CHAPTER 11
Colt stood and shook hands with the two ad-execs who’d flown in from L.A. with his boxer-brief sponsorship contract.
“We’re looking forward to working with you Mr. Kincaid,” the young woman Maria, obviously fresh out of college, said with a hint of star-struck awe. “C. Klein is thrilled to add a rodeo star to its athletic wear lineup.”
“Please. Call me Colt. I’m not much for formality.”
“Of course,” her boss, Alan answered smoothly. “Anything you need before we schedule the shoot, you let us know.”
He had half a mind to ask if they’d shoot him in Lydia’s boots.
“Thanks for the rodeo tickets last night,” Maria gushed. “I’ve never been to a rodeo before.”
Colt smiled benignly. “Well, if you’re gonna go to a rodeo, the National Western’s one of the best around. I’m just sorry I didn’t perform so well last night.”
Alan clapped him on the back. “We were impressed, and our photographer got some great shots of you coming out of the chute.”
He wasn’t impressed with his performance last night. He’d drawn a bad horse and had a poor bareback ride. Then, adding insult to injury, he’d drawn the meanest bull of the lot, and had lasted only six seconds. But what he thought didn’t matter so long as the sponsors were happy and the checks kept coming.
Again, his thoughts drifted to Lydia. He hadn’t talked to her since Vegas. All the Graces, even Dottie, were in Chicago when he arrived home Christmas Eve, rallying around Carolina, the youngest of the Grace sisters. And Lydia had been so distraught as he drove her to the airport, his only thought had been helping her keep it together. Asking for her number had been the furthest thing from his mind. Something he kicked himself for, now.
Tipping his Stetson, he said goodbye and stepped outside the Cattlemen’s Clubhouse into the bright January sun. Reaching for his aviators, he wove through the participant’s lot on the backside of the National Western complex with a spring in his step. He might not have pocketed the prize money he’d hoped for during the National Western run, but he’d more than made up for it in endorsements. And every cowboy knew, there were ups and downs on the rodeo circuit. As long as he had more ups in the coming year, he’d finish out on top next December.
The truck rumbled to life, and he pulled out of the lot and onto I-70. But instead of heading west toward his ranch in Steamboat, he turned east. Toward Prairie. He questioned his motives for the next thirteen miles. Travis was due home any day now from a six-hundred-fifty-mile trek to Santa Fe along the historic trail of the same name. And he had souvenirs for Dax. He slid a glance over to the box that took up the passenger seat. Of course, if Lydia was home, he’d pay a visit to the Graces. Offer his condolences in person.
It still disturbed him she’d offered him fifty-one percent of her venture. It made no sense. And it raised his hackles that she thought to entice him into being a hands-off investor. Was he really so awful that she wanted nothing to do with him? That didn’t reconcile with the mind-bending kisses they’d shared. He chewed on that thought for another seven miles.
Maybe he was looking at it all wrong. Maybe she’d offered so much because she wanted to get his attention? That would be exactly the kind of reckless action he’d take if not for his financial advisor. Lydia certainly had his attention. Although it didn’t take offering up more than half her company to get it. Her plan was solid. Measured, and well thought-out. He’d looked it over so often since Vegas, he had most of the details memorized. Protectiveness for her surfaced again. What if she’d offered that to someone else? Someone more… nefarious? He clenched the wheel. If anyone dared take advantage of her…
He pressed the gas closer to the floor. If he pushed it, he could be in Prairie shortly after dinner. Maybe, just maybe, luck would be with him, and he’d find Lydia at the Trading Post. An ache settled low in his belly just thinking of her. Maybe this time the fates would conspire on their behalf instead of placing more obstacles between them. He’d give his left kidney to spend a day having slow, dirty sex with her. Someplace quiet with no phones, no interruptions. No dying in-laws or free booze. He fisted his hand against the steering wheel, punching out a rhythm in an effort to calm down his overeager cock. This was the longest dry spell he’d ever endured, his dick reminded him painfully. Nothing except a few stolen kisses with Lydia for more than six months. And the more he thought about those kisses, the more he wanted another.
His phone rang from its spot on the console. Activating the Bluetooth, he answered. “Colt, here.”
“Colt, son. Glad we reached you,” a booming voice spoke jovially.
Hal and Harrison Carter, and Colton could tell from Hal’s tone of voice, something wasn’t right with his largest sponsor. His pulse fluttered at the base of his neck. Carter Holdings owned half of his brand endorsements and accounted for two-thirds of his income last year. He couldn’t afford to piss-off his bread and butter. At least not now, not with so much of his cash tied up in Travis’s Resolution Ranch.
Colt smiled before he spoke, infusing his voice with an enthusiasm that felt far from genuine. “What can I do for you, Hal?”
Hal cleared his throat. “We’ve been fielding some complaints from our brands.”
“Oh?” Colton’s stomach dropped. This was not good. Hal only called and did things like clear his throat when his brother Harrison, forced him to have uncomfortable conversations. Like dropping someone. Colton had seen it play out a few years previously, and it hadn’t been pretty. Hal cleared his throat again. “Some of the brand owners are disappointed in your performance recently.”
What??!?
Colt’s temper got the best of him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he bellowed, foot jamming on the gas as he flew down the highway. “I just won second in the all-arounds at the NFR’s, and you’re disappointed? Did any of your other cowboys come close to that? Who’s disappointed?” he demanded.
“We’re a family company,” Hal reminded Colt. “And a few of our brands are speculating that your love of the ladies is getting in the way of you taking top honors.”
White hot anger zapped through him, fusing his hands to the steering wheel. He knew exactly where this was coming from. And it wasn’t some random brand exec. Nope. This was from Satan herself, Samantha Jo Carter, head of Vanguard Chaps and Leather, and one-thousand-percent daddy’s little girl.
Taking a steadying breath, Colt tried to speak as evenly as possible. Hal and Harrison both had a blind spot where Sammy Jo was concerned. He’d give her credit, he’d never met a woman as fierce as her, but not in a way that garnered respect. Sammy Jo was a shark through and through, and only wanted a man she could boss the way she did her daddy and her uncle. Worst? She’d take you down with a smile on her face if she felt you’d crossed her. And evidently, he’d crossed her. It wouldn’t take much. They’d tangoed off and on over the years, but they tended to mix like oil and water. And the last time, when she’d ended it, Colt had insisted it be for good.
“Maybe the ladies are my good luck charm,” he countered. “I’ve made the NFR five years running, each year placing higher and higher.”
Hal coughed. “And that’s done a great deal to elevate our brand. But,” he paused to clear his throat again. “We think it’s time you settle down and become a family man.”
Oh. Hell. No.
That was code for marry Sammy JO It wasn’t the first time they’d hinted at that possibility. And each time, he’d firmly sidestepped them.
“Or what?” Colton asked tersely, mind spinning. Losing the Carters’ endorsements would be catastrophic. For starters, a move like that would brand him as bad business, and the rest of his endorsements would follow suit like a stack of dominoes. He knew. He’d seen it happen before. If Carter Holdings pulled, he’d be back to square one overnight. Not only would he have to liquidate, he’d have to go back on his word to Travis. The thought churned his stomach like a meat grinder.
Hal’s voice became firm. “We’re tired of the bad-boy image. Of all the party shots on your social media–”
“I can’t help it if my name has become a hashtag,” Colt snapped bitterly. “And I certainly can’t help it if people wanna take their pictures with me.”
“This isn’t just about photos, son. And you know it. How many women were you with the night before the NFR finals? How much liquor did you pour down your gullet?”
Colton clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together so hard that for a second, he missed his competition mouth guard.
“That’s what I thought.”
So Hal had assumed his silence was an admission of guilt? Fuck that. It wasn’t the party ladies that had thrown him off his game the next day, it had been Lydia. And his concern for her and her family in the wake of her sister’s heartbreak. He’d own he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she kissed him, either. He’d been so distracted, he hadn’t set his rope right when he’d been in the chute. His saddle bronc ride had been pathetic, he’d barely hung on, rode more like a rookie. The bull he’d drawn tossed him clean off less than three seconds into his ride. To be honest, he hadn’t slept well since he’d taken Lydia to the airport. But he’d never admit any of that to the likes of Hal Carter. Or any other Carter.
Hal continued. “We want to be able to tell our brand managers that you’re settling down. You know, polishing your image. Becoming more… er… respectable. You know… like Jude Lawson.”
Colt rolled his eyes. Be like Jude Lawson who beat him out for best all-around cowboy by only ten grand, and who’d married his high school sweetheart several years ago. His wife had pretty much been pregnant the entire time. Hal’s meaning was loud and clear.
“Let me get this straight,” Colt ground out. “You’re telling me I need to find a wife and start popping out babies or you’re going to drop me?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well lucky for you I’m halfway there. I got engaged over Christmas.” The lie popped out before he could stop it. Screw Hal for trying to meddle this way.
“And you were going to tell us, when?”
“When I was good and ready. We’re still working out the details.”
“Hmmmph.” Hal made a suspicious noise. “And when do we get to meet this lucky lady?”
“I’ll bring her around this spring. No need to get your chaps in a twist.”
“See that you do that, son.” Hal’s meaning was clear. He’d believe it when he saw it.
Colton disconnected and threw his phone across the cab. He was well and truly fucked. Where in the hell was he going to find a fiancée?