Chapter 8

Delon wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he walked into the physical therapy clinic for his Tuesday morning appointment. Tori had been so incessantly on his mind, the memories so vivid, it was a shock all over again to see this new, muted version of her.

This time she did smile, even if it was quick and impersonal.

The receptionist, on the other hand, had been smirking behind her coffee cup since he stepped through the door. What the hell? It would have been obvious at his first appointment that he and Tori had known each other before, but the gleam in Beth’s eyes made him feel vaguely indecent. Surely Tori wouldn’t have yakked to a coworker about just how well they’d known each other.

Would she?

“What did you tell her?” he demanded the moment he and Tori were alone in the treatment room.

She didn’t look up from poking at her tablet. “Tell who?” she asked absently.

“Beth. She was looking at me like…well, you know.”

Tori’s hand paused over the touchscreen. Then she closed her eyes and breathed out what looked like a very bad word. “That would be my fault.”

He goggled at her. “You told her?”

“Not intentionally.” She clasped the tablet in both hands and pressed it to her midsection like a schoolgirl, chin tucked. “Lately, things just…pop out.” Her eyebrows pleated. “I wonder if it’s possible to develop a form of post-traumatic Tourette’s.”

“Tour…what?”

She opened her eyes, her gaze apologetic, but so direct he would’ve taken a step back if his butt hadn’t already been pressed against the side of the table. “I’m sorry. It was incredibly unprofessional. And chauvinistic, now that I think about it. I made the unconscious assumption that you, as a male, wouldn’t be embarrassed by having your sexual exploits discussed.”

Geezus. Who talked like that? It was like having a conversation with an encyclopedia. “What trauma?” he asked.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You said post-traumatic something or other. What trauma?”

“Oh.” Her lashes dropped and she angled her head away, to stare at a spot on the floor. A breath pushed her shoulders up, then let them fall. “My husband’s death was very…sudden, and attracted a lot of attention. Willy knew so many people, and all the others…” Her mouth twisted into a bitter, distant relative of a smile. “It was amazing, how many of them felt it was their God-given duty to advise me on the proper way to grieve my husband. And point out what was improper, of course.”

Willy Hancock. Again, the name rang a distant bell. Someone important, well known in Cheyenne, she’d said. The kind of man a Patterson would marry. A big-time sponsor whose hand Delon had shaken during a publicity gig at Frontier Days? Maybe one of the local dignitaries—politicians and community leaders—introduced during the opening ceremonies while Delon stood on the back of the chutes, bouncing in place, mentally and physically gearing up to climb onto the bucking horse in the chute below him.

“I don’t mean to make excuses, but I suppose I do owe you an explanation.” Tori ran a finger along the edge of the tablet, still contemplating the pattern on the carpet. “For nineteen months after he died, I had to be so careful with every word. Every expression. Not just what I said, but who I talked to, or smiled at, in case someone got the wrong impression. Women hustled their men away from me like I was so desperate I might try to eat them alive. It was insane. I was on the verge of coming undone and it wasn’t going to be pretty. His family is already suffering enough…so I left.”

“And came here.”

“Where else?” She shrugged. “They would be devastated if they thought I was running away from them. But coming home…well, that’s different. Acceptable.” Her mouth twisted again, and her eyes glinted as her gaze came up to meet his. “But somewhere between here and Wyoming I seem to have run out of fucks to give. As you’ve probably noticed.”

“I’m getting the drift,” he said.

“No doubt.” She drew back her shoulders, her mouth set. “You have every reason to request a different therapist. And grounds to file a privacy complaint. I won’t dispute either.”

God. She sounded like a damn lawyer now. But underneath all the fancy talk, he caught a glimpse of scar tissue, still vulnerable and painful to the touch. She was as fucked up as he was. Possibly worse. Instead of firing her, he had a ridiculous urge to gather her up, pet her hair, and tell her it would all be okay.

As if he had any idea.

“What if I don’t change therapists?” he asked.

She blinked again. “You still want to be my patient, after…everything?”

“Is there someone here who’d do a better job?”

Her eyes went cool, her jaw firm. “No.”

“Then switching would be stupid, wouldn’t it?”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she gave a brisk nod and lifted the tablet. “In that case, let’s talk about the changes I want to make in your exercise program.” Then she paused, and flicked him a lightning-fast grin that made his heart bump in surprise. “I also promise to refrain from bragging about getting to see you naked.”

And there he was, goggling again.

* * *

Two hours later, Delon parked in front of Violet’s house. Used to be, he wouldn’t have thought twice about walking into her single-wide trailer and helping himself to a cup of coffee and one of her mother’s fresh-baked cookies. Today, if he’d dared, he would’ve sat outside, honked his horn, and waited for Beni to come to him.

He climbed out of the car, his knee stiff from the chill. Dark clouds hung low and spit a few snowflakes, the weather trying hard to be miserable and doing a damn fine job. His muscles twinged from Tori’s brutal workout. Until she got her hands on him, he’d thought he was in pretty good shape. They had to bring his entire musculoskeletal system into balance, she’d declared. Hips, core, shoulders, even his neck—she’d pinpointed every weakness, then tackled them one by one. He suspected that by morning it would hurt to lift an eyebrow.

The front door flew open before he could raise his fist to knock. Delon braced himself for a tackle-hug from Beni, but it was Violet who stood there, face flushed, dark hair mussed up like she’d been wrestling.

More like wrasslin’, as Gil called it.

Violet tugged her shirt straight, trying not to be obvious about it. “Delon! You’re early.”

“You said you wanted to leave for the airport at noon.” He looked over her shoulder at the clock, which read eleven thirty. “Is Beni all packed and ready?”

“Yes. I sent him…I mean, he went over to Mom’s for a bit. She’s making cupcakes.” In other words, she got rid of the kid so she could give Joe a proper send-off. Violet combed her fingers through her hair and gave a nervous laugh. “I’ll, um, go grab his stuff.”

She left him standing in the open door and hustled to Beni’s bedroom.

Joe Cassidy sauntered out of Violet’s bedroom, the tails of his faded denim shirt hanging loose over his jeans. He flashed a cautious smile. “Hey, Delon.”

“Joe.” The muscles in Delon’s neck and shoulders went tight, his voice stiff. He and Joe eyed each other, wary on Joe’s part, hostile on Delon’s.

This was his place, dammit. The Jacobs ranch had been his second home as long as Delon could remember, but since Beni came along it had become the hard rock center of his world, and Violet his touchstone. For the past six years, they’d shared everything except a bed, a mutual decision to avoid complicating their situation. He’d always believed that someday, some way, the time would be right and they would both be ready to take that final step.

Until Joe showed up.

Joe rocked onto his heels, unsettled by the silence. “Any idea when you’re gonna be ready to get on some horses?”

“No.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed a fraction at the blunt response. “No sense rushing it.”

“So my therapist says.” It gave Delon a weird tingle of pleasure, knowing Violet would freak when she heard about Tori. Another of those petty victories he’d decided to savor, especially after this morning.

Bragging. His mind slammed up against the thought again and splattered a few more brain cells. All this time, he’d thought of himself as her dirty little secret, and Tori considered him worth bragging about? How was he supposed to…

Violet came bustling out of Beni’s room, her arms loaded with his duffel, a jacket, a handheld video game, and a backpack for preschool. Hell. How was Beni almost six years old already? Next thing Delon knew, he’d be fumbling through explanations about girls and sex. Then again, Beni probably already knew more than enough from hanging around the shop and behind the bucking chutes at his grandpa Steve’s rodeos.

Violet shot a glance at Joe, then bounced it over to Delon, measuring the tension in the room. Her mouth tightened as she dumped her load on Delon. “Thanks for letting him stay a couple extra days.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll call Mom, have her send Beni over.”

“I’ll go get him.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She folded her arms tight across her chest, shivering in the cold blast of air from the door. “I’ll see you Friday, then.”

“We’ll be here.”

And that was that. No coffee. Damn sure no sugar. Delon hobbled down the steps and across the lawn to toss Beni’s stuff in the backseat of his car. When he glanced back at the house, he saw them through the window, Violet’s head on Joe’s shoulder. Joe stroked a hand over her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead, a gesture somehow more intimate than if Delon had seen them naked.

He slammed his door, wheeled the car around, and drove the twenty yards to park across the driveway, in front of the big white frame house where Violet had grown up. Rapping once on the door, he let himself in. Iris Jacobs would’ve smacked him upside the head for waiting to be invited into her kitchen. His nose twitched at the mingled scents of vanilla cupcakes, pot roast, home-baked bread, and fresh coffee. Only two men sat at the table with steaming mugs, but they qualified as a roomful. Steve Jacobs and his nephew Cole both pushed the six-and-a-half-foot mark, solid as hundred-year-old California redwoods.

Iris smiled at him—round, soft, a half-pint version of Violet in thirty years. “Close that door and leave the cold outside.”

“Daddy!” Beni hopped down off a stool and bounded over to throw his arms around Delon’s waist, smearing cupcake batter on the front of his jacket.

Delon ruffled his inky black hair, amazed all over again at the miracle that was his son. Delon’s spitting image, but a little too much like his Uncle Gil for comfort. All out, all the time.

Beni pulled away to frown up at him. “How come I can’t go to the airport with Joe and Mommy?”

“They need some alone time,” Iris said, saving Delon the trouble of answering.

“Why?” Beni demanded. “Mommy and Daddy never have alone time.”

“Uh…” Stymied, Delon looked to Iris, who moved her mouth but didn’t make any words. Steve and Cole showed no inclination to jump in. Real helpful, those two. “Mommy and I are just friends.”

Beni opened his mouth, but Iris cut him off at the pass. “Joe and your mommy are a different kind of friends. And besides, haven’t you missed your daddy?”

Beni shrugged. “He’s here all the time now. And he doesn’t do fun stuff like Joe.”

The dismissal was an arrow straight through Delon’s heart. “We’ll go swimming tomorrow at the indoor pool in Dumas.”

“But I want to go to the airport today,” Beni whined.

“You can’t,” Cole said. “So hush, or I’ll eat your cupcakes.”

“Nuh-uh!”

Cole reached over, grabbed a cupcake off the cooling rack, and stuck the whole thing in his mouth.

“No fair!” Beni protested, but he hushed, knowing it wasn’t an idle threat. Cole would consider a dozen cupcakes a light snack.

“Come help me clean up the last of the batter.” Iris set the bowl and a spatula in front of Beni’s stool—another punch of nostalgia to Delon’s heart. How many times had he hovered in this kitchen, hoping for a chance to lick the bowl? Hell, he was tempted to fight Beni for it now.

Iris poured a cup of coffee and set it on the table. “Sit yourself down. You look tired. And sore. I suppose this weather’s got your knee acting up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Delon said, to all of the above.

“I’ll set you a plate,” Iris said, reaching into the cupboard.

Delon was sorely tempted—a man didn’t turn down Miz Iris’s food without a second thought—but picturing Joe and Violet together right across the road spoiled his appetite. “No, thanks. I stopped by the Smoke Shack earlier.”

Miz Iris could smell a lie from a mile off. Her mouth folded into a disapproving line. Then her expression turned sympathetic, and that was worse. “Well, you’ll need something for dinner. I’ll make you up some sandwiches to take along.”

“Do I have to go?” Beni whined. “There’s nothing to do at the shop.”

“You have all the same games as you have here,” Iris scolded.

Of course Beni dragged his feet about leaving the ranch. His pony was here, the dogs and cats, his grandmother’s bottomless cookie jar. Time with his dad wasn’t a novelty anymore. It was stupid to take it to heart, but Delon’s heart hadn’t been in a real common-sense kind of mood lately. He left his coffee untouched and bundled his reluctant child into coat, boots, and gloves.

When Iris handed him the bag of food, she held on for a beat, nailing him with one of those looks. “Don’t be a stranger, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” But his gaze dropped away from hers. How could he promise that when he’d been a stranger for months, even to himself?