Reckless in Texas (4 page)

Joe Cassidy was going to be trouble. Violet just hadn't figured out what kind yet. Fifteen minutes on Facebook and she'd learned why he was in Texas. Rumors were flying fast and hard about the blowup between Joe and Dick Browning, starting with Joe leaving the bar with Dick's daughter-in-law, and ending with Joe punching Dick's son.

Drinking, fighting, and adultery. Yep, her dad was real impressed with her decision-making skills. And now, to top it all off, their starstruck rodeo announcer had given Joe a wireless microphone, so instead of lounging around behind the chutes until the bull riding—the final event on the program—he was in the arena, schmoozing the fans. Violet tried not to glance over to where he leaned against the fence chatting with a trio of autograph seekers. Female, of course. They flashed a lot of tanned skin, white teeth, and big hair as they shoved their rodeo programs through the fence. He said something that made them giggle.

Violet felt her lip curl. Lord, the man put her teeth on edge, and not just because she'd made a complete fool of herself. He strutted around like he was God's gift to rodeo, radiating energy like those big static electricity balls at the science museum. When one of the buckle bunnies put a hand on his arm, Violet was surprised the girl's bleached hair didn't stand on end. Violet was not surprised to see the blonde scribble on the corner of her rodeo program, tear it off, and tuck it into Joe's hand.

“You're in for a real treat today, folks. Our next bareback rider is a fan favorite…especially with the single ladies,” the rodeo announcer declared in a voice that was the equivalent of an exaggerated wink. “Delon Sanchez is a seven-time National Finals Rodeo qualifier, currently number one in the world standings!”

The crowd clapped enthusiastically, enjoying the exceptionally nice view as Delon leaned over the horse. His sleeve was rolled up to the elbow, exposing the muscle that bulged in his forearm. Little wonder his grip on the stiff leather handhold was nearly impossible to break. Riata Rose wasn't nearly as awestruck. The mare slumped against the side of chute, sulking, as he worked his hand into the rigging, the squeak of rosin and leather audible. The chute crew massaged her mane and shoved on her hip as Delon lowered himself onto the horse's back, but Rose wouldn't budge.

Into the lull, the announcer's voice boomed. “Hey, Joe, did you know Violet here is the only female pickup man in Texas?”

Oh hell. Not that again.

“Shouldn't it be pickup
girl
?” Joe made it sound indecent, like she plied her trade on street corners.

The announcer grinned down at her from the crow's nest, oblivious. “Well, now, I'm not sure. Do you prefer pickup girl, Violet?”

She gave an exaggerated shrug, but couldn't stop the sidelong scowl she fired at Joe. He answered with a mocking smile. She snapped her focus back to the chute, but Riata Rose was in a mood and had no intention of cooperating until she felt damn good and ready. The mare sank onto her haunches. Delon shook his head and climbed off. In that position, the mare could flip onto her back in an instant and crush him.

While the crew tried to persuade Riata to play nice, Joe moved down the fence to an older couple, their knobby knees sunburned pink below baggy walking shorts. He held out the clip-on microphone so the woman's strong German accent could be heard over the loudspeakers.

“What do you do? You don't look like a cowboy.”

A valid question. If it weren't for his white straw cowboy hat, he could have been mistaken for a soccer player, lean and edgy as a feral cat, in silky black shorts and a long-sleeved red jersey plastered with sponsor logos. His shaggy hair might be a fashion statement or just neglect, but either way it added to his general air of
too cool for you
.

“I'm a bullfighter,” he said.

“You fight the bulls? With the sword?” The woman made a stabbing motion, enthusiastic enough to make Joe step back.

“No, ma'am. I just jump in after the ride ends and distract the bull long enough for the cowboy to get away.”

“Oh.” The woman looked disappointed. “Why don't you ride?”

“Have you seen the horns on those things?” Joe gave an exaggerated shudder. “You couldn't pay me to get on one.”

Laughter rippled through the audience, for which Violet was reluctantly grateful. Joe was doing a good job of filling dead air, the same way he chatted with the cluster of fans that waylaid him every day after the bull riding. He'd also gone along with the impromptu autograph session the committee had included in their pancake breakfast. Three days in, even her dad couldn't complain about Joe's behavior.

Joe caught Violet's glance—okay, maybe it was more like a frown—and his eyes narrowed. He held her gaze as he leaned closer to the German woman, his voice dropping to a purr. “I might consider climbing on a bucking horse if it meant Violet would pick me up.”

The crowd laughed and cheered in approval. Violet glared at Joe, kicking Cadillac up a few steps and angling the horse to turn her back on Joe. Big mistake.

“Hey, Vi?” he called out. “In case you're wondering…those chaps make your butt look just fine.”

Her face went hot as a pancake griddle as every eye in place tracked straight to the back of her saddle. She slapped her hand against her thigh as if to encourage Riata Rose, hoping no one but Joe noticed her middle finger was extended. Three more horses to buck, then she could ride out of the arena, march up to the announcer's stand and crank the dials on the sound system until the feedback fried Joe's ears. And honest to God, if he made a crack about her not being any shrinking violet, she and Cadillac would run him down on the way.

One of the crew rattled the sliding gate at the front of the chute as if to open it and let Riata move forward. She fell for the fake, straightening. Delon slid into position and nodded his head. The chute gate swung wide and the mare blew straight in the air, all four hooves off the ground. The instant she touched down, she launched again, even higher.

Delon matched her, lick for lick, the loose rowels of his spurs singing as his knees jerked up and back, every stroke precise. Shoulders square, no wild flopping or bouncing, rock solid in the midst of a storm, while the silvery fringe on his chaps whipped around him. Violet kicked her horse into a lope to circle around in front of Riata Rose. The mare followed her lead, bucking in a tight loop in front of the chutes, clear to the eight-second buzzer.

On cue, Rose flattened out into a bounding lope. Cole closed in one side, Violet on the other. As she thundered up alongside, Delon yanked his hand from the rigging and grabbed Violet around the waist. The mare's shoulder slammed into Violet's leg, but the contact was routine, absorbed by her shin guard. She clamped her knees hard against the saddle as she veered left to pull Delon clear, then reined her horse to a stop. He dropped on his feet only a few yards from the bucking chute where he'd started.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for Delon Sanchez!” the announcer hollered. “If he keeps riding like that, this will be the year he brings a gold buckle home to Texas!”

Delon tipped his hat to acknowledge the cheers, then held up a fist. Violet bumped hers against it. He smiled up at her, out of breath and breathtaking with those sparkling brown eyes and chiseled cheekbones. His smile made her heart sigh a little, because it was the same one she saw on her son's face every single day.

“And the judges say…eighty-two points!” the announcer boomed. “There's your new leader, folks!”

Riata Rose flung her head up, prancing around the arena like a total prima donna, then ducked out the catch pen gate. Delon saluted the crowd then reached back and down to unbuckle the leg straps on his chaps as he stood beside Violet's horse.

“Soon as I get my gear packed up, I'm gonna grab Beni from your mom and hit the road.”

“His backpack and suitcase are by the door in my camper.”

“Thanks. Don't worry about picking up milk or anything—we'll grab some groceries on the way.”

Thank the Lord above. They were all going home for the first time in three weeks. Tonight she'd dither as long as she wanted in a shower big enough that she didn't bang her elbows when she shampooed her hair. “I can't wait to sleep in a bed without wheels under it.”

“I hear ya.” Delon rolled his shoulders, then angled a look toward where Joe stood chatting with another fan, the microphone turned off. “Is he giving you a hard time?”

“Nothing I haven't heard before.” Usually she could ignore it. Cowboys had been making her the butt of asinine jokes since she started picking up broncs as a teenager.

“Joe's not like most of the guys you know.”

Yeah. She'd noticed. “We can handle him.”

Delon aimed another narrow-eyed look at Joe. Then he slapped Violet's leather-clad knee. “We're outta here. I'll see y'all at the ranch.”

Joe leaned against the fence, intrigued by the cozy chat Delon had with Violet after his ride. What was their deal, anyway? Other than the kid. That part was obvious, but the rest of it was hard to figure. The whole Jacobs family had fallen all over Delon when he'd showed up the night before, like he was one of their own. Even Cole had paused in the middle of his chores long enough to chat, and Cole took strong and silent to a whole new level. Or should that be height? The guy was a beast, just like his uncle. Joe had noticed, though, that Delon had bedded down in Cole's trailer, not Violet's.

It was hard to picture them as a couple, but Joe could definitely see the attraction. Violet wasn't hard to look at when she hadn't been mud wrestling. Joe allowed himself a grin at that memory. Wet or dry, she had that all-American thing going on—tall, strong, the one you'd pick first for your beach volleyball team—but the men's jeans she favored didn't do much for her, and she never slowed down long enough to fuss much with her hair or makeup. Violet was in constant motion, organizing this and fixing that when she wasn't working in the arena…or chasing after Beni. Violet, her parents, Cole, Hank, and the truck drivers all pitched in, tag-team style, to chase Beni. The grown-ups weren't winning. At best, it was a draw.

A hand tapped his arm and he nodded and smiled at whatever a chubby brunette said as he took the rodeo program she held out. At least the fans in Texas were happy to see him. Violet was still giving him the stink eye, acting like he was putting her out—an NFR bullfighter showing up to work for peanuts at her little Podunk rodeos. Yeah. He could see why that would be annoying.

No one should be more pissed than Joe. Damn his stupid hide for letting Wyatt twist his head around and convince him to give Dick a taste of his own medicine. Right. Like that would work. Nobody forced Dick Browning to do anything. Back him into a corner, and he'd just bellow and sling snot like a belligerent old bull, hooking the shit outta anybody who got too close. Joe had lasted fourteen and a half years longer than anyone else who'd worked at the High Lonesome because he understood Dick. Keep your mouth shut, let all the bluster blow right over your head, and a week from now he wouldn't remember why he was chewing your ass to begin with. Every day that Joe bit his tongue and stuck it out, Dick relied on him more. Put enough of those days together…

But he'd blown it all in Puyallup. Fate had handed Joe a golden opportunity to prove he could and should be the one who picked up the reins when Dick was ready to set them down, and he'd turned it to dust. Why couldn't he just stand there and let Lyle make an ass of himself? But no, Joe had to knock the little bastard on his butt, and compound the problem by running off. Now he had to stand his ground because he'd called Dick out. And because Wyatt's voice kept echoing in his head:
Have some pride, Joe.
Then he remembered all those people in Puyallup watching, listening…

Joe signed his name in savage, illegible slashes, passed the program back to the girl, then stepped down the fence into the shade of the bucking chutes to watch the last couple of bareback riders. A skinny guy from Waxahachie settled onto the back of a buckskin they'd named Thumper, for good reason. The stocky gelding pounded the ground like it had insulted his mama. That kid better be stronger than he looked, or this wasn't going to end well.

The cowboy cocked his arm back and nodded. He spurred the hell out of Thumper clear to the end of the chute gate, then the horse jammed his front feet in the dirt and jacked the kid up onto the rigging. The next lunge whipped his shoulders back and his head slammed off Thumper's butt. He went limp, knocked out cold. Joe sprang away from the chute, racing toward the middle of the arena as Violet and Cole spurred into action.

The cowboy's body flopped off the side of the horse, his weight pinning his gloved hand in the rigging. Thumper dragged him by one arm, boneless, defenseless, the horse's rear hooves crashing down around his legs. Violet rode hard to the horse's left side while Cole came up on the right to flip the catch on the flank strap so the buckskin would stop kicking. They thundered around the end of the arena, three abreast. Violet made a lunging grab and got hold of the back strap of the cowboy's chaps, hauling up hard to lift his body out of harm's way.
Thank God he was a scrawny little shit
, Joe thought as he sprinted to meet them.

Cole bailed onto Thumper's neck the way a steer wrestler would jump a steer. He buried his feet in the dirt, his arm locked around the buckskin's nose, his mass and strength too much for even the stout gelding. As they slid to a stop, Joe leapt to the horse's side, yanking at the latigo of the rigging.

“Got it,” Joe said, pulling the strap free.

Cole let go of Thumper, stepping in front of him so the horse stumbled backward, then wheeled and trotted away. The cowboy sagged, his full weight hitting the end of Violet's arm. Joe caught the kid around the chest, Cole grabbed him by the thighs, and Violet let go as the two of them lowered his body gently to the ground, hand still stuck in the rigging. From beginning to end, the whole thing had lasted half a minute—an eternity if you were in the middle of it.

The cowboy opened his eyes, blinking groggily as the EMTs rushed up to hunch over him. Violet circled around and rode up close, her knee nudging Joe's back as she leaned out in her stirrup to watch the medics perform a brisk examination of head, neck, and limbs. Finally, they let the kid sit up. A wave of relieved applause rolled around the bleachers as they helped him to his feet.

Joe turned, and his shoulder bumped up under the edge of Violet's chaps, against a muscled thigh. His body did an instinctive
hmmm
. Instead of moving away, he held up a hand. “Nice catch.”

“Thanks.” She actually smiled at him as she held out a palm.

Instead of a slap, Joe clasped his hand around hers and gave a congratulatory squeeze just to be contrary. His thumb skimmed her wrist and he felt her hammering pulse, the thrill of the save pounding through her system. He knew the feeling. Hell, he lived and breathed the feeling. Their eyes met, and an electric jolt of shared adrenaline and the flash of awareness in her eyes set his blood humming in a whole different way. His mind jumped straight from the arena to her trailer—or the nearest sturdy, vertical surface. The sex would be incredible when two people were revving that hot.

Violet jerked her hand away like she'd read his mind.

Joe held her gaze as he clicked on the wireless microphone so his voice echoed over the loudspeakers. “Give our pickup girl a hand, folks. She's even better than she looks.”

Her eyes narrowed and she yanked the reins, spinning her horse around so its ass slammed into Joe, nearly planting him face-first in the dirt. He laughed for the first time since his fist collided with Lyle's jaw. How 'bout that? Sweet Violet could say
fuck you
plain as day, without even moving her lips.