Chapter 17

For the first time since he’d been sent out on his own, Cole felt like it might actually be okay. Maybe even good. He didn’t quite know what to do with the knowledge that Shawnee was a big part of his optimism, but he was working on it.

When they’d arrived at this week’s rodeo, she’d parked just across the road from the rest of the Jacobs rigs instead of over in the contestant lot. It was like a piece of needle-grass plucked out of Cole’s sock. He hadn’t realized how much her separation had niggled at his sense of order until it was gone.

Now his whole crew was gathered up for dinner. Even Cruz had abandoned his latest rawhide project. They lounged in camp chairs scattered under the trailer awnings exchanging the usual gossip, tall tales, and friendly insults. Hank had hooked up a portable speaker to his smartphone and he and Analise and Mariah were arguing over the playlist. Katie sniffed around, searching for scraps on the empty plates that had been left on the ground.

Aunt Iris would be proud.

Cole soaked it all in as he strolled over to refill his sweet tea from a jug on the folding table beside Shawnee’s door. He turned to tell her—again—how much he appreciated the effort, but hesitated when he saw her sitting with her chin in her hand, flip-flops kicked off, staring into the distance with a troubled crease between her brows. She had wadded her hair into a messy ball on top of her head, but long, curling strands had escaped, trailing across muscular shoulders and arms bared by her pale-green tank top.

His gaze gravitated down to equally powerful thighs and calves exposed by her khaki shorts. But her toes were…well, damn there wasn’t really another word for it. Cute. She had cute toes. And if she could read his mind, she’d gut-punch him.

Cole dragged his attention off her body and followed her line of sight to the source of her frown—Butthead, pacing an agitated rut along the south side of his pen. The gray paused to sniff at the bucket hung on the fence, grab it with his teeth, and flip it upside down, dumping the water on the ground. Then he commenced pacing again.

“He’s not getting any better,” she said, as Cole settled into the chair beside her.

“Not so’s you’d notice.” He fought to keep his eyes pointed straight forward instead of straying toward all that firm flesh. And those cute, bronze-painted toes.

“I thought exposing him to all of these different places would desensitize him. If anything, he’s getting more psychotic.” Her mouth dragged down at the corners. “Got any bright ideas? One of your magic feed supplements that’ll take the edge off?”

Cole had given it plenty of thought. He didn’t have much to offer. “Magnesium, maybe. I’ve used it on horses that stress out in particular situations. Not something you can feed him every day for the rest of his life, though.”

“By which you mean his condition is permanent?” She made a sour face. “I suppose you have a name for this, too.”

He dragged his attention off the satiny skin of her thighs and onto the conversation. Talking while ogling was just asking to blurt out something inappropriate. “Neophobia. The irrational fear of new places or situations. Documented in animals and humans.”

She gave him a side-eye glance without turning her head. “Something else you had reason to look up?”

“Yeah.”

He braced himself for a snide remark about how that explained so much about his anal tendencies, but she heaved a defeated sigh instead. “What am I gonna do with him? I can’t sell a horse that loses his shit every time he leaves the round pen in my backyard.”

“I suppose we could see if he’ll buck,” Cole said, without much enthusiasm. Rodeo broncs and bulls had to be road warriors, comfortable anywhere, or they burned out. The gray would never hold up.

Shawnee shook her head. “He doesn’t have it in him.”

They sat and watched him pace some more. The poor damn horse looked so miserable and anxious and there didn’t seem to be anything they could do to make him feel better, short of a tranquilizer dart.

“I don’t have room to keep him forever,” Shawnee said. “I thought about sneaking down to the Patterson Ranch and kicking him loose in one of their back pastures, but he’d probably panic and run off a cliff. Plus if the stupid rubbed off on any of their colts, Tori would hang me with my own rope.” She heaved another sigh. “I guess I’ll just keep fighting the good fight and hope for a miracle.”

She didn’t sound optimistic.

“I’ll pick up some magnesium paste when I go to the feed store tomorrow.” Cole frowned, puzzled. Shawnee was too horse-savvy not to have seen what she was getting into. “How did you get stuck with him?

“Some friends bought him for their ten-year-old daughter because he was so pretty and sweet. He must’ve been doped to the eyeballs when they tried him out. That is not a kid horse. The little girl begged me to save him.” She drove her fingers through the wayward curls at her temples with a groan. “She calls me at least every other week to see how he’s doing.”

“And you say…”

“I lie my ass off. Whatever I do with him has to be far, far away from Amarillo, or she’ll want to visit.”

Cole thought about that for a while. Then he said, “How about a distraction?”

“God, yes. How much tequila do you have?”

He laughed. “I meant for the kid. Have they found her another horse yet? Beni has decided Dozer is too slow, so he’s laid claim to Cadillac.”

“Violet’s good horse?” Shawnee lifted her chin off her hand to stare at him in amazement. “How’d he swing that?”

“Oh, you know Beni. He’s always got a plan. Since Violet hasn’t been able to ride, he offered to keep Cadillac in shape for her.”

“And she fell for it?”

Cole smiled. “Beni thinks so. Actually, her young horse is past ready to start earning his keep, and Cadillac is the perfect step up for Beni. He’ll take good care of our little man.”

Shawnee tossed a sullen glare at the gray. “That son of a bitch can’t even take care of himself.”

“Too bad we can’t put him on anxiety meds, like a person.”

“No kidding. They are a miracle.” The words were barely out before she sucked in a breath, as if she could pull them back. Then she gave an overly casual shrug. “Imagine what a joy I’d be without them.”

Before Cole could respond, she slapped her palms onto her thighs and pushed to her feet. “I’ll give Violet a call about that horse. And if you don’t mind, I’ll ride along to the feed store tomorrow to see what they’ve got.”

She grabbed the empty chili pot and disappeared into her trailer, the door slapping shut behind her. Conversation over. Topic closed for discussion.

Cole thought about that bottle of little blue pills in his own medicine cabinet, for the times when his body and mind turned on him and none of his usual tricks could pull him back from the edge. Something else he and Shawnee had in common. But mutual dependence on pharmaceuticals didn’t seem like a great basis for a relationship.

A jolt ran through him like he’d been struck by lightning.

God help him. He’d just put Shawnee and relationship in the same sentence.

* * *

Two days later, Shawnee reined Butthead to a stop and stepped off, rubbing a hand between his ears. He cocked his head, enjoying the scratch of her fingers. And it had only taken most of an hour to get to this point.

“Better,” Cole called out from the fence. “It took four minutes less than average to get him to stop fighting and tuck his nose.”

“You’ve been timing me?” Though on second thought, she shouldn’t be surprised. It was classic Cole—his version of Butthead’s precious round pen. Instead of fences, he coped by surrounding himself with walls of logic and routine.

She’d like to know how that brain of his made sense of the way she caught him looking at her when he thought she didn’t notice.

Nothing was more illogical than her and Cole. Yeah, they worked well together in the arena, they were both horse trainers, and they came from similar backgrounds. But scratch a thumbnail across that very thin veneer and you’d uncover irreconcilable differences. Cole was a highway, cutting straight and true and solid, his destination mapped out to the nth degree. Shawnee was a cow path, meandering from one watering hole and patch of green grass to the next, letting the wind push her where it would.

He fell in beside her as she led Butthead out of the arena. “If we find a supplement or medication that reduces his anxiety in the short term, it may enable the desensitization process.”

“Yes, Professor Jacobs,” she drawled.

He hunched a shoulder, his jaw going tight. “Words and phrases stick in my head, so I use them. I know it makes me sound weird.”

“Smart,” she corrected.

He shot her a surprised look.

“Most people can’t remember stuff like that,” she clarified, avoiding his gaze. Hearing Cole put himself down irritated her. “Maybe it was weird when you were a kid. Now you sound smart.”

“Oh.” His face relaxed into a slight smile. “Thanks.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. I said you sounded smart.”

Instead of going all stiff and offended, he laughed. Shit. She couldn’t even needle him anymore. When had she lost the edge?

She veered off toward her trailer. “Better go swap horses.”

“See you in the arena in fifteen.”

And weren’t they ever so casual? Just good buddies, her and Cole. Until you scratched that paper-thin surface and saw what was threatening to come to a boil underneath.

But she was in a strangely Zen mood for the rest of the day. Even Ace couldn’t get under her skin. For the most part he’d kept his distance, either afraid Cole would make good on the threat to ship him out or—more likely—just not all that interested in her as long as he had a place to sleep and three squares a day. And she didn’t have to feel guilty about dragging along a freeloader. He’d turned out to be a pretty good rodeo announcer, with his bottomless well of insider information and the quick wit that had kept him from being murdered in his sleep for decades. Maybe Ace had finally stumbled into a legitimate career. Lord knew, it would suit his need to be the center of attention.

The sense of peace followed her to bed that night. She fell into a delicious, dreamless sleep so deep it took her a few moments to resurface when the pounding came at her door. Even then, she didn’t panic, just yawned, stretched, and combed her fingers through her hair in a useless attempt to untangle the mess as she padded to the door to see what new excuse Cole had come up with to harass her in the wee hours.

She yanked the door open. “What do you—”

The words died abruptly as her heart lurched into her throat. It wasn’t Cole. It was Hank. And he was covered in blood.