Chapter 22

Cole had to admit, the woman seemed nice enough. Pretty, friendly, and very interested. Her face was vaguely familiar—one of the cluster of photographers who followed the rodeo circuit—and Cole had no doubt Mariah was telling the truth when she dragged the blonde over and said, “Of course, you two have met.”

As if that meant he could pick her out of a lineup, let alone remember what she was called. Unlike so many other trivial bits of information, he was lousy with names and faces.

And the blonde had smiled and said, “Hi, Cole,” as if they were old friends, so he couldn’t very well say, “I’m sorry, what was your name?”

Worse, after Mariah shoved them onto the dance floor and disappeared, the blonde kept trying to strike up a conversation. She didn’t seem satisfied with “Yep” and “Nope” answers, but he doubted she wanted a lecture on the role of selenium in horse nutrition, and that was all he had to offer at the moment. And every time she asked a question, he fumbled the steps.

“Oops,” he muttered. “Can’t talk and dance at the same time.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

For him, or for herself now that she was beginning to realize he had the personality of a brick wall? Cole only nodded and swung her around again, holding her close enough to avoid eye contact, but not so close as to give her ideas. The noise, the crowd, the constant movement bombarded his eyes and ears, and he could feel the anxiety coiling and hissing in his gut, like a snake preparing to strike.

He forced his mind to focus on one sound—the deep twang of the bass guitar—and let everything else fade to a blur. The blonde said something, but Cole was so zoned out he only caught one word. He blinked back to full reality. “Excuse me?”

“Shawnee,” the blonde repeated, with a tilt of her head toward the fenced-off, adults-only section of the dance hall. “Who knew she could look like that?”

Cole whipped his head around, searching the mob. Then he saw her, and stumbled for real.

Whoa. Just…whoa.

She was bronzed, earthy, full-bodied, her hair an entity unto itself, like one of those ancient goddesses of fertility. Or lust. Was there a goddess of lust? If not, he had a nominee…

A hand tugged at his arm and he realized he’d come to a complete stop. Luckily, the song ended right then. Thank God. His focus was shot. Well, his focus on dancing, anyway. He zeroed right in on Shawnee, shouldering through the crowd until they were face-to-face.

“You do realize you just left your date standing alone in the middle of the dance floor,” Analise pointed out.

“I…oh.” Cole glanced back to see the blonde staring after him. Even he could decipher that expression. Lord knew he’d seen it often enough. “She’s not my date.”

“Well, that makes it okay, then,” Analise said dryly.

Cole peeled his eyeballs off Shawnee to glance at her. Was that an actual…no, never mind. He didn’t want to know. His gaze snapped back to Shawnee like a tractor beam. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Having a beer.” She held up her longneck.

“Why do you look like…that?”

She bristled so hard her hair practically crackled. “What exactly is that?”

“All…girly.”

Her mouth dropped open, but her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I am a girl. I sorta thought you noticed when I showed you my tits.”

Analise choked on her Coke. “You…showed him…”

“Not this kind of girl.” Obviously, Cole knew she was female, but like Violet. A cowboy who just happened to have a few extra curves. He could talk to a cowboy. But this—

Shawnee very deliberately looked down, dragging his gaze along to her cleavage, where it threatened to burrow in and refuse to come out. “Are you implying that I’m not properly dressed?”

“I…” He drew a blank, every single neuron too busy shouting WANT. NOW.

Tyrell pushed through the crowd, dragging a sulky Mariah with him. “Found her. And now we’re turning in.”

“It’s not even midnight!” Mariah tugged at the hand he had clamped around her wrist, scowling. “Why can’t I stay here with these guys?”

“You’re sixteen, this is a bar that’s getting drunker by the minute, and these people aren’t babysitters,” Tyrell said, reasonable enough to make any teenager scream.

Mariah muffled hers, but the sentiment came through loud and clear. “I’m not a baby. I’m going to be a senior in high school. Nobody my age has a curfew.”

“Or you can just skip going out altogether,” Tyrell said.

Mariah clamped her mouth shut and seethed in silence for a few moments. Then she looked around. “Where’s Tabitha?” she asked Cole.

“Who?”

“Tabitha!” Mariah threw up her free hand. “Blonde? Photographer? I left you dancing with her…”

“Oh. So that’s her name.”

Mariah gaped at him. “She said you’ve met at least half a dozen times.”

Cole could only shrug. “Probably.”

“And she is…” Mariah prompted.

“He forgot to bring her back from the dance floor,” Analise said.

Shawnee smirked. “In case you were wondering why he’s not already married…”

Mariah closed her eyes, shook her head, and heaved the eternal Men! sigh. “Fabulous. Come on, darling Daddy. If we have to go, let’s make tracks before she hunts me down.”

They squeezed out past a group of local college kids. A couple of them hooted and catcalled after Mariah, then clammed up under Tyrell’s murderous glare. Back here in the bar everything was moving and shifting, closing in. The only constant Cole could find was Shawnee, but she wasn’t right either. All the differences caught at his mind like tiny hooks.

Hank appeared in his peripheral vision, angling past a pair of drunk girls who were propping each other up while they howled an off-key version of “Hell on Heels.” Cole hadn’t seen him out on the dance floor earlier, or anywhere else for that matter, but this crowd could swallow up a full-grown bear.

Hank’s face broke into a huge, leering grin when he saw Shawnee. He let his gaze zero in on her chest. “Well, hello, girls.”

“They’re out of your league, Junior,” Shawnee said, cuffing him upside the head.

Hank grinned, rubbing his ear and straightening the cowboy hat she’d knocked sideways. “Can I at least take ’em out for a dance so I can enjoy the scenery?”

“No.” Cole grabbed Shawnee’s arm and pulled her toward the dance floor.

To his surprise, she followed, dropping her beer bottle into a trash can along the way. As he turned her into his arms, he looked back to see Hank scowling as he slapped what appeared to be a twenty-dollar bill into Analise’s hand. She flashed him a superior smile and stuffed it down the front of her tank top.

The song was something Cole normally wouldn’t choose, too fast for a decent two-step, with a lot of showy fiddle and steel guitar. Add the distraction of Shawnee not looking how she was supposed to, and he was too overwhelmed to find any kind of rhythm.

“If you don’t approve of how I look, what are we doing out here?” she asked.

“Dancing.” Cole tried staring off into the middle distance, but it was a whirl of faces and bodies. They did a half shuffle, half stumble around the corner of the floor, Cole’s elbow missing an amplifier only because Shawnee steered him away. “I don’t disapprove.”

“That’s sure as hell not your happy face.”

“You changed.” It came out as an accusation, as if she’d broken a sacred vow.

She glared up at him, her eyes all dark and smudgy like a makeup commercial. “This is how I dress when I go out.”

His gaze strayed down the front of her shirt. From his height, he had an unobstructed view. He yanked his eyes back up again. “I got used to you the other way. Now you’re different. It’s…confusing.”

“Seriously?” She huffed out a laugh. “It’s just me. The one you don’t have to impress, remember?”

He’d strayed off the dance floor, so when he swung her around she hip-checked a bowlegged buckaroo type. Beer shot out of his nose and soaked his fancy neckerchief. He whirled around to look up…and up…and up…and finally meet Cole’s grim gaze.

“Sorry,” Cole said.

After a brief moment’s consideration, the buckaroo’s handlebar mustache twitched into a grudging smile. “No problem.”

When they were back on the dance floor, Shawnee stopped, forcing Cole to do the same. “I know you can dance. I’ve seen you. So why are we crashing around like somebody turned Flight Risk loose in here?”

“We’re talking, and that”—he gestured toward her face—“is distracting, and I can’t find the bass.”

Her eyebrows crimped together. “Which base? First, second…home run? I didn’t think you were that kind of a boy.”

“The bass,” he repeated, the static inside his head crackling louder, making his voice rise in pitch. “I need to follow it, but there’s too much noise and…stuff.”

She stared up at him. “Okay, now I have to know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s just something my mother taught me. To help shut out all the commotion. She told me to follow the bass guitar because it sets the rhythm.”

He’d listened to hours of music, until he could pick that deep, resonant thread out of a song almost instantly. The bass was his optimal wavelength. He could feel it humming through his body, into his bones—and out through his feet. Like magic, he could dance…as long as nobody talked to him. As a bonus, he’d learned that finding a dark, quiet place, putting on his headphones and easing his mind along the pulsing path of the bass settled his anxiety.

Probably the only reason he’d been able to cope unmedicated for three decades.

He waited for another smart-ass remark. Instead, Shawnee cocked her head as she listened to the music, beginning to nod along with the beat.

“I get it. No talking.” She tightened her grip on his hand and stepped in closer, her palm firm on his back. “Close your eyes so you can’t see my fancy face, and I’ll make sure we don’t mow anybody down.”

“You might shove me headfirst into a trash can.”

“Tempting.” She made a show of considering it, then shook her head. “Nah. I’m not feeling it tonight. You’ll just have to trust me.”

Trust Shawnee Pickett. A month ago, he would’ve laughed at the idea. But he’d been putting his faith in her every night in the arena, ride after ride, and she’d never let him down. Doing a job she’d only taken as a favor to Violet.

And Shawnee kept her word.

He drew in a deep breath of the dank beer- and body-scented air, and wished desperately for his stock pens and the good old smell of manure. At least the band had moved into his favorite Aaron Watson song. He closed his eyes and mentally caught the bass thread.

Shawnee gave him a moment, then a nudge. She didn’t lead. Instead, she picked up his rhythm, using her hand on his back to direct him. He kept the steps small at first. The longer they moved without crashing, though, the more he loosened up. Breathed. Shawnee smelled different than the last time he’d held her. Better, obviously, minus the sweat and blood and horse puke. The noise and the crowd faded to the edge of his awareness, but unlike usual, Shawnee was inside the bubble with him, her feel and scent woven through the deep bah-bah-bum of the bass line, as if she’d dialed in to his frequency.

“What’s it like?” she asked.

He opened his eyes and missed a beat.

“Don’t stop.” Her fingers dug into his back, urging him to keep moving. “Close your eyes and tell me what you see. How it feels.”

“Why?”

Her gaze dropped to his chest. “Your whole body changed, like someone pulled a plug and drained out all the stress. I…” She flicked a quick glance up at him, then down again. “I was just curious.”

He pictured her trying to fight off the anxiety attack and understood. One more possible weapon against the monster. “I can try.”

He closed his eyes again and let himself sink into the music until he found the sweet spot. They danced for a few minutes, while he tried to maintain enough consciousness to study the sensations without getting pulled out of the flow. Finally, he said, “Most autistic people are hypersensitive to things like noise, touch, light, color, movement. For me, this crowd is like drowning in a river of static, and the bass line is a rope. As long as I’m hanging on to it, the rest flows around me. But if I let go, I get washed away.”

He opened his eyes and looked down to find her gaze fixed on his face, her eyes softer than he’d ever seen them. And somewhere during the time he’d been lost in the music, his mind had adjusted to this new version of Shawnee. She looked amazing. He’d just panicked when she turned herself into the kind of woman he’d never be able to talk to.

“I meant it as a compliment,” he said.

She blinked, as if coming out of a haze. “What?”

“When I said I don’t have to impress you. I don’t have to fake normal. I can just…be. It’s a relief. But I like this, too.” He lifted a hand and skimmed it lightly down her hair, from the top of her head to her waist. The curls tickled his palm. Then he traced his fingertip along the inside of the chunky crystals of her necklace, from one bare collarbone to the other. “And this. I just had to get used to it.”

She inhaled sharply when his finger made the return trip along the outside of her necklace, dipping dangerously low. Her lips parted and her eyes drifted almost shut as she exhaled, long and slow. God, he wanted to kiss her. He started to lean in, but she planted both hands on his chest and pushed out of his reach. “You should’ve stuck with the blonde.”

This time, it was Cole left standing on the dance floor. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, watching as she marched straight over to Hank, snatched the beer out of his hand, and gulped down half of it.

Cole smiled. Yep. He was getting to her.

He considered going after her, but there was no rushing a woman that stubborn, and he could feel a migraine brewing, courtesy of the trailing ends of last night’s disaster with Butthead and compounded by the racket in this damn bar. If he escaped and took his medication right away, maybe he could still dodge the worst of the headache.

He turned and walked out, into blissful solitude and darkness—and hummed that Aaron Watson song all the way to his trailer.