Chapter 9

January in the Panhandle was a fickle bitch. Early in the week the temperature had climbed into the sixties. Today Tori tugged the zipper of her canvas jacket higher and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up over her baseball cap to ward off the needle-sharp wind, her chest a mess of tangled up emotions. There was nothing she’d rather do on a Saturday afternoon than go to a team roping—unless that roping was in Childress, Texas. Then she might prefer jogging naked in a winter breeze. It couldn’t make her feel more exposed than walking into this arena. An outsider. A stranger. Until that inevitable moment when someone realized who she was, and then they would think they knew her and that would be worse.

But she couldn’t just quit roping. Not after all the time and work she’d put into it, and Willy had put into her. She also couldn’t leave Fudge standing around, a good horse wasted. She tightened his cinches, then squared her shoulders, shrugging off the weight of curious gazes from ropers who read the lettering emblazoned on the side of her pickup. Willy Hancock. Wyoming Team Roping Classic. Champion Heeler.

Then they looked at Tori and wondered, Who the hell are you?

Excellent question. In Cheyenne, she was a Hancock, a name synonymous with team roping. They trained the best horses and took home more than their share of the prize money. As Willy’s wife, Tori had been smack dab in the middle of the crowd by default. Now it was just her again, but Willy had given her skills, and he’d given her Fudge. What she didn’t have was practice. Team roping, by definition, was not a solitary pursuit. She had an arena, and once they were delivered tomorrow, she would have steers. All of which were wasted without a partner. Yet another reason she had to bite the bullet and get to know the locals.

She walked the gauntlet of trucks and trailers parked in rows out behind the indoor arena. Eye contact. Smile. Nod. Try to look friendly instead of the keep your distance face she’d perfected by the end of her father’s first term in office. When she passed through the door and into the arena, her blood stirred at the sight of well-groomed dirt, the musty scent of dust and horses, the relaxed chatter and chuckle of ropers. Nothing else gave her that same shimmer of excitement, anticipation. Even Fudge felt it, tugging at the reins. Or he was eyeing that dandy little strawberry roan mare tied to the fence. Knowing his penchant for love at first sight, she tied him beside a homely sorrel that pinned his ears when Fudge tried to nuzzle up.

In the office, the secretary took her name without a flicker of recognition. “Head or heels?”

“Header. Put me in three times.” She’d chosen this roping because it was a drawpot. All she had to do was tell them she preferred to rope the horns and they’d draw three partners to rope heels for her. Tori handed over her entry fees and went back to her horse, dug out her best rope, and climbed aboard to join the parade of ropers circling the arena. On the second lap, she heard a big, bawdy laugh that made her jerk Fudge up short and look around for the source.

Shawnee Pickett. Shit. She would have to be here.

Tori gritted her teeth and kicked Fudge into a lope. He moved out smooth and easy, pushing into the bit more than usual due to the long layoff. She wrapped her fingers around her rope, tracing the hard twist of nylon with her fingers. She’d earned her place in the arena. One person couldn’t take it away.

“All right, listen up!” the announcer declared.

She began to recite team numbers and names. The roping was a three header, meaning Tori could rope up to four steers with each partner, but only if they made qualified runs. A miss meant she was out with that partner. If she and her heelers caught every steer, she’d get to make nine runs. A bad day would mean three no times and she was done.

She’d drawn up as team number thirty-two with someone named Randy, and team sixty-eight with John somebody. The announcer droned on and on, down through the list, until finally, “Team number one hundred and six, Tori Hancock and Shawnee Pickett.”

No way. Tori slammed her fist on her saddle horn. Like this wasn’t hard enough, she had to draw up with Shawnee? Tori eased through the crowd of ropers congregated on the left side of the arena, out of the way of the roping box, until she was only a few horses away from her nemesis. Shawnee looked exactly the same. Heavy-set body, round face, wild mop of dark brown curls yanked back into a bushy ponytail. But, Tori had to admit, her makeup was perfect as always, and today her sweatshirt was a vivid pink with Rope Like a Girl stamped on the front.

In fact, if you hadn’t experienced her personality, you might actually say she was attractive.

“Team number thirty-two, Tori and Randy, you’re up!” the announcer repeated loudly.

Oh crap. Her heeler was already sitting in front of the chute, waiting. Tori built a hasty loop, her face burning as necks craned to see the idiot who was holding up the action.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, hustling Fudge into the heading box.

Her heeler gave her an encouraging smile as he settled his horse in the right-hand box. Tori put Fudge’s butt in the corner of the left-hand box, cocked her arm back, and nodded. Too soon. She wasn’t set and Fudge’s first powerful stride slid her to the back of the saddle. She compensated by leaning out but that only got her shoulders too far forward, so when she let go of the loop it plopped onto the back of the steer’s head, limp as cold spaghetti.

Tori reined up and muttered another, “Sorry.”

Her heeler shrugged, as if to say It happens.

Not to her. Not very often. She might not be the fastest roper, but she was consistent. She planted Fudge at the back of the mob of ropers, yanking on the reins when he nosed the butt of the horse in front of him and nearly got kicked in the teeth. Okay. Deep breath. Relax. But she tensed again when Shawnee rode into the heeling box, said something to her header, then laughed, like she was so good she didn’t have to bother to concentrate.

Her header caught the steer sharp around the horns. As he wrapped his rope around the saddle horn and took the steer left, Shawnee’s buckskin zipped right in behind, giving her a perfect throw. Her loop floated in under the steer’s belly and scooped both hind feet cleanly out of the dirt. She whipped a dally around the saddle horn, the header pivoted his horse to face up as the ropes came tight, and the judge’s flag snapped down.

“Six point nine seconds,” the announcer said, to a smattering of applause. “That’s fast time, so far. Next up…”

Shawnee accepted hand slaps as she rode through the crowd, straight to where Tori was sitting. Tori stiffened, but Shawnee’s gaze skipped over her without pause as she swung the buckskin around and parked in front of Fudge. And of course Fudge reached out to sniff the horse’s butt.

Tori yanked on the reins. “Stop it!”

Fudge gave another halfhearted tug, then dropped his head to sulk.

Shawnee was too busy running her mouth to notice. “Hey, Lou, you buy any steers yet?”

“Nah. Too expensive. Been practicing on the dummy.”

Shawnee slapped her coiled rope onto the saddle horn. “Same as everybody. Can’t find a soul within an hour of Amarillo who’s ropin’ real steers.”

Tori eased Fudge away, to the front of the pack where she didn’t have to look at or hear Shawnee. More deep breaths. By the time the announcer called her name again, she had herself straight. Ready.

Her heeler was an older guy, potbellied, a bright red wild rag tied around his neck. “Watch this steer. He’ll stall and drop his head as you run up on him.”

Tori threw him a grateful smile for the tip. This time when she nodded she was ready, and got up and over Fudge’s neck the way she should. As predicted, the steer heard them coming and threw on the brakes. Tori checked up, but Fudge ignored her, nearly passing the steer. She hauled back on the reins and he bounced hard on his fronts, jacking her into the swells of her saddle as she threw her rope. The loop spun around the steer’s right horn and off.

“My horse is a little fresh,” she said to her heeler, by way of apology.

He just smiled, tucking away the loop he hadn’t had a chance to throw. Tori coiled her rope and steered Fudge into an empty space back in the corner where she could give herself a couple of mental head slaps in preparation for her next run. She would not let Shawnee screw with her. Never again. Beginning now. When the announcer called their names, Tori didn’t even glance at Shawnee as they rode into the boxes.

“Got us a good one, Blondie. You turn him, I’ll clean up the rest.”

Blondie? Seriously? Who said that to a partner who was about to nod for stock? Tori rode forward, then back, resetting both Fudge and her brain. Okay. Clear. She tightened up the reins and waited for the steer to look straight out the front of the gate. Then she nodded.

They got a perfect start, Fudge’s nose on the steer’s hip three strides out of the gate. Tori’s eyes were focused on the steer’s horns, but she heard Shawnee’s buckskin coming up hard on her right. Tori took two more swings, just to be sure, then threw. The loop felt as if it stuck to her hand. Like a wild pitch, it sailed high, arcing a foot above the steer’s head. Tori dropped her chin, wheeled around, and headed back to the corner, rope dragging behind. She hadn’t thrown a loop that bad in years. Her eyes burned with humiliation as she rode Fudge to where she’d left her rope bag and swung off.

And damned if Shawnee didn’t follow her. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

Tori shrugged, coiling her rope in quick jerks.

“I could swear…” Shawnee snapped her fingers. “Barbie! I’ll be damned. Should’ve recognized you by that loop you just threw.”

Tori’s chin snapped up and she glared across Fudge’s back. “Were you born an asshole, or is it something you have to work at?”

Shawnee blinked. Then she folded her arms and leaned on the saddle horn, raising her eyebrows. “Somebody’s gone and got ’em some teeth. Where ya been, Barbie?”

“None of your business.” Tori grabbed Fudge’s reins to make her escape.

Running away again, Princess? The mocking voice in her head sounded a whole lot more like her own than Shawnee’s.

She stopped. Dammit. She would not let Shawnee—or her own lack of confidence—ruin one of the few things she had left that gave her real pleasure. As clichéd as it might sound, the best way to beat ’em truly was to join ’em, and Shawnee had unwittingly extended an invitation.

Tori turned around. “If you want to rope real steers, call me this week at Panhandle Orthopedics. I’ll give you directions to my place.”

Shawnee’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then I’ll talk to you next week.”

As they strode through the door and outside, away from the other horses, Fudge gave a sorrowful whinny.

“I hear ya, buddy,” Tori said.

But unlike Fudge, she didn’t look back.

* * *

Shawnee didn’t call until Wednesday, and then—thank the saints—she only left a voice mail. “If you meant what you said about roping some steers, I’m free on Friday evening. Let me know where and what time.”

Tori replied with a text. Her address and Seven o’clock.

Friday afternoon, Tori strolled into reception to find Beth, one of the other therapists, and two patients—all female—huddled around the narrow slot of a window that opened from the waiting room into the therapy gym.

“What are we watching?” she asked, pushing onto her tiptoes to peer over their heads.

Oh. My. She’d started Delon’s appointment with a quick exam to see how his knee had tolerated the new exercise regimen, and finding no increase in pain or swelling, had sent him off to the gym with an aide to supervise today’s workout. Finished, he had his heel propped high on the weight rack, fingers wrapped around his foot, damn near doing the splits. The position pulled his sweatpants snug across his thighs and butt. Then he pivoted his upper body to reach down for his ankle and his audience gave a collective sigh.

Tori’s mind jumped back to the first time she’d witnessed his impressive flexibility. Her palms tingled with the memory of curving around that perfect butt and…

She shook out her hands but couldn’t look away. Seriously unprofessional, Tori. But she’d challenge anyone who appreciated the male form to wrap their fingers around one of those hard, muscled thighs and not notice exactly how much man was attached to it.

“He goes through the exact same routine every time,” the other therapist said, a note of awe in her voice as he swung upright and stretched both arms behind him, his gray Aggies T-shirt molding to his chest and shoulders. “It’s like a dance.”

Choreographed to whatever beat came through the buds stuffed in his ears, loud enough to render him oblivious to his audience.

“Maybe we should tuck dollar bills in his waistband,” Tori suggested dryly.

The other women broke into shocked giggles, then scattered as Delon straightened and turned toward the window. Tori sidestepped the herd and went out to interrupt Delon and ruin everyone’s fun. She waved at him to follow her from the gym back to one of the treatment rooms, where they could speak privately, trying to ignore her body’s little hum of interest as he brushed past her in the doorway.

Her phone buzzed as he settled onto the treatment table. She pulled it out, checked the number, and gave an apologetic grimace. “Mind if I take this?”

“Go ahead.”

If only the mechanic on the other end was so obliging. “Next Wednesday’s the soonest we can fit you in.”

“I can’t rope with a tractor stalled in the middle of my arena. I’ll pay extra for someone to come today.”

“No can do. Want me to put you on the schedule for next week?”

“I’ll make a few more calls and let you know.” Tori sighed, frustrated, as she hung up. She’d already tried half the repair shops in the Panhandle. No one was interested in working overtime on a Friday. On the bright side, she now had a valid reason to call Shawnee and cancel their practice session. She turned her attention back to Delon. “Sorry. Now, we need to talk about your MRI—”

“What kind?”

She blinked. “Of MRI?”

“Tractor,” he said.

“Uh, red. Old.”

“Make? Model? Gas or diesel engine?”

She scrunched her face, trying to recall what the real estate agent had called it. “An International B-something, burns gas, came with the place. It’s been running kind of rough. Last night it died and wouldn’t start again.”

“How big is it?”

“This tall.” Tori held up a hand, palm down.

Delon gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “I can get it fixed.”

She stared at him for a couple of beats, comprehension slow to dawn. “Oh. I never thought…your shop does tractors?”

“Not usually, but that’s a simple engine. Won’t be cheap to get it done today, though.”

“Whatever. I just want to get this over with.”

His eyebrows rose. “This?”

“Long story.” She pulled out one of her cards to scribble her address and cell phone number on the back. “Tell the mechanic that the tractor’s in the indoor arena. I won’t be home until around six.”

He tucked the card in the pocket of his T-shirt. “Is it okay if I start working out on my spur board at home?”

She had to take a moment to picture what he had in mind. “Stationary, or the kind that bucks and spins?”

“Stationary.”

She considered the potential for injury—virtually none at this point in his recovery—and nodded. “That’s fine. What about the MRI?”

“I’d rather hold off until I see how the spur board goes.”

In other words, he had to see what his knee could do. Or couldn’t. And that was for the best. For now, she would focus on preparing Delon’s body to accommodate his new limitations. But before they could really move forward, he had to accept that he was never going be the same. Then he might be ready to let her try to make him better, even if “better” also meant “different.”

“Go for it,” she said, handing him a pair of ice packs. “You can report back at your Tuesday appointment and we’ll decide about the MRI.”

He headed back to the gym to kick back on one of the mat tables to ice his knee and she retreated to her office, where she pecked through endless screens to enter notes on the computer. Stupid software. She finally clicked Done and hustled out to grab her next patient. As she reached the waiting room door, it opened and a man stuck his head in to glance around the gym. Around fifty, she guessed, longish ginger hair and eighties sideburns—shades of Kris Kristofferson back when he was seriously hot.

“Hey,” he said to Delon. “I was hoping to catch you before you left.”

Delon hesitated a beat too long, during which the man caught sight of Tori. His smile was easy and open. “Oh. Hi. You must be the new therapist.”

“That’s me,” Tori said, watching Delon for a clue.

He wiped his expression blank. “Tori, this is my dad, Merle Sanchez. Dad, this is Tori.”

Merle strode forward, the smile broadening as he stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you.”

Tori could only stare at him, mute, as he pumped her hand. This was Delon’s father? But he was so…

“Whatcha doin’ in Amarillo, Dad?” Delon asked.

“I delivered that old Mack we sold to Soderstroms and figured I could catch a ride home with you.”

“Sure. I’m done here.” Delon grabbed his gym towel and swung his feet to the floor, much too eager to make himself—and his father—scarce. “I’ll see you Tuesday, Tori.”

“Wait…Tori?” The combination of Delon’s obvious discomfort and hearing her name again lit a spark of recognition. Merle Sanchez’s eyes widened as his gaze jumped from Delon to her. “Are you the same Tori who was, um—”

“Yes. Nice to meet you…” She cut a swift glance at his son. “Finally.”

Then she dragged her next patient out of the waiting room and left Delon to do the explaining.