Chapter 6

Delon had picked up his load and was rolling across Nebraska by Friday afternoon, right on schedule. But if the dashboard computer beeped at him one more time, he swore he’d pull over on the side of the highway and take a tire iron to the damn thing. Was that all Gil had to do, sit in the office and pepper him with messages and calls? Yes, for hell’s sake, Delon knew there was snow in the forecast. He had an FM radio, a smartphone, and a clue.

His cell phone buzzed, amplified by the stereo speakers. Delon punched a button on the steering wheel to answer. “What?”

“I uploaded a map into your GPS unit,” Gil said. “When you get to Duluth, turn off one exit before you think you should. It’s a roundabout way, but there’s road construction on the shorter route and…”

Blah, blah, blah. He’d forgotten Gil was the world’s worst backseat driver, and now, with his high-tech dispatch system, he could do it by remote. Delon tuned him out, keeping a wary eye on a silver BMW that’d been dogging his tail for the last twenty miles.

“You got that?” Gil asked.

“Sure thing, boss,” Delon drawled.

Gil was silent for a beat, then said, “Fuel’s cheapest at the next stop down the road. They’ve also got a decent café and good showers. Might as well hit both, as long as you’ve got the time.”

“Got a preference whether I piss standing up or sitting down?”

Another pause. Then, “No, but as long as you’ve got the tools handy, you can go ahead and fuck yourself, Poster Boy.”

The phone clicked off and George Strait came back on the radio, still trying to peddle that piece of “Ocean Front Property,” while Delon muttered curses his brother couldn’t hear. Delon hated that nickname, which was why Gil had tagged him with it the moment he’d done a series of ads for a western-wear company. That was Gil. Always the smart-ass. The words hadn’t changed much since they were kids, constantly heckling each other. But back then the insults were delivered with a laugh and received the same way. Now…

Delon couldn’t remember the last time they’d laughed together. Before the hellish night everything got flipped upside down and torn apart along with Gil and his goddamn motorcycle. Riding bucking horses like a wild-ass crazy man hadn’t been enough of an adrenaline rush for Gil. He’d had to go faster and harder, until he finally skidded over the edge.

Delon had been bitten by the rodeo bug, but Gil was consumed. Delon would’ve been content to just hit the Texas circuit rodeos. Gil had to have the world. Like everything else, little brother went along for the ride. Delon had figured he’d have his fun, a few years of living the rodeo dream before he settled into his predestined spot at Sanchez Trucking. Except Gil had trashed his own future, so he took Delon’s instead.

Delon rubbed his aching knee. He was tempted to motor past Gil’s designated truck stop out of spite, but he needed an ice pack and that shower, and he’d almost polished off his family-sized bag of peanut M&Ms. Besides, butting heads with Gil wouldn’t show his dad he could be an asset above and beyond cranking wrenches in the shop or picking up an occasional load.

The phone rang again. Delon punched the button and snapped, “What, did you forget to specify that I should fuck myself doggie style?”

Silence. Then a quiet clearing of the throat that was distinctly female. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Too late, he checked the caller ID. Panhandle Orthopedics. “Uh, Beth?”

“Tori.”

He winced. “Sorry. My brother—” Then he remembered. “Oh, hell. It’s Friday. I forgot to cancel my appointment.”

“Yes. Beth said you’ve never missed, and you didn’t make arrangements for the X-ray or MRI. After our discussion about your knee, I wondered…”

Not wondered. Worried. He could hear it in her voice. Tori was concerned about him. No doubt it was on a purely professional level, but hey. As far as he knew, it was the first time Tori had ever been bothered by his absence, so he’d go ahead and call that a win, if a pretty poor one.

“I’m fine. Didn’t toss myself off a cliff or anything.”

“I didn’t think…” Tori trailed off, then cleared her throat again. “Actually, I wondered if you’d decided to switch to a different clinic.”

Ah. So her concern wasn’t only for him. “It just occurred to you that this might be awkward?”

“Of course not. I tried to tell Pepper, but I couldn’t exactly tell him, so he insisted…”

In other words, his surgeon had personally assigned Tori to his case. It should’ve been all Delon needed to hear, but the nasty snake coiled in his gut itched to lash out. He bit his tongue and let off the accelerator as a seventies-vintage grain truck merged onto the interstate in front of him, a rooster tail of dust hanging above the county road to the south. The local farmers would be glad to see some moisture, even if the truckers weren’t so crazy about the forecast.

“I understand if you’d prefer not to work with me,” Tori said stiffly.

“Well, now, that depends.” He let a touch of sarcasm leak into his drawl. “Will I show up for therapy someday and find you gone? No word, no warning?”

Her voice went from cool to downright frosty. “You mean the way you always let me know whether you planned to drop by again?”

Damn. She had him there. And instead of scoring a point, he’d just given her a clue how much her leaving had bothered him. He rolled up on the grain truck, eased into the left lane to pass, then started to swing back into the driving lane when a horn blasted. He yanked the wheel to the left just in time to avoid running the Beemer into the ditch. Twenty miles of riding his bumper and the dipshit had to cut between him and the grain truck to pass on the right, dead center of Delon’s blind spot.

“You stupid son of a bitch!”

“Excuse me?”

“Not you.” Delon laid on his horn. Beemer guy flipped him the bird. Delon returned it in kind, muttering, “Same to you, asshole.”

The silence on the phone was so complete he thought Tori had hung up. Then she asked, “Where are you?”

“Just south of Omaha. Last-minute trip. That’s why I forgot to call about my appointment before I left.”

“For Nebraska.”

“Minnesota. My brother lost his temper and we lost a driver, so I’m on my way to Duluth.”

“In a semi?”

There was an odd note in her voice that set his back up. “Yeah. Why? You got something against truck drivers?”

“No. The trucking industry is vital to our national economy.” She quoted as if from one of her dad’s press releases, which pissed him off a little more, but her voice was almost wistful. “It seems…interesting.”

Delon snorted. “Then you’ve never driven across Kansas.”

“It can’t be any worse than eastern Wyoming.”

Good point. “You like road trips?”

“Yeah.” It came out on a sigh. “Willy and I traveled all over to team ropings, but since…well, I stayed pretty close to home the last year or so.”

So much information in those few words. Her husband had been gone for over a year. And he’d been a roper. Victoria Patterson, of the Texas Pattersons, had married a damn Wyoming twine-twirler. Willy Hancock. Cheyenne. Something niggled in Delon’s brain, as if he’d seen or heard the name during Frontier Days and should remember.

“Do you still rope?” he asked, instead of the far less tactful questions buzzing in his head.

“Yes. Quite a bit better than I used to.” She gave a quiet snort. “But I guess you wouldn’t know.”

Because he’d never seen her swing a rope, let alone compete. They’d preferred indoor activities when he was in town. But he’d heard, via Violet. Yeah, Tori rode well enough. She should, after all the private lessons and years of scooping up awards on her family’s blue-blooded, professionally trained show horses. But roping? Not a clue.

She cleared her throat again. “So…you’re planning to come in on Tuesday?”

He hadn’t decided—until now. Even if her interest was only professional, she’d cared enough to worry, and to call, and she was the only person who knew what he might be facing and wasn’t afraid to be straight with him. Besides, Pepper had handpicked her, which meant she was the best.

Above all, he refused to admit it bothered him to see her. “I’ll be there, unless the snow in South Dakota is worse than they’re predicting.”

“Okay.” Her tone lightened a shade, as if in relief. “Drive safe.”

Her parting words triggered an avalanche of memories. She’d said the very same thing every time he’d dragged himself away from her and out the door to the next rodeo. And every time, it had been all he could do not to make a U-turn before he hit the city limits.

He shook the last three M&Ms out of the bag and ground the peanuts between his teeth, staring out at miles and miles of almost nothing. He was facing at least three days on the road, with nothing to occupy his mind but worries, regrets…and wondering what his life might be like right now if he had let himself turn around.