Chapter 26

Tori woke Monday morning to a white Panhandle Security SUV guarding her driveway. A second car fell in behind her when she turned onto the highway, and kept pace even when they were swallowed up by the snarl of morning traffic in Amarillo. At the medical complex, her shadow parked near the front driveway, where he could see every car that came and went. Tori assumed there was another stationed in the back lot.

Beth made wide eyes at Tori and followed her into the therapists’ office. “Okay, first, of all the things you just blurt on out, my daddy is Senator Patterson might’ve been a good one. And second, why didn’t you call in sick today? It’s going to be insane.”

“It’s as easy to deal with here as anywhere.” And the sooner they got it out of their systems and moved on to the next ten-day wonder, the better. Tori dumped her jacket and bag in a heap on her chair. “Delon will be here any minute. He had an…incident over the weekend. I told him to come in for a quick evaluation.” Tori’s cell phone rang, setting her nerves jangling. Beth left as Tori checked the number and blinked in surprise. “Elizabeth?”

“Of course. I assume you’re just getting to work, but we need to talk as soon as possible and establish a strategy for dealing with our darling mother. Do you have time this evening?”

Tori couldn’t help a smile at her sister’s brisk tone, and made hers sugar sweet in contrast. “And good morning to you, too, sister dear. How’ve you been?”

“Oh. Fine. Damn. I always forget that part.” Her voice faded out slightly, as if she was speaking to someone else on her end. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you don’t have to give me that look.” Then her attention was back on Tori. “While we’re talking, I want you to know I had nothing to do with that phone call from the dean of our School of Medicine. That was all Claire, trying to play the but you’d get to spend time with your sister angle.”

“Only if I rented an adjacent stool in your lab.”

Elizabeth grunted. “You’d be surprised. Pratimi is determined to expose me to at least twenty hours of natural light a week.”

“Wow. That much? Do I need to lecture you about sunscreen?”

They both laughed, given that Elizabeth had done her dissertation on the occurrence rates of skin cancer in various ethnic groups.

“Have you heard from her yet?” Tori asked.

“Just the same email she sent you.” Because yes, their mother had cc’d Tori, too efficient even in crisis to waste time writing two separate letters. “She’s devastated and shocked, can’t believe Daddy would do this to us, et cetera, et cetera. Sowing the seeds of resentment for later harvest. We’ve got a few days, I think. She’ll start by trying to talk some sense into him. If that fails, she’ll come after you.”

“Why me?” Tori demanded, her voice jumping in alarm.

“You’re alone and vulnerable. She’ll think that makes you an easier target.” Elizabeth didn’t sound worried. But then, she wasn’t the potential target. “Pratimi and I spent some time with a psychologist friend today, working out Claire’s most likely angles of attack. I’m going to tell you exactly what to say to her.”

Normally, Tori would have bridled at being ordered around. Today, she was grateful. She glanced at the clock. “I’ve got a patient. Call me tonight whenever you get home. We’ll plan our defense.”

When she hung up, she checked her computer screen. Delon’s name was highlighted in green on the schedule. Her heart did a quick two-step when she opened the door to the waiting room. He stood at the desk wearing a black leather jacket with the Sanchez Trucking logo stitched above his heart. With his black hair tousled by the wind and those dark eyes gleaming with amusement at whatever Beth was saying, he looked hell-bent on trouble—a flyboy, a biker…or a trucker primed to sweep a woman up and away in his steel beast. Tori paused to let the shiver race across her skin and play itself out. Then Delon looked over and saw her. His smile hit her like a blast of August sunshine, warming every inch of her body and turning the shiver into a quake.

“Hey.” His voice was low and a little rough, like he’d just rolled out of bed, layered with promises Tori knew damn well his body could keep. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

Beth’s eyebrows shot up into her bangs. The heat gathered low in Tori’s belly and billowed upward like steam to turn her face a shiny red. Even the old lady in the waiting room was a little slack-jawed.

Tori cleared her throat. “You should probably dial that down a few notches before all us girls burst into simultaneous orgasm.”

Beth busted out in shocked laughter. The old lady gave a scandalized hmmphf!—as if those eighteen grandkids she liked to brag about were the result of immaculate conception. Delon stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and flipped off that overt sexuality like a switch, leaving a nice guy with a sheepish smile.

“I meant I wondered how you were doing, with your dad and all,” he clarified.

“Right.” Down, girl. “I’m coping, thanks.”

She held the door as he walked in, his stride cautious but not a full-out limp. Tori followed him to the third treatment room and closed the door behind them. Funny, she’d never noticed how small these rooms were. Short of cowering in a corner, she couldn’t move outside Delon’s magnetic field.

“Should I take my pants off?”

“No!”

Then she realized he meant so she could examine his knee, not fulfill her fantasies, which hadn’t been at the front of her mind until this precise moment. But now she was never going to be able to look at one of those padded treatment tables quite the same way. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Bad move. In the confined space, she inhaled him, all leather and man-soap with a hint of eighteen-wheeler. She opened her eyes to find him watching her, amusement gleaming wickedly in his eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “I mean, assuming you have something on underneath.”

Which had not always been the case, back in the best of the good old days. His grin flashed as if he knew exactly what she was remembering, and the sparks shot through her like the crackle of embers in a campfire, leaving tracers of heat and smoke behind.

Then his jaw tightened. “I saw the security car in the parking lot. Is someone bothering you?”

Only you. But hot and bothered wasn’t the same as harassed. “Not yet.”

“But they will. After your dad’s announcement, the press will be all over all of you again.”

“No doubt, but I’m savoring my last few moments of denial, so take off those sweats and let’s see what you can do.”

He grinned.

“With your knee, Delon.” But damned if she didn’t smile back.

Not good. Not here, at the clinic. She had to keep a firm line drawn between business and pleasure. And besides, this sudden shift into flirtation felt…off. As if the bar fight on Saturday night had broken something free inside of him and he couldn’t figure out what to do with the pieces. She could relate. He’d rattled her cage, too. Her wrist still tingled where his fingers had caressed her skin. Plus she’d watched three years’ worth of National Finals Rodeo telecasts after Shawnee left, all forty-five of his rides, studying his mechanics and making notes on what they might tweak. Necessary viewing, but she couldn’t help noticing he had really, really nice…form.

He stripped off the nylon sweats and slid onto the table, and she tried to pretend putting her hands on his bare, muscled thigh didn’t arouse interests that were everything but clinical. Dammit, Tori, focus. She forced herself to picture the structures beneath his skin—ligaments, tendons, bones—and tried to concentrate on examining only his knee.

“Well?” he asked, after she measured how far it would bend.

She lowered the goniometer. “You gained almost fifteen degrees of flexion and there’s no sign of damage to the repair.”

He blew out a breath that sounded as if he’d been holding it since Saturday. “Should I have an MRI, just to be sure?”

“If it would make you more comfortable.”

He considered, then shook his head. “I trust you.”

A different kind of warmth bloomed in her chest. Pride. Vindication. She had earned that trust…at least as a therapist.

“Now what?” he asked.

So many possible answers, but only one that applied to his rehab. “I don’t need to see you again until next Monday, unless it starts to feel worse. In fact, from this point on I suggest you switch over to working out at the club in Dumas and just check in with me once a week to adjust your routine. Ease into your basic exercises this week. You can push through the soreness, but avoid anything that causes real pain. Lots of ice. Lots of stretching.”

“And then?”

“When the swelling is gone, we start figuring out how to make the most of what you’ve gained. I’ve been studying bareback riders.” Which was better than admitting she’d been studying him. Closely. “With some changes in upper body position and hip rotation, we can make it work. I need to be able to put you through the motions, though, as realistically as possible. I’ll rig something up.”

“Or we could use my spur board.” At the jerk of her head, he added, “If you don’t mind coming out to the shop.”

Mind? No. Her pulse jumped at the thought of more alone time with Delon, which didn’t bode well for her vow to take this new phase slow.

“Violet is at the Fort Worth Stock Show until the end of next week,” he added. “Beni is with me.”

Her hormones sighed and took a back seat, foiled again. “Okay. Call me when you’re ready.”

One corner of his mouth curled, and his voice dropped to a quiet rumble. “I’ve been ready for a long time. But I’ll let you know when my knee is up to it.”

* * *

When Tori parked in front of the shop a week later, Beni Sanchez was down the stairs and beside her car before she could open the door, his video game clutched in both hands, talking fast. “I got the ice bombs and the fireproof armor, but I can’t get past the Reef of Doom. Can you—”

“Beni! What did I tell you?”

Beni glanced up to Delon on the landing outside their apartment, then turned pleading eyes on Tori. “He said I shouldn’t bug you, but it’s not bugging if you like to play, right?”

Tori felt an unexpected flash of sympathy for Joe Cassidy. This kid must have had him tied up in knots before he even saw the rope. Tori, on the other hand, had been schooled by Willy’s horde of nieces and nephews.

“Did you finish your dinner?” she asked, taking a cue from the dish towel in Delon’s hand and the scent of meatloaf that had wafted down the stairs with Beni. Her pulse gave a little blip. What woman wasn’t a sucker for a man who knew his way around a kitchen? She supposed Delon had to cook. He was a single father, raised by a single father, brother to a single father, and Earnest didn’t have a whole lot of takeout options. Hell, Gil probably baked homemade cookies while wearing a World’s Best Dad apron.

Beni’s grin went flat. “I don’t like broccoli.”

“You don’t like anything green that doesn’t come in a cereal box,” Delon said. “But you have to eat it anyway. Then you can ask Tori nicely if she’ll help you with your game.”

Wow. He sounded so…fatherly. Like a real dad. Which of course he was, but seeing it in action did odd, melty things to her insides.

“Get up here, Beni.” Delon’s black T-shirt stretched tight across his biceps as he flipped the dish towel over his shoulder and propped his forearms on the railing. His gaze drilled holes through Beni until the boy heaved a powerful sigh and started up the stairs. Delon gave her security shadow—parked out by the gate—a brief glance, then focused on Tori. “Sorry. I planned to be done with dinner earlier, but I got held up in the office. Are you hungry?”

“No.” But now she felt vaguely guilty that she hadn’t eaten her greens.

“Give me a minute, I’ll meet you down there.” He pointed to a door at the back corner of the shop. As Beni reached the landing, he ruffled the boy’s hair, the gesture so natural and affectionate it warmed her a few more degrees.

Enough with the melting. Tonight was business. She went to the door Delon had indicated. Inside, fly-specked fluorescents illuminated a long, narrow space. The back corner had been cleared to form a tiny gym with rubber mats on the floor and racks of dumbbells against the wall, next to a weight bench. The spur board held the position of honor in the middle of the room. Everything was well-worn, scuffed, testimony to the hours he’d spent here, honing his body and his technique. She reached up to the shelf above the workbench and turned on the ancient CD player. AC/DC’s “Stiff Upper Lip” boomed from speakers in all four corners of the room, the bass cranked high enough to make small wrenches on the workbench dance.

The door to Delon’s apartment flew open and he started down the stairs, shouting to be heard. “Sorry. I can change—”

Tori turned the volume down, amused. So this was what he played in those earbuds while he worked out at the clinic. She examined the stack of CDs next to the player. Nothing but hard rock and heavy metal. This playlist belonged to the Delon she’d met on that crazy New Year’s Eve. Bold. Shameless. The accelerator mashed to the floor with the music cranked up loud.

“You can switch over to the radio if you want,” Delon said.

No way. She liked this side of him. “This is fine.”

He angled past her to dump his gear bag on the weight bench. “I need to stretch out first.”

“Take your time.” Please.

Delon’s warm-up routine was a slow, graceful dance to the beat of the song playing on the stereo, muscles bunching, then uncoiling as he moved from one position to the next. Her fingers itched to stroke the length of his leg, his arm, across his shoulders, down the curve of his back…

Damn. She was staring. Not that it mattered. Delon was used to warming up in front of an audience. Blocking out distractions was part of his pregame routine, the familiar movements centering his mind and body like yoga or Tai Chi. She should try it. Maybe she could learn to block out Shawnee.

Then she shook her head. As aggravating as the woman could be, she was making Tori better. The more obnoxious Shawnee got, the harder Tori worked to prove her wrong. It felt good to throw herself into something, heart and soul. Her nerves jittered as she thought about the coming weekend. The roping in Lubbock would be the first test of her newfound aggressiveness. Could she really push that hard, take those chances in competition? Risk making a fool of herself?

Yep. Or Shawnee would humiliate her instead.

Delon finished his warm up and strapped the rigging onto the spur board. The initials D.S. were stamped into the heavy leather, blocky and unadorned. The rigid handhold—constructed of multiple layers of rawhide—was black with rosin, the body nicked and gouged. Before his injury, Delon had routinely dragged his spurs over that rigging, right up to his butt.

Her job was to figure out how to make it happen again. His left-handed grip would make it more difficult. Simple biomechanics decreed that the leg opposite his grip had more strength and freedom of motion. If he’d injured his right leg…but he hadn’t, so they would deal with what they had.

He pulled on his glove, then clenched one end of a leather lace in his teeth while he wrapped the other around his wrist and tied it off, ensuring that his hand and the glove would not part company in the middle of a ride. Then he glanced at Tori. “Ready?”

“If you are.”

He replied by slinging a leg over the spur board and settling in. She strolled around to the front. Rosin creaked as he worked the glove into the handhold, using his other fist to pound his fingers tight, then scooted his hips up flush against the rigging. She turned on the tablet she’d brought along and activated the camera. “I’ll video from the front and both sides, then we’ll watch it together.”

He cocked his free arm back and started to spur. Thump! His heels hit the neck of the spur board. Scrape! His heels dragged up toward the rigging. Then thump! His legs snapped straight and his heels hit the board again, so fast the movement was a blur. Scrape-thump, scrape-thump, scrape-thump, rapid-fire as a machine gun. Tori could feel herself goggling. She’d always known he had quick feet, but she’d never appreciated just how fast until she saw it close up. Even through the camera, though, she could see a noticeable deficit in the length of the stroke on the left side compared to the right side.

Delon finished off with two more strokes and then stopped. Tori paused the camera. Delon let his feet drop and waited, hand still in the rigging, while Tori moved around to the front of the spur board and focused the camera.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded. The muscles of his riding arm bunched as he leaned back and repeated the routine—scrape-thump, scrape-thump—with the same results. When he’d finished the third bout, he pried the glove out and braced his hands on his thighs, winded. His bare arms shone, the pumped muscles standing out in relief. Tori’s pulse fluttered at the memory of tracing the shape of those muscles as they quivered under sweat-damp skin.

She cued up the videos and handed him the tablet, stepping around so she could watch over his shoulder. Halfway through the third video, Delon muttered a savage curse and jabbed the pause button. So they agreed. Excellent. Now—if he would trust her—they could buckle down and get to work.