Tangled in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  * * *

  Tori pushed the door shut behind Shawnee and sagged against it. “Dear mother of God. That woman is barely housebroke.” She shoved away from the door and strode to the refrigerator. “Do you want a beer? Because I’m having another. Maybe two. Hell, I might just clean up the six pack.”

  If Delon hadn’t been driving, he would have helped her. He slumped deep into the couch, closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing. Slow. Steady. He should know how to keep his shit together, even when his heart was racing, his muscles quivering as if he stood on the back of chutes, feeling like his whole body would be blown apart by adrenaline. Control was always the key.

  Tori set a chilled bottle in his hand. “If I’d had any idea what she had in mind, I would’ve screamed at you to run like the wind.”

  The couch jolted when she plunked down on her end. Delon stuck the beer bottle between his knees and laced his fingers behind his head so that on the off chance his skull actually did explode, his brains wouldn’t splatter on the walls—although it might be an improvement. To the walls, not his brain. He opened his eyes. It looked like someone’d painted the place with a broom and a vat of mustard, then slapped down a dingy gray industrial carpet remnant. But the coffee table was cool, made of an old iron wagon wheel with legs welded on and a glass top. In the pie-shaped, felt-lined slots between the spokes, trophy buckles gleamed in the feeble glow of the dusty overhead light. The pair closest to Delon were both from a roping in Sheridan, Wyoming: one for champion header, the other champion heeler. Tori and Willy, roping together.

  Delon dodged that thought, letting his gaze wander the rest of the room. Other than a miniature grandfather clock, the shelves of the entertainment center held a stack of DVDs, a couple of pictures, and a few books propped up at one end by one of those fancy glass candy dishes people give for wedding presents—probably priceless crystal, if it came from her side of the family. It doubled as a depository for spare keys and crumpled receipts. The bowl on the other end was made from an old rodeo rope coiled around and around.

  The only other decor was a ridiculous metal armadillo dressed up as a cowboy, with a Shiner Bock bottle cradled in his horseshoe arms. What the hell…?

  Delon shook his head, but couldn’t help a grin, which faded as he continued to take in the lack of much of anything that would make the place feel like a home. Just the big leather couch, the recliner, the coffee table, and those few random objects on the shelves, as if she’d opened one box, unpacked the contents, then lost interest. Or figured what was the point, when she was just gonna pack it all up again sooner or later?

  Tori rolled her head to look at him, the movement weary and boneless, and he was struck by a fervent wish that the couch wasn’t quite so big. She was too far away to loop an arm around her shoulders and pull her up snug against him. Just to talk. Share body heat. Maybe one kiss. Or two…

  She tipped her face away, breaking eye contact. “That is one ugly box of candy.”

  “Beni picked it out. He always goes for the biggest and brightest.”

  Tori shot him a startled look. “Beni picked out my valentine?”

  “Uh, sort of. He had to get one for Violet, so I figured as long as we were at it…”

  “Wow. A secondhand valentine. You are a true romantic.” Her voice was dry enough to dehydrate prunes.

  “I thought it would make you laugh.” But like everything else about this evening, he’d misjudged it. Badly.

  “Sorry. I was too busy making a point to get the joke.” She set her beer aside, hoisted one hip to pull out a pocketknife—yeah, this Tori packed a knife, and why was that so sexy?—and sliced open the cellophane. “So. Joe proposed.”

  “Apparently.” But he preferred to shove that in a very tiny box in the darkest corner of his head, so it didn’t ruin whatever chance he had to salvage this night.

  Tori lifted the top off the box and took her time picking out a chocolate. He braced himself for How do you feel about that, Delon? Then he would either have no answer or say something totally wrong, and either option would put Violet as squarely between them as if she’d plopped down on the couch.

  Tori finally chose a chocolate, settled back, and bless her heart, left it alone. “Beni was pretty pumped about golfing with the Sanchez men. First time?”

  “Yeah. We’ve never…” He fumbled for a good reason, and shrugged. “We’ve just been too busy, I guess.”

  “Easy to let that stuff slide.” She held up the chocolate between two fingers, examining it as if trying to determine the filling before biting in. “My sister and I have talked more since the divorce went public than in the last ten years. I like her. I want to know her better. We’ve missed a lot, but I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Ah. Not a change of subject after all. “And you think I should do likewise?”

  She nibbled a corner of the chocolate, taking time to choose her words. “I think you and I have underestimated our families, and it’s not all bad that circumstances have forced us to take a closer look.”

  He couldn’t argue. It felt good to say “the Sanchez men” and know it meant more than an accidental collection of humans who shared the same genetics. He and Gil might never get back to what they had once been, but that might not be all bad, either. They were men now, eye to eye and working side by side, rather than Delon forever being the little brother, looking up.

  “I read your mother’s press release,” he said.

  She lifted her beer in a mocking toast. “An exquisite blend of sorrow, self-reproach, and a sprinkling of martyrdom, without a single passive-aggressive cheap shot. Bravo, Claire. And pray to God it gets the media off our backs.”

  Delon wasn’t optimistic. Texans had latched on to Tori with an obsession that would turn any Hollywood publicity whore green with envy. She was the mystery girl, the prodigal daughter, the tragic widow, and people couldn’t get enough of speculating. Spying. And flat out making shit up. In the past week, the Keeping Up with the Pattersons page had linked Tori with the governor’s son, a country music star, and a married surgeon at Panhandle Medical Center. A clairvoyant had claimed to act as intermediary for her conversations with her deceased husband.

  “This isn’t a trick…your mother is really throwing in the towel?” he asked.

  “The lawyers are divvying up their personal possessions as we speak. Shouldn’t take long, since she’s not contesting the prenup.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  She nibbled another corner off the chocolate. “We had a nice mommy-daughter chat over the weekend. I was cautiously optimistic that she recognized her options were limited. Plus that ever so gracious statement left the door wide open for a reconciliation.”

  Reconcil… “Is she delusional?”

  “Claire is the most lucid human being you’ll ever meet. It’s the worst thing about her.” Tori took a sip of her beer, made a face, and set down the chocolate. Her priorities were clear. “She sat down and calculated the odds of a man of his age, social, and financial status finding his soul mate while fighting off swarms of gold diggers, and decided they were in her favor. She practically said so.” Tori’s voice went silky smooth. “It will be so difficult to move on alone after all these years. I only wish we could turn back the clock. And my favorite part—Richard and I are the best of friends. He knows I’ll always be here for him.”

  Dear Lord. She was right. “Do you think he’d go back?”

  “Depends on how many times he gets kicked in the nuts when he gets out there.” She circled a hand in the air to indicate the world in general. “Hopefully freedom turns out to be everything he dreamed of. Dating is hard enough for normal people.”

  Dating. Right. Delon had started this evening with a purpose, which had been derailed the moment he knocked on Tori’s door. “Do you still like barbecue?”

  “Was I born
in Texas?” she asked dryly, then gave him a speculative look. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Someplace quiet. You don’t even have to change clothes.”

  Their eyes met, got tangled up for a few breathless heartbeats, and then she smiled. “Give me a minute to knock the worst of the dirt off.”

  She disappeared down the hall. Delon sank back into the couch, dragging in what felt like his first real breath in hours. Okay. Not quite how he’d planned it, but phase one, complete. Now if he could just pull off the rest.

  Chapter 32

  Tori tossed her dusty sweatshirt on the laundry pile in the corner of the bedroom and pulled on a clean one, simultaneously exhausted and wired. For two weeks, her dreams had been a jumble of Willy and Delon, their faces fading in and out, their bodies morphing, one into the other, as her hands moved over them. She woke every morning with guilt curdling in her gut, aching, body and soul. It had to end. She had to move forward. Beginning tonight.

  She splashed water on her face, ran a comb through her hair, then pulled open the vanity drawer and considered the unopened box of condoms inside. She’d bought them the day after he’d kissed her, before the press frenzy got so bad she couldn’t set foot in a drugstore without someone taking a photo and plastering it all over the Internet. Even then, she’d known it was inevitable. The delay she’d insisted on was only so her mind could catch up with her body. Adjust to the idea of being with a man who wasn’t Willy. She wasn’t sure if she was there yet, but why take chances? She tore open the box and stuffed a condom in the pocket of her jeans. Then a second, because yeah, she did remember, and one might not cut it.

  When she walked into the living room, Delon sidled away from the entertainment center, pretending he hadn’t been checking out the pictures of her with Willy. Delon looked out of place in her faded living room, buffed and glossy as a life-sized cutout of one of his sponsor ads. When she breathed deep, she could smell whatever spicy stuff he’d slapped on after his shower. She wanted to wrap herself around him. Bury her face in the curve of his neck and sink her teeth in.

  He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, pulling black leather snug across shoulders that were broader now, the strength more than muscle. Those shoulders carried the weight of maturity. Of fatherhood. Her fingers itched to peel away the layers, get down to that warm, dark skin. Find out if it still tasted sweet and salty and gave her system the same kick as a triple-shot latte.

  Something of what she was thinking must have shown in her face because his gaze shifted to the couch, clung there for a moment, then slid slowly back to her. “Ready to go?”

  She considered the many interpretations of that question. Was she ready to cross this line? Presentable enough for whatever he had in mind? Did she want to leave the house? Or just say damn the consequences and throw him down on the couch?

  Her common sense gave her hormones a slap upside the head. She only wished it was that simple. This final step away from Willy was like teetering on the edge of the dock while everybody tried to tell you the water was fine, but you were pretty sure they were full of shit, and finally you just had to jump in and hold your breath through those first shocking moments. Except if Delon made her shiver, it wouldn’t be from cold.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said, and broke for the door before she decided to close her eyes and yell Banzai! instead.

  * * *

  A cowbell jangled as Delon pushed the door of The Smoke Shack open, then held it for her to go in ahead of him. A pair of boys in their late teens slouched at one of the dinky tables along the wall, dressed in the standard uniform of Carhartt coats, boots, and ball caps. A mountain of stained, crumpled napkins filled the tray between them. Their gazes skimmed past her without much interest until they spotted Delon. Then they bounced back to her, baffled, as if they’d never seen Delon with a girl before. At least, not a girl who wasn’t Violet.

  The leaner, darker of the two eyed her with open, avid curiosity. “Hey, Delon.”

  A pained expression flickered across Delon’s face. “Hank. Thought you were in San Antonio.”

  “Dad said if I wasn’t getting paid to fight bulls, I could just as soon stay home and make myself useful.” Hank made a disgusted noise, then grinned. “I’m flyin’ back with Joe and Wyatt to work the Extreme Bulls event this weekend, assumin’ we can get Joe on the plane, since he—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Delon cut in, before Hank could pry open the lid of that little box of TNT.

  Hank scowled, clearly annoyed that he hadn’t been the one to break the news. Then he gave Delon a sly smile, his gaze slithering to Tori. “Guess you’ve been busy, too.”

  “Don’t be a dipshit,” Delon said, and turned his back to look at the menu.

  Another teenager waited behind the counter, eyes bright as a sparrow. “What y’all want, Delon? Ma’s got a Valentine’s special, the works for two. Like anybody’s gonna bring a date here.” He wrinkled his nose, then registered the significance of Tori’s presence with a visible double take and stammered, “I mean, this ain’t so bad, but most people are into all the romantic shit, so they go, you know, other places—”

  “We’ll take the special,” Delon interrupted. “With sweet tea for me.”

  “Same here,” Tori said.

  “Stayin’ or goin’?”

  “Going,” Delon said.

  “It’ll be up in a couple of minutes,” the kid said, passing over their drinks.

  “Thanks, Korby.” Delon took one, passed the other to Tori, and they stood awkwardly, not sure where to put themselves to wait. Another of those little rhythms they’d never established. “Sit?”

  “Sure.”

  They settled in at the only other table. Tori glanced over and caught Hank checking her out, a glimmer of almost-recognition in his eyes. She gathered up every crystal of ice in her soul and put it in her eyes, then flicked it at him like a dagger, tossing in a contemptuous lift of her eyebrows for good measure. A real Claire number. Who the hell are you to stare at me? Hank blinked, then his face reddened and he dropped his chin, suddenly fascinated by the screen of his smartphone.

  Tori let the ice melt away as her gaze drifted over the faded walls, the worn linoleum floor, and the hand-written menu on the chalkboard over the counter. “Places like this are always the best.”

  Delon missed a beat, staring at her with a wary expression. “The food is pretty decent.”

  “Smells amazing.” She inhaled, drawing the aroma of smoke and spices and meat clear down into her pores. “I’m starving.”

  “Me, too.”

  Well. That exhausted her supply of small talk. The boys were sucking up every word, so no discussing the state of Delon’s knee. Anything concerning the senator was off limits. The weather hadn’t even been worth bitching about—a stretch of bland, fifty-degree days with no change in sight. The boys hunched over their phones, risking occasional furtive glances across the room while Tori and Delon pretended fascination with the ice cubes in their tea. Finally, Korby plunked a brown bag onto the counter. Tori and Delon bolted from their chairs. While Delon paid the tab, Tori snatched the bag and her drink. Excited voices broke out before the door slapped shut behind them.

  Delon slammed his car door and hissed out a curse. “Sorry. Should’ve done the drive-through.”

  “No big deal.” If the aromas wafting from the warm bag in her lap were any indication, it was worth it.

  He drove a sturdy, economical four-door much like hers, except his had multicolored crumbs in the creases of the seats, unidentified sludge hardened in the cup holders, and a scatter of chocolate bar wrappers on the floor. Delon turned on the stereo, his usual hard rock drowning out the hum of nerves that filled the car. Tori crimped and uncrimped the edge of the takeout bag as he headed in a familiar direction.

  “We’re going to your place?” she asked.

  “Only f
or a minute. I need to pick something up.”

  She didn’t ask for details because what if he’d decided he’d better grab some condoms, too? Awkward.

  He parked in his usual spot and got out, then totally baffled Tori by walking around to her side and opening the door. “Bring the food.”

  “I thought you were just…”

  Her voice trailed off as he pulled a second set of keys out of his pocket and jingled the Freightliner key fob in front of her like a carrot. “Wanna go for a drive?”

  She gazed at the sleek black truck, whispering its siren call into the still night air, and laughed in surprise and delight. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  * * *

  Tori ran her hands up and down the armrests, practically bouncing. “These seats are awesome. But it’s so quiet. I expected it to sound…tougher.”

  Delon grinned at her unapologetic giddiness. “It’s a truck, not a Harley. Quiet is good when you’re living in your truck.”

  “I suppose so.” She twisted around to examine the sleeper. “You can walk around in here like a motor home.”

  “They’re not all this fancy. This is the first brand-new, top of the line truck we’ve ever bought.”

  She arched her brows. “Business is good, then?”

  He hesitated a fraction too long. “Getting better all the time.”

  “And that’s a problem because…”

  “Not a problem. Just…” He shrugged, then ran a hand across the top of the steering wheel. “I haven’t been around enough the last few years to take any credit.”

  “Ah. That does take some of the fun out of it.”

  Damn her, seeing straight through him. Again. “Here, I’ll show you how the onboard navigation system works.”

  She let him change the subject, content to fiddle with the touch screen, testing the maps, driving directions, and the forward camera system. Yes, he was showing off, but it was worth it to see her awed reaction. And wasn’t that just a kick in the ass. All the times he’d told himself a Patterson couldn’t possibly be interested in a glorified truck driver and here she was, happy as a kid at a carnival.