Chapter Three

TANK GRINNED, tickled as shit to be back with the Jakoby circle. So many familiar faces. So many people shaking his hand.

“Dude! I thought you were gone forever!” Deb threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. “Pops was keeping secrets!”

The eldest Jakoby was the spitting image of her momma, all redheaded and freckled, the wild hair and slight frame making her seem about twelve and vulnerable, when she was damn near thirty and the toughest broad in rodeo.

Tank chuckled. “I wasn’t sure what event I would get here, hon. I kept getting contract bullshit from the big show.” Not that those folks hadn’t been great. They had.

“Well, I’m tickled shitless to have you home. I can’t wait to hear all the stories.”

“There are a shit-ton.” Tank had a feeling he would be telling them for days. Good thing he was a champion bullshitter. He did love to spin a good yarn.

“You working tomorrow? Have you talked to the team?”

“Not yet, and yeah, I’m supposed to be. Jonah went to work with the Cervis for a while.” Jonah Park was a great bullfighter, but he preferred working the big stock shows and staying home with his new baby twins more.

“Ah. Yeah, those baby boys are calling his name. Have a seat, you. The twins have dealt with the assholes.”

“Thanks.” He grabbed a folding lawn chair. He needed to reoutfit his trailer some when he picked it up. He’d gotten spoiled sleeping in hotels.

He had to admit, there was something deeply happy-making about this, though. This wasn’t an after-party or eating with a ton of fans staring at you while you tried to get enough meat off the buffalo wings at Hooters to satisfy your empty belly.

This was grills and beer and everyone he knew. He scanned the crowd of cowboys and cowgirls, refamiliarizing himself with faces and playing the name game.

Every so often, someone would come and sit, then wander. Finally it was Mr. Denver who settled in next to him like a king on a throne.

“Evenin’, Mr. Martin. Glad you made it.”

“Thank you, sir.” He nodded easily. “So am I. Been a long while.”

“Yes. You did good. Still, I’m happy to have you back.” Denver Jakoby—hell, all the Jakobys—were fiercely loyal, totally focused on their family, blood and not.

“It’s good to be back.” It was too. His shoulders and neck already felt better, his whole body more relaxed. At the risk of sounding like a whiny baby, there was a lot more pressure up at the big show. The bulls were faster, the riders were worth more money, and the cameras followed a man everywhere.

“Things here haven’t changed much. I mean, I’m spending more time at home. Linda has her hands full with Darius and Dakota…. Lord have mercy. The boys and Deb have been dealing with a ton of the dailies so I can beat teenagers.”

“Teenagers. Good God, boss.” He gave Denver a mock-horrified look. “You mean Dalton and Dustin aren’t teenagers anymore?”

Denver snorted. “No, sir. Those boys have grown up good. Different in how they work, for all they’re twins too, and thank God for it.”

“Good deal. You can use the help.” Tank scanned the ever-changing crowd again, idly hunting the twins.

They showed up together, backlit, both of them strutting like bull riders, so sure of their place in the world that it hurt.

Tank stared when they walked into the light. Dalton stood on the left. Tank would know that tanned face anywhere, even though he supposedly looked just like Dustin. Holy shit and Shinola, look at that.

That wasn’t the skinny little pimpled teen who had come on to him after a stolen beer one night.

Shit no.

Dalton was the fucking vision of cowboy—jaw like chiseled granite, roper’s scar on the corner of one lip, eyes like chips of blue ice in the dim light. He stood there, hipshot, and was pure muscle, a lean little stud of a man in Wranglers.

Tank’s heartbeat kicked up a little. Christ. “Definitely all grown.”

The boys came over to them, Dalton right there in front of him, like a candy store. What the actual fuck?

“Hey, son.” Denver said it like they were one person. “How’s it going?”

“All dealt with, Pops,” Dalton said, and Dustin nodded.

“Beer, Dee?”

“Please, Bubba.” Dalton nodded to Dustin, offered him a conspiratorial grin.

“You got it.” Dustin headed for the coolers, and Dalton sat near Tank.

Tank blinked. “Hey.”

“Hey, man. Surprise, surprise, huh? You’re really coming to take over for Jonah?”

“Taking over for Jonah. At least for the time being.” He knew he might have to go back up and do the finals at the bull riding, but he had months before that reared its head. “Good to be home.”

“Glad to have you back, man. Seriously.” Dalton held one hand out to him, callused and square and solid.

He shook, hoping like hell his palm wasn’t sweaty. Dalton was just his thing, and that was scary and kinda wonderful all at once.

Dalton shook like a man who greeted folks for a living—not too hard, not too limp. Just a solid handshake that put a guy at ease.

Tank sat back, just staring, hoping he wasn’t being obvious.

Dustin returned with a beer, grinning like a fool. “Tank! Hey, man. How goes? We’re all bustin’ our buttons having you back.”

“Hey, Dustin. How’s it hanging?”

“Good. Good. Been busy, but that’s good, right?”

“Damn good. We like it when people want to come to the rodeo.” In fact, they were a growing sport again, which rocked his socks.

Dalton nodded in concert with Denver. As much as Deb was like Miss Linda, the boys were mini-Denvers—blond, blue-eyed, solid and short, and stubborn as any bull.

He admired the hell out of Denver Jakoby, keeping it all in the family, keeping his kids involved. It couldn’t be easy.

Of course, Darrell Jakoby, the granddaddy of the rodeo, hadn’t given any of the kids a choice. Even Dallas, the son who was the reason this rodeo had a zero tolerance for bigotry policy, was the rodeo’s vet. Hell, it was common knowledge that Dallas and Doc McClellan had been on-again, off-again for thirty years.

Tank grinned. Crusty old goats.

“What’s so funny, Tank?” Dustin asked.

“Just happy,” he said. It was the God’s honest truth.

“Rock on. We like that.”

Deb came over with a pallet of cupcakes and plopped down. “Food. Well, it’s got calories and shit.”

“Nice.” Tank waited for the guys to get some, then grabbed two cupcakes and a cookie. Damn.

“Uh-huh. It’ll do.”

“You’re gonna get fat, Sister,” Dalton teased, and Deb just flipped him off, both of them laughing like loons.

Denver rolled his eyes. “Y’all be good.” He grabbed two cupcakes. “Gonna go call your momma back. She was dealing with some high school drama thing.”

“Tell her we said we love her and don’t kill the babies!” The three eldest Jakobys spoke in unison, making Tank smile. The babies.

From all gossip and accounts, of which there was more than a bit, Darius was nineteen and a wild child in Commerce, and little Miss Dakota was a junior rodeo queen, a high school junior, and a disaster looking for a place to land. To the others, they were just “the babies.”

Tank shook his head. He was an only child, and his folks had found out about him and Joe Lonetree and kicked his ass out. The Jakobys fascinated him.

They loved unconditionally, and God help you if they decided you belonged in their clan. You became family, with all the nonsense that entailed.

Tank loved it. Craved it.

Thank God he was home.

Dalton licked some icing off his upper lip, the sight enough to make the pit of his belly ache. Tank shook his head slightly. No mooning over the boss’s kid. Especially one he’d turned down. Now, Dalton was a sight older, but Tank figured it was his punishment to think Dalton was so hot.

“So, Tank, you have to have seen some stuff. Start talking.” Deb looked like a little girl waiting for her story.

Tank laughed right out loud. “What kinds of stories do you want to hear, baby girl? You want to hear about Ryan Lartner and the elevator?” he asked, referring to a well-known bull rider from Georgia.

“Lord yes.” Suddenly there were cowboys coming from everywhere, eyes all shining like he was Santa. His team was there, his fellow bullfighters grinning at him.

“Well, there I was, getting into an elevator with the man and some of his buddies, and he was spitting tobacco juice on the floor!”

“Oh, ew.” That was Miss Candace, the world’s oldest barrel racer. She was kickass. “Tell me you beat his butt.”

“Oh, I didn’t have to. The boys with him recognized me and gave him hell. I think they was trying to impress me.”

“Well, you’re famous and shit now, man.” Dalton bumped shoulders with him, and he swore electricity jolted through him.

“Yeah.” He shrugged, trying not to be ungrateful. He loved his job. Famous was less wonderful, even if it was only in the bull riding world.

Dustin chuckled softly. “Who wants to be famous when you can be a rodeo man in peace, Dee?”

“No shit on that, Bubba.”

Tank nodded. “Amen.”

Hat brims bobbed with him. Some of the younger ones, the new guys with shiny spurs, didn’t get it, but once you passed a certain spot and you hadn’t grabbed that gold ring, you knew the chances were… slim.

Sometimes a man had to know where he belonged.