Reckless in Texas (27 page)

Everything Violet had ever wanted was spelled out in the paperwork scattered across her desk, but she couldn't concentrate. Possibly because she'd done nothing but paperwork for the past two weeks. As of yesterday, the McCloud deal was final, with twenty percent down and the remainder due after Dirt Eater sold. They already had commitments from half of Buck's rodeos for next year, and another quarter were strong possibilities.

Violet should be downright giddy. She was, most of the time. Underneath the smile, though, there was still a low throb of pain, like a bad tooth. She frowned, annoyed with herself. She'd decided against regrets. Waste of time and some damn good memories. Besides, moping was selfish considering everything Joe had done for them. Dirt Eater was going to the Finals and Cole…well, that remained to be seen. He was still Cole, anal and stiff-necked, but his relief at having a name to put to his struggles was obvious. So, no. She would not regret bringing Joe Cassidy into their lives, even if she had to suffer for it.

She propped her chin on her hand and stared at the copy of the
Pro Rodeo Sports News
on her desk, open to the current rodeo entry information. Upper right-hand corner, in bold black, the listing read
Redmond, Oregon.
The first performance was tonight. The last on Sunday. And down at the bottom, under personnel, the bullfighters were listed. Wyatt Darrington and Joe Cassidy.

For the first time since his plane left Dallas, she knew exactly where Joe was. Fifteen hundred and thirty-four miles from where she sat, according to the internet map site. Might as well be the moon. The words began to dance before her eyes. She blinked, then reached underneath the paper for her vibrating phone.

“How's the wheeling and dealing going?” Melanie asked.

Violet tipped back in her chair. “I'm trying to estimate an advertising budget. What's up?”

“We-ell…I called because I learned something today.”

Her tone made Violet sit up, as if she might need both feet solidly on the floor.

Melanie spit it out in a rush. “Joe and Wyatt are working the rodeo in Amarillo next fall.”

The announcement was another jab to a heart that felt like a dartboard. The rodeo wasn't until next September, almost a year away, but still…

“Wyatt called me,” Melanie added.

Violet almost dropped her phone. “Wyatt
Darrington
?”

“The one and only, and wow. You were right. The man is scary. How did he find out who I am and where I work? That's borderline creepy.”

“What did he
say,
Mel?”

“He wanted to talk about their contracts. I tried to tell him I don't handle those things, I'm just the facility coordinator, but he said he wasn't allowed to get in touch directly and he knew he could count on me to pass along a message, which was when I finally got a clue that we weren't talking about contracts.”

“What message?” Violet demanded, the pounding of her pulse shifting to a different gear. “From Joe?”

“Not exactly. Let me look at my notes.”

“You wrote it down?”

“I wanted to be sure I got it right. Plus Wyatt said, ‘You should write this down.'” There was a rustle of paper, then Melanie quoted, “‘Joe wants to back out. He says someone told him they didn't want to see him around there again.'”

“I did not say—” Violet protested.

But she had. She cringed, remembering that evening over at the other place, when he'd asked to see her again and she'd been too scared to say yes.

“Okay, I did say that, but it was before I…I mean, we…” She trailed off.

“And yet you say nothing to your best friend.” Melanie clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I'll be needing details, Miz Violet, but not right now. So, you blew him off. Twice. At any point did you actually look him in the eye and say, ‘I take it back'?”

“Well, no, but I showed him…”

Melanie chuckled. “Honey, as soon as you showed him the girls, he went deaf and dumb. Didn't the two of you talk afterward?”

“I meant to, but he bolted.”

“And you didn't try to stop him?”

Violet huffed out a breath. “Remember when we were in the fifth grade, and tried to corner that calico barn cat of yours because it was so pretty?”

“I still have a scar on my arm.”

“Joe had that exact same look in his eyes.”

“Oh.” Melanie paused a beat. “Well now, that would make a girl take a step back.”

“You see? I thought he just needed space. A little time to adjust.” Violet tilted her chair back to glare at a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. “I can't believe he's dumb enough to think I'd jump him if I wasn't serious.”

Melanie snorted. “Did I mention he's a man—and a cowboy? That's clueless squared. Wyatt said, and I quote again, ‘Joe is going through some major personal and professional changes that have affected him deeply. He won't go back to Texas unless he's convinced he's welcome.'”

“Idiot,” Violet muttered. She'd practically thrown the man over her shoulder and hauled him into her motel room, and he wasn't sure she wanted to see him again? Then she blew out a guilty sigh. He
had
asked to see her again. Offered her exactly what she'd told her sister she wanted—an occasional no-strings fling—and she'd tossed it back in his face. Twice. So who exactly was the idiot?

But on the other hand, what had changed? She'd always known Joe wanted more than one night. And she knew more than ever that part of him wasn't enough. “What difference does this make, if he's still chained to Dick Browning?”

“This is why we take notes,” Melanie said, with exaggerated patience. “You weren't paying attention, Violet. I repeat—
Joe is going through some major personal and professional changes.”

Oh. God. Did that mean—hope flared, a small but stubborn flame that had never quite died. “If he left Dick, why hasn't he come back? At least called? He must realize it changes everything.”

“As I believe I mentioned earlier—man, cowboy, clueless?”

Violet drew a deep, resolute breath. “Then I guess it's up to me to educate him.”

“Atta girl,” Melanie said. “And Violet? Good luck.”

“Thanks.” She might need every bit she could get.

As soon as she hung up, she pulled Joe's number out of her contact list and hit Send, before she lost her nerve. She tensed as the phone clicked, but instead of Joe's voice, a recording declared, “
The number you dialed has been changed, disconnected, or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this message in error…”

Violet frowned, grabbed the
Sports News
, and fumbled through the pages to the classifieds at the back, where Joe was listed with the other contract personnel. The number was the same. She keyed it in from scratch, just to be sure, and hit Send again.

“The number you have dialed has been changed—”

She jabbed the Off button and flung the phone down on her desk.

“Is something wrong?”

Violet jumped, startled by the deep rumble of her father's voice. “Uh, no. Nothing important.”

Just life or death for that little ray of hope. Then she took a good look at his face, flushed with something between anger and confusion.

“Is something wrong with you?” she asked.

He settled into the chair in front of Violet's desk, making the springs squeal in protest. “I just got a really strange phone call.”

Join the club.

“It was Dick Browning. Called right outta the blue, goin' on about how I stole his bullfighter when Joe was only supposed to be taking a break.” His face darkened as he spoke, a visible measure of his rising temper. “Made it sound like he gave Joe leave to come down here.”

“As if! After what he said in Puyallup?”

“I know, but I couldn't get a word in edgewise. He kept rantin' and ravin', sayin' Wyatt told him Joe quit because he had a better offer in Texas.” He squinted at her with a touch of impatience. “Did you hire him again without telling me?”

“No! I wouldn't…I haven't talked to Joe since he left.”

“Why would Wyatt say so, then?”

Because Wyatt had some kind of nerve, and he was covering all of his bases. And then the full impact of what he'd said hit Violet square between the eyes. “Joe really quit?”

“Obviously, or Dick wouldn't be on such a tear.”

And that meant there really was nothing holding Joe in Oregon any more. Not Dick Browning. Not the High Lonesome Ranch. Violet rested her elbows on the desk and pressed her throbbing forehead into her palms. “Why can't he just pick up the damn phone?”

“Maybe he doesn't know how.”

“To dial a phone?”

Her father scowled, shifting in his chair. “To talk about feelings and such. It ain't that easy dealin' with women. Even you.”

She rolled her eyes. “What's so hard? He dials the phone and says, ‘Hey, Violet, sorry I jumped you and ran, can I make it up to you?”

“See?” Her dad stabbed a thick finger at her. “This is why fathers and daughters shouldn't discuss this crap. Now I feel like it's my God-given duty to kick his ass, even though your mother insists I'm supposed to respect your independence. Why can't y'all just leave me out of it?”

“I'm sorry. But honestly, I don't understand why he hasn't…” But she did. She'd rejected Joe not once, but twice, and despite all that had passed between them since, she hadn't verbally taken it back. Another man might have assumed, but vulnerable, skittish Joe—her Joe—needed the words even more than she did. She hissed out a curse and let her chin drop to her chest. “I never even tried to stop him.”

“I don't think you could have. But you might've made it so he could see his way back.” His voice gentled. “From what I hear and what I saw, he hasn't had much practice at belonging, and he sure as hell didn't learn anything good from that son of a bitch Browning.”

Or the man who was supposed to be his father.

Her father gave his chin a thoughtful rub. “Might be he needs someone to put up a fight for him.”

Violet flopped back in her chair with an irate huff. “I'd be happy to try, but his number is out of service. I suppose I could get it from Wyatt, though.”

His brow furrowed, considering, then cleared. “No. This kind of thing is better done face-to-face.”

“But he's in Oregon…”

“Yup.” He tapped the rodeo listings with one finger. “And you know right where to find him. Better get crackin' if you intend to get to Redmond by Sunday.”

She watched in stunned disbelief as he stood and ambled out of the office. As he opened the door, a thought struck her. “What did you say to Dick Browning?”

He planted one big hand on the knob and smiled at her. “I told him Wyatt was right. There ain't nothin' better in the whole wide world than what Joe found down here in Texas.”

Joe bounced on his toes, impatient for the next bull rider to nod his head. How long could Rowdy diddle around before the chute boss smacked him upside the head? The anticipation that had been building event by event, ride by ride, was going flat despite a packed house and Guns N' Roses blasting over the sound system. The crowd could only hang on the edge of their seats for so long before their butts went numb.

Beside him, Wyatt dropped a disgusted F-bomb. “If that dumb bastard plays dead again, I say we let Hotshot stomp his guts and drag the body back to the catch pen.”

The bull would be happy to oblige. He was a snaky, man-hunting son of a bitch. Finally, Rowdy nodded. Hotshot whipped around right in front of the chute. Rowdy survived the first nasty duck, but his hips slid back off the rope, and on the next jump, Hotshot launched him into the rafters. Or would have, if Rowdy had opened his damn hand and let it come out of the rope. Instead, he whiplashed to the end of his arm, slammed against the bull's shoulder, then hung there, boneless as a sock monkey.

Joe jumped for the bull's head, giving Hotshot a target for his slinging horns while Wyatt threw himself onto the bull's shoulders, cursing Rowdy and all of his ancestors as he yanked at the tail of the rope. Hotshot stayed hard into his spin, each jump close to a one-eighty. Joe scrambled to keep up as Wyatt gave the rope one last yank and Rowdy dropped…and took Joe out. He tucked his head as he went down, hoping to somersault clear, but the bull stayed right on his ass.

All Joe could do was throw his arms over his face as a massive front hoof skimmed past the end of his nose. A rear foot skidded down the outside of his hip, taking a layer of skin along with it. He heard Wyatt yelling “Hey! Hotshot!” and pulling the bull off him. Saw more legs and hooves flashing past as the pickup men rode in to rope Hotshot and make sure he didn't come back for another round.

And then it was over. Joe stayed put, inventorying body parts as he sucked in a careful breath. Head? Check. Ribs? Check. Knees? Check. Ass stung like a bitch, but didn't feel like anything was broken.

“You okay?” Wyatt asked, leaning over him.

Joe opened his eyes. “If he's not dead already, I'm going to kill that fucking Rowdy.”

He scrambled to his feet, the hot stab of pain fueling his fury. He shouldered past the athletic trainers coming to his aid and went straight for the cowboy.

The moron rolled to his knees, taking his own sweet time about getting up. “Thanks, Joe—”

“Run, you little bastard.” Joe grabbed the back strap of Rowdy's chaps and the collar of his shirt and threw him toward the chutes. “You hit the ground, you get up and fucking
run!
”

“What the—”

Rowdy stumbled two steps before Joe cleated him square in the ass. The force of the blow bounced Rowdy off the front of the chutes, but a hand hauled Joe back before him could kick him again.

Rowdy spun around. “Who do you think you—”

“I'm the guy who just got his ass stomped on your behalf,” Joe yelled, fighting the arm that locked around his chest. “And I'm fixin' to return the favor.”

More hands grabbed Joe's shoulders, jerking him away as Wyatt shoved between them, chest to chest with Joe.

“Not in the arena. You want to kick the crap out of him, we can take turns outside the bar later.”

Joe gave Rowdy one last hard look, then wheeled around and stalked off to the other end of the chutes. Wyatt followed, limping more than he had been.

“You get tagged, too?” Joe asked.

“Just landed on it a wrong,” Wyatt said, flexing his bad ankle. “Where'd he get you?”

Joe grabbed the water bottle one of the chute crew handed him, took three big gulps, then dragged an arm across his face to wipe away dirt and sweat. “He stepped on my ass.”

Wyatt laughed. “Figures. They always hit you in the sorest spot.”

Back in the locker room, Joe threw his cleats in the corner and peeled off his jersey, Kevlar vest, and the sweat-dampened T-shirt underneath and heaved them all at the wall. He was so damn tired of being tired. Tired of being pissed off. Tired of hurting. He kept thinking he'd hit bottom.
Splat!
Then he could start gathering up the pieces and see what was left. But this was like falling off of one of the mesas in Palo Duro Canyon then rolling down the scree slope, getting beat to shit by the rocks and sagebrush with every bounce. Down, down, down, with no end in sight.

He shoved an ice pack into the back of his shorts, hissing when it slid across the fresh scrape, then flopped face down on the padded treatment table the committee had thoughtfully installed in the bullfighter's dressing room.
Bless their hearts
, as they'd say in Texas.

Wyatt sat on the bench against the wall, peeled off his sock, and gingerly rotated his foot. A puff of swelling surrounded the ankle bone. “That's gonna raise hell with my dancing.”

“So we'll just drink. And pound on Rowdy.”

Joe punched the plastic-covered pillow into a ball, barely noticing the frigid burn of the ice against his flesh. He'd slapped on so many cold packs over the years he'd learned to crave the burn, or at least the numbness that would follow. Too bad he couldn't ice his brain.

Wyatt hooked a toe in the strap of his duffel, dragged it close enough to root around inside, and pulled out a glossy piece of paper that he tossed on the table next to Joe's head. “I found a stack of these at the rodeo office earlier.”

Joe turned the paper over and his breath seized up in his lungs when he read the words emblazoned across the top, recognized the picture.
Offered for sale by Jacobs Livestock. National Finals bucking bull.

Joe felt like his guts had been sucked out through his navel with a drinking straw. “They're selling him,” he said numbly.

“Not really. They're offering forty-five percent interest with a list of conditions so long they'll be lucky to get half of market value. Who does that?”

Violet. She would do exactly that, with her family behind her one hundred percent. Just like his stupid
Kiss it better
joke, she'd taken his wrong-headed advice and turned it into something shiny and good. Staring at that flyer, hearing Violet's voice loud and clear in every word of the bold print, he missed her so bad he wasn't sure how he could continue to breathe.

Wyatt fished out his phone, punched a few buttons, then got up, hobbled over and dropped it on the table in front of Joe's face. Violet's number was on the screen. “Call the woman, for Christ's sake.”

“We already talked about this.”

“Joe. Come on. You just tried to knock some sense into a
bull rider
. I'd say that calls for an intervention.” Wyatt shoved the phone with one fingertip, so close it touched Joe's nose, making his eyes cross. “
Call her.
”

Joe covered the phone with his hand but didn't pick it up. One touch. One little tap of his finger and he could hear her voice…

Wyatt snatched the phone, punched Send, and shoved it back into Joe's hand. “Geezus. Do I have to do everything for you?”

“Oh f—” Joe cut the curse short as the phone started to ring. His pulse screamed into overdrive. He couldn't hang up. She'd see it on her caller ID, figure out it was an Oregon number, and who else could it be? Maybe that's why she wasn't answering.

The voice mail clicked on.
“You wanna talk to my mommy, you gotta go through me,”
Beni declared, then added more politely.
“Please leave a message.”

When it beeped, Joe's mind went blank. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Uh, hi, Violet. It's Joe. I, um, just wanted to call and say hello—”

“Hi.”

At the sound of her voice, his heart jumped straight up and smacked into his vocal cords, rendering him speechless. She sounded so close. Like she was standing in the room with him, instead of half a country away.

“It's about time,” Wyatt said. “I was starting to think you weren't coming.”

Joe's eyes popped open. The phone clattered onto the concrete floor as he stared at Violet. Blinked. Stared again.

“What are you doing here?”

She flinched, but her chin came up a notch. “You said if you failed to show up, I was supposed to come pounding on your door. Consider this your wake-up call.”

“Atta girl.” Wyatt heaved to his feet, slung his bag over his shoulder, and limped toward the door. “I'll just leave you two alone.”

Violet narrowed her eyes at him. “You're the one with all the advice—got any now?”

Wyatt glanced over his shoulder at Joe, then back at Violet. “Stay between him and the door.”

He toasted them with his water bottle and limped out, leaving them to it.

Joe shoved off the table and to his feet, the abrupt change in altitude making him dizzy. Or it might have been Violet, standing in front of him, wearing that red shirt under a denim jacket. The combination was so perfectly
her
it made him want to laugh. Or cry. Or just grab her.

The ice pack slid out of his shorts and plopped onto Wyatt's phone, water pooling around it. Good. Served him right. “I told him not to call you.”

“I haven't talked to Wyatt since he left our ranch,” she said, almost without blinking.

So Wyatt had weaseled through some loophole Joe had missed, and somehow convinced Violet to come all the way to Oregon. “Why
are
you here?”

“I told you. I came for you.”

His heart did a big
ker-thump.
Violet watched him, her eyes steady, but her fingers fidgeted with the bottom brass button on her jacket. Three steps and he could have his hands on her. Bury his face in the soft curve of her neck, let her hair slide cool against his cheek. She'd smell like strawberries and feel like heaven. But how would he ever let her go again?

When he didn't move, didn't speak, she said, “That bull freight-trained you pretty good. Do you have a concussion?”

Because, yeah, he was acting like a man with a brain injury. “I'm fine.”

“Well. That's a relief.” Her smile was quick, a little wobbly. “I can sympathize with your mother. It looks a lot worse from the stands.”

Her gaze slid down, over Joe's bare chest and stomach, shying away before it got any lower. “So much for that fantasy where all I had to do was show up and you'd throw yourself into my arms.”

He wanted to. It was killing him, having her so close and not putting his hands on her, but…

“Violet, I—”

She gave a quick shake of her head. “No. This is better. There are things I should say, and I lose my ability to make whole sentences when you're touching me.”

She reached over and swung the door shut. Then she grabbed a chair, planted it front of the door, and sat down.

Panic trickled cold into Joe's blood. “What are you doing?”

“Takin' a load off. Plus I don't want you disappearin' again if I look away.” Her drawl was more pronounced than he remembered, thick and sweet as molasses. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “Lord, I'm whupped. I've been travelin' since yesterday afternoon. Spent the night in the Atlanta airport.”

“Atlanta? Why?”

“Last minute reservation usin' Daddy's credit card miles. I had four connections.”

And she'd done all that for him? He intended to ask why Steve would want her anywhere near him, but she folded her arms and everything sort of lifted and he could see clear down to the red lace in her cleavage. He exhaled, long and shaky. “That shirt is not fair.”

“Lily said it would bring back fond memories, but Mom made me promise to wear the jacket so people up here didn't think I was a hussy.”

Joe stared at her in disbelief. “What did you do, call a meeting to discuss it?”

“Pretty much. Melanie said…” She paused, took a deep breath, and opened her eyes to meet his. “Melanie told me to just tell you straight-out how I feel.”

Her gaze was anxious, but steady. “That night after we went dancing, I was all set to get naked and you walked away. I was hurt, and I was mad, and I realized I was hooked on you. I've never been really hooked on anyone in my whole life, Joe. It scared the hell out me, and there you were, dead set on high-tailing it off to the other side of the country. But you weren't the first one to run away. I bailed out on you.” She snorted in disgust. “As if it wasn't already too late, and my heart wouldn't get broke quite so bad if I just stopped right there.”

His head spun so hard he had to grab onto the edge of the treatment table to keep from falling flat on his aching butt. “When I asked if I could come back sometime and see you—that's why you said no?”

Violet ducked her head, doing some kind of complicated weaving thing with her fingers. “I imagined you popping in for a few days, then gallivanting off again. In between, I'd never hear from you or know where you were or who you were with, and it would've killed me—killed me
dead
—to picture you with someone like that girl in the Corvette.”

Joe had to put a second hand on the table, because his skeleton seemed to be dissolving and he wasn't sure how long he could remain vertical. “And when I took off the morning after—”

“Possibly the worst dismount in the history of sex,” she pointed out helpfully.

“Why didn't you say so? Chew my ass, call me names, whatever?”

“I didn't know you needed me to, or believe me, I would have been more than willing.” The glint in her eyes suggested she might still consider obliging him. “I thought if I gave you time to calm down, you'd get used to the idea of…us.”

Blood pounded at the base of his skull, obliterating his ability to think. Reason. Make her see. “Why me, Violet? Of all the men you could have. What do I know about relationships?”