Reckless in Texas (8 page)

Monday evening, long after dinner, Joe sat on the wicker love seat on Violet's tiny front deck, glad for the dense shadows. A porch light would invite the damn moths to fling themselves at his head, along with the occasional mutant beetle the size of his thumb. Cole called them June bugs. Apparently they couldn't read a calendar for shit.

Joe also preferred the lights out so his presence went undetected, especially by Violet's parents, but he hadn't figured on waiting this long. He checked the time on his phone. Almost nine. What was she up to in the office? Not that he had anything better to do. It was only Monday and already he was stir-crazy. He wasn't used to killing time. His rodeo days were usually a whirl of activity: looking after Dick's livestock, autograph sessions, a performance, and more chores, even on the days between rodeos.

Here, there were more days off than on, and fewer bull riders in each performance—eight or ten instead of twelve or fifteen. He felt like he barely got warmed up before it was over. The bulls were easier, too. Less athletic. Like dropping down from the majors to double A in baseball, everything moved slower…except Dirt Eater. That bastard was a hundred-mile-an-hour flame slinger in a bullpen where nobody else's fastball topped eighty-five.

Joe rubbed at the bruise on his leg that had come within a few inches of making him celibate. He'd figured Hank was exaggerating when he bragged that the bull was good enough to buck at the National Finals, but the kid was right on the money. Which begged the question—did anyone on this ranch understand what they were wasting?

Joe shifted and stretched, his muscles twitchy despite a four-mile jog just before dusk. Too much sitting around. Too much thinking. Too much he didn't want to think about. He tilted his head back and stared up at the half-moon that rode too high over the trees, muting the stars so he couldn't even get his bearings by way of the constellations. They'd probably be out of whack down here anyway. Everything else was.

Back home, he wouldn't have wasted a balmy evening sitting around his dinky apartment. He would've saddled a horse out at the High Lonesome and headed for the scrub-filled canyon that curved up the side of Cayuse Butte, where he'd flush a few mule deer, maybe even an elk. When the trail topped out on the plateau, you could see clear to the Nevada border. If a man had to think, that was the place to do it. The mere suggestion of giving it up curled his hands into fists. He
had
to work things out with Dick. The alternative—being barred from the ranch—was unbearable.

Joe forced his rigid muscles to relax, dragging his gaze and his attention to the square of light in the office window. He supposed he could go knock on the door, but talking to her across a desk wasn't anything like what he had in mind. Better to wait. He pulled out his phone and redialed the last number called.

Wyatt answered on the second ring. “Two phone calls in the one day? You are homesick. You got my email with the names you asked for?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” A spoon clinked on glass, Wyatt stirring whatever he was drinking. Probably one of those god-awful smoothies he made in his thousand-dollar blender. “Who are you buttering up, the old man or the daughter?”

“Just being helpful.”

“The daughter, I'm betting.” Wyatt's voice sharpened with curiosity. “You haven't chased after a girl since I've known you. Are you smitten, or is this a classic case of avoidance?”

The latter, Joe suspected. Playing tag with Violet was a whole lot better than being pecked to death by what-ifs and worst case scenarios. “I'm bored. I hate twiddling my thumbs between rodeos. That's why I have a job.”

“Had a job,” Wyatt corrected. “Or did you already call Dickhead and beg to be forgiven?”

“No!” The denial was sharp, its edge honed by every time in the past five days Joe had held his phone in his hand, on the verge of dialing.

“If you're going to cave, do it before Wednesday. After that, I'm out of the betting pool.”

A barb aimed for Joe's pride, so blatant he was disgusted that it hit its mark. Better, though, than admitting the truth. He wasn't paralyzed by pride, but fear. What if Dick really meant what he said in Puyallup? What if—panic skittered around inside Joe's rib cage—he could never go back?

He grasped at something to fill the void that threatened to swallow him from the inside out. “How well do you know Delon Sanchez?”

“Safety Man?”

“What?”

“You've seen him ride. You know what I mean.”

“He's strong.” Should be—he had a chest and arms like Popeye on a spinach bender. Joe stretched out his legs, slouching into the cushions of the wicker love seat. “Hardly ever see a horse get him out of shape.”

“Because he'd rather stay tight and win third than open up and risk getting bucked off.”

“He's number one in the world.”

Wyatt slurped, and it even sounded disgustingly healthy. “He's been lucky. Drawn the right horses at the right places. His lead won't hold up at the Finals.”

“Consistency is good when you're going ten rounds,” Joe argued, purely for the sake of winding Wyatt up.

“Head to head against Kaycee Field, Bobby Mote, Steven Peebles? Only if you're consistently awesome. You want to beat those boys, you've got to expose yourself.”

“Delon must have exposed himself at least once. He's got a kid.”

Wyatt laughed. “Beni. I met him at Houston last year. He's a piece of work.”

“No kidding.”
Just a bullfighter, my ass.

“Wait a second.” Wyatt snapped his fingers. “Violet Jacobs. I met her, too. You're hitting on Beni's mother? She's…completely unlike you.”

“Bullshit,” Joe snapped, irritated for no reason he could define. “She's a pickup man. A stock contractor. A damn good hand out in the pasture. She's exactly like me.”

Only a whole lot softer. Joe's brain might've been too distracted by the pain to take much notice at the time, but his body had an excellent memory of what it felt like to have Violet stretched out underneath him. His body was very much in favor of trying it again.

There was a long, weighted pause. Joe could practically feel the draft as Wyatt flipped open his skull and tried to poke around inside his head. But when Wyatt spoke, his voice was suspiciously neutral. “I meant she's not like your usual women. Which you just illustrated perfectly.”

“Whatever that means,” Joe muttered. “From what I saw, Delon has dibs.”

Wyatt snorted. “That's gonna come as a shock to Stacy Lyn Reed. She's been knocking a chunk off of him every chance she gets.”

“Really?” Joe screwed up his face in disgust.

“She isn't hard to look at.”

“She's scary. That woman could have Delon for lunch and toss you and me both down for dessert.” Probably simultaneously.

“She makes it hard to refuse.”

“I wouldn't know. I make damn sure she never gets close enough to ask the question.”

But if Delon was getting his cork popped by the reigning queen of the barrel racers, there was definitely nothing romantic between him and Violet. Mr. Nice Guy would never cheat—and that left the field clear for Joe.

“So…Violet,” Wyatt said. “Interesting choice for a guy who prefers his women uncomplicated. She couldn't pack more baggage if you gave her a freight train. The kid, her family, the business, Delon…”

“Violet can handle it.” Just like she handled herself in the arena, picking up broncs. And roping that bull today. Capable. Strong. And very,
very
soft in all the right places.

“Joe.” Wyatt made it both a question and a warning.

Joe ignored both because just then the light went out in the office and the door opened. He straightened, his pulse kicking up a beat in anticipation. “Gotta go.”

“We need to talk about next year,” Wyatt said. “At least consider your options—”

“Not now.”

“When?” Wyatt demanded.

“Tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. I'll be in touch.”

“Dammit, Joe—”

“Later.”

Joe hung up, then turned the phone off so Wyatt couldn't call back. He needed to get the drop on her and he had to focus. Violet would not make this easy. Joe had never bothered to practice much finesse outside the arena, but he could fake it. He'd always been quick on his feet.

Violet emerged from the shadows of her parents' backyard and crossed the road with her usual long, no-nonsense strides. She was nearly to the foot of her steps when she faltered, then stopped, spotting Joe on her deck.

Her eyes narrowed from startled to suspicious. “If you came to tell me you're filing a workers' comp claim, save your breath. Roping bulls is not in your contract.”

“Nope. That was purely voluntary.”

Alarm filtered into her expression. “Are you hurt too bad to work this weekend?”

“Nah. You'll be glad to know my parts are in perfect working order.” He picked up his leg, kicked a couple of times to prove it, then gave her a deliberately lewd smile. “All of them.”

He watched, entertained by the emotions that trailed across her face as she tried to figure out what to do with that statement. She settled on annoyance, her frown sharpening into a glare. “Well then, what do you want?”

He would've thought that was obvious, but if she preferred to pretend she didn't understand, he was willing to play along. He held up a slip of paper between two fingers. “I brought you a present.”

She took a step closer, squinting into the gloom. “A check?”

“Better.” He waved the note like a tiny white flag. “Information.”

Violet's toes bumped the bottom step. “What kind?”

“Come up here and I'll tell you.” Joe patted the seat next to him.

Violet hesitated, her eyes tracking from him to the seat and back again.

“Or you could stand in the middle of your lawn until your dad comes out to see what's going on.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then at the security light that cast an orange glow over most of the yard, then back to the seat. Her mouth went flat, but she climbed the steps and plopped down, leaving a deliberate space between them. “Fine. I'm here. What is that?”

Joe held out the paper. She plucked it from his grasp with the tips of her fingers so their hands didn't touch. She peered at it for a few moments. “It's too dark to read. Are these names and phone numbers?”

“Yep. Bullfighters.” Joe pointed at the top of the paper. “The first guy is from Missouri, but he wants to relocate. Go figure. He's looking to get on with a contractor so he'll have steady work. Solid, smart, and he'd be a good influence on Hank, according to Wyatt.”

Her eyes widened. “Wyatt Darrington?”

The reverence in her voice made Joe twitch. “Yeah. So?”

“He gave you this list?” She looked down at it in amazement. “He lives in Oregon. How does he know this guy?”

“Wyatt knows everyone. And everything. It's annoying.”

Violet's mouth curled, amused at his disgust. “But useful.”

Especially since it had lured Violet within reach. And scent. He took a deep breath. Oranges again, and a hint of fabric softener from the clean clothes she'd put on. Another baggy T-shirt, but her curves were more pronounced, as if she'd also changed into something less constrictive underneath. Something lacy, maybe. Joe sprawled so his thigh touched hers. She shifted in response, pressing closer to her end of the seat. Joe stretched his arm along the backrest behind her shoulders. Violet slouched away from the contact.

“So now you owe me,” he said, letting his voice drop to a significant chord.

She huffed. “I don't need a bullfighter that bad.”

“But you want one.”
This one.

Joe lifted a finger to brush back a strand of her hair, savoring the cool slide of it over his skin. She frowned, but didn't slap at his hand, didn't shrink away when he leaned in. Would she let him kiss her? Maybe, but he was enjoying the slow rev of his engine, the lazy swell of heat, all from just sitting next to her, barely touching. He wanted to coax her along, rather than pushing. He traced a line down the side of her neck, watching the skin pebble in response. “Go out with me, Violet.”

“Out?” she repeated, blinking. “Like…a date? Dinner and a movie?”

“Sure.” Whatever, if it got him close to her.

Her forehead puckered. “But…I don't even like you.”

“Yes, you do.”

She sucked in an outraged breath, but Joe only smiled wider. He could see the pulse jumping at the base of her throat. And once the pain had eased, he'd felt her reaction out there at the corral, while they were all tangled up.

“You're not scared, are you Violet?” he taunted softly.

“Of you? Hardly.” Her chin jerked up, her voice snooty. “I don't date the help.”

“That's good, since your truck drivers are married and Hank's a tad young.” Joe brushed back her hair again, his fingertip skimming under her ear, smiling when her breath caught.

She squared her jaw. “My dad would not approve.”

Joe trailed his thumb along the top of her shoulder, wishing he could reach bare skin. “You still ask Daddy's permission to play with the boys?”

“Yeah.” She finally swatted his hand away, then folded her arms. “So go ahead. I'll wait here.”

Joe's spine snapped straight and he gaped at her. “You expect me to go over there and ask permission to take you out
?
”

“Only if you want that date.”

Joe's mouth opened. Closed. As he glared, she smirked, smug in her victory.

“You don't think I'll do it,” he said.

The smirk faded.

“Be right back.” He jumped to his feet, wiping that smirk off her face, and bounded down the stairs, his boots crunching out a rapid tattoo on the gravel driveway.