Chapter 35

Ten days later, Shawnee lounged in a chair under her awning and watched Cole’s dog belly-crawl from underneath the trailer toward one of her flip-flops, intentions obvious. Despite his best efforts to keep everything locked up and out of reach, Cole had lost two more pairs of underwear and a pillow to the green-eyed monster. He was still picking feathers out of stray corners of his living quarters. Shawnee sort of admired the mutt. You had to give it to a woman who took her revenge seriously.

But there were limits. “Touch that shoe, dog, and you’ve have your last taste of meatloaf until you get home.”

Katie froze, her snout a bare inch from the toe of the nearest flip-flop. Her eyes swiveled toward Shawnee, narrowing as she debated whether the threat was serious and worth the trade-off. Then she heaved an infuriated sigh and crept backward, out of sight.

“Hard to figure why you don’t date more,” Joe told Cole, who reclined in a lounger in one of those soft, clingy T-shirts, eyes half-closed, as relaxed as Shawnee had ever seen him with his clothes on.

She’d been seeing a lot of Cole looking very relaxed lately.

I didn’t fall for you…

Shawnee fought off a skitter of panic, mixed with something she wasn’t even going to put a name to. In any other situation, Cole’s words would have sent her running far and fast. But he hadn’t repeated them and besides, even if she assumed fall for you wasn’t just a figure of speech, where was she gonna go? She didn’t welch on a promise, so she was stuck with Jacobs Livestock for the duration. Breaking it off with Cole before the end of the season would only make life miserable for everyone.

And if he had meant it the way it sounded—well, it was already too late, wasn’t it? Indulging herself for two short weeks wouldn’t do any more damage. Especially when the indulgence was so, so delicious.

A low growl sounded from under the trailer, as if Katie could smell the pheromones. Shawnee grinned and lolled her head to the side.

Joe was sprawled on the chunk of outdoor carpet, loafing through a series of stretches, his skin glistening with sweat from his morning run. As usual, he’d tied a bandana around his head to contain his shaggy hair. This one was acid green, paired with a purple T-shirt and faded red shorts. Color coordination didn’t rank high on Joe’s priority list. As he spread his legs wide and reached for his toes, pulling miles of long, sleek muscles taut, Shawnee decided it was good that drooling over a friend’s husband was some kind of mortal sin. Otherwise, she might need a bib.

His presence had more than filled whatever awkward gap Hank might’ve left. Joe had been trapped at home for most of the summer. His slightly guilt-ridden delight at his sudden freedom and the unapologetic joy he took in every aspect of every rodeo performance was contagious. Watching him from inside the arena was a rare treat. Damn, that man could move. Cruz was in heaven, working side-by-side with one of his idols—and more than holding his own.

Of course, he’d been trained by the best. Cruz was the product of one of the bullfighting clinics that occupied Wyatt Darrington’s free time these days. Like the youth horse camps at the Patterson ranch, there was no fee to attend Wyatt’s clinics. Unlike the ranch, though, Wyatt didn’t offer a week of hugs and feel-goods. He recruited his students from the El Paso projects, the poverty-stricken Navajo Nation, the poorest pockets of Appalachia, even the urban ghettos of LA and Chicago. They were wary-eyed predators who had existed on little more than guts for most of their lives. Wyatt tore them down, and if their toughness went deeper than bravado, rebuilt them into budding rodeo superheroes.

Cruz had been a star pupil.

Despite Cole’s anxiety, the rodeo in Utah had been a resounding success. The stock had been energized by the rain and the cool desert evenings, and the committee was elated when they realized they were getting Joe Cassidy, future Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame inductee, for the price of Hank.

They’d rolled out of town with a contract for next year practically in hand. This week found them in the southern Colorado foothills, another respite from the Texas heat and humidity. Cole had grilled steaks for the Tuesday crew dinner while Joe and Tyrell took to the outdoor basketball court at the adjacent park to play a full combat one-on-one, Joe making up for Tyrell’s superior talent with shameless cheap shots. They’d invited Cruz and Cole to join them, but both had declined on the grounds of having an allergy to asphalt burns.

Currently, Cruz was holed up in his camper working. Analise was in the office, preparing tonight’s stock draw sheets and uploading last night’s scores to the Pro Rodeo website. The Leses and Tyrell wouldn’t wander in from the motel for a while yet. Shawnee, Cole, and Joe were recharging after two hours of signing autographs at the local western store. Yes, even Shawnee—and wasn’t that a kick in the ass. There’d been a whole line of women from eight to eighty who thought her scribble was worth waiting for since all that viral online video crap.

She used to wonder how Violet could choose to produce rodeos over the adrenaline blast of competition. Now she understood a little too well. Each hour flowed into the next, slowly gathering momentum from the laid-back routine of the mornings to the hectic, hoof- and heart-pounding unpredictability of the performances—all spiced with anticipation of the nights with Cole.

Yeah, she could live like this.

Shawnee tensed again, then forced herself to relax before Cole noticed. For a guy who could be so oblivious, he was incredibly tuned in to every nuance of her body language. Like she was a bucking horse or bull. His.

No. She couldn’t be. Not long-term. But the last rodeo of the season was rushing toward them. How could it already be the third week of September? She wasn’t ready for it to end. For Cole to end. But she had to cut him loose, as planned. And thank the Lord for New York, forcing her to make a clean break. With their proximity—only an hour from her place outside Amarillo to his near Earnest—it would be far too easy to open the door when he inevitably came knocking.

Besides, there wasn’t nearly enough roping in her life these days. Her gaze focused on Roy, dozing in his pen with his bottom lip hanging slack. The craving curled like a fist and punched her in the gut. Since Mariah’s departure, Cole had been coming out in the mornings to tow the dummy steer around for her on either Salty or Hammer, but it wasn’t the same as roping live steers.

As competing.

Her heart thumped hard against her sternum, a prisoner banging on the bars of the cell. Ace Pickett wasn’t the only addict in the family, and Shawnee was in dire need of a fix. She scowled at Cole, suddenly annoyed at how much he reminded her of one of his precious bulls, a massive pile of man-flesh all smug and content. All he needed was a tail to switch at the flies.

“Do you ever do anything just for fun?” she demanded.

His sleepy gaze traveled down the length of her and back up again, and he raised his eyebrows.

“Besides me,” she snapped.

Joe choked, coughed, and sat up, holding his back. “Shit. I think I just pulled something.” If so, it didn’t seem to bother him as he sprang to his feet. “It’s bad enough, being cut off for months because of the baby. I don’t need to breathe your lust fumes.”

Cole, now fully awake and wary, eyed Shawnee as Joe ambled away. “Did I do something wrong?”

Dammit! She hated how he was so quick to assume that if there was a problem, he must be lacking in some way. She upped the heat in her scowl. “I don’t like to brag, but I have been called the Queen of both Obnoxious and Impossible. Her Highness does not appreciate you implying that I require a man to bring out the worst in me.”

He grinned, just as she’d intended. She hadn’t meant to feel this good about it, though.

“So…fun?” she repeated. “Got any hobbies? Guilty pleasures? Interesting vices?”

He gave her another long, slow appraisal that raised her body temperature several degrees. “All of the above.”

Oh, the hell with it. If he was going to be that way…She jumped out of her chair, grabbed his wrist, and hauled him into her trailer.

* * *

Saturday morning, Cole showed up as usual to help Shawnee work her horses. He found Joe sitting in one of the rodeo committee’s snazzy four-seater ATVs, the dummy steer hooked to its hitch. Why…

“Don’t blame me, I’m just following orders,” Joe said.

Shawnee looked up from tightening Roy’s cinch and flashed Cole one of those toothy smiles that made his warning antennae quiver. “Oh good. You brought Salty.”

“What’s up?”

“There’s a team roping tomorrow morning over at the saddle club arena. I need a partner. You need a bad habit. Time to create the monster.”

She handed Cole a brand-new rope. “Here. You can figure out what weight and stiffness suits you later, but this’ll work for starters.”

“But I don’t…” Compete. Not since his brother—his built-in partner and moral support—had died. When Shawnee pressed the rope into his hands, the memories slammed into him like an avalanche. Xander, grinning, joking, flipping him a pile of shit even as his eyes said, Hey, you got this, bro.

For a moment, it was all Cole could do to breathe as he clawed his way to the surface. Xander had understood his debilitating nerves. His abject fear of failing his partner. In public. A simple miss that anyone else shrugged off was, for Cole, one more reason for folks to shake their heads in something posing as sympathy. Ah, well, at least he’s trying. And his brother is so patient, bless his heart.

Xander never got upset, even though Cole’s miscues as a header meant his brother, as the heeler, didn’t get a chance to throw his rope. Team roping was a lark to Xander. Just a throwaway event to kill time until the bull riding.

To ultracompetitive Shawnee, it was life.

“I’ve never roped steers with anyone but my brother,” he said, the words choppy and uneven. “I haven’t…not in years…”

“Then it’s time you got started again.” Shawnee braced her hands on her hips, impatient. “Just pretend you’re chasing this thing down the midway.”

But…

But. Shawnee was and would always be a roper first and everything else second. Forced to pick one or the other, she would not choose Jacobs Livestock. So she was right. He had to suck it up, if he wanted any chance at persuading her to stick around.

He dragged air into reluctant lungs, his hands clumsy as he built a loop and took a few tentative swings. The new rope was stiff and waxy, with the peculiar aroma of all tack stores—a potent mix of leather, rosin, and dreams.

He coiled the rope and hooked it over his elbow as he tightened Salty’s cinches. Then he swung aboard and faced Shawnee. “Tell me what to do, Coach.”