Not enough.
The words ground like broken glass in his spleen. Never enough. He should be used to it by now. Delon Sanchez—perennial runner-up and nice guy, favorite of fans, sponsors, and fellow cowboys. He’d had everyone fooled. Except Gil. And Tori.
They saw straight through him in a way that was both unnerving and an incredible relief. They didn’t hide their warts or scars, so he didn’t have to either. His hands clenched around the phone. God, he wanted to talk to her. Soak up some of that unsinkable will. Let her convince him he could be what she was determined to see in him. Plus, this was the biggest competition of her life. If she expected too much from him, she demanded ten times as much from herself. He wanted to reassure her, encourage her, wish her luck.
The phone buzzed in his hands as if he’d willed it to happen. His heart lurched, then sank. It was from Gil.
A friend from Wyoming sent me this song, said it sounded like you. I agree.
Wyoming? Delon’s heart lurched again. Had to be a coincidence. Gil knew people all over the country. Besides, Gil and Tori might’ve been united in their determination to push him beyond all limits, but Delon still wouldn’t call them friends. He clicked on the attached file and saw the title of the song. “Ninety or Nothin’,” by a singer named Jared Rogerson.
He gave a disgruntled sigh and texted back: Is that all you’ve got, Coach?
It’s all you need, if you decide to be this guy.
Delon’s lungs seized up. Decide. Coincidence? Or an indirect message from Tori? He hit play, and the opening chords strummed his hypersensitive nerves, sure as his brother’s fingers on the guitar strings. The words felt as if they were plucked straight from his soul. He listened all the way through. Then he grabbed his earbuds, plugged them in, and settled back on the bed to listen again.
* * *
Tori slung her rope bag over the saddle horn, untied Fudge from the horse trailer, then pulled out her phone. She’d check one last time to see if Delon had—
“Uh-uh.” Shawnee snatched the phone from her hand and shoved it into a pocket on the side of her rope bag. Tori made a grab for it, but Shawnee blocked her with a forearm to the chest. “Don’t think I won’t knock you on your ass. We have a deal. You can’t check your texts, your email, your voice mail, or the rodeo results from Austin until we’re done roping.”
Tori stopped, drew a deep breath, and stepped back. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Want me to slap you around a little, or are you good?”
“I’m good.”
And she meant it. She flipped the reins over Fudge’s head and swung aboard, her pulse revving up to competition speed. She’d done what little she could to help Delon. For the next few hours, the only thing she could control was what happened inside her own arena. Austin was up to him.
Chapter 43
Delon ran a gauntlet of backslaps, handshakes, and good-to-see-yous as he made his way behind the chutes to dump his gear bag. It was marquee night in the bareback riding. He couldn’t turn around without tripping over a world champion—Kaycee Feild, Bobby Mote, Will Lowe, Steven Peebles.
Not ready. Not ready. He angrily squashed the little worm of doubt that kept slithering into his subconscious. He’d done the work. His knee felt fine. It was his head that’d tripped him up at Nacogdoches. If he could get his mind right…
His phone buzzed. Gil again.
Quit fighting your head and let your wild hair loose.
Delon shook his head and typed, What wild hair?
It’s there. But until you find it, borrow mine. Don’t have much use for it tonight.
The familiar pain tugged in Delon’s chest. Gil should be standing beside him. He’d be one of those gold buckle boys by now if only…
I’m watching live online, so ride like you give a fuck.
Yes, boss.
Delon tucked the phone away with a little itch between his shoulder blades as if he could feel Gil’s gaze. Pressure built inside him, a swelling, whirling supercell of energy and emotion. He tried to push it aside, breathe through to his usual calm, but voices and phrases and memories rumbled through his mind like thunder.
Gil, eyes dark and intense. Rodeo is a jealous bitch. You gotta give her your whole heart. Tori’s hand on his thigh, pushing him past his comfort zone. Tori’s body, long and lean and naked, moving under him. The way she’d looked at him as he leaned against Gil’s car and said, “It suits you…strong and fast…”
He wasn’t Gil, or the guy in that song, laying it all on the line for one big score. Ninety or nothing. But…his pulse kicked into a new, unfamiliar gear. He had the horse to do it. The first few jumps were doozies, but if he set his feet and picked her up she’d go straight into the air, kicking over her head and giving him a chance to show off—assuming she didn’t blow him out the back end before they got that far.
You could stick your heels in her shoulders and hold ’em through the tough part, the devil whispered in his ear. Be safe and get into the short round.
And give away at least five points. He shook off the buzzing thoughts and started warming up to his usual playlist, but the harsh guitar riffs grated on his nerves. Halfway through, he switched to the new song and put it on repeat. His heart thumped along with the heavy beat. He pulls into the bright lights, time to lay it on line…
Boots, chaps, vest, spurs…he donned his gear piece by piece, his elbow already taped by the sports medicine crew. He bent to wrap and tie the long leather straps around the tops of his boots, the energy level around him rising as contractors and crew yelled orders.
The chute boss strode past and called down, “You’re in number three, Delon.”
Outside the main gate, the flag bearers’ horses shuffled impatiently, waiting to burst into the arena for the grand entry. The broncs banged and snorted up the alley and into the chutes, gates ramming shut behind each in turn. Delon’s horse tossed her head and blew out a loud, challenging huff. He braced a foot on either side of the chute to straddle the piebald mare. As he settled the rigging into place, the song continued to echo in his head. Feels the leather, hears the rosin burnin’…
The lights of the coliseum dimmed and everything paused at the opening strains of the national anthem. Delon straightened and took off his hat, but instead of bowing his head he let his gaze run across the packed house. His already overstimulated senses opened up, drinking in every sight and smell, all the faces, the buzz of expectation. He took a deep breath and sucked their energy into his lungs, felt it burn through his veins like a shot of whiskey. Rising adrenaline puts his heart in perfect time…
The grand entry thundered out and the announcer’s voice crackled with excitement. “Coming out of chute number one…”
The mare shifted restlessly beneath him as a chute gate banged open and the crowd roared its approval of the first ride. The buzzer sounded and the pickup men closed in, setting the cowboy safely on the ground. Overhead, the big screen replayed the ride and Delon dimly registered a score in the high seventies. Good. Not great. As the gate man moved to the next horse out, the chute boss yelled, “On deck, Delon!”
He drew another long, deep breath, fighting for his usual control, but it was nowhere to be found. The thunderheads inside him roiled and crackled, lighting up every neuron, flooding every muscle fiber with adrenaline. Branded brave or just insane, to him it’s really all the same…
Why not be that guy? He had nothing left to lose. Steady, reliable Delon Sanchez had been stomped into the mud—stripped down to nothing and reassembled from the scraps by a woman who attacked every setback like a personal insult, a brother who roared through life with the accelerator jammed to the floorboard, and a son who would idolize him no matter what happened in the next eight seconds. All they asked of him was one thing.
Ninety or nothin’.
He glanced down the back of the chutes and saw Kayce
e Feild standing, feet braced, arms crossed, eyes fierce as he waited his turn. Not a hint of uncertainty there. He was human, just like Delon. Not any stronger. Not any faster. If Delon’s body was up to the challenge, what was to stop him from rocking this arena?
Nothing but himself.
“You’re next, Delon!”
Settling onto the mare’s back, he felt the twitch of her muscles, winding up to explode. He ran his hand in deep and worked it back and forth until the bind felt just right, then pounded his fingers tight around the grip with his other fist. As he waited for the arena to clear from the previous ride, Delon bowed his head over his rigging and stared at the initials burned into the leather. G.A.S. He slid his hips up snug against the rigging and, without thinking, pressed two fingers to the initials, then to his heart. Screw careful. He cocked his free arm back, nodded for the gate, and let the storm break.
He held his body tight through that first powerful lunge, chin tucked, heels planted in her shoulders. The instant he felt the jolt of the mare’s front hooves hitting the ground, he fell back and let loose, as if his brother truly had taken possession of his body. His spurs sang, then snapped back to her neck with Delon’s speed and precision, a beat ahead of the slam of her hooves into the dirt. Each successive jump was higher, the hang time longer, until it felt as if they would take flight, the flapping of his chaps like beating wings. His heart soared, the blood pounding so loud in his ears he barely heard the eight second whistle.
The crowd had gone insane, the screams deafening. Delon pried his hand free and latched an arm around the pickup man to let himself be dragged off the horse and dropped on his feet in the middle of the arena. His boots barely hit the ground before he bounded straight in the air, punching a fist over his head, then spun around and did it again for good measure. The hell with humble. He’d just made the ride of the night—the ride of his life—and every person in the arena knew it.
But not Tori, who deserved to be in this moment more than all of the thousands of spectators combined. And that’s when it finally hit him. This. Complete surrender to the moment. To her. That’s all she was asking.
What do you want from me?
Everything.
He could do that—if she’d still let him. As he strode back to the chutes, applause raining down on him, he was already trying to figure out how to persuade her to give him another chance.
* * *
Dust haloed the arena lights above the Abilene arena and the night had turned chilly by the time Tori tracked their second steer to the stripping chute to retrieve her rope.
“Well, it could’ve been worse,” Shawnee said as they rode out of the arena. “With any luck, we’ve drawn our quota of shitty steers for the weekend.”
Tori grunted in agreement as she stepped off Fudge and loosened the cinches, her whole body limp with exhaustion and relief. So far, this roping felt like a western version of Survivor. Their first steer had run like a striped-ass ape and been even wilder on the end of the rope when Tori turned him. It was a miracle Shawnee had managed to snag two feet. The second steer had ducked left under Fudge’s neck, tripping the horse up so he’d almost gone to his knees. They’d gotten the steer roped, but it hadn’t been pretty. Or fast.
“We’re clean on two and we get to come back tomorrow,” Shawnee said. “That’s better than three-fourths of the teams.”
True. Everybody got to run their first two steers, but only the top forty in the aggregate progressed to the second day, like making the cut at a golf tournament. Tori was happy they were still in the hunt, but she’d prefer to be in the top half of the qualifiers instead of the bottom.
Shawnee dismounted and gave Roy an atta boy rub between the ears. “You did a hell of a job staying cool, especially when Fudge was skidding along on his nose.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Shawnee shrugged like that was only to be expected and fished Tori’s cell phone out of her rope bag. “It’s after ten o’clock. You can check the results from Austin now.”
Tori stared at the phone without reaching for it, a churning wave of hope and dread rolling through her. If Delon had wasted another good horse in Austin, he’d be so disappointed in himself. And in her. She’d sworn she could make him good as new. One more broken promise, to a man who’d been dealt a lifetime of them.
Tori spun around and crouched to pull off Fudge’s front splint boots. “You look.”
Shawnee made a disgusted noise, but tapped the screen. Tori moved to Fudge’s other leg, sneaking peeks at Shawnee under his belly. Her face remained impassive as she stared at the phone. Then she tapped the screen and stared some more. Tori’s stomach sank farther with every passing second. Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Was it terrible?”
“Depends on how you look at it.” Shawnee turned the phone around and stuck it under Tori’s nose. “Sure sucked for everybody else, as bad as he kicked their asses.”
Tori snatched the phone, her heart hammering. Sanchez Lights Up Austin the headline shouted. She clicked to play the video and her body twitched with every jump as if she was riding right with him.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, light-headed from forgetting to inhale while she watched. “He did it.”
She was dialing his number before she consciously made the decision to call. It went straight to his mailbox. The instant she heard his voice telling her to leave a message, she panicked and hung up. What had she planned to say? Congratulations, here’s a gold star for my prize patient! Oh yeah, and sorry I was such a bitch.
Or I love you, and I am so damn proud.
And she would be just one more of the horde jumping on the Welcome Back, Delon bandwagon. She had a flash of how many of that crowd would be single, female, and more than willing to help him celebrate, and her stomach twisted. She tucked the phone into her pocket. Better to stick to the plan. After they got the horses put up, she’d send him the text messages she’d so carefully composed, along with the photos she’d taken back home. He’d have until nine o’clock tomorrow morning to answer before Shawnee confiscated her phone again. If he didn’t delete them on sight.
But still, it was all she could do not to break out into an impromptu victory dance. They’d done it. Delon was back.
Chapter 44
Delon staggered into the hotel coffee shop at a little after ten on Saturday morning. So many people had pounded his back, punched his arm, and slapped his hand in congratulations he felt as if he’d been beaten with broomsticks. Dozens more had offered him a beer, a shot, and in one particularly persistent case, the key card to her hotel room. His phone had been flooded with calls and texts—Gil practically yelling, he was so pumped, Violet and Beni both jabbering with excitement, even his dad, sounding downright giddy.
Plus every other person who knew his number, until the battery died before the rodeo performance was halfway through. Over and over again, he was peppered with the same question. “Where did that come from?”
He had only one answer: Tori. Sure, Gil had inspired him. But Tori—day after day, with every challenge she accepted, had shown him how to not only survive, but thrive. She refused to let anyone or anything define or diminish her. She amazed him. Humbled him. Owned him, body and soul.
As corny as it sounded, in all his life, only Tori had possessed the magic key that could set him truly free. Which was why he needed to get his damn phone charged. Last night he’d stuffed it in his gear bag and let himself be swept away on a celebratory wave, to the beer stand first, then on to the hotel bar, not stumbling up to his room until closing time—alone, despite all efforts to the contrary—and falling face first into exhausted sleep.
This morning, though, as soon as his brain cells and his phone had returned to the land of the living, he would call her. Explain that standing out there in the middle of that arena, he’d finally grasped the difference between just showing
up and really living—and loving. He’d only felt that unbridled euphoria, the sense of endless possibilities, once before. He would not fail her again. He would go after her this time, and would keep going after her until she realized she didn’t have to leave. She was already right where she belonged.
But first, coffee. Triumph still pulsed in tiny bursts under his skin, but it was no match for his adrenaline hangover. The aftermath of his visit to the Lone Steer had been fresh enough in his mind to keep him sipping his drinks instead of gulping, but dear God, if he didn’t get caffeine soon…
“Table for one and I’ll double your tip if you grab the coffeepot on the way,” he told the hostess. He held up his phone and the charger. “Got an outlet?”
“Just that one.” She pointed at a booth a few feet away, already occupied. “If y’all don’t mind sharing.”
No damn way. But before Delon could say so, Wyatt Darrington vaporized the hostess’s brain with a lazy smile and drawled, “Who doesn’t want to hang out with the champ?”
Delon hesitated long enough to reel off a string of silent curses, then stepped around the puddle of dumbstruck females and slid into the booth to see what game Wyatt was playing today. But first he plugged in the phone, then added enough cream and sugar to his coffee to make it cool enough to guzzle. Ah. Yeah. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back against the padded seat and waited for the magic beans to work their voodoo.
“If you’re looking for the results from the roping in Abilene, they’re not posted online,” Wyatt said.
Damn. He didn’t bother to ask how Wyatt knew he hadn’t been talking to Tori. Violet to Joe to Wyatt, with Shawnee mixed in. Easy trail to follow.
“Tori and Shawnee made the cut,” Wyatt said. “They were in thirty-second place after last night. They roped their first steer of the semifinals this morning in eight point six seconds, which moved them to nineteenth, with all the other teams that tripped up. They should be roping their second one any time now.”
Tangled in Texas Page 31
