Chapter 44

Delon staggered into the hotel coffee shop at a little after ten on Saturday morning. So many people had pounded his back, punched his arm, and slapped his hand in congratulations he felt as if he’d been beaten with broomsticks. Dozens more had offered him a beer, a shot, and in one particularly persistent case, the key card to her hotel room. His phone had been flooded with calls and texts—Gil practically yelling, he was so pumped, Violet and Beni both jabbering with excitement, even his dad, sounding downright giddy.

Plus every other person who knew his number, until the battery died before the rodeo performance was halfway through. Over and over again, he was peppered with the same question. “Where did that come from?”

He had only one answer: Tori. Sure, Gil had inspired him. But Tori—day after day, with every challenge she accepted, had shown him how to not only survive, but thrive. She refused to let anyone or anything define or diminish her. She amazed him. Humbled him. Owned him, body and soul.

As corny as it sounded, in all his life, only Tori had possessed the magic key that could set him truly free. Which was why he needed to get his damn phone charged. Last night he’d stuffed it in his gear bag and let himself be swept away on a celebratory wave, to the beer stand first, then on to the hotel bar, not stumbling up to his room until closing time—alone, despite all efforts to the contrary—and falling face first into exhausted sleep.

This morning, though, as soon as his brain cells and his phone had returned to the land of the living, he would call her. Explain that standing out there in the middle of that arena, he’d finally grasped the difference between just showing up and really living—and loving. He’d only felt that unbridled euphoria, the sense of endless possibilities, once before. He would not fail her again. He would go after her this time, and would keep going after her until she realized she didn’t have to leave. She was already right where she belonged.

But first, coffee. Triumph still pulsed in tiny bursts under his skin, but it was no match for his adrenaline hangover. The aftermath of his visit to the Lone Steer had been fresh enough in his mind to keep him sipping his drinks instead of gulping, but dear God, if he didn’t get caffeine soon…

“Table for one and I’ll double your tip if you grab the coffeepot on the way,” he told the hostess. He held up his phone and the charger. “Got an outlet?”

“Just that one.” She pointed at a booth a few feet away, already occupied. “If y’all don’t mind sharing.”

No damn way. But before Delon could say so, Wyatt Darrington vaporized the hostess’s brain with a lazy smile and drawled, “Who doesn’t want to hang out with the champ?”

Delon hesitated long enough to reel off a string of silent curses, then stepped around the puddle of dumbstruck females and slid into the booth to see what game Wyatt was playing today. But first he plugged in the phone, then added enough cream and sugar to his coffee to make it cool enough to guzzle. Ah. Yeah. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back against the padded seat and waited for the magic beans to work their voodoo.

“If you’re looking for the results from the roping in Abilene, they’re not posted online,” Wyatt said.

Damn. He didn’t bother to ask how Wyatt knew he hadn’t been talking to Tori. Violet to Joe to Wyatt, with Shawnee mixed in. Easy trail to follow.

“Tori and Shawnee made the cut,” Wyatt said. “They were in thirty-second place after last night. They roped their first steer of the semifinals this morning in eight point six seconds, which moved them to nineteenth, with all the other teams that tripped up. They should be roping their second one any time now.”

Delon opened his eyes and stared in disbelief.

Wyatt gave one of those cryptic smiles as he tapped his phone with one finger. “I keep an eye on things that interest me.”

“And Tori is one of them?” Delon’s temper flared, fueled by a spurt of jealousy and, yeah, insecurity. Wyatt was practically a clone of Richard Patterson. He’d slide into their world without a ripple.

Wyatt shook his head. “She and I are too much alike. Put us together, we both revert to exactly what we ran away from.”

“So why—” Delon gestured at the cell phone.

“I knew you’d want to know, and after seeing you at the bar last night, I assumed you wouldn’t be leaving the hotel for breakfast, so…” He made a gesture that included the booth.

Delon blinked. Then blinked again. But no, Wyatt wasn’t a hallucination bred of overstimulation and lack of sleep. “What do you want?”

“For Joe and Violet to be happy. That’s a lot more likely if you’re not stirring up trouble.” Wyatt leaned back and folded his arms, narrowing those intense blue eyes. “There’s not much I won’t do for my friends.”

Including getting Delon out of the way by whatever means necessary. The skin prickled at the back of his neck, and he was suddenly reminded of the rumors that had run rampant for a while, about how Wyatt’s family back east had mob connections. Before he could compose a response, Wyatt’s phone chimed. He checked the message.

“Eight seconds flat on their fourth steer, and a bunch of miscues by the teams ahead of them in the aggregate. They’re through to the finals.”

Delon’s heart gave an exuberant leap that had nothing to do with the coffee. Tori must be thrilled. And nervous as all get out. Which meant…

He sighed in frustration as his phone vibrated, indicating sufficient battery to power up. He was too late. The last thing she needed now was a call from him to mess with her concentration. He turned on the phone and it began to chime, more congratulatory texts and voice mails. He flicked his finger across the screen, speed-scrolling through the names and numbers so fast he almost missed the most important one. Wait. Make that four?

His pulse thumped in his ears and he could feel the weight of Wyatt’s unapologetic stare as he opened the first message. Instead of the congratulations he expected, it only said thank you. The attached picture was of Tori’s front lawn, complete with two newly planted pecan trees, their leaves a fresh, vibrant green against the drab little house. Two white Adirondack chairs were set between them, just like in the picture he’d given her. Then he looked closer and saw there were also new wooden planters on either side of the front door, spilling over with flowers. His fingers felt fat and clumsy as he scrolled to the next message.

I decided I should settle in.

Whoa. What? He peered closer at the next photo. If it hadn’t been for the couch, her living room would’ve been unrecognizable—walls painted dark brown with turquoise accents to match the curtains and area rug. That same high oak café table and chairs and above it, the Buck Taylor original that was still Delon’s favorite. And next to the kitchen passthrough, a familiar pair of wrought iron barstools.

His heart was racing so fast his ears rang from the blood singing through his arteries. He scrolled down to the third message. One word. Followed by a picture of the cat, ears pinned, fangs bared.

Delon grinned so big it hurt his face. “She named the cat.”

Wyatt snagged the phone and grimaced. “Muella? It goes out and skins puppies?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Wyatt shamelessly read the last text. “This one says, ‘Shawnee here. I have her phone. She’s not getting it back until the roping is over. Then you get one text. Three words. They’d better be the right ones because if I have to listen to her snivel all the way home, I’m coming after your ass.’”

Delon choked out another laugh. Dammit. He should be there to either congratulate or console her, depending on how it went.

“I checked the schedule for the roping,” Wyatt said. “They’re taking a break for a barbecue lunch and the Calcutta auction. The finals don’t start until three o’clock.”

Four hours. Abilene was a little over two hundred miles away. Taking traffic into consideration, there was no way Delon could drive it fast enough, but if he had a plane…

He leaned back and narrowed his gaze on Wyatt. “You said you’d do damn near anything.”

Wyatt nodded. “I can get you there, but I can’t hang around to bring you back here in time to ride tonight.”

Delon considered it for about ten seconds. Then he scooted out of the booth. “Let’s gas it.”

* * *

Tori’s mind was a sieve as they waited behind the chutes to rope their last steer. Thoughts flowed over and through her, occasionally catching for a moment, then slipping on by. Fifth place. In the two semifinal rounds, they’d jumped all the way from thirty-second place to fifth. She’d just kept nodding her head, throwing her rope when she got her shot, and letting Shawnee clean up behind her, while around them team after team fell apart.

So here they were. Fifth place paid over ten thousand dollars, and so far none of the teams behind them in the aggregate had made anything better than average runs. All she had to do was be consistent. Take a good solid shot and make sure they got a time…

Shawnee rode up, knee to knee, face to face, and glared at her. “Don’t you dare back off on me now, Peaches. We didn’t come here just to get a check, and we’ve got the best steer in the pen.”

“But we’re three seconds off the lead—”

“Then you’d better rope quick and make the rest of ’em worry about beating us.”

Tori nodded dumbly. Shawnee needed the money a damn sight more than she did. If she wanted to go for broke, so be it.

The announcer called their names and everything clicked into brilliant focus. The flags snapping in the breeze above the crow’s nest. The radiant blue of the afternoon sky. The beer bottle that dangled from a cowboy’s hand when she rode past him into the arena. She took a deep breath, cleared her head, then turned Fudge around to back him into the corner. Her gaze locked on the buckle of the steer’s horn wrap, centered at the back of his head. She didn’t glance over before she nodded. Shawnee would be ready.

The gate banged open and it all unfolded precisely as she’d imagined a thousand times. Three swings and launch, her loop cracking around the horns. Yank the slack, one quick dally around the saddle horn, go left. She barely had time to look back over her shoulder before Shawnee scooped both hind feet up. As the ropes came tight, Fudge pivoted to face up.

Oh. My. God. They’d done it! The breath she’d been holding blasted out of her lungs. The run seemed as if it had lasted forever, and no time at all.

“Five point eight seconds!” the announcer hollered. “Fast time of the day, and puts them way out in the lead.”

Tori gulped, feeling as if she was fighting her way to the surface of a very deep well. As she let her dally go and reined Fudge to follow the steer to the catch pen, Shawnee loped up alongside and punched her in the arm so hard she dropped the end of the rope. “What in the ever-loving hell was that?”

Tori blinked at her. “You told me to go fast.”

“Which is not the same as crazy.” Shawnee flapped a hand over her heart. “Do you have any idea how far you threw that thing? Me and Roy were so shocked we damn near missed the turn.”

Tori rubbed her arm, mind staggering back from the zone. “I just did what you said.”

Shawnee let loose one of her big, bawdy laughs. “Remind me never to suggest that we rob a bank, or you’ll whip out an Uzi.”

“Sawed-off shotgun,” she corrected automatically. “My father has consistently advocated bans on fully automatic weapons and I support his position.”

Shawnee stared at her. Then she laughed again, shaking her head. “Well, we do want to be politically correct.”

Then came the worst part. Waiting. Watching the four teams that had come into the finals with faster aggregate times. As if Tori had thrown down a gauntlet, the next header also took a long shot and missed. Then the next. The third clutched and missed the start and had to run the steer too far down the arena.

Shawnee grinned at her. “We blew their minds, Peaches.”

One team to go. “This pair will have to be faster than eight point eight seconds to move ahead of Hancock and Pickett,” the announcer declared. “And they’ve got a steer that’ll test ’em.”

At the bang of the gate the steer launched like a sleek black missile. The header kicked hard, but didn’t catch up until halfway down the arena. Tori sucked in her breath and held it as he roped the horns and turned off. The heeler cut around the corner, took one more swing, and snatched up two feet. The entire crowd was motionless, waiting for the time.

“Nine seconds flat!” the announcer shouted. “Ladies and gentlemen, your Turn ’Em and Burn ’Em champions and winners of two brand-new Ford pickups are Tori Hancock and Shawnee Pickett!”

Tori swiveled her head to stare at Shawnee. Shawnee stared back at her. Then slowly, a wide grin split her face. “Honest to God, woman, if you weren’t already spoken for, I’d kiss you.”

The next half an hour was a blur of congratulations and fist bumps, photos and handshakes, and a key slapped into her hand. A pickup. Her pickup. Oh my God. She’d won an actual pickup. And a really big check to keep the fuel tank full. As the final handshakes were exchanged and photos taken, Tori emerged from the haze of shock and wonder.

“Oh shit! I have to go.” She took off toward the arena gate, tugging at the reins to urge Fudge to keep up.

Shawnee broke into a jog to catch her, holding Tori’s phone. “Don’t you want to check your messages first?”

“I’m going no matter what.” So maybe it was better if she didn’t know how Delon had responded.

“Then you don’t care what this text says.” Shawnee made as if to tuck the phone in her shirt pocket.

Tori snatched it out of her hand and read the message. Then checked the number to be sure it was Delon’s and read it again. “‘It’s about time’?” she echoed, her voice perilously close to a screech. Those were his three words? “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s about time we got this right,” a voice said behind her. She spun around and found Delon standing, hands jammed in the pockets of his unzipped black and red NFR jacket. He rocked back on his heels and grinned at her. “Hey, Champ.”

She stared at him for a beat, then checked the time on her phone. Five o’clock. “What are you doing here?” she snapped.

He raised his eyebrows, but the grin didn’t falter. “Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for.”

“You have to ride in two hours.” She stepped closer, fuming. “You’ve got the bareback horse of the year drawn in the short round at Austin. What kind of idiot blows that off to watch a team roping?”

“An idiot who’s stupid about you?”

Tori’s mouth dropped open. He just stood there, buff and beautiful in a snug black T-shirt, energy crackling around him and that gleam in his eyes that promised…oh. Heat flooded through her, scalp to toes.

Shawnee pried Fudge’s reins from her fist. “Y’all might want to take this to the trailer, unless you want to watch the replay online.”

Tori glanced around. Sure enough, some of the stragglers had lingered to rubberneck. She grabbed Delon’s wrist. “Come with me.”

The heat in his smile shot fire through her veins. “I thought you’d never ask.”