Chapter 42
If life were like the movies, Delon would either be dead or riding high. It was always one or the other when the hero made his big comeback. Triumph or tragedy…not half-assed with a side of mediocre. He flopped down on the bed in yet another hotel room, popped a chocolate Kiss into his mouth, rolled the foil into a tiny ball between his fingers, and tossed it at the wastebasket. And missed.
He checked the time again. Four o’clock. All the afternoon’s interviews and autograph sessions were done and he didn’t have a traveling partner to shoot the bull with, or play a few hands of pitch. It was too early to go to the arena, too late to take a nap, too much anticipation humming through his system to relax anyway. Nothing to do but spin the tread off his mental tires.
Delon had decided—yeah, he could see Tori smiling her told you smile—as long as he was on the road with time to kill between rodeos, he might as well become the official PR department for Sanchez Trucking. Gil had packed his schedule with meetings in every town along the way—current clients, potential clients, appearances at western stores and ranch supply stores for his various sponsors. What Delon used to consider a necessary grind had become a passion, and he was damn good at it. By the time he and Gil were done, there would be more than enough business to keep them both hopping.
He took out his phone and poked through the screens. No messages. No one to call. He’d played enough solitaire to rot his brain, he’d already talked to Beni this morning, Gil had analyzed his first two rides to death yesterday, and he wasn’t enough of a masochist to go anywhere near a social media site.
He’d been prepared for some hoopla when he showed up at the first rodeos. He hadn’t expected the winks and nudges, the sly smiles. “Looks like you been making good use of your down time. S’pose your girlfriend will let you borrow the family jet over the big Fourth of July run?”
Delon just shook his head and kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to break the news that Tori wouldn’t lend him a bicycle. His index finger tapped the side of the phone, twitching to hit speed dial. Right about now, Tori and Shawnee would be pulling into Abilene for the Turn ’Em and Burn ’Em. Tori had been wound up since they’d entered, so he could imagine how wired she was now. He felt the hum across the miles as if they shared a high frequency bandwidth. Did she feel it, too? Or could she use that bulletproof concentration to block him? If only he could call, they could talk each other down…
Not enough.
The words ground like broken glass in his spleen. Never enough. He should be used to it by now. Delon Sanchez—perennial runner-up and nice guy, favorite of fans, sponsors, and fellow cowboys. He’d had everyone fooled. Except Gil. And Tori.
They saw straight through him in a way that was both unnerving and an incredible relief. They didn’t hide their warts or scars, so he didn’t have to either. His hands clenched around the phone. God, he wanted to talk to her. Soak up some of that unsinkable will. Let her convince him he could be what she was determined to see in him. Plus, this was the biggest competition of her life. If she expected too much from him, she demanded ten times as much from herself. He wanted to reassure her, encourage her, wish her luck.
The phone buzzed in his hands as if he’d willed it to happen. His heart lurched, then sank. It was from Gil.
A friend from Wyoming sent me this song, said it sounded like you. I agree.
Wyoming? Delon’s heart lurched again. Had to be a coincidence. Gil knew people all over the country. Besides, Gil and Tori might’ve been united in their determination to push him beyond all limits, but Delon still wouldn’t call them friends. He clicked on the attached file and saw the title of the song. “Ninety or Nothin’,” by a singer named Jared Rogerson.
He gave a disgruntled sigh and texted back: Is that all you’ve got, Coach?
It’s all you need, if you decide to be this guy.
Delon’s lungs seized up. Decide. Coincidence? Or an indirect message from Tori? He hit play, and the opening chords strummed his hypersensitive nerves, sure as his brother’s fingers on the guitar strings. The words felt as if they were plucked straight from his soul. He listened all the way through. Then he grabbed his earbuds, plugged them in, and settled back on the bed to listen again.
* * *
Tori slung her rope bag over the saddle horn, untied Fudge from the horse trailer, then pulled out her phone. She’d check one last time to see if Delon had—
“Uh-uh.” Shawnee snatched the phone from her hand and shoved it into a pocket on the side of her rope bag. Tori made a grab for it, but Shawnee blocked her with a forearm to the chest. “Don’t think I won’t knock you on your ass. We have a deal. You can’t check your texts, your email, your voice mail, or the rodeo results from Austin until we’re done roping.”
Tori stopped, drew a deep breath, and stepped back. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Want me to slap you around a little, or are you good?”
“I’m good.”
And she meant it. She flipped the reins over Fudge’s head and swung aboard, her pulse revving up to competition speed. She’d done what little she could to help Delon. For the next few hours, the only thing she could control was what happened inside her own arena. Austin was up to him.