Chapter Nine

LORD HAVE mercy.

Tank was fired up. Somehow, watching Dalton Jakoby take that arrogant cowboy down had started a blaze that had just grown and grown, and everything Dalton did fanned it big-time.

Well, Dalton did it for him all the time, but he couldn’t figure out what to do about it now that the kid was all grown up.

As a teenager Dalton had been sweet and awkward, this scrawny little tow-headed boy. As an adult? Fuck-a-doodle-goddamn-doo.

Dalton was a little hard body, pure muscle and tan, eyes like chips of blue ice.

Tank wanted to ride him like a prize pony.

Hell, Tank wanted to take Dalton to his trailer and fuck him over the table, over the sofa, then take him to bed and watch Dalton ride his cock until the man screamed.

He sighed, then took another sip of beer, hoping the crisp, sour stuff would calm him down.

Dalton was laughing with Ben, leaning against the big bear of a man, both of them just howling.

Tank’s jealous bone reared up for a moment, even though he knew Ben was married with three kids and no intention to stray.

Dalton was unfailingly polite to him, but so fucking careful not to touch, not to do anything that might be misunderstood as a come-on. It drove him crazy.

There was something gentle about Dustin, something quiet and hidden. What creamed his butter was the way Dalton was pure fire, the one who was out front in the trenches, a horse between his thighs, a rope in his hand.

Fast as a rabbit, accurate as hell, and stubborn as the bulls he roped, Dalton had it going on.

“Howdy, stranger. Have you managed to create trouble yet?” Robin Greene plopped down beside him, the clown all fresh-faced and scrubbed clean.

He chuckled. “Are you suggesting I’m a troublemaker?”

“Shit, Tank. I’m not suggesting a goddamn thing. I’m flat-out saying it.” Robin winked at him, the tease obvious and familiar and welcome.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Robin bumped shoulders with him. “I missed having you on the circuit. I mean, I know we hung out some, but…. Well, I was never going to move up.”

Tank shook his head like he was arguing, but it was true and they both knew it. Matt Bosun was at the top of his game, and the bastard had a rock-solid contract. Robin was never going to make it up. “You still got a chance.”

“Liar. Still, I’m glad you’re back. You hold the others together, and you’re easy to beat at poker.”

Christ, a man lost a few hands of poker…. “I won the last few games I played. You just didn’t show up.”

“Shit, I always miss everything.”

“You have to take off all the greasepaint.”

“I do. Otherwise I get these looks.” Robin made exaggerated horror face. “Or I feel like Jimmy Stewart playing Buttons.”

When he just stared blankly, Robin sighed.

“Greatest Show on Earth—1952. James Stewart played a circus clown who never took off his makeup because he was on the run from the law.”

“You have an unnatural love for old movies,” Ben grumbled, moving over to sit by them.

“Just because I have exceptional taste….” Robin’s eyes rolled like dice.

“Y’all shut up.” He winked to take the sting out, and really, he didn’t need to be sitting there mooning over Dalton.

“Bossy old fuck,” Robin shot back, and they all snorted because he was the baby, for all he was the boss. Tony was thirty-five and Greg was thirty-eight.

God, he loved this. This was what he treasured. Time with his chosen family, laughing and easy in his skin, not watching his back every second. He just got to be home.

He watched Dalton as well. Like a hawk. Who was friendly, who made Dalton laugh?

There was a little bull rider who was looking hard, but Dalton didn’t give him the time of day. In fact, every so often, when he looked, those eyes were on him.

That warmed him in the pit of his belly, and he stopped with one beer, because he didn’t need alcohol to make him stupid. More stupid. Whatever.

The last thing the kid needed was a clumsy drunk cowboy groping the hell out of—

A wildly revving engine sounded, and then a shot rang out, the sound splitting the air. The cowboys scattered, hitting the dirt. Dalton ran for his trailer, ducked into the little door.

Tank turned, trying to make out the danger. He wasn’t scared of an asshole with a truck.

Dalton popped out through the door with a shotgun in hand, looking like an Old West sheriff. He jacked the round into the chamber, and Tank shouted as loud as he could.

“Stay down!”

“Boy! White Ford!” Denver was armed too, eyes still sharp as eagles.

Good.

Tank dove out of the way as the big truck came tearing through, taking out the grill. Shit and Shinola. The fool was gonna blow them all up.

Dalton took aim and blew the windshield out of the truck, and then he cocked the shotgun again.

The squeal of the truck turning sounded huge, but Tank was up and running, ready to jump in the back.

“I called 911!” He wasn’t sure who screamed that, but he knew who blew out one of the truck’s back tires.

“Tank, get your ass out of the way!” Denver shouted. “There’s three of them! Where are my ropers?”

Tank did what he was told. A bullfighter had to trust his arena boss.

The guys started to run, and Dustin traded Dalton shotgun for rope. That loop flew, the action natural as breathing, and the driver went down, held tight as a steer in a roping event.

Tank took one of the guys down with a haymaker. Might as well, since the guy was running by like a startled chicken.

“Two down, one to go.” Dustin stepped up and popped number three with a shot to the chin with the stock. Bang.

“Someone call the damn cops,” Denver snapped.

“Ben did it, Daddy.” Deb hogtied the driver, the gal still about as pale as milk. Lord love a cowgirl.

“Good man. Sound off. Anyone hurt?”

Tank helped tie off the one he’d taken down, then began moving through the crowd, checking for injuries.

“Boss! Boss, Little Sammy is hit!”

Tank looked up, expecting Denver to go running, but it was Dalton who moved fast, bootheels slamming on the dust.

“Someone get a damned first aid kit!” Dalton snarled.

Tank ran to Dalton’s trailer, knowing every Jakoby kept one of those in the bathroom.

He zipped through and dug it out from under the sink. He got back out, barely catching sight of Dustin kicking the shit out of the asshole on the ground. Damn, those cops best hurry or there was fixin’ to be some cowboy justice.

Sirens sounded, and he sprinted to Dalton to hand over the kit. “He bad?”

“Just a graze on his arm. He’ll live, right?”

The eighteen-year-old was green around the gills, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good man. Here’s your kit.” Tank handed the box to Dalton. “You need me to check in with the cops?”

“Nah, Pops will do it. Be cool, Sammy. I’ll clean it up, man. I don’t think you even need to see Doc.”

“Thanks, Dalton.”

“You did good, Sammy.” Dalton grinned at the kid. “Seriously. I woulda pissed myself.”

“Liar,” Tank murmured.

Sammy just laughed. “You’re a good guy, Dalton.”

“I try. Lemme see your arm.”

“Be gentle.”

“Titty baby.” Tank grinned for Sammy, distracting him.

“Now, Mr. Tank, you know I ain’t into the boobies. I leave those for the barrel racers.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He hooted. “You’re family, kid.”

“Yessir. I am. And I’m available.” Sammy posed, flirting shamelessly, and Dalton snorted.

“You’re too young for Tank, man. Trust me.” Dalton’s eyes went wide, and he bent over Sammy’s arm.

“He can’t be older than you, boss.”

“You know that. I have to deal with you assholes all the time. It ages a man.” Dalton was laughing again now.

Tank still felt a little guilty.

Not guilty enough to have changed what he did. Dalton had been a kid then. He sure as shit wasn’t now. Now, Tank thought he might have a chance.

After the blood was washed off and the cops were gone, anyway.

Some things had to wait.

Tank could live with that.