Chapter 4

If a mad scientist had set out to design the most intolerable woman on the face of the earth, he would’ve created Shawnee Pickett. Everything about her grated on Cole’s nerves. Her voice, her language, her way of barreling in and assuming the world would get out of her way. Even her hair was outrageous, a mess of curls halfway down her back, waging war on whatever barrette or rubber thing she’d wadded them into. Cole never could fathom how she and Violet had become such good friends. Maybe all that attitude had seemed cool in college.

Not that Cole knew much about college. He’d barely scraped through high school. Even his ever-supportive aunt and uncle hadn’t argued when he’d opted out of a higher level of torture.

He glared at Shawnee across the space between them in the arena—him stationed by one end of the bucking chutes, her at the other, waiting for the first bareback rider of the rodeo to nod his head. Shawnee was on Salty, a stocky white gelding and the most solid of Cole’s string. The horse’s strengths would help offset a rookie’s weaknesses. Shawnee caught his eye and gave him a mocking salute. Cole ground his teeth and glued his attention on chute number one.

She was just too…everything. Everything except careful. And he was supposed to trust her with the safety of the cowboys and his stock?

At the ranch, he’d avoided her at the practice sessions by staying back in the stock pens, assuming she was just there for kicks. Shawnee lived for kicks. He should’ve known there was a plot afoot when he saw how much effort Violet and his uncle Steve were putting into coaching her, but as usual he’d been focused on his stock to the exclusion of all else. He should have been paying attention. Instead, he was paying the price.

And yeah, it stung, knowing his family had been so sure he’d fail without Violet that they’d spent months creating a backup plan.

He’d called around trying to find an alternative. That had been a waste of a full half hour of his life. His list of contacts was almost nonexistent. He’d never bothered to build one, because that was Violet’s domain. Now, like most everything else, it was biting him in the ass. All he could do was put his faith in his uncle. Surely they wouldn’t have sent Shawnee if she wasn’t up to the job. Not knowing had anxiety nibbling at the ends of his nerves.

Cole wasn’t good at assuming. And most of all, he hated having to fly by the seat of his jeans with only Shawnee Pickett as a safety net.

* * *

Shawnee caught Cole’s glare and fired back a grin. From clear over there, he wouldn’t be able to tell she was gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering—on a South Texas night that felt like being suspended over a boiling kettle. The nerves had slammed into her as the final strains of the national anthem faded away and she followed Cole into the arena. Saw the crowd. Heard the music. Her name. Suddenly, it all hit her.

Holy. Shit. This was the real deal. And it was nothing like the dusty practice arena in Violet’s backyard.

Sponsor banners lined every square inch of the fences, representing the thousands of dollars that were up for grabs. The grandstand was packed, and so were the smaller bleachers that ringed the rest of the arena. Hank and the second bullfighter, Cruz, moved along the chutes, helping set flank straps on the horses as cowboys made final adjustments to their riggings. And not just any cowboys. Two of these guys were in the top ten in the pro standings. Another was a former world champion. And everyone expected her to know what she was doing.

What the hell was she doing?

She forced herself to breathe, slow and steady, but her heart screamed along with AC/DC, drowning out half of Tyrell’s introduction. Lord, that voice, so rich and delicious that Miz Iris said it must have calories, because it made a woman’s jeans feel a little snug. “. . . riding a National Finals bucking horse, Thunderstruck!”

Shawnee’s hand clenched on the reins as the cowboy pounded his gloved fingers shut around the handle and eased up on the rigging. At least she didn’t have to worry that they’d see her sweat. Everyone was sweating. She could feel it trickling down the inside of her calf, under the shin guards and stiff padded chaps that protected her from flying hooves. Another small river of perspiration meandered between her shoulder blades, plastering the royal-blue Jacobs Livestock shirt to her back.

A surprisingly silky shirt. She’d expected heavy, starched cotton, to match Cole’s personality.

Focus. Breathe. She blinked away a drop of sweat that had dripped from her eyebrow, playing back Violet’s last instructions. I know it goes against your nature, but follow Cole’s lead. Don’t question him. Don’t second-guess him. Inside the arena, he’s always right.

Follow Cole. Don’t think. She could do that.

The cowboy cocked his free arm and nodded his head. With the swing of the chute gate, his feet lashed out, heels planted in the horse’s neck as Thunderstruck took the first, explosive jump. Shawnee’s thoughts dissolved and she just reacted, shadowing Cole as the bucking horse swooped first left, then right, rear hooves reaching for the lights and head disappearing between his knees each time his front feet slammed into the dirt. The cowboy fought hard, but with each jump he fell a little farther behind. Right at the eight-second whistle he got jacked back off his rigging. His hips twisted and his butt dropped off the side opposite his riding hand, leaving him head down, spurs up, the weight of his body trapping his glove in the rigging.

Hung up.

Hustle, hustle, hustle. She and Salty closed in fast on the lunging horse, taking the left side as Cole took the right. Coming astride, he reached down and grabbed for the back of the cowboy’s protective vest. Get the flank strap. The bronc’s hip slammed into Shawnee’s leg as she leaned out and caught the trip mechanism with her fingers. The padded sheepskin strap fell away and Thunderstruck flattened out into a lope. Shawnee held her position, the three horses galloping abreast as Cole gave a heave, tossing the cowboy up and over the bronc and into her lap.

The impact knocked her sideways. She hooked her knee under the swells of her saddle and one hand under the cowboy’s armpit—half rescue, half self-preservation—as he jerked his hand free of the rigging. Salty peeled away from the bucking horse. The instant they were clear, Shawnee lost her grip and dropped the cowboy square on his ass.

Oh shit. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him skid on one hip like he was sliding hard into second base, then pop up and throw both arms out in a Safe! motion.

The crowd roared. Shawnee exhaled for the first time since the chute gate had opened. Okay. Okay. Nothing like testing her right off the bat. And she had passed! Well enough, anyway. Like Violet’s dad had told her, “As long as the cowboy walks away, you did your job.”

She loped along with Cole, herding Thunderstruck into the stripping chute, where the crew would pull off the rigging. As they turned back at the gate, she glanced over to see Cole’s reaction. Instead of a smile or an Atta girl!, his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. His chin jerked up a notch in acknowledgment. Then he reined Hammer off and trotted back to his position, ready for the next ride.

Shawnee bared her teeth at him. Follow Cole’s lead…

All right, then. If he was gonna be a jerk, she could do that, too.

* * *

By the end of the bull riding, Cole was ready to bust a vein. Shawnee hadn’t made a real mistake all night. Hadn’t given him a glimmer of an excuse to complain because—damn their eyes—they’d trained her to do everything exactly like Violet. Position, timing, even the cues she called out were the same. After the first dozen horses, he’d almost forgotten she wasn’t Violet.

Until they rode out the gate and he had to look directly at her. She gave him another of those cheeky grins, a few stray curls sticking to the sweat on her round, flushed cheeks.

Her eyebrows cocked up into sharp, inverted Vs. “Well, boss? Do I pass?”

“You did okay.” The words were sour and scratchy as hairballs, and nearly as hard to cough up. “You had good teachers.”

“They showed me just how you like it.” Shawnee steered her horse so close her padded chaps mashed up against his when she leaned in, lowering her voice to a suggestive purr. “Come by my trailer later, big boy, and I’ll show you how I like it.”

Cole felt his jaw drop. He tried to say…to say…Jesus Christ, what was he supposed to say to something like that?

Her laugh busted out, bawdy as a saloon girl, and she slapped a palm on her leather-clad thigh. “Oh my God! The look on your face—” She fired a triumphant finger pistol at him. “And me without a camera. Violet would’ve loved that face.”

She flicked her reins and rode away, still laughing. Cole glared daggers at her back but they bounced right off, like everything else. He ground another millimeter off his incisors. This. This was why the woman should not be allowed in polite company. Or even impolite company. She was…hell, he couldn’t even think of a word to describe her.

But if today was any indication, she was a passable pickup man. Okay, more than passable. She was good. Which meant—damn it to hell—he was stuck with her.