Chapter 32

Wyatt was slouched in an Adirondack chair on the deck of his cabin, utterly failing to appreciate the startling beauty of Wallowa Lake and the surrounding peaks, when his phone chirped with an incoming text. His heart leapt and jerked like a dog on a chain when he saw it was from Melanie.

Hey, Chuck. I didn’t mean to run you completely out of town. You okay?

He blinked, shook his head, then read it again. Run him out? By the time he’d landed in Joseph, he’d convinced himself that she’d already be packed and making a beeline for Texas. And asking if he was okay? That was supposed to be his line. She must mean it to be ironic, but the subtext escaped him so he decided to just play along until he got a better feel for her mood. I hate that name. And I’m fine. He hesitated, then added, Did you get my email?

He tipped his head back to watch a hawk circle high over the trees while he waited for the answer.

Yes. The deviousness of your mind never fails to awe me.

She was in awe. Was that good? After the way she’d left him last night, she seemed pretty damn relaxed. Or more likely, that was how she wanted him to think she was feeling. It’s all good. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? The joy of texting. Any emotional context could be easily removed. And compared to coming face-to-face at practice tomorrow with three sets of curious eyes watching every move, the least uncomfortable way to reestablish contact.

She would know. Between her family and her job, this was a woman who’d navigated more than her share of potentially awkward moments. And yes, it smarted to realize he was just another oops to be smoothed over, but she was making an effort to get them back on normal footing. Since it was more than he’d dared hope for, he’d quit whining and be grateful.

That’s it? he prompted when she didn’t elaborate.

I’m still trying to decide whether to kick you or hug your neck. I might have to do both.

He choked out a laugh. He’d take either as long as she’d stuck around to administer them. I get that a lot.

I have no doubt. There was a pause, then his phone chirped again. Do I also have you to thank for the pictures that were sent to Michael’s boss?

No. I assume that was Tori, by way of Pratimi. At the urging of the Ladies’ Club. Tori’s sister-in-law was the same computer-savvy friend Melanie had referred to when she’d threatened to spam Michael’s email contacts. Too bad the poor slob hadn’t known the kind of people she associated with, or he would have steered clear.

And Melanie would never have come to Oregon. Now there was a bittersweet pill.

Have you taken any other steps on my behalf that I should know about?

He debated confessing that he’d sicced Gil on Leachman, but technically, Wyatt wasn’t the one taking steps, and if Violet or Tori hadn’t told her yet, they probably hadn’t found anything. Yet. Leachman might be smart enough to keep his hands clean until the dust settled from Melanie’s bombshell, but he was too conceited to deny his baser needs for long.

I left the rest up to the Earnest mafia, Wyatt replied. And he needed to change the subject before she pried more out of him, so he asked, Did Grace catch you?

Unfortunately for me. I thought I’d seen the last of the mare from hell when Shawnee pawned her off. Now I’m eating a lousy rodeo dog in Podunk, Washington.

Alarm bells trilled in Wyatt’s head, and it took three tries to punch in: You went with Grace?

Don’t worry—no girl talk. She still thinks you’re unsoiled.

He snorted, started to type, then on a whim hit Dial instead. He needed to hear if she was really as fine as she was pretending to be.

“Hello?” She sounded wary. He heard the rodeo announcer in the background, then a burst of rock music.

“You really are at the rodeo. I thought you hated watching other people rope.”

“Hate is a strong word. And Violet talks too much.”

Actually, it had been Miz Iris fretting about how Melanie was straying too far from her roots. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“That wasn’t a question; it was a misstatement, which I refuted. And you avoided first. Are you okay? We got pretty rough, and you bullfighters are kinda fragile, what with all the bionic parts.”

“I’m fine.” And damned if he wasn’t, at least for the length of this surreal conversation.

She paused, a listening silence. “Is that a boat I hear?”

“Yes.” He watched a water-skier carve a long, graceful turn across the turquoise water. “I flew up to Joseph to spend the day at my cabin.”

“Which is lakeside, of course.”

“Of course. I make a killing renting it out in July and August, when I’m too busy with rodeos to lounge around on the deck.”

“Figures. There’s always a business angle with you.”

“Not always.”

“About that.” Her tone went abruptly serious. “Last night…I took advantage of you. And I’m sorry.”

He scowled at the wake that slapped against his dock, twenty steep wooden steps below where he sat. “I made the first move.”

“Did you? Or did I make you think it was your idea?”

“You did not…” And then he sat bolt upright in his Adirondack chair. “You sold me?”

“Right down the river. Or up the stairs, as the case may be.” She blew a ripe raspberry into the phone. “And I am a total hypocrite. I’ve been cursing Michael for exploiting me without a second thought. Then I turned around and did the same thing to you.”

Wyatt’s mind spun backward, hour by hour, minute by minute, to the moment she’d sauntered into the bar. The red shoes. The lipstick. The dress—with only the flowers in red because all scarlet would have tipped her hand.

She’d painted the picture he’d expected to see, and he’d interpreted every brushstroke exactly as she’d intended. Rowdy was just the not-so-sharp stick she’d used as a prod, even more effective because she’d made Wyatt work at getting her to himself.

Replaying it now, he could appreciate how deftly she’d scripted their argument. The bitter reference to the bullshit women had to put up with in the workplace, the slut-shaming they had to tolerate, a jab at his white male privilege—she’d nailed every one of his guilt buttons with laser precision. It was manipulative and devious…

And he couldn’t have done it better himself.

“Am I fired?” she asked.

There was a note in her voice that went beyond resignation, making all of his protective instincts jump to attention. “Not if you tell me what’s wrong…beyond the obvious.”

He listened to more background noise—cheering, a buzzer—one of the roughstock events in progress. Finally she said, “I woke up today.”

And…

He waited, then realized she’d meant it as a complete sentence. Oh. Damn. He’d experienced a few less-than-joyful moments of enlightenment, and even though he knew it was a good thing in the long run…

“Ouch,” he said.

“Yeah. Imagine, if you will, looking at yourself and seeing your mother.”

Holy hell. That would be a nightmare. Then he winced. “Do I have to replace a mirror in the apartment?”

She laughed. “I don’t take my anger out on what I assume is irreplaceable antique furniture.”

“Good to know.” He settled more comfortably in his chair. “So now you owe me.”

The note of caution returned. “What kind of payment are we talking about?”

“Information. I’ve met your father. Tell me about your mother.”

“Oh.” She took a moment to compose her answer. “Short version? My dad wanted to be a world champion tie-down roper. My mother wanted to be the woman behind the world champion. I came toddling along a year after they got married, which wasn’t exactly the plan, but I took to the rodeo road like a happy little duck to water, so it was all good.”

“Mmm. I’ve seen the pictures.” Had several of them saved in an encrypted file on his laptop, in fact.

“What can I say? I was adorable.” He could hear her cheeky grin. “I grew up in the living quarters of a horse trailer rolling from one end of the country to the other. Mama was a road warrior, pulling the all-nighters so Daddy could sleep, hauling his horse to California while he flew off to South Dakota.”

“That doesn’t sound like a self-centered person.”

“Only because you were never there if, God forbid, Daddy accepted a trophy or did an interview without giving all the credit to his amazing wife.”

“Ah. Now it makes sense.”

“Yeah. It was definitely all about her.” She heaved an audible sigh. “I guess I wasn’t much better. That summer after the fire, I cried when he said he wasn’t entering the Fourth of July run. No trick riders waving sparklers? No racing from Cody to Red Lodge to Livingston, trying to make ’em all? It was like they canceled Christmas. And Ma…well, she’d hitched her wagon to a star and ended up parked in the Panhandle instead.”

“And she wasn’t into being a ranch wife.”

“To put it mildly. The day Daddy sold his good horse to buy a tractor, Violet swears they could hear the screaming clear down at their place.”

Melanie took an audible slurp from her Coke, the rodeo clown’s voice tinny through the phone. Wyatt grimaced at a mother-in-law joke so old it’d probably been told at the Pendleton Roundup back when the cowboys hauled their horses in on the train. Honestly. With all of the Internet at their disposal, was it that hard to come up with new material?

“I’m surprised your mother didn’t follow the horse out the door,” Wyatt said.

“And do what? She had no job skills other than being a rodeo wife—and those openings are reserved for hot, young things, not women pushing thirty and dragging a kid along. She hung in there, hoping Daddy would change his mind and hit the road again, but Grandad’s health went downhill so fast…and then came Hank. Ma decided if she ever wanted to do anything but cook, wipe snotty noses, and stare at the ass end of a herd of cows—her words—she’d have to get an education.”

A worthy goal, but… “Why broadcasting?”

“She decided to be a star in her own right. Radio, TV, one of those women who interview the cowboys on the rodeo telecasts…”

According to Miz Iris, the minute Hank was old enough to eat solid food their mother had enrolled in classes at the community college, followed by a series of jobs in larger, neighboring towns with low pay and long, unpredictable hours, leaving her son to be raised by a series of babysitters…and Melanie.

“And in the meantime, you decided to be a roper.”

“It was either that or the chute help. Daddy was practicing every day, training horses to make extra money. I got tired of pushing calves and tripping the gate so I started roping in self-defense. Since I was good at it, he decided to use me as an advertisement. He took me to all the junior and high school rodeos, and I can’t tell you how many times we came home without whatever I was riding that weekend. I learned pretty fast not to get attached.”

Wyatt would’ve expected a hint of sorrow or bitterness—he’d seen how it was with most little girls and their horses—but she sounded amused. “It didn’t upset you?”

“Only when he sold my best mount a week before the junior high finals. The colt he put me on took three strides out of the box, bogged its head, and tried to buck me off. Shawnee edged me out for the championship.” She snickered. “I like to remind her she got that trophy buckle by forfeit, just to piss her off.”

“And you were how old?”

“Thirteen.” She laughed at his incredulous tone. “Hey, one thing about being my daddy’s girl, I learned to cowboy up and rope off of whatever I throwed a leg over.”

The same way she didn’t hesitate to step in and fight a few bulls just for fun, or bail over a cliff to Wyatt’s rescue. The woman was fearless—except when it came to dark woods and canned biscuits. He realized he was grinning and started to squash it…then didn’t. Alone on his deck he could enjoy the vision of a pint-sized Melanie schooling her horse and then going ahead and roping anyway, probably cursing like a sailor the whole time.

“And Hank?”

The laughter drained from her voice. “He is our mother’s son—despises cows and has no interest in roping, which didn’t stop Daddy from making him do it anyway and riding his ass the whole time. Hank wanted to ride bucking horses like the Sanchez boys, but that was out of the question.”

So he’d hung around the Jacobs ranch as much as possible, where he’d developed a love and a talent for fighting bulls. Potentially one of the best in the business…and a complete waste in his father’s eyes. Christ. Why couldn’t parents just let their children be? A question Wyatt had debated with dozens of therapists—Laura’s and his own.

Melanie’s Coke gurgled dry. “My father would’ve loved Michael. I even imagined introducing them—” She cut off with an abrupt curse. “God that’s pathetic. Still trying to impress my daddy.”

“It sneaks up on you. You think you’ve escaped their force field, then realize you bought a second-rate whorehouse just to picture the look on their faces.” Shit. Where did that come from? He imagined her eyes narrowing as she analyzed what he’d intended as a joke.

Then she made a dismissive noise. “Nope. That might be a fringe benefit, but it’s not what you want most.”

“Really? Do tell.”

“There’s the East Coast snob. Rah-lly dah-ling?” She laughed at her own horrible impression. “I think I’ve almost got it figured out. I’ll let you know when I’m sure.”

“To think I wasted all that money on therapy when all I needed was good marketing.” He injected a dose of sarcasm to cover the discomfort of knowing that this woman—who’d so effortlessly maneuvered him into her bed—had him under her microscope.

“Everybody needs good marketing.” Her voice softened. “Hey, Wyatt?”

Her soft drawl wrapped around his name, turning it to sweet, Southern music that made his heart soar and his voice catch. “Yes?”

“Even though I know it was really crappy of me…thanks for last night. I promise not to use you that way again, if you promise not to do things behind my back.”

And his idiot heart crashed back to earth, because of course he couldn’t make that promise. He couldn’t even answer without serving up another lie. “From this day forward,” he said, the best he could do.

His phone signaled an incoming call. He glanced at the number and froze. Laura’s father—who had only one reason to make contact.

“I have to take this.” Wyatt forced himself to sound vaguely annoyed, even as his heart thudded. It was either no news, good news, or bad news. The first would be frustrating, the second a miracle, and the third—well, it depended on how bad. And yes, he was already breaking his vow, but only temporarily. He would share what he learned, but not until they were face-to-face. “Tell Grace good luck.”

“Too late. She just missed her calf.”

Damn. “Well, then, I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.”

“I’ll be there.” The snark came back into her tone. “And afterward we can discuss the disappearance of one pair of kick-ass red shoes.”