Reckless in Texas (5 page)

He might be an arrogant jerk, but Violet had to admit watching Joe Cassidy fight bulls was worth the price of admission. Knees bent, hands on thighs as he waited for the next bull rider to nod, he was a coiled spring. Violet rubbed her palm down the front of her chaps, trying to massage away the memory of his touch. The sizzle of connection. The way his fingers had tightened when he felt it too.

Violet jerked her hand as if it were still in his grasp. Dammit. Why couldn't she lust after a man's brains for a change? But no, it was always the physical. And not just looks, but how a man moved, the wonder of bone and muscle honed to perfection. Joe Cassidy was all that and more—the indefinable something that elevated a star from merely athletic to exceptional.

Better than anything that's set foot in one of your arenas, sweetheart.

“Take him left,” Steve Jacobs called out to Joe. “Right around the end of the chute gate.”

A good-natured Brangus they called Carrot Top—named for his orangey color and the tuft of curly hair on his hornless head—peered out between the slats of the chute gate. Joe flashed a thumbs-up and adjusted with a few springy steps, shooting a quick glance over to check Hank's position. Violet released a pent-up sigh. So much for a positive role model. She'd wanted someone who'd teach Hank a little humility. Instead, she got Joe.

As the cowboy took the last wrap of the bull rope around his gloved hand, Joe rocked onto the toes of his cleated shoes, as if the adrenaline was blasting out through the balls of his feet. He'd dumped the wireless mic, added knee and ankle braces and a Kevlar vest under his jersey. Not a whole lot of protection considering the average bull weighed as much as an entire NFL defensive line.

The cowboy nodded, and the gate swung wide. In a flash, Joe was there, tapping Carrot Top on his curly head, drawing him around and into a bounding spin. The rider hung tight for two, three, four jumps, the crowd noise swelling. As the eight-second whistle sounded, the bull threw in a belly roll, whipping the cowboy off the side. Hank stepped in, flicking the bull's ear. Carrot Top swung around to follow him. Hank danced backward, his hand on the bull's head. He did a full pirouette, tapped the bull again, and danced away. Carrot Top did the equivalent of an eye roll and a shrug and lumbered toward the exit gate as Hank tipped his hat to the whistles and cheers of the crowd.

Violet ground her teeth. Carrot Top might not hurt a flea—intentionally—but if Hank kept showboating, one of these days he'd push his luck too far. She could only hope he got hurt just bad enough to teach him a lesson, and not enough to cripple him for life.

Joe watched, arms folded and face expressionless. While the announcer started his spiel about the last cowboy set to ride, Joe strolled over to Hank. He raised his hand, but instead of a high five, he flicked the brim of Hank's cowboy hat, tipping it down over his face. When Hank grabbed for the hat, Joe cuffed the back of his head hard enough to make him stagger.

“Hey!” Hank spun around, hat clutched to his chest. “What was that for?”

“Quit fucking around,” Joe said.

“I was just having a little fun!”

“You want to do tricks and take bows, join the circus. You want to be a bullfighter, get your ass over there and pay attention. Use your brain instead of just your feet.”

Hank tossed Joe a sulky look, but put his hat on and did as ordered.
Well. That was unexpected.
Violet sat back in her saddle, giving Joe a second look. Then the soundman shifted into a familiar thrumming guitar lick that swelled into a thundering crescendo.

“If you're not already on the edge of your seats, folks, you need to get there.” The announcer's voice rose in volume and intensity with every word, until he was shouting. “Right now, in this arena, you're about to see the biggest, the baddest, the number-one bull in all of Texas. In chute number three, it's a legend in the making, the pride and joy of Jacobs Livestock…say hello to Dirt Eater!”

The chute gate swung open and for an instant the bull stood framed, silver-gray hide shading to black on his hump and head, thick horns curved like swords. Then he exploded into a right-hand spin, flinging his massive body through space at an impossible rate of speed. The cowboy hung tough, chest forward, free arm back, in perfect position. Dirt Eater made his signature move, driving his forelegs straight up into the sky, kicking with his hinds, his entire body suspended in midair for an instant. Then his head dropped, his nose swooping so low it brushed the ground and came up crusted with sand. The sheer force snapped the cowboy's chin up, yanked his arm straight, then pile-drove him into the ground.

Before Dirt Eater could take another step, Joe hurdled the fallen rider, shouting, “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

The bull took a swipe and caught his leg with a horn, sending him cartwheeling into the air. He did a full twisting backflip and landed on hands and knees as Hank lured the bull clear. The crowd roared. Dirt Eater stopped, snorted, then threw up his head and sauntered away. Kicking up her horse, Violet tracked the bull out of the arena with one eye on Joe where he crouched, head bowed, hands clenched. Hank jogged over, clapping a concerned hand on his shoulder. After a beat, Joe popped up, shook his leg, then jogged in place. Violet heaved a sigh of relief.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for one hell of a bull, and one hell of a bullfighter. Welcome to Texas, Joe Cassidy!”

The crowd roared again, stomping and whistling as Joe tipped his hat.

Cole coiled his rope and dropped it over his saddle horn. “That's all she wrote.”

And not a minute too soon. Violet stepped off, loosened the cinches, and patted her horse's chocolate-brown neck. “Good work, Cadillac.”

He rubbed his head on her shoulder, leaving a streak of dust-infused sweat on her shirt. She shoved him away, then scratched the spot below his ear. Out back, hooves clattered on steel, the crew already loading bucking horses onto a truck. A second truck idled nearby, waiting to load the bulls and start the two-hour drive home, the end of their last long road trip of the year. The Jacobs Ranch was in the wide-open space north of the Canadian River, eight miles out of a speck on the map called Earnest, Texas. The closest town of decent size was Dumas, ten miles south of Earnest, then Amarillo another forty-five miles down the road. Lord, it would be good to set her feet on the red dirt of home.

Violet unbuckled her chaps, peeled them off, and hung them on her saddle horn before leading Cadillac out of the gate. She would've preferred to make a beeline for the trailer, but she schmoozed through the milling crowd, pausing to shake committee members' hands, congratulate them on a successful weekend, and mention how much Jacobs Livestock looked forward to seeing them again next year. Finally, she escaped to the trailer that hauled the four pickup horses. She slid Cadillac's bridle off, pulled on his halter, then gave a startled squeak as something moved practically under her feet, in the dense shade beneath the gooseneck of the trailer.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you,” Joe said from his seat on the ground. He was massaging the thigh he'd been stretching, and he was…

Violet sucked in a breath, then let it out on what came perilously close to a giggle. Okay, not quite naked, but he'd stripped off everything but his soccer shorts and shoes, baring acres of sweat-slick skin.

Violet swallowed hard. “What are you doing under there?”

“Hiding from my adoring fans.”

Damn good thing or we'd have a riot
. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a Charlie horse. Dirt Eater tagged me pretty hard.” He touched a reddening welt high on the inside of his thigh.

Too high. Violet dragged her eyes back down, waiting. This was where he'd say something like,
That's some bull.
Everyone did.

Everyone except Joe, who spread his legs wide and bent at the waist, his chest nearly touching the ground, giving Violet ample opportunity to admire the long, sleek muscles of his back.

“You should get some ice on that leg,” she said.

He angled a sardonic smile over his shoulder that said,
I see what you're lookin' at
. “Believe me, darlin', I know how to take care of a bruise.”

“I am not your darlin'.” Violet yanked open the door to the tack compartment, blocking him from view, and jammed the bridle onto the nearest hook. “Or your
girl.”

For crying out loud. Why was she letting him get to her? Cowboys had been flinging bullshit her direction since she was two weeks old—which was about the time she'd developed a weakness for a man with a wild streak. She turned, then squeaked again when she came face-to-face with Joe. Damn, he was quick. She hadn't even seen him move and now he was right
there—
one hand braced on the open door, the other holding a half-drained bottle of water, and all that bare flesh right under her nose.

Dear sweet heaven, that was one beautiful body. Like the yellow Corvette, designed specifically for impressing the girls and taking curves way too fast. This close, she could smell the clean sweat from the clumps of damp hair around his face. His eyes were green. The color of luck, and money, and the other side of the fence. They gleamed with the same arrogant light as his smile.

“Are you always this cranky? Or are you actually still pissed about the pickup girl thing?”

She stiffened and stuck out her chin. “I'm supposed to enjoy being the butt of your jokes?”

“I was just kidding around.”

“Yeah. That's what all the sexist assholes say.”

He went still, all hint of sarcasm dropping away as he studied her for a few intense moments. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “You're right. You were working and I was out of line.”

His sincerity flustered her in a way his arrogance couldn't. “Uh…thanks for your help. With that bareback rider, I mean. 'Preciate you being on your toes.”

“I'm always on my toes.” He waggled the water bottle at her, then himself. “That's why they hire us.”

Us.
As in
You and I.
Two of a kind. In five simple words, he'd paid her the biggest compliment of her career. He hadn't even tagged on the usual
pretty good…for a girl
.

Surprise and an unmitigated burst of pride turned her brain to mush. She heard herself babbling, “Well, um, thanks. And never mind about the other. No big deal. I'm sure you didn't mean it.”

The water bottle paused halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly, the gleam in his eyes turning dangerous. “Didn't mean what?”

“Uh, you know. What you said about, um, me. You were just kidding.”

“About which part?” His voice lowered to a rough purr that sent a shiver over her skin despite the heat. And just like that, the energy between them changed again. “Why wouldn't I want you to pick me up?”

Because…because…oh Lord. There went her last functional brain cell. He leaned closer, fully into her space, and she had to fight the instinct to retreat. The even stronger urge to press her palms to his chest and get another hit of energy off his radioactive core. She opened her mouth, but the words jammed in her throat.

He brushed her jaw with his thumb, condensation from the water bottle leaving a damp trail on her skin. “Be careful what you assume, Violet. I might have to prove you wrong.”

Then he stepped back, toasting her with the water and a smirk as Cole rode up. It was all Violet could do not to rub off the wet spot on her skin before it was vaporized by the static electricity crackling between them. His eyes laughed at her, even as they glowed with answering heat. Now she knew exactly what kind of trouble Joe Cassidy was—the kind she'd never been able to resist getting into.

The Lone Steer Saloon was a neon oasis halfway between Dumas and Earnest. The Jacobs convoy took up a quarter of the gravel parking lot: two semis loaded with stock, Cole's pickup and horse trailer, and two pickups pulling the camper trailers that housed the rest of the Jacobs family on the road.

Cole, Hank, and Joe were the last to arrive because Cole had to double-check every inch of the arena, chutes, and stock pens for forgotten equipment, even though he'd counted each halter and flank strap as it was hung on its designated hook. Cole had a mental checklist and it was like he had to follow it to the letter or his head would explode. Compulsive—one of Wyatt's pet words. Pain in the ass would have been Joe's choice.

He climbed out of the pickup, wincing. His thigh had tightened up, but it was nothing an ice pack and few days of jogging and stretching wouldn't fix. He kept his limp to a minimum as they crossed the parking lot. Couldn't let Hank think he was a wimp. Or worse…old. Beyond the parking lot, the plains stretched off in every direction, barren and featureless in the moonlight. No comfort for the lonely out there. Joe shivered, gooseflesh rising on his back as if the ghost of a lost soul had trailed its finger down his spine.

Inside, the Lone Steer was classic honky-tonk: rustic wood, a bar that stretched the length of the back wall, and a big dance floor off to one side with a stage crammed into the corner. On a Sunday evening the barstools stood mostly empty, but over half of the tables were full. The prime rib must be as good as it smelled. Cole skirted the edge of the dance floor, nodding a greeting at every table as he crossed the room, but not pausing to chat—big surprise. Through the door to a small banquet room, Joe saw a single long table that held the rest of the Jacobs crew. Steve held court at one end, wife and daughter on his right, a pair of empty seats on his left.

Joe stalled, suddenly claustrophobic. That wasn't his place. These weren't his people. He was sore and bone tired and beyond capable of playing nice with strangers who couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing there. Cole started for the empty seats, glancing over his shoulder when Joe didn't follow.

“I'm gonna grab a beer,” Joe said.

Cole absorbed that for a beat, then shrugged and went to sit down.

Joe escaped to a stool at the far end of the bar. When he tried to pay for his beer, the bartender shook him off. “Steve'll take care of it. How do you want your prime rib?”

“Medium rare.” Joe tapped his beer glass. “And bring me a refill when this one's gone.”

Considering what they were paying him, Jacobs Livestock could afford to kick in a couple of beers. When the bartender handed him the frosty glass, Joe sucked down a third of the ice-cold brew in the first few gulps. Not the best way to rehydrate, but screw it. He had four days to recover what he'd sweated out, and not a damn thing to fill them.

He'd been on the road almost continuously since the Fourth of July. When he did have a break, he made a beeline for the High Lonesome, if only to ride the pastures, check the stock, and let the vast emptiness suck the clutter out of his brain. Even if Steve Jacobs would turn him loose on their ranch, he doubted strange country could work the same magic. And if he'd ever needed to clear his head…

His phone buzzed. He checked the number, contemplated letting it go to voice mail, but answered on the last possible ring. “What?”

“I see Texas is doing wonders for your disposition,” Wyatt said.

“Maybe I'm sick of some nosy bastard calling to check on me.”

Wyatt clucked his tongue. “It's the first time we've sent you off without even Dickhead for company. We worry.”

“What
we
?”

“I lent you my favorite redhead, so I'm having dinner at Hamley's with yours.”

“I thought Roxy was going home this morning.” Joe frowned, suspicion flaring from long experience. “Are she and Frank having trouble?”

“They're solid. Frank's trip to Japan was extended. The usual.”

Meaning someone was gonna lose a billion dollars if Joe's stepfather didn't stay to take care of it personally. One thing Joe had to say for his mother—every time she got married, she did better for herself.

“Why is she still in Pendleton?” Joe asked.

“She wanted to spend some quality time with her other son.”

“She's not old enough to be your mother.” She was barely old enough to be Joe's mother.

“Unfortunately she
is
your mother, so I have to keep my thoughts in the maternal realm.”

Joe groaned. “Just once could you talk like a normal person?”

“No. You really are in a crappy mood. What's up?”

“Besides the mess with Dick?”

Wyatt made a dismissive noise. “After the flogging he got from the Roundup directors, he's ready to kiss your ass.”

Or kick it clear to Hell.

“What else?” Wyatt asked.

Joe kept him waiting while he swirled his beer, took a swig, and set the glass down. “Obviously it was a mistake to assume these people would be thrilled to see me.”

“Short of going myself, I sent them the best bullfighter in the country. How is that a problem?”

“Hell if I know.”

There was a rattle and Wyatt's voice went muffled, calming. Great. Now Roxy was wound up. Just what Joe needed, his mother on a tear.

Wyatt came back on the line. “From what I hear, Steve Jacobs is a decent guy, but extremely old school. Probably takes a while to warm up to new people.”

“I'm not new,” Joe snapped. “I'm a pro, and he looks at me like I'm gonna whip out a crack pipe behind the chutes. And his daughter…”

Now
she
had a perfectly good reason to be mad. He'd let his temper get the best of him again, and this time he'd shot off his mouth. Sexually harassed her in the middle of a rodeo performance. His mother would not be impressed. He couldn't erase the damage, but he had apologized, hadn't he?

Right before he did it again.

“I did tell you to get a haircut,” Wyatt said. “And Shorty said the daughter seemed high-strung.”

“Violet?” Joe snorted. “Hardly.”

“So what is she?”

“A pickup man.”

“Really?” Wyatt pulled the word out into two syllables, a rare lapse into his New England drawl. “Is she any good?”

“She and her cousin are as solid as any pair I've seen.”

“What's she like outside the arena?” Wyatt asked.

Bossy. Busy. All business, with one exception—him. “Pissed off.”

What he'd said in the arena was nothing compared to that stunt he'd pulled out back, mocking her, crowding her. Close enough to know that under the dust and horse sweat, she smelled like a fresh-peeled orange, which was a lot sexier than he would have guessed. He guzzled another third of his beer.

Wyatt was talking to Roxy again and hadn't bothered to cover the phone. “I know. They usually aren't like that until after he sleeps with them. Did you sleep with her?” he asked Joe.

“I've only been here three days!”

“He says no. Maybe that's why she's annoyed.”

“Thanks for discussing my sex life with my mother,” Joe said, then winced when the bartender shot him a startled look. “Tell her I'm fine. I'll call her tomorrow so she can hear just how fine I am.”

“He misses you,” Wyatt said to Roxy. “And he's homesick.”

“I am
not
homesick.”

But the ache caught him up under the ribs, sharp as one of Dirt Eater's horns. He could picture them sitting at their usual table at Hamley's, the historic steak house in the heart of downtown Pendleton. East balcony, second floor, right below the red stamped-tin ceiling so Wyatt could observe and critique the sea of humanity in the bar below. Joe dragged in a long breath, then froze. Shit. Oranges. He glanced over his shoulder. Yep. There was Violet, and if she was close enough to smell, she was damn sure close enough to hear.

“I have to go.”

He hung up and swiveled around on his stool, prepared to be as much of an asshole as necessary to chase her away. Then he got a good look at her and the words dissolved on his tongue.

She'd tossed the men's Wranglers in favor of dark jeans that rode low on her hips, doing a stellar job of showing off her curves. Holy hopping hell, she had curves. Firm and proud under a snug-fitting, vivid pink shirt. She'd done something with her hair, made it fall around her face in a smooth, shimmery curve, the lights over the bar picking out glints of red in the dark brown. And how had he missed that mouth? Full and soft and shiny with gloss that had just enough color to make him want to take a bite, to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked.

“Joe?”

He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. She'd done some work there, too. Put on more makeup so they looked bigger, darker. Concerned.

“What do you want?” he asked, snapping out the words.

She folded her arms, which only served to lift and frame a particularly stellar set of…curves. “I hope you're not sitting out here alone because of me.”

“You? Why?” Although with as much trouble as he was having keeping his eyes from straying, it was probably best he wasn't sitting at that table across from her dad. Steve already acted like he was a convicted goat rapist.

“I called you a sexist asshole,” Violet said.

“Oh. That. Nope. Didn't bother me.” Much. He spun around and hunched over his beer. “I wanted some space.”

He waited for her to go. She hesitated another beat, then settled onto the stool beside him, pointing at Joe's beer to indicate to the bartender that she wanted the same.

He threw her a scowl. “What part of that sounded like
Sit down and stay awhile?
”

“I don't need your permission.”

Joe blew out a sigh that rippled the foam on what was left of his beer. “What? You're bored, so you come out here to irritate me?”

“Nope. I came to use the bathroom. Irritating you was a bonus.”

He glanced in the direction she waved. Yep, he was sitting by the hallway to the restrooms. “Mission accomplished. You can go back to the party now.”

“I'd rather not.” She shrugged off his glare. “You're not the only one who could use some space. We've been on the road for a month, practically on top of each other.”

Oh geezus. He did not need the rush of heat, imagining what it would be like to be on top of Violet, buried in those killer curves.

The bartender set a beer in front of her. “You want the tab or should I give it to your dad?”

“Me. He'll lose the receipt before he gets out the door.”

Joe took a long, slow swallow of his beer. What did she want? Not that it would be hard to figure out. Up close, Violet had the opposite of a poker face. Every thought and emotion played out in those big brown eyes, across that mouth. He'd seen her trying not to look at his bare chest earlier. She was attracted and not the least bit pleased about it. Joe smiled to himself. So that was it. She wanted to prove she could handle him. Fine. Let her try.

He angled her an insolent smile. “If you're gonna sit there, you have to tell me something about yourself.”

“I can't imagine there's anything you haven't heard.”

“Everybody's got secrets.”

“In a town this size? Not hardly.” She took a sip of her beer and licked the foam from her top lip, sending another pulse of heat through Joe's system.

“Tell me about your kid.”

Her eyes went cool. Protective. “His name is Beni. He's five.”

“And you and Delon are…”

“Friends.”

“With benefits?”

“Only once,” she said, as matter-of-fact as if they were discussing the weather.

Joe felt his jaw drop. Had she just admitted her kid was the result of a one-night stand?

“Like I said, no secrets here.” Her mouth curled into a sneer as she glanced past Joe to the tables beyond. “There are a dozen people in this bar who'd be thrilled to tell you the whole story.”

Joe glanced around. Sure enough, most of the other patrons were looking back and didn't bother to pretend otherwise. “Why did you hook up that one time?”

Violet gave a slight shrug. “Delon and I were both nursing a case of the blues. Relationships gone wrong, blah, blah, blah. One shot of tequila led to another and…well, you can imagine.”

Oh yeah. Joe could imagine. Way too clearly. He gulped down the last of his beer and shoved the glass toward the bartender, who replaced it with a full one.

Violet fixed Joe with a steady gaze. “Anything else you're dying to know?”

Hell yes. “Why don't you want me here?”

She barely blinked. “You're not the person I hired.”

“I know. I'm better.”

She flashed him a disgusted look. “And I'm sure we should feel blessed, but I was in the market for someone who might come back next year.”

“And you figured Shorty was that guy?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Joe lifted his eyebrows. “If he's good enough to replace me at Pendleton, he's out of your league.”

This time, she took a beat to recover. “Well. I guess that puts me in my place.”

Her voice was husky, with a slight tremble that made Joe feel like a complete prick when he was only telling the truth. “For the record, I'm no happier about it than you are.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Same reason you're sitting on that barstool.” At her blank look, he added, “Tryin' to prove a point, darlin'.”

The reminder sliced at his gut, severing the frayed tether on his always limited supply of discretion. He cocked his head toward her, breathed deep. Her scent was magnified by the warmth of the bar. Along with the beer he'd guzzled on an empty stomach, it made his head do a giddy spin. “Why do you smell like a bowl of oranges?”