Reckless in Texas (26 page)

Joe dumped the last of the cashews into his mouth and ground them to a paste between his teeth. “Then get off my ass.”

“Fine. I'll shut up…for now.” Wyatt eased back onto his stool and sat sipping his Coke and contemplating the dusty jars of pickled eggs and pigs feet behind the bar, quiet for a few blissful moments. Then he dug out his money clip, waved the bartender over and flipped a fifty down in front of him.

“Top us off with a shot of Pendleton. And leave the bottle.” When Chuck hesitated, Wyatt reached over and plucked Joe's keys off the bar, dangling them along with his own from one finger. “I'll toss these in, if it makes you feel better. I think we can manage to walk home.”

“That's what you said last time,” Chuck said, taking the keys. “But I'm off at six so someone else can haul you up those damn stairs.”

He doused both glasses with whiskey and thumped the half full bottle between them on the bar. Wyatt swiped a couple of dollar bills from Joe's pile of change and hobbled over to the jukebox. Joe picked up his glass, sniffed, then took a healthy gulp of pure alcohol off the top. As it burned a trail to his stomach, Wyatt punched in a set of numbers. The jukebox twanged to life and George Strait sang, “
Amarillo by morning…”

“I hate you,” Joe said, and took another long pull off his drink.

Violet climbed out of her car and trudged up the metal stairs to Delon's apartment over the office of Sanchez Trucking, her body sluggish, as if drained by the bucket loads of tears she'd shed since Joe left. She'd told herself he'd come to his senses once the plane left the ground, call her the instant he landed, but the hours had passed without a peep. Then she'd said okay, maybe when he got home, but the sun set and the phone stayed silent all through the cold, endless night. And the next. And the next.

She'd scoured the social media sites, Googled herself blind in the wee hours when sleep wasn't an option, but hadn't found a single current mention of Joe Cassidy or Dick Browning. She assumed no news was bad news.

She'd put all her cards on the table, gone all in, and it wasn't enough. She'd lost. The High Lonesome had won. And it didn't even help knowing that Joe was hurting, too, probably even more than she was. After all, she'd put him in an impossible situation. Forced him to choose between two futures. Two loves.

And she'd lost. At least she didn't have to try to put on a happy face. Smiles had been thin on the ground at the Jacobs Ranch since the orthopedic surgeon had confirmed their worst fears. Delon's knee was wrecked—medial collateral, anterior cruciate, cartilage. Forget the National Finals and any chance at the world title. He'd be lucky to ride again by the middle of next season. Delon was taking it as well as could be expected. Beni was heartbroken. Violet couldn't do a damn thing to fix them, either.

She paused, made a concerted effort to wipe the doom and gloom off her face, and knocked on the door.

“It's open!” Delon yelled.

She stepped inside and found him trying to maneuver into a seated position on the faded tweed couch. “Don't get up on my account.”

He ignored her, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs as he swung his injured leg to the floor, strapped up from hip to ankle in a rigid brace. “Beni was bouncing off the walls so I sent him over to play at Gil's with one of the drivers' kids.”

Gil had a house out behind the shop, with a swing set and a basketball hoop and an actual white picket fence—a caricature of the perfect family home. No lawyer would ever accuse him of not providing a good environment for his son.

“You look better today,” she said.

“Finally got a decent night's sleep.”

“That's good.” God, could this conversation get any more trivial? All the years they'd been friends and suddenly they had nothing to talk about. “I'll get Beni's stuff gathered up.”

Delon reached out and snagged her wrist. “Would you sit for a minute? Please? I…we should talk.”

Oh. Hell. The fatal words. She hesitated, then gave in, sinking down beside him.

He scooted around to face her, cradling her hand in his. “I've had a lot of time to think, Violet. Seeing that video, knowing how much worse it could have been for me or for you—well, it makes me realize maybe we don't have all the time in the world.”

She nodded, dread gathering like a slow-moving cold front deep in her gut.
Oh no. Not now.

“You and Beni are the center of my world, Violet. I couldn't tell you how many times I was alone somewhere, too far from home, beat to hell and bone-tired, when being able to pick up the phone and talk to you was the only thing that kept me going.” He folded both hands around hers, his grip tight. “I know it's not all sizzle and fireworks, but what we do have is real, and it's good. If we just give it a chance…”

Violet could only stare at him. By Delon's standards, he was a mess. Two days of stubble on his chin, his T-shirt, gym shorts, and hair all rumpled. And still, he was gorgeous. Solid. And here. Always here, whatever she needed. Maybe he couldn't give her fireworks, but Delon would never blow her heart to pieces and disappear into the smoke. She had a sudden, powerful urge to crawl into his arms. It would be so easy to let him soothe away some of the pain…

And so completely unfair to both of them.

“Delon…”

“Just think about it. Please.” His voice dropped to a low, pleading note.

“I can't.”

His grip loosened, animosity darkening his eyes. “Because of Joe.”

It would be easier if she lied, but only in the short term. This was another of those bandages that had to be ripped off, and it
would
have to happen when they were both so wounded. She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip to stop the trembling and said, quiet but final, “No.”

“So it's just me.” His hands dropped hers and he slumped back against the couch.

“No! Lord, Delon. Look at yourself.” She sketched a frame in the air around him. “You're amazing—a helluva bareback rider, a great guy, a wonderful father, and gorgeous on top of it. I've gotta be some kind of fool
not
to be in love with you.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Apparently, there are a lot of foolish women in the world.”

Her tattered heart shredded a little bit more because he had given her so much, and she did love him—just not in the way they both deserved. And here she was, kicking him when he was down.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

As sorry as she'd ever been in her life, but she couldn't fix this, either, any more than she could conjure up the cash to buy out Buck McCloud, or be woman enough to make Joe turn his back on Dick Browning and the High Lonesome. Everything she touched lately seemed to crumble into dust and trickle through her fingers, leaving her with nothing but the gritty taste of failure on her tongue.

Footsteps hammered on the metal stairs and they both had time to brace themselves before Beni burst in the door. “Mommy! You're finally here! Can we go right now so I can ride my pony and…”

Beni chattered the entire time she gathered his things, so excited to get home to the ranch he never noticed that his parents didn't say a word.

She stopped to fetch the mail out of her box before continuing on down the driveway. The minute she parked, Beni was off and running to beg his grandpa or Cole to saddle up his pony. Violet went inside and slumped on the couch to sort through the mail. Junk mail. Junk mail. Grocery store sale flyer. Credit card bill. Phone bill. Pro Rodeo Sports News. She flipped the magazine over and sucked in a breath, the headline another punch in the gut.

Sanchez finishes strong.
The cover photo was classic Delon, from the rodeo in Ellensburg, Washington. The magazine had gone to print before his wreck. Violet blew out a long, defeated breath. Lord, she could use a break. Just a tiny ray of light in this long, cold tunnel. Tears welled, blurring the words as she paged through the magazine half-heartedly, mostly stories about the cowboys on the bubble, just above or below the magical fifteenth slot in the standings that would get them to the National Finals.

And whoo-hoo. Another big-name contractor had hit the jackpot, selling shares in one of his top bulls to some country singer who'd divvied up major cash to be listed as owner, corner bragging rights, while the contractor kept hauling and bucking the bull as usual. Too bad Jacobs Livestock wasn't in a position to tap that market. She could sell a piece of Dirt Eater for enough to finance the McCloud sale and then some. Celebrities and rich dabblers wanted the bright lights, though, not the back roads. It was all about hearing your name announced on television and…

Violet lowered the magazine to her lap.
It was all about hearing your name…

What if she turned that concept on its head? She mentally poked at the idea, rearranging the pieces, chucking one here and adding another there until she had something worth considering. It could work. It
would
work for sure if Dirt Eater got selected to go to the National Finals, and they should be getting word on that any day now. There was only one very large obstacle to overcome.

Cole was at the arena, rebuilding one of the chute gates. He turned off the cutting torch and shoved the protective goggles up onto his forehead as she approached.

“What?” he asked.

“I have an idea. Just promise you'll listen all the way through and really think about it before you say no.”

He squinted at her for several pained moments. Then he nodded.

* * *

That evening, she convened an emergency meeting of the Jacobs Livestock board of directors around her mother's kitchen table. Her mother and Lily were openly curious, her father wary, and Cole a complete blank.

Violet cleared her throat. She smoothed a hand over her notes, incredibly nervous considering this was just her family. “Cole and I have been talking…as you're all aware, we need a hundred thousand dollars cash money to buy out Buck McCloud without putting ourselves in a serious pinch. Dirt Eater is worth at least five times that much. If he's picked for the NFR this year, his value will go up considerably.” She raised a hand to ward off their protests. “By my reckoning, we could sell shares up to forty-five percent, buy Buck's stock, and have enough liquidity to operate comfortably.”

They stared at her for a moment. Then her father said, “But we keep the bull.”

Violet looked at Cole, who was staring down at the table, before answering. “First—and most important—no matter who buys in or where he bucks, we would require that Jacobs Livestock always be listed as the main contractor.”

The ramifications took a moment to sink in.

“We don't keep the bull,” her father said slowly. “You're proposing that we sell shares to another contractor. Somebody who'll take him to the really big shows.”

“Yes. But we'll still be the majority owner, so we'd be included in any and all decisions, and…” She glanced at Cole again, and now he was watching her. “We would be able to have someone there with him whenever we wanted.”

“And every time he bucks, they'd announce our name,” Iris said, a glimmer of excitement sparking in her eyes.

Lily reached over to squeeze Cole's arm. “Are you okay with this?”

He flattened his big hands on the table top, as if counting his fingers. “If it meant seein' my daddy's bull buck at Cheyenne or San Antonio under the Jacobs name…yeah, I'd like that. Especially if I could be there with him, now and again.” Cole drew in a breath so deep it stretched the buttons on his shirt. “As long as you're all here, you should know I've been seein' Mrs. Davenport at the school.”

“
Seeing?”
Iris echoed, shocked. “As in—”

“She's the special education teacher,” Lily cut in, without peeling her eyes off Cole.

“Yeah. She did some tests, and it turns out I'm not just an asshole. I'm autistic.”

Violet gaped at him. “But how—”

“Joe. He knows someone like me, and he gave me stuff—a video and some magazine articles. It fit.”

Silence reigned as they all tried to grapple with this new bombshell. Then her father said, “So now what?”

Cole shrugged. “Mrs. Davenport says we can work on developing my social skills.”

“She can teach you not to be an asshole?” Lily asked.

“Lily!” Iris smacked her arm.

“He said it first,” Lily shot back.

Violet laughed. Once she started she couldn't stop because it was all too much and she'd been so twisted up with Joe and Delon and everything she just came unwound. Lily started laughing at Violet, and then Iris lost it, and the three of them practically rolled off onto the floor while her father and Cole stared at them like they'd lost their ever-lovin' minds.

Violet's phone buzzed and she had to wipe away the tears and try to sound halfway normal when she answered.

“This is Vince Grant,” a gruff voice said. “I hope you haven't made any plans for the first week in December. We'd like to have that bull of yours at the Finals.”

And with that, the Jacobs Livestock business meeting turned into a party.

The moonlit Mexican beach was deserted at three a.m. No one to see or care how long Joe stared out at the waves. But rather than soothing him, the rhythmic roar of the surf only echoed the ceaseless pounding in his head. He'd tried to outrun it. First by taking his mother up on her offer to fly off to Mexico. Then mile after mile after mile on the hard-packed sand, in the sun, in the wind, at god-awful hours of the night.

No matter how far he ran, there was no escaping his thoughts. The memories. The dreams that stalked him on the rare occasions that he managed to sleep. Violet, warm and naked in his arms, then suddenly not, her answer a cold, cruel laugh when he begged to see her again. Dick, snarling and cursing about how he'd always known Joe wouldn't turn out to be worth a shit. In his dreams Joe hiked the hills of the High Lonesome. Then suddenly, it changed, and he was running through the Canadian river breaks, trying to catch up with Violet, but she kept disappearing, leaving him to stumble through the unfamiliar darkness alone. So he didn't sleep.

His mother was not helping. She hadn't batted an eye at the men who tried to flirt with her, and there were plenty. Roxy ignored them, content to read her book—a biography, for Christ's sake—sip a drink and bask in the sun. Roxy and Frank really were solid. And that was great. Frank was good for her, not to mention Joe's stock portfolio, but her serenity only threw Joe's ragged edges into sharper relief. A fine time for his mother to go and grow up on him.

His fingers clenched tighter around the phone in his hand. It had been almost two weeks since he'd left Texas, and not a word from Violet. Not that he had a right to expect any, the way he'd left, but every time the phone chirped, his heart nearly exploded. Didn't she worry if he'd made it home safe? Wonder how things had turned out with Dick? Did she give the slightest damn what he was doing at this very moment?

Nothing eased the ache. Not fatigue. Not distance. Not time. If anything, the need to see her, to talk to her, got stronger every day. He wanted to tell her he'd left Dick. Hear her say he'd done the right thing. Maybe she could tell him what came next, because he sure as hell couldn't find a direction. He understood now how an addict felt.
Just one call. One quick hello.
But it wouldn't be enough. He'd want more. And it would be that much harder to stop himself the next time.

His thumb caressed the Send button. Her number was already there, on the screen. One touch and he could hear her voice. He stared down at the phone for several beats. Then he reared back and heaved it out over the moonlit waves.

* * *

A week later, Joe parked his Jeep in front of Wyatt's condo, went around the back and hauled out two black trash bags full of clean laundry. That, plus a few boxes of trophies and pictures, were all that was worth keeping.

Wyatt opened the door before he could ring the bell, stood aside, then followed Joe into the living room. “What did you do, jog home from Mexico? You look like a starved greyhound.”

Joe felt it, too. Hollowed out, whittled down, nothing but corners and angles that rubbed everything wrong. “I couldn't hold down solid food for three days after you showed up at the Mint.”

The details were blurry, but around the time they'd drained the first bottle, Joe had started talking. Not about getting dumped—he wasn't that pathetic—but he'd spilled enough for anyone who was paying attention to figure it out. Wyatt was always paying attention, even when he was so hammered he couldn't sit up straight on Joe's sagging, secondhand couch.

Wyatt's couch was cowhide, with rolled leather trim and brass studs. The coffee table was a work of art, handmade by a local woodworker, the top an intricate pattern of inlaid swirls. The pictures on the walls were original watercolors. In the midst of all that class, Joe felt like a hobo.

“Why is your phone out of service?” Wyatt asked.

“I dropped it in the ocean. I have a new number. Which room?”

“The one with the attached bath.”

Plus a whole set of dark wood furniture and a flat-screen TV. Throw in a minibar and he could be staying at the Holiday Inn. Joe dumped his bags on the bed and wandered over to look out the window. The condo was perched high on Pendleton's north hill, with a view of the Blue Mountains to the east, and a line of sight down the steep slope into the Roundup grounds ten blocks below. In Pendleton, the higher up the north hill you lived, the cooler you were. Wyatt liked cool. He also liked real estate with high appreciation potential.

Wyatt propped a shoulder against the door frame and hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “I'm ordering out for dinner. You want Chinese, ribs, or chicken?”

“Whatever.”

Joe wandered over to the dresser to finger the buttons on the television remote. Satellite, with DVR. Good to know he'd have a couple hundred channels to choose from during those hours he used to waste on sleep. He pushed the remote aside and picked up the manila envelope underneath.

“Those are the contracts for the rodeos we agreed on,” Wyatt said.

Joe considered dumping it in the trash, but what was the point? “I'll read and sign them later.”

“Already done.”

Joe shot him an irritated glare. “You forged my name?”

“How could anyone tell? You write like a chicken on meth.”

Joe peeled back the flap and dumped the contents out on the dresser. His guts twisted as he saw the names. The dates. Wyatt had him working somewhere in Violet's vicinity every six weeks from January to October. An entire season of torture.

“I suppose it's too late to weasel out,” he said.

“For the first two rodeos? Yeah.” Wyatt cocked his head, studying Joe. “I can find a replacement for the rest, if you can give me a valid reason that you're not already in Texas.”

“She doesn't want me there.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I said, ‘I'd like to come back sometime' and she said, ‘I don't think so.' I took that as a no.”

Wyatt frowned. “That can't be right.”

“It's never right.” Joe mashed the balled-up envelope between his hands, the stiff paper digging into his palms. “For guys like us, this is as good as it gets.”

“What do you mean, guys like us?”

“Some people aren't made for the marriage and family thing. It's better for everyone if you just accept it.”

“And what? Live with you for the rest of my life?” Wyatt shook his head. “Not fucking likely. Decent human beings deserve better.”

“Who are you calling decent?”

“You, dipshit.” Wyatt paced over to the window and braced his hips on the sill. “Who else would crawl out of bed at two-thirty in the morning and drive to Butthole, Idaho, to pick me up when my sweet little wife dumped me at a rest area?”

“Athol,” Joe muttered.

“What?”

“It was Athol, Idaho.”

“That's what I said.” Wyatt glared at him, impatient. “Give yourself a chance, Joe. So your dad bailed out on you. Your mother wasn't exactly the poster child for healthy relationships. My family traded basic compassion for social standing about five generations back. That doesn't mean you and I have to settle for half a life.”

Joe snorted in derision. “What, one wreck of a marriage wasn't enough for you?”

“No.” For once, Wyatt's expression was completely unguarded. “I want the whole goddamn works. In-laws. Out-laws. Holidays from hell with a house full of screaming kids and five dogs.”

Joe stared at him for a beat. Then he said, “They'd definitely be hell on that fancy leather sofa.”

“Fuck the sofa. I'd rather have a family.”

Since when? First his mother, now Wyatt—the two people he could count on to be as dysfunctional as he was. Joe tossed the crumpled envelope into a brass-and-leather wastebasket. “Bash your head on the wall again if you want, but people don't stick, Wyatt.”

“How would you know?” Wyatt dragged frustrated hands through his hair and laced his fingers on top of his head like it might pop off. “You're gone before anyone gets close enough to try. We probably wouldn't even be friends if you could outrun me.”

He should be running now. Fast and far before Wyatt talked him into some new form of self-mutilation, but he was just too damn tired.

He slumped onto the side of the bed. “Why me? Out of all the guys you could've picked to torture.”

“You're the best. In the arena or out.”

“I'm just a hick from the sticks. You went to
Yale
.”

“That only means I'm more educated. It doesn't mean I'm smarter.”

Joe snorted again. “You are so full of shit.”

Wyatt jabbed a finger at him. “
That's
why I need you. Because I am full of shit and you're not afraid to tell me so, while everyone else smiles and nods and backs away slowly.” The old gleam came into his eyes. “Violet isn't afraid of me, either. Something else you have in common.”

“It's not enough,” Joe said flatly.

“So she's mad at you. Apologize. Grovel, if necessary.”

“She's not mad.” That was the whole problem. He gripped the edge of the dresser so tight his knuckles cracked. “I acted like a lunatic and she should've been furious, but she
didn't care
. Just shrugged and dumped me off at the airport, good riddance.”

“You've got to be reading her wrong.” Wyatt shoved off the windowsill and started for the door. “I'll get the real story.”

No damn way. Joe scrambled to block his exit. “You can't call her.”

“I'm supposed to just let you sit here and rot?”

“Yes.” At least this way, he had a shred of pride left. Joe held his ground, chest to chest, refusing to budge out of the doorway. “She already said no. Don't make her repeat herself.”

Their eyes locked, Joe's desperate, Wyatt's measuring.

“I'm not kidding, Wyatt. Promise me you won't call her.” Then Joe remembered who he was talking to, and added, “No letters. No texts. No emails. You do not contact Violet, even by fucking carrier pigeon.”

“Fine. Christ. Make it difficult.” Wyatt gave him a shove and side-stepped around him. “I'm going to order food. State your preference or eat what you get.”

“Ribs,” Joe said, because the sauce irritated Wyatt's ulcer but he'd slather it on anyway. They might as well both feel like they were bleeding internally.

Joe turned to unpack his bags. He made a couple of halfhearted attempts to loosen the first knot, then ripped a hole in the side, scattering socks and underwear across the bed, tempted to just kick them off onto the floor instead of putting them away. This wasn't his place. For all intents and purposes, he was homeless. His body was parked in Wyatt's guest room, but his chest was still hollowed out, as if his heart had been incinerated and the ashes scattered, half on the High Lonesome, half across the Texas Panhandle. He couldn't visualize a future where he would be whole again.

“Here.” Wyatt strode through the door and shoved a blanket into Joe's hands. “Helen dropped that off. She decided to follow your example and told Dick to take a leap. She's moving up to Yakima to live with her sister, but she wanted you to have something to remind you to stop and visit once in a while.”

Not just a blanket. A quilt, patchwork squares of soft flannel on one side and plush, velvety stuff on the other. He slid his hand between the folds and it wrapped around his arm, as soft and warm as a hug from the woman who'd made it. Joe clenched his hands in the fabric, run clear through by a pain so sweet and sharp he could taste the blood.

Wyatt folded his arms. “Tell me again how nobody cares fuck all about a worthless bastard like you? I'm having trouble seeing it.”