his shoulder. Halfway through the third video, Delon muttered a savage curse and jabbed the pause button. So they agreed. Excellent. Now—if he would trust her—they could buckle down and get to work.

  Chapter 27

  Delon wanted to grab the tablet and fling it at the wall, as if that would obliterate the ugly reality. He was better. But he wasn’t close to good enough. Tori didn’t say a word, just leaned over his shoulder with her mouth pursed and a pucker between her eyebrows, mentally dissecting the video. Her loose hair swung forward to tickle his neck. He caught a whiff of her shampoo. No flowers, no spice. Just clean.

  “You don’t wear perfume anymore.”

  She gave a distracted shake of her head as she reached around him to drag her finger across the tablet, rewinding the video. “Too many patients have allergies.”

  Practical to the bone. But this Tori had somehow always been there, under the sparkle and lace. He even remembered the first time he’d seen her. He’d stumbled into Tori’s apartment late one evening, worn to the bone from a mad scramble through California—Hawley, Ramona, and Redding—then pushing straight through on the drive home so he could have a few extra hours with her. He’d barely noticed what she was wearing, just stripped her naked and lost himself in the feel and the taste and the warmth of her. God, he’d missed that warmth. At four in the morning, he rolled over and found the bed empty. Pulling on his jeans, he wandered out to find Tori hunched over a mug of coffee wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a faded Tulane sweatshirt, hair wadded into a knot at her neck, books and notes scattered across the kitchen island.

  When she saw him, she reached up as if to hide the dark-rimmed glasses he’d never seen her wear. Then her hand dropped and she gave him a tired smile. “You’re awake.”

  “So are you. Why?”

  “Cramming. I have a Differential Diagnosis final tomorrow—” She glanced at the clock. “Well, I guess that would be today.”

  And he was interrupting. The same way he’d interrupted the night before, without stopping to think that it was Monday of finals week. They stared at each other for a long, silent moment. He wanted to walk over, rub her shoulders, kiss her neck, offer to make more coffee, but this bookish intellectual was a stranger to him.

  He crossed his arms over his bare chest and wished he’d buttoned his jeans. “I should go.”

  Her gaze flicked from him to her books, then back again. She shifted in her chair as if to rise and he thought she might come to him, kiss him, insist he stay. She gave an almost imperceptible sigh instead and picked up a highlighter. “Sleep here for a few more hours if you want.”

  Alone. In her bed, while she was studying for something he’d never heard of. Out of your league, that persistent voice whispered in his ear. “I’m already up. I’ll go on home, stop distracting you.”

  Something passed over her face. Disappointment? She’d ducked her head before he could be sure it wasn’t just wishful thinking on his part and set down her books long enough to walk him to the door, but her smile had been only a reflex. Just tired, he’d told himself, but the whole dark, cold drive home to Earnest, he’d kept thinking how her kiss had tasted like strong black coffee and good-bye.

  “What’s our goal?” she asked.

  He started at her voice so close to his ear, jerking him back to the present. “I want to ride again.”

  Her breath puffed against his cheek, impatient. “You don’t just want to ride. You want to win. At a very high level. What, exactly, does your body have to be ab
le to do for that to happen?” She circled the spur board, eyes narrowed. “I would describe your riding style as compact. Shoulders farther forward, knees closer together than most bareback riders. You gain points for control, but on average your heel strike is lower on the horse’s shoulder than the other top ten cowboys, which costs you.”

  He couldn’t help bristling at her blunt assessment. “Well, that’s helpful.”

  “It’s our baseline. Your current style requires a lot of knee flexion to do this.” She brushed her fingertips over the gouges his spurs had made on the front of his rigging. Then she tapped the shoulder of the spur board. “Put your feet here and your hand in the rigging.”

  He did.

  She grabbed his left ankle and wrapped her other hand around the inside of his left knee. “Try to go limp and let me move you.”

  Any time, darlin’. But she was so focused, she missed his smirk. She played his leg like a puppet’s—bending, straightening, rotating out at the hip, bending again, testing angle after angle until she found one she liked. He tried to stay loose, but her hand kept sliding up and down the inside of his thigh, every stroke heating his blood until limp was no longer a part of his vocabulary. The air got sideways in his lungs as she moved her hand even higher. Think cold. Ice cubes. North Dakota in January. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as her hand moved again. A couple more inches and she’d find out for herself just how not limp he was.

  She gave his leg a shake. “Relax!”

  “Tori.”

  She paused, looked up at his face, then followed his gaze to where her little finger was a hair shy of rubbing up against his balls.

  “Oh.” She didn’t snatch her hand away, just moved it down to midthigh. “Sorry. But look.”

  He looked—straight down the front of her shirt, which had gaped open as she leaned over him. Her bra was plain beige, not a scrap of lace, but who the hell cared because…boobs. Right there.

  She jiggled his foot. “Do you see?”

  Oh yeah. He saw. If he leaned forward a little more he could… He reeled in his tongue and looked down at his foot. Whoa. While he’d been distracted, she’d maneuvered his leg so the heel of his boot touched the front of his rigging.

  “Try it on your own,” she ordered and, sadly, straightened, ruining his view, but improving his concentration by three hundred percent.

  He went through the spurring motion while she kept pressure on his thigh so he had to stay in the groove she’d found. He strained, grunted, and finally forced his heel to touch the rigging. Great…assuming the horse would give him a minute or two between jumps.

  “Good. Humor me?”

  He gave her a cautious look. “Maybe.”

  “Switch hands,” she said.

  His feet thumped to the floor. “I can’t.”

  “You’ve tried?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced around to be sure Gil hadn’t snuck in. “When I was first learning, I insisted on riding right-handed just like my brother. I sucked. Bad. Until one day Violet’s dad gave me a left-handed glove and rigging and made me use it. Everything just clicked.”

  Tori contemplated him for a long, thoughtful moment. Then she said, “So we’d have to change over completely.”

  “Change what?”

  “You.” She circled a hand in the air to indicate his entire body. “We’d have to make you left-handed.”

  His stare turned incredulous. “You can’t just decide to change.”

  “No? How do you figure amputees manage after losing their dominant hand?”

  “I…”

  She raised her eyebrows as if to say point made. “Give it a try.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes. Hold on with your right hand and try the same motion we just practiced.”

  He scowled at her, then down at the rigging, then pried his glove out and grabbed the handle with his bare right hand. It was awkward, with the handhold angled for a left-handed grip, but he could hang on well enough for this slow motion crap. He planted his heel in the shoulder, then dragged it up to the rigging. It still didn’t touch.

  “And now…” Tori kept her left hand on his thigh and gripped his right shoulder, tipping him back a few inches. “Again.”

  He tried again. Still not quite there. She leaned in, tipping him back a little more. “Again.”

  This time the heel of his boot tapped the front edge of the rigging. The whole thing felt weird and off balance and maybe—just maybe—possible.

  “Yes!” Tori’s fingers dug in, holding him in that exact position. “This is it.”

  Her eyes shone with triumph as she smiled at him. Then, slowly, the smile faded as she became aware of her position, their bodies all but pressed together, their faces so close he could feel the air move when she sucked in a breath. His gaze settled on her mouth. So, so close…

  “Whatcha doin’, Daddy?”

  Tori flinched, but didn’t jump back. Instead, she straightened, hands still on Delon’s thigh and shoulder. Something flickered behind her eyes, a rapid calculation, before she looked up at Beni and smiled. “We’re working on his new moves.”

  “He’s gonna use his other hand?” Beni asked, peering through the railing at the top of the stairs.

  “If that’s what it takes.” Tori’s gaze met Delon’s in a direct challenge. “Right?”

  Damn her. Her mother wasn’t the only bulldozer in the family. Tori had just shamelessly used his own kid against him. After all those talks about how a winner never quits, he couldn’t look Beni in the eye and say, nope, he wasn’t even gonna try.

  “Right,” he muttered.

  “Can I help?” Beni asked.

  Tori’s smile widened. “Sure. You can be his coach. And if you’re quiet and listen real close during his appointment on Monday, afterward I’ll show you how to get through the Reef of Doom.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Beni frowned, doing some calculations of his own. “You said you were gonna show me tonight.”

  “Actually, I didn’t,” Tori said. “I have to get home and do my chores.”

  “But—”

  “Beni,” Delon warned.

  “But I ate my dinner!”

  “Beni,” Delon said again, sharper. “If I come up there, am I gonna find your broccoli in the couch cushions again?”

  “No!”

  “Or under the bathroom sink?”

  “No.” But Beni’s gaze flicked guiltily toward the apartment door and he sidled that direction. “Fine. I’ll wait until Monday.”

  “What do you say, Beni?” Delon called after him.

  Beni paused to bless Tori with a smile so much like Gil’s it made the hair on the back of Delon’s neck stand up. “Thank you, Miz Tori.”

  “You’re welcome, Beni.”

  As the door thumped shut behind him, Delon swung his leg over the spur board and stood, only inches from Tori. She might have taken round one, but they weren’t done yet. Not even close. He reached up, cupped her face, and planted a long, slow kiss on her mouth, taking the time to trace her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. She didn’t move—not into him, not away—but when he lifted his head, her eyes were the hot, hazy blue of a late summer sky.

  “I thought we agreed to wait a couple of weeks,” she said, her voice breathy.

  Delon cocked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. Do you feel rushed? Like I’m pushing you, and you’re not sure if that’s the direction you want to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then we’re even.” He dropped his hands and stepped back.

  She blinked, then shook her head with a wry laugh. “Monday.”

  “Monday,” he agreed.

  He watched until the door closed behind her. Then he packed away his gear and went upstairs to hunt the elusive
broccoli before it rotted and stunk up the whole apartment.

  Chapter 28

  Tori got the dreaded phone call on Friday evening.

  “I’m at the ranch, darling,” her mother said. “I’d like to see you tomorrow.”

  Tori took a deep, bracing breath as Elizabeth’s script raced through her head. Game on. “Sorry. I’ll be in Lubbock at a team roping.”

  “Victoria. This is important.” Only a touch of her impatience leaked through. “And I have to fly out tomorrow evening. I’m assisting with a trauma case at Cedars Sinai early Sunday morning.”

  Tori grabbed the notes she’d made while talking to Elizabeth and settled onto the couch. “I can talk now.”

  It was easier to defy Claire than she’d expected. Tori’s give-a-shit-meter was bottomed out from ten days of awkward, abrupt silences when she entered rooms and unwelcome sympathy from both coworkers and patients. And worst of all, the pat on the arm and “But you must have been so proud of him.”

  Oh yes. Proud. So proud that Willy had tossed his life away without a second thought. But she just smiled and nodded, dousing the sizzle of anger and ignoring the inevitable trickle of guilt. Of course she didn’t wish the children had been killed instead. And of course Willy hadn’t meant to die. And neither of those things made him any less dead.

  She had placated most of the media hounds by releasing a brief statement regarding the loss of her husband and what a comfort it was to be home in the Panhandle with her family, but she still had her security tail.

  And she still had that kiss from Delon, bumping around inside her head and kicking the dust off of feelings she thought she’d packed away for good.