When Chase finally said, “Okay,” Dusty sat up so quickly his belly slammed into the desk.
“Okay?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. We need to protect our way of life. If it takes thinking outside of the box, let’s do it.”
“Chase, I can’t thank you enough.” Maybe Dusty had inadvertently hit upon the argument that would convince people to participate. He needed to argue that it would help to preserve the Western culture, that big thing that mattered to rodeo riders.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Chase said. “We both know I’ll run into opposition on this.”
“They’ll listen to you. Everyone respects you, being the second-best bull rider on the circuit.”
After a few profanity-laced comments and laughs, Chase hung up.
Dusty studied his list. One rodeo rider down. Only forty or more to go.
He’d hit on a two-pronged approach—everyone’s worry about their shrinking towns and way of life, and every rodeo rider’s biggest weakness, his love of competition and need to win.
For the entire day, Dusty phoned more of his rodeo buddies and acquaintances.
Each conversation seemed to take longer than the last, as he thought up better and better arguments to use.
When only a couple of them agreed to play, and a few more said they might come on down, Dusty grew tired and frustrated.
To the last man who said he might come, Dusty responded, “Courtney, you know that’s not good enough. Might is no way to plan and organize an event. I need a commitment.”
When Courtney balked, Dusty said, “You’re going to hear about this unique event all over the Western states after it’s done, and you’re gonna be sorry you didn’t take advantage of this opportunity to do something different.”
Courtney, a young hothead who Dusty had never really warmed to, told him what he could do with his something different. Dusty hung up and cursed.
The work was taking its toll.
He scrubbed his nape then stretched to arch his back away from the bent-forward position he’d maintained for much of the day.
He stared at the ceiling and heard Josh down the hallway. “Can he, Mom? Can he, huh?”
“I don’t know, Josh. I have to ask him.”
They appeared in the office doorway. Dusty and Max had maintained a wary truce throughout the day, with Max less cool and Dusty more professional and not once saying a cross word about her to his mother when she called today.
“Josh would like you to join us for dinner tonight.”
A chance to eat with company would be nice instead of frozen food alone in Marvin’s house. Sure, he’d been on the phone in discussions all day, but time spent with real people in conversations instead of arguments would be a welcome change.
“We’re having chili,” Josh said. As if to sweeten the pot, he added, “Don’t worry. There’s no beans in it.”
Behind his back, Max smiled.
“Oh, well, then, if there’s no beans I’ll stay for sure.”
He followed them into the kitchen. “Is that garlic bread I smell?”
“Yeah, my favorite,” Josh said. He gestured toward the kitchen chair beside his. “You sit here.”
An informal, hearty dinner followed.
Dusty brought Max up-to-date on everything he’d done that day. He discussed the arguments he’d developed and she approved.
When he mentioned how few men were willing to enter the polo match, only two so far, Marvin and Max exchanged a glance.
“I didn’t think you’d get any,” Marvin said, eyeing Dusty with a puzzled frown, as though to ask, “Whose side are you on?”
On the surface, Max was his employer.
Having been called here on Marvin’s behalf, with the committee’s secret approval, to kibosh this whole business, getting Max back to offering a traditional rodeo should have been his main goal.
A strange thing happened to Dusty, he’d noticed, while making all those calls.
Ever since he’d seen that video of Sam’s, he’d wanted to get up on a polo pony and compete. Aware of the censure pouring from Marvin, he concentrated on his chili, competing loyalties more than he wanted to delve into at the moment.
At heart, a lover, not a fighter, this sneaky role didn’t sit well on his shoulders.
“How many on a team?” Marvin asked.
“Only four per side,” Max answered. “But we need extra men and horses on board in case of injuries. If we get enough people confirmed, it’d be great to have a round of matches.”
Marvin said, “Okay, you’ve made a start.”
Dusty reached for another slice of garlic bread. “I guess I’m used to a more enthusiastic response from these guys than I’ve been getting.”
He did not say a word about the bull-riding event. No sense rubbing in his victory.
Max piped up. “I think two is great. Keep up the phone calls tomorrow and see if you can increase that.”
She tapped her fingers on the table. He’d noticed tapping was part of her arsenal of nervous habits, including biting her nails.
They were ragged, all right.
“We can always fall back on some locals.”
Dusty perked up. “Like who?”
“Michael Moreno. You met him with his children the other day in the diner.”
“He must be forty if he’s a day.”
Marvin stood to clear the table, pressing a hand onto Dusty’s shoulder when he tried to stand to help.
“Don’t underestimate Moreno,” Marvin said. “He’s fit. He’s quiet, but get him going and he can compete against anyone.”
“There’s also Travis Read,” Max said.
“Who’s he?” Dusty accepted the beer Marvin put into his hand. After all of the talking he’d done on the phone all day, it slid down his throat like silk.
“A relative newcomer to town,” Max said. “He came just before Christmas, fell in love with Rachel from our revival committee, married her and stayed.”
“I need to meet the committee.”
“I can arrange it,” Max said, adding, “In February, Travis’s sister, Samantha, came to town and ended up marrying Michael Moreno. She’s our accountant. Anyway, Travis would be willing to help out if need be.”
Dusty nodded. “We could use locals and then seed them with any professional rodeo riders who actually show up. Those two men I mentioned are firm. There are a few maybes. In my opinion, maybes don’t do us much good.”
“I agree.” Max stood, maybe reacting to the unusual phenomenon of harmony between them. “It’s time for bed, Josh.”
The child started to complain, but backed down at his mother’s implacable look. Probably didn’t feel like running away two nights in a row.
Josh hugged Marvin and kissed his cheek, then did the same with Dusty, stunning him, the small lips on his skin moist and tender.
After Max and Josh left the room, Marvin said, “It fairly takes your breath away with the sweetness, doesn’t it?”
Dusty nodded and took a mouthful of beer, swallowing it hard to disguise the depth of emotion the child’s innocent embrace stirred in him.
The second Max’s footsteps sounded upstairs, Marvin all but hissed, “What the hell’s going on? Why aren’t you convincing her to cancel that ridiculous polo match?”
“Y’know, Marvin,” Dusty said thoughtfully, “I’m not sure it’s such a bad idea. Have you seen Sam’s videos of polo matches?”
Marvin shook his head.
“Can you afford an hour to go out to Carson’s house sometime this week to watch one or two films?”
“I could probably squeeze it in,” Marvin admitted, but grudgingly.
“Do that. Tell me what you think.” He stood to leave. “Actually, bring them back here. Ask him for more. I got to study the sport.”
Marvin snorted, but promised to do it.
Dusty headed for his own bed and fell asleep quickly, but the frustration of the many conversations he’d had that day put him into an uneasy slumber.
When thunder struck during the night, he rolled over and covered his head with his pillow.
In the morning, Dusty heard a commotion in the yard. As he was about to turn on the coffeepot, he heard Max’s mellow voice outside turn strident.
“Get her!”
Huh? Get who?
Josh’s high-pitched squeal followed. “I’m trying.”
Drawn by the sound of drama, Dusty stepped out into a wet world. Sometime during the night, the heavens had opened up and deposited a good couple of inches of rain.
In the light of day, a half-hearted drizzle still lingered, the clouds having run out of steam by—Dusty checked his watch—eight twenty in the morning.
Rivulets of water ran over ground hard-packed just yesterday, but mucky this morning.
He stepped through puddles of mud, walking toward where Max and Josh chased a cat who made it clear she didn’t want to be caught.
“Hey!” Dusty called. “What’s going on?”
“Tiger got out of the house this morning,” Max said, clearly unhappy. “I need to get her back inside.”
“Why? What’s the big deal?” He’d never agreed with the concept of indoor cats. Animals were made to live outdoors. Or in barns.
Max stopped running and jammed her hands onto her hips. “She’s just had surgery and needs peace and quiet and to be kept clean. I don’t want her hit with an infection.”
Giving in to the inevitable, because it wasn’t in his nature to come across a person in trouble without offering to help, Dusty joined in the chase.
Funny that the cat hadn’t already darted so far away it could never be caught. Cats were nimble creatures. Maybe the surgery had slowed her down.
The creature darted between Josh’s legs and made a beeline for Dusty.
Dusty caught it. Max lunged at the same time. Her forehead collided with his.
Pain exploded through his head.
His left foot hit a patch of mud and went one way and his right leg the other. The ligaments around his knee stretched past endurance, his knee popped and he went down howling to match the cat’s complaint at getting caught.
Max landed beneath him.
Dusty couldn’t breathe, the entire world boiled down to the horrendous pain blazing in his knee.
Marvin came running out of the house. Mouth grim, he grabbed the cat from Dusty’s arms and carried her inside.
Somehow, Dusty had held on to the creature despite the pain.
He hoped like hell they locked her up for the rest of her natural life.
Dusty rested his aching head on Max’s shoulder. Drizzle seeped through the back of his denim shirt.
The backs of his legs were wet.
His knee, white-hot with pain, rested in a puddle.
“Dusty.” Max’s voice wheezed out of her. “You’re heavy.”
“Give me a minute.” His thigh muscles hurt like a son of a bitch. Unless he missed his guess, he’d not only put his knee out. He’d also pulled a hamstring, a hell of a pair of injuries to have before a rodeo.
Lifting himself onto hands that sank into a mud puddle, he met eyes as riddled with as many colors as he’d ever seen in one person’s gaze.
Gold mingled with brown and green and...
Her glare turned to sympathy the second she spotted the pain on his face. Hers reflected pain of her own.
Too bad he couldn’t rustle an ounce worth of sympathy for her. Anger blazed through him.
He didn’t need this. He did not need anything that even vaguely resembled an injury at the moment.
He rolled onto his side and breathed heavily, holding in every rank curse and swear word begging to burst out of him in an endless, frustration-riddled howl.
Young Josh watched from a safe distance.
It wouldn’t do to educate the boy too early in swearing.
Of all the times to get an injury, just when the knee had healed and he was that close to earning another purse in bull riding.
Oh, wait. It wouldn’t be only bull riding. There would be polo, and he was supposed to compete in all of the other Western events, too.
Now this.
Beside him, Max stirred.
This was all her fault.
He’d come here with the best of intentions, to help these people organize a kick-ass rodeo. Max had hit him with the ridiculous notion of a polo match.
Now she’d hit him with her head, literally, and her stupid cat had gotten out and caused him injury.
He cursed her from here to kingdom come, all with his tongue held firmly behind clenched teeth.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“No,” he ground out.
“What did you hurt?” she asked, rubbing the lump forming on her forehead. “Besides your head.”
“Knee,” he said. “Hamstring.”
Struggling, he managed to stand, but his pants hung like a soggy brown diaper. Max looked as bad as he felt. Mud covered her jeans. Sitting up, she swiped it from her hands and forearms.
Marvin returned and lifted her to her feet.
She stood like a bowlegged cowboy who’d spent a lifetime in the saddle and not much time out of it.
Glancing between them, Marvin asked, “We got any injuries?”
Max touched her head. “I’m going to have a headache later. Dusty, too, no doubt. He pulled a hamstring and did something to his knee.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he said, voice thin with agony. “You let your stupid cat out.”
“I didn’t let it out. She slipped out when Josh opened the door to go to the stable this morning. She’s crafty and sly.”
Josh, looking worried, tugged on his pant leg. “Are you mad at me, Dusty?”
Chock-full of blazing outrage, Dusty couldn’t take it out on the kid.
He shook his head and centered all of his anger on Max.
He took one step. His leg crumpled and he groaned. Pain as sharp as a branding iron shot through his knee. Marvin reached to steady him. The man might be getting on, but his muscles were ropy and he was strong.
Dusty tried to take a step to head to his house, but couldn’t do it.
“Here, I’ll help.” Marvin offered him a shoulder to lean on, taking Dusty’s arm without a by-your-leave and wrapping it across his shoulder. “That’s going to hurt like a b—”
Marvin cut himself off when he realized Josh still stood nearby. “Little pitchers,” he mumbled.
The kid’s tender sentiments didn’t worry Dusty at the moment. His damned leg did. Hamstrings took a while to heal. The real problem was his knee. He’d been trying to avoid turning it into a permanent injury.
He’d wanted to avoid surgery.
Who knew what kind of damage had just been done to it?
With Marvin’s help, he hopped to his small house.
“You’re getting mud on your clothes,” Dusty said.
“Won’t be the first time. There’s been worse on ’em.”
Marvin started to deposit him on the sofa, but Dusty balked. “I need to get out of these pants. The shirt, too.”
“You aren’t too steady on that leg. You’ll need help.”
“Help me over to the fireplace.”
Marvin left Dusty to lean against the mantel.
“In the dresser in the back room, third drawer down, there’s a pair of sweatpants.”
“Got it.” Marvin left the room.
“Bring me a clean T-shirt, too,” Dusty called.
He returned with both.
“Let’s get those jeans off you.”
Dusty steadied himself o
n the mantel while Marvin hauled down his jeans. His injuries were bad enough that he couldn’t even undress himself. Worse and worse.
“Cripes, I feel like a baby with you undressing me.”
“Bet you wished right now I was a woman.” Marvin grinned.
“Yeah. Wouldn’t mind.” Dusty tested the seat of his underwear and found them dry enough. “I can leave these on.”
Stripping down out of those would have been too humiliating with everything hanging out while Marvin helped him into his sweatpants.
The man squatted to do just that.
When he’d tied them at the waist, Dusty said, “I can do the shirt myself if you can get me to the sofa.”
He sat on the edge, unbuttoned his denim shirt and tossed it on top of his soiled jeans.
Marvin picked them up. “I’ll put these to soak in the laundry tub.”
“I appreciate it.”
After he left, Dusty pulled the clean T-shirt over his head. His leg throbbed. He needed to get ice on the hamstring and his knee as quickly as possible.
Marvin returned and pulled over a small wooden stool. “You think you can put your foot up? Might be best to elevate it.”
Dusty tried. “It hurts like hell.”
“Hamstrings do, yeah. Knees can be a problem, too. I’ll call the doc and get him out here. He’ll know what to do.”
“So do I. RICE.”
“What’s that?”
“Rest, ice, compression and elevation.”
“We do all of that. We just don’t call it that.”
“What do you call it?”
“Putting your leg on ice. We got all kinds of stuff here. Max keeps a good first-aid kit.”
“It’s going to need a lot more than first aid.”
“Don’t you worry, we’ll take care of you.”
“How?” Max stood in his living room doorway with a frown worrying her brow. She’d changed to a clean outfit that looked exactly like the last one. She must buy her shirts and pants in multiples.
She bit the nail on one forefinger. “We’re busy enough as it is without having to nurse an invalid.”
Could the woman be any less gracious?
“This wasn’t my fault. I’m an invalid because of your damn cat.”
“No one asked you for help.”
Home on the Ranch: Montana Rodeo Star Page 9
