Chapter 13

Well, that went just fucking great. Delon slammed the door of his apartment behind him and tossed his coat onto a couch worn threadbare around the edges. Nothing better than digging up ancient family bones and chewing them over. What was it about this stripped-down, brutally honest Tori that made him feel obliged to respond in kind?

His boots thudded, first one, then the other, against the wall as he kicked them off, then stalked out to the kitchen and fished a bag of mini Snickers from the back of one of the cabinets, where he’d hidden them from Beni. Empty. He balled up the plastic and fired it at the trash can. It bounced off the wall and ricocheted onto the tile floor. Dammit. He’d polished off the last of the bag in his car on the way to Tori’s, and the clerks at the Kwicky Mart were starting to make smart-ass comments about his chocolate habit. He could drive back over to Dumas, he supposed, but he wasn’t quite that pathetic. Yet.

So now what? He turned a slow circle to examine his hearth and home. Nothing to do here. Everything else might be a mess, but his apartment was in perfect order. Breakfast and lunch dishes stacked in the drying rack, Beni’s toys stowed away in a big wooden box in the corner, books and DVDs lined up neatly on the shelves of the entertainment center. He’d vacuumed and dusted the previous weekend—he’d even taken down the photos from the wall to polish the glass.

Six months ago, the gallery on the wall had illustrated his life. Pictures of Beni as a toddler grinning from beneath the brim of Delon’s too-big hat. On his pony, with Delon on one side and Cole Jacobs on the other, all of them proud as punch. A group shot from Thanksgiving two years ago, the whole mob gathered around Miz Iris’s overloaded table. And one of Beni as a baby, cradled in Violet’s arms, with Delon smiling proudly beside them. The perfect family.

Delon snorted out a breath. The perfect idiot, more like. He’d wanted that life, that security, so badly for Beni. A normal family with all the usual parts. His son would never waste letters to Santa begging for his mother to show up at Christmas. Beni wouldn’t be the center of battles over every holiday and long weekend like Gil’s son. Delon wanted better for his kid. He’d thought Violet wanted the same. They’d grow into it as they aged, he’d imagined, from friendship to love. He should’ve known better. Violet had always been a sucker for the renegades. Guys like Joe Cassidy. Gil. Not Delon.

If it makes you feel any better, I never thought you were all that nice.

He and Tori had had sparks—the whole damn fireworks show—but she didn’t know the real him. The boring one. She only knew the cocky bastard he’d pretended to be when he was with her. His gaze moved across the rest of the pictures. Action shots of him at San Antonio, Pendleton, the National Finals. Even Cheyenne. The photographer had snapped that photo as the horse launched out of the chute, the spectators in the infield grandstand clearly visible.

Had Tori been one of them? He stepped close, squinted, and examined the faces row by row, but didn’t find hers. Had she watched him ride? Cheered just a little? Or had she made a point of being elsewhere during the bareback riding? He lifted his hand to the claw marks on his neck. Felt the cool touch of her fingers. Saw the pop of awareness in her eyes. Yeah, she remembered, but it was buried deep, inside a woman he didn’t recognize any more than he recognized himself these days.

Dredging up those old feelings was a straight shot to disaster, with the hurt and resentment lying coiled in the middle of it all, waiting to lash out and bite them. And still, his body hummed from brushing up against hers out there behind the barn. The featherlight touch of her fingertips.

His gaze ranged over the pictures on his wall. His past. It seemed as if that was all he could see anymore. Once upon a time, he’d had a clear vision of where he was headed. Then Fate had reached down, crumpled his road map into a ball, and tossed it in the trash. Without the family he’d built with Violet and Beni, without the rodeos, with no solid position at Sanchez Trucking beyond mechanic and part-time truck driver…

He flopped down on the couch and let his head fall back, eyes closed. Who would have dreamed, on that New Year’s Eve seven years ago when anything had seemed possible, that his life would come to this?

If he hadn’t been on such a high, he might have questioned his luck when Tori landed in his lap, but it was his birthday and he’d had a couple of beers and a whole night of back slaps and handshakes to loosen him up. For the first time, he felt like his own man. Not Gil Sanchez’s little brother. Not another wanna-be. He looked into the eyes of people he’d known most of his life and saw respect. Admiration. More than a touch of envy.

He saw his reflection, and it said, You are for real, Delon Sanchez. So when heaven dropped into his arms, he scooped it up without a second thought.

He’d fended off plenty of groupies along the rodeo trail, and had learned to suspect the motives of any strange woman who got too close too fast, but the instant he touched Tori, he knew she was different. She looked like sunlight and smelled like the shady corner of a flower garden where he could play Adam to her Eve.

It had taken some coaxing before she relaxed against him. She seemed both fascinated and nervous, like a tourist at the petting zoo. And here we have a genuine American cowboy. Watch yourself, now, they’ve been known to bite, especially tender young things…

The kiss at midnight had damn near vaporized him. He had to get her out of there. Where, he had no idea, but he wanted her alone. Then she completely blew his mind by pointing across the parking lot. “I live right over there.”

He stared at her, stunned. She couldn’t mean…she wasn’t offering…was she? The way she was looking at him, her eyes wide with equal parts nerves, defiance, and desire…

His mind blanked out with lust, and he heard his voice saying, “Well, all right, then. Lead the way.”

Even though he knew he should say thanks a million—make that ten million—but no. He’d spent a lifetime trailing along, learning from his brother’s mistakes. This was the first time in months he’d been tempted to even bend his own rules, let alone break them, and since he wouldn’t trust any condom that’d been stuffed in his wallet for weeks, he didn’t bother to carry them. But…

So there wasn’t any sex in their immediate future—that didn’t mean he had to stop touching her.

Her apartment was a carbon copy of the one they’d just left—living room separated from the kitchen by an island, two bedrooms and a bath down the hall—but all resemblance ended there. Delon had been in places that screamed money. This one whispered. The couch was real suede, the tall coffee shop-style table and chairs some kind of hardwood with a marble top. A pricey-looking area rug covered most of the generic tan carpet. Everything was pure quality, including its owner.

Out of your league, a voice hissed in his ear.

He jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Nice place.”

“Thanks. I’m going to go, um…” She gestured down the hall. “Are you hungry? We could order a pizza or something.”

“Sure. I can do that.” Food. Good excuse to hang around. Talk. Keep his hands busy. Delon pulled a cell phone out of his shirt pocket. “Got any preferences?”

“No green pepper or fruit.”

And definitely no onions or roasted garlic. He fully intended to get another taste of her, even if it was only a nibble instead of the full-meal deal.

She disappeared into the bathroom. He dialed the pizza place and wandered the living room as he placed his order. The watercolor print over the fireplace was a Buck Taylor, one of Delon’s favorites. Then he looked closer and realized—holy shit—it wasn’t a print. He was looking at the original.

The girl on the phone said, “New Year’s Eve, it’s gonna be at least an hour for delivery.”

“That’s okay.” He could think of all kinds of ways to kill time. Like kissing Tori, and touching her…and then strolling outside to dive into the unheated pool before he burst into flames.

His whole body vibrated with desire, a motor revved to the red line. He set his cowboy hat brim up on the table, then rolled his shoulders and arched his back to work out the kinks. His body—yeah, the muscles, too—was stiff. He bent, touched his toes, and felt the tug in his hamstrings. Out of habit, he kicked his heel onto the back of one of the chairs and reached up to grab his ankle, pulling his chest to his knee. He held the stretch for a count of twenty, then rotated his upper body to the side and bent at the waist to press his palms to the ground on either side of his toes. Another count of twenty, then he kicked his foot off the chair, swung it down, and popped upright to find Tori staring at him.

“Excellent…flexibility,” she said.

“Five years of gymnastics.”

Her face lit up like a schoolkid who knew the right answer. “Like Ty Murray.”

“Yep.”

The Texas native had rocked the rodeo world, winning seven all-around world titles. When he’d claimed gymnastics played a big part in his success, every aspiring cowkid in the country had begged his parents to join. Merle Sanchez had said no, he didn’t have time to run them to lessons, but once again Iris Jacobs had saved the day, offering to take them instead.

He brushed his hand across the top of the chair, in case he’d smudged it. “I was stove up from being stuck on that couch for so long.”

Her eyebrows rose. “What can you do when you’re loose?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He laughed when her face went red, even as a part of him was thinking, Who is this guy, flirting and teasing? Just this once, he wasn’t going to overanalyze. Wouldn’t worry about tomorrow. For one night, he could just do and be what he wanted.

Tori pressed her palms to flushed cheeks. “I am the Queen of Inappropriate tonight.”

“You seem fine to me.” More than fine. Exceptional. He strolled over and looped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. The heat flared up all over again as she melted into him. “But I might have to kiss you again to be sure.”

He didn’t think it could get any hotter, but whoa. All of her was nestled up nice and snug against all of him, and now their hands had room to roam. He could’ve spent hours letting her hair flow like satin over his hands as they memorized the curve of her back—down, then up, then down again. The calluses on his riding hand scraped against her bare skin and she shivered.

She caught his hand and pulled it up to where she could inspect it. The skim of her thumb across the line of calluses at the base of his fingers was like a lick of fire. “From riding?”

“Yes.”

She brushed a kiss over the calluses, then followed up with a flick of her tongue in the center of his palm.

He groaned, burying his face in her hair, his breath hot and fast against her neck, his heart beating a hole in his chest. “So much for not jumping you the minute we walked in the door.”

“Actually, you didn’t. It’s been at least six minutes.”

He gave a pained laugh. “So what are we gonna do with the other fifty-four before the pizza gets here?”

Her hands smoothed over his back, from his shoulders to his belt. “This works for me.”

“Me too, but I’m not sure how much more I can take.” He hesitated, then blew out a pained sigh. “I didn’t come prepared for this, you know?”

There was an excruciating pause while he waited for her to shove him away.

“I am,” she blurted. “Prepared, I mean.”

Shit. Now he was gonna have to say, Sorry, it’s not like I don’t trust you when you say you’re on the pill or whatever, but it still ain’t gonna happen unless I’m covered, too. Literally. He eased back. “I’m kind of paranoid because of…well, anyway, without condoms it’s too risky. For both of us.”

Another pause while she stared at him as if trying to figure out if he was for real. Then she smiled. “I agree. So does my mother. That’s why she makes sure my medicine cabinet is always stocked.”

Delon’s jaw dropped. “Your…mother?”

“She’s very concerned that I’m going to throw away my future on…uh, well, you know.”

A guy like you. That voice again, as if he was still some nobody from a nothing little town. But he wasn’t, dammit. He was Delon Sanchez, National Finals bareback rider.

“Wait right here,” he said.

He found the condoms right where she said, in the medicine cabinet. Three different sizes, two brands of each. All unopened, he noted. Geezus. Her mother really did believe in covering every possibility. He grabbed a box, tore it open, pulled out a packet, and started to shove it in his pocket, then thought better. If a man was gonna be prepared, might as well go the whole nine yards. He unbuckled and unzipped his jeans, breathing a sigh of relief. Then he rolled the condom on, yanked his shirttails out and left them hanging loose as he walked back into the living room.

Tori had moved to one of the heavy wrought-iron stools at the breakfast bar and kicked off her boots. That little nothing of a skirt had ridden up on her thighs, showing off a mile of heart-stopping legs. When she saw him, her bare toes curled. God. She was killing him.

He stepped close and boxed her in, a hand braced on either side of her. “We’ve only got forty-nine minutes ’til the pizza guy knocks on the door.”

Her eyelashes fluttered down and her voice went husky. “I heard bareback riders only need eight seconds.”

He laughed, and then he kissed her again, and what little restraint they’d had was gone in a flash of pure flame. He devoured her mouth while his fingers went straight to the ties on her dress, top, then middle. The silk slid down to her waist. He covered her with his hands, all that warm, creamy flesh, and drew a moan from deep in her throat when his calluses scraped across her nipple. Ah. So she liked that, did she? Slowly, deliberately, he grazed his palm over her breast and she groaned again, arching into his touch. She tugged at the buttons on his shirt, pushed it aside, and it was his turn to groan as her fingernails scraped lightly over his shoulders, chest, nipples, then lower.

He peeled one hand off her breast and moved to her thigh. Satin skin, firm, toned flesh. She curled her calf around the back of his leg as he stroked higher, and higher, and then…his heart stuttered. He leaned back and pushed her skirt up so he could see what he’d just felt, and his heart ka-whomped again. A pink lace thong. Dear sweet Jesus.

She arched an eyebrow. “You like?”

“Oh baby.” He slipped his fingers under the narrow elastic at her hip, then followed the curve of it down and in, and muttered a curse when he found her as hot and ready as he was. She rocked into his touch, moaning as she pushed her hands under his belt and shoved his jeans down. She gasped, her hips jerking as his fingers slid deep into the center of all that slick heat.

“Oh God…” She breathed it like a prayer and went for his throat, using her teeth to scrape every nerve to a fever pitch.

He hooked both thumbs in her thong and dragged it past her knees. While she lifted her leg to push it the rest of the way off with her foot, he shoved his briefs down. Air shuddered out of her lungs when he cupped her butt in his hands and pulled her against him, flesh to aching flesh. She reached, stroked, and hissed her approval when she found the condom already in place.

And then he was lifting her, driving hard inside her. Screw finesse. His want was too huge, the heat and silken clench of her around him too intense. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but take, and take, and take some more as she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him in deeper. The friction and pressure built and spiraled until all it took was the stroke of his thumb to send her flying. He drove into her three, four, five more times, then arched, stiffened, his groan low and gut-deep as he exploded into her.

He collapsed against her, shoulders heaving.

“Oh. Wow.” She was panting, her neck damp with sweat against his cheek.

He gulped in air. “No shit.”

She rested her forehead on his collarbone as they waited for the earth to stop rocking. “That was…fast.”

“Eight seconds, remember?”

She laughed, breathless. “Not sure I remember my name right now. But that was definitely…”

Insane. And for once in his life, he didn’t give one solitary damn. He raised his head and grinned into her dazed, flushed face. “We still have thirty-three minutes before the pizza gets here. Wanna go again?”

And again. And one more time, in the shower late the next morning. By the time he stumbled out of Tori’s car at Sanchez Trucking, everyone else was long gone, already seated around Miz Iris’s dinner table, no doubt. He tried to rehearse excuses as he drove to the Jacobs ranch in a haze of infatuation, lust, and rubber-kneed exhaustion, but it was Violet, not her mother, who met him at the door and corralled him in the mud room, out of earshot.

“What the actual fuck, Delon? You couldn’t even answer your phone?”

He pushed away the hand she’d planted on his chest. “It was turned off.”

“And luckily, I had a pretty good idea why, or our parents would really be going nuts.”

Oh, hell. “You didn’t tell them—”

“Are you kidding? Like I’m gonna tell them where you spent the night. Honest to hell. Tori Patterson?”

Delon’s foggy brain caught on a single word. One he’d barely registered the night before. “Wait. Patterson? Like…the Pattersons?”

Violet gave a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously? You didn’t know?”

“Why would I expect her—” Jesus Christ, she was a Patterson? “What was she doing at that party?”

“She’s going to college here. Trying to rodeo. How have you not heard?”

Delon shook his head, shock blasting away his euphoria. “I’ve been on the road. And distracted.”

“Obviously.” Violet folded her arms and glared at him. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where your brother is?”

“No. Why?”

“He was supposed to be back from Oklahoma City yesterday. He never showed. Your daddy was so worried he called Krista. She said they’d had a huge fight. Something about her taking Quint to France for three months. Now he’s MIA and not answering his phone.”

The shock crystallized to ice in his gut. The way Gil had been since the accident, who knew where he was…or what he might have done. Delon cursed, soft but with feeling. That selfish, entitled bitch—

“Yeah,” Violet said. “And now you’re gettin’ all sweet on her clone. Like I said, Delon, what…the…fuck?”

He blinked at her as his memories of the past twelve hours shifted, like someone had turned the kaleidoscope a half turn and the whole picture changed. Everything he’d thought he’d known about Tori. Everything he’d felt. Thought she felt too. Real? Or just a trick of the light?

The door behind him opened, admitting a rush of cold air and his brother. Gil was haggard, unshaven, his eyes slightly unfocused and dilated. Using his cane, so his hip must be killing him.

Alive, though. Reasonably whole. For now.

“What’s up?” he asked, his speech not slurred but fuzzy around the edges.

Delon stared at him for a long, painful moment, this twisted shadow of what had once been his brother. His heart settled into the pit of his stomach. “Nothing,” he said.

He kept it that way, no matter how his body screamed at him to just call Tori, already. A day. A week. Every time he reached for the phone, he conjured up that tortured image of Gil and pulled back. By the second week, he knew it was too late. If he called now, after leaving her hanging, she’d tell him to go to hell.

And just to stomp out that one stubborn ember of hope, when he got back into town at the end of that first three-week winter rodeo run, he did call, bracing himself for the worst.

But she’d said yes. And yes again the next time. And the next. How the hell could he stay away from her if the answer was always yes?

Yes, he could pop by, even though he hadn’t called until he was an hour out of town. Yes, he could come in, at two in the morning when he’d driven straight down after the rodeo in Guymon so he could have a few extra hours with her. Yes, yes, oh yes.

Right up until the day she didn’t answer at all.

He slammed his fist into the couch cushion. Idiot. Through all of the night’s prodding and prying and true confessions, he’d failed to ask the single most important question.

Why?