Reckless in Texas (9 page)

Have. You. Lost. Your. Mind.

Through the open curtains on the tall windows of the living room, he could see Steve tilted back in his recliner, reading a newspaper while his wife worked some kind of puzzle in a paperback book. Geezus. Was he really dumb enough to walk in there and ask permission to take Violet on a date?

Yep. He was. She'd dared him. Thought she could blow him off by tossing her daddy in his face. Hah.
Nice try, darlin'.
He took the steps two at a time and knocked before he could chicken out.

After an endless count of ten, Iris answered the door. “Joe? Is something wrong?”

“No. I, um, wondered if you and your husband have a few minutes.”

Her brows rose but she stepped back. “Come on in.”

He followed her through the kitchen, into a living room much like the woman who owned it—cozy and attractive in a welcoming way. The pillows tossed haphazardly on the leather couch were meant to be used, and photos were hung and propped on every available surface. Violet and Beni, her older sister getting married, a much younger and skinnier Cole with what must be his parents and a brother, all mixed in with photos of Jacobs bucking stock in action. Family of all kinds.

Steve dipped his head to peer at Joe over his reading glasses. “Trouble?”

“No.” Well, not the kind they imagined. “I, um, wanted to talk to you.”

Iris settled back into her chair. “Have a seat.”

“No. Thanks. I'll just…”

Steve set his newspaper aside. “What can we do for you?”

Joe opened his mouth, realized he should take off his cap, then did and wished he'd gotten around to that haircut. He scraped the shaggy mess off his forehead and clasped his cap in both hands, rolling the brim between sweaty palms like every tongue-tied suitor in every John Wayne movie he'd ever seen.

“I'd like your permission to date your daughter,” he blurted.

They both stared at him. Then they looked at each other. Then back at him.

“Violet?” Steve asked.

Well, duh. Did he think Joe wanted to sleep with the one with the husband?

“Yes. Violet.” Joe's heart was beating so loud it was like talking with headphones on, his lips moving but no sound getting back to his own ears. He hoped he wasn't yelling over the racket. “I'm on your payroll for the next couple of weeks, so I figured I should ask first.”

Steve shifted in his chair. Frowned. “I don't really think—”

“That would be nice,” Iris cut in. “It's been too long since Violet took some time for herself.”

She fired off a look that silenced Steve. He scowled, settled back into his chair, and snapped the newspaper tight in front of his face.

Iris gave Joe a bright smile. “Anything else?”

“Uh…no. Thanks. 'Preciate it.” Joe retreated a couple of steps, scooped his hair back, and tugged his cap on over it. “Have a good evening.”

Steve grunted.

“You too,” Iris said.

Joe spun around and hightailed it for the door. Outside, Violet was sitting right where he'd left her, looking stunned and more than a little panicked. Well, good. He wasn't the only one with a head full of scrambled eggs.

He stopped at the edge of the deck, planted his hands on his hips, and flashed a smile that was a lot cockier than he felt. “Satisfied?”

Her chin dropped. “He said yes?”

He hadn't said no, so that was the same thing, right? Joe dodged the question with one of his own. “Know a good barbecue place?”

“I…yeah. There's one in Earnest.”

“Is there a movie theater?”

She shook her head. “Dumas is the closest.”

“That'll work. Tomorrow night okay for you?”

“Um, sure.”

“Great. I'll pick you up at six.”

He was halfway to the bunkhouse before she called out, “Joe?”

He turned, pacing backward as he asked, “Yeah?”

“You don't have a car.”

He stopped dead. Crap. She was right. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

He grinned.

“What?” she snapped.

“Looks like I got you to pick me up after all.”

He strolled to the bunkhouse, whistling. Behind him he heard a muttered curse, the thump of footsteps, then the sound of her front door slamming. He laughed. Oh yeah. Good times.

If Violet hadn't already been in a foul mood on Tuesday morning, trailing her mother around the Super Saver warehouse grocery in Dumas would've done it. She could've been trailing horses in from the pasture with her dad and Cole, but no. Because she was the girl, she got stuck dragging around a pair of carts stacked to the brim with everything it took to feed the Jacobs crew on the road. She'd tried arguing that it was sexist and Cole should have to take a turn as her mother's flunky, but Iris only rolled her eyes and said, “Lord, please take me before that desperate day.”

So Violet was stuck. In this same damn rut forever, or at least the foreseeable future, because they were not going to be buying out Buck McCloud. She'd twiddled and tweaked the numbers every which way to Sunday, but they refused to line up. Forget convincing her dad—Violet couldn't even persuade herself they could swing it.

Then there was Joe. The one time in her entire life she wanted her parents to disapprove and they'd failed her. Violet glowered in the direction of the produce department, where her mother was molesting cantaloupes in search of perfection. Iris hadn't said a thing about Joe. Not one blessed word. Granted, they'd driven separate cars because Iris had some serious catching up to do with her eldest daughter in Earnest this afternoon, but still. Not. A. Word.

Violet wedged two packs of juice boxes into her cart, tossed a pillowcase-sized bag of raisin bran on top, then nearly mowed down a girl who sashayed past in platform sandals and a flippy little sun dress. Her cart held nothing but a few bunches of leafy green things, a bottle of wine, and a tub of exotic-looking olives. A pang that was not quite envy shot through Violet. She'd never wanted to be that girl—primped, prissy, and obviously starving. It was more about the lack of baggage, literal and figurative. How would it feel, for a day, an hour, even a minute, to think only of herself? To say yes to a date without imagining every possible repercussion?

Even before Beni, family had been woven into every aspect of her life. A solid foundation was awesome, but sometimes it felt as if her feet were set into the concrete.

She appreciated the life she'd be born to. Honest she did. There was maybe a stock contractor in ten who would let a woman pick up broncs, or give her a real say in the business, though it was almost as tough for a man to come in from outside. Contractors were mostly bred, not built, because it took a huge stake to get started—animals, land, trucks, crew. And more than all of that, time and knowledge. Sure, you could buy bucking stock, but the savvy, the horse sense—that took year after year of watching, studying, absorbing, until you developed the instinct that let you look at a two-year-old mare, the tilt of her head, a certain spring in her step, and know,
This one.

She felt the same way when Joe got too close, except it was more like,
Watch out for this one.

A shiver of premonition tickled down her spine. She stubbed her toe on the front cart and the rear cart rolled up on the back of her heel. Her curse earned her a church lady's glare from down the aisle. A cubic yard of toilet paper and a bucket of laundry detergent later, she manhandled the carts to the checkout area, where she found her mother glaring contemptuously at a rack of packaged cookies. Violet cast a longing eye at the butter shortbread but grabbed a Baby Ruth rather than incite her mother's wrath over prepackaged baked goods. Ahead of them, a man was raising a fuss about whether the price on his gross weight of breakfast sausage links was correct.

The cashier rolled her eyes and reached for the microphone. “Manager to check stand eight…”

Violet blew out an exasperated breath, slumping over to rest her forearms on her cart.

“I assume things didn't work out last night,” her mother said.

Violet shot her a sulky look. “You were supposed to say no.”

Iris paused in the midst of digging through her purse for her stray reading glasses. “I was talking about Buck McCloud's stock, which I assume we can't afford since you look like somebody kicked your best dog. And honestly, how could we say no to Joe? He was so cute, asking our leave that way.”

Cute? Joe? Only Iris could think so. “I suppose Daddy is furious.”

“I'd say disgruntled is a better word. Or maybe consternated. Is that a word?” Iris pursed her lips in thought. “Consternation was five across in last night's puzzle, but consternated—”

“Mom. Please.” Violet jabbed at a bag of jumbo marshmallows with one finger. “Doesn't it bother you at all? Joe is working for us. And he's…well…Joe.”

Iris cocked her head like a little brown hen. “Mmm. There is that. But he's only temporary and I hardly think he's going to confuse you with one of his buckle bunnies.”

“Wow. Thanks,” Violet said sourly.

“Oh, stop. You know what I meant. And besides…” Iris clucked her tongue. “It's been three months since that fiasco down in Hickory Springs. Past time you got back on the ol' horse and rode. So to speak.”

Violet's face flamed. “Mom!”

“What? I am aware that you sometimes have sex, Violet. Not very often, by my measure. How do you stand the dry spells? Your father and I—”

“Mom!”
Violet hissed, as a woman in the next line choked, then sputtered with laughter.

Iris heaved a resigned sigh. “Just like your father. Can't talk about sex unless it involves a cow or a horse.” Then she brightened. “Oh, look! They've got a special on raspberry smoothies at the lunch stand.”

They loaded all of the groceries into Violet's car, then Iris motored off to hunker down with Lily, who wouldn't hesitate to chat about sex in the grocery store checkout line. Violet shuddered to imagine the degree to which her upcoming date was about to be dissected over sweet tea and baked goods. Homemade, of course. Violet would give it an hour, max, before she got either a call or a text from Lily, telling her what to wear. Given that ninety percent of her wardrobe was still in the laundry hamper, Violet figured Joe would just have to take her as she came, in jeans and a T-shirt. But not actually
take
her. Just…

Oh hell. She was in so much trouble.

Back home, the house was deserted, but dust swirled into the cloudless sky above the corrals. Violet lugged groceries in and stowed them away as quickly as possible, then hotfooted it down to join the men. She found them all in row, elbows braced on the fence as they gazed into the pens, her dad and Cole side by side, and Joe a few paces to the left. The separation struck her as both intentional and unconscious, as if Joe had practiced maintaining his distance for so long it was automatic. Then again, he had no problem invading her space, so what did she know?

A piercing squeal heralded another billow of dust, churned up by a herd of young horses that milled around the largest of the corrals, snorty and wide-eyed from the gathering. The three- and four-year-olds were the junior varsity of the Jacobs string. They'd had the summer off to grow and mature, but their training would start up again now that it was fall. That was the purpose of the Wednesday afternoon practice sessions. Young riders and young stock, learning together. A passel of damn good cowboys had eaten their first dirt in the Jacobs Ranch arena, including one world champion. With any luck, Delon would be their next gold buckle alumni.

Violet's gaze wandered to the next pen and she frowned at the sight of a piebald Appaloosa. “Why is Gunslinger locked up by himself?”

“Got a knot on his shin,” her dad said. “Must've got kicked. Nothing serious, but we won't be able to buck him this weekend.”

“That'll leave us one short in the saddle bronc,” Violet said, ever one to state the obvious.

“Yeah. We were debating what to put in his place.”

Not a lot of choices. As a sportscaster would say, they weren't real deep on the bench, especially this year. One good young prospect had washed out, and a solid campaigner had suffered an episode of colic that sidelined him for the season. If they had the McCloud stock, they'd have plenty of depth. And—heavy sigh on Violet's part—no operating budget.

Her dad thumbed his hat back and rubbed his forehead. “It'll have to be Juicy Fruit.”

Violet shook her head. “Nobody's won a check on her all summer. Whoever draws her will turn out rather than waste the gas to come and get on.”

“Got a better idea?” Cole asked.

She pondered a moment, then said, “Move Kicking Woman from the bareback to the saddle bronc and put Oredigger in her place.”

“Oredigger?” Her dad gave a derisive snort. “We didn't even take him on the last trip because he was so flat by the end of July.”

“Now he's rested,” Violet argued. “The temperature is only supposed to be in the eighties this weekend. And he likes that arena.”

Cole stared at Gunslinger for several long moments, face blank. Then he nodded once. “Kicking Woman will fire hard in the saddle bronc. And Delon placed on Oredigger at this rodeo last year. But we gotta buck him Saturday—he's always better at night.”

Her dad frowned, considered, then straightened and slapped both hands on the fence rail. “That's settled, then.”

“I'll let Mom know so she can update the stock draw,” Violet said.

Joe moved abruptly, stepping away from the fence as if he'd suddenly remembered someplace he had to be. “If you don't need me anymore…”

“We're good,” Steve said. “'Preciate the help. I can see why Dick Browning likes to keep you close.”

Something complicated passed behind Joe's eyes before he turned away. He paused to toss a pointed glance at Violet. “I'll see
you
later.”

He was barely out of earshot when Cole said, “You have a date with him?”

“Yes.” She shot him a defensive glare. “Is that a problem?”

“Depends. Just so you know, I'm short on cash for bail money.”

Great.
Now
Cole decided to have a sense of humor. She ignored him. “I'm sorry, Daddy. I know, I promised—”

He fixed her with the kind of glower only a man with very aggressive eyebrows can achieve. “Bad enough a father has to know his daughter has dates. Spare me the details.”

She ducked her head. “I didn't mean to. It just happened.”

“You accidentally sent Joe over to talk to us?”

“It was a…um, miscalculation.” She angled him a hopeful look from under her lashes. “If you want, I'll say I have to cancel.”

“And use me for an excuse?” He
hmmphed
loudly. “You don't want to go out with the man, tell him straight up. Otherwise, you hold to your word.”

She cast her eyes down, chastened. “Yes, sir.”

“And for hell's sake, keep this stuff to yourself from now on.” He made a low rumbling noise like a grumpy old bull. “I assume you didn't have any luck figuring out how to buy Buck's stock since you haven't hounded me about it again.”

“No.”

He sighed. “Woulda been nice to help out an old friend.”

“I asked about just buying a few of the horses,” Violet said, even more depressed by the confirmation that her dad would at least have considered the deal. “He's dead set on keeping the herd together.”

“Be hard to watch what you've built broke into pieces and scattered across the country.”

Violet could only nod. They all stood for a moment, putting themselves in Buck's boots and not liking the view.

Cole squinted toward the house. “I was startin' to think you finally picked one with some sense. Guess I was mistaken.”

Violet followed his gaze. Sure enough, Joe was in front of the bunkhouse, standing on one foot while he bent the other leg back to stretch his sore thigh. He wore a pair of green shorts that had lost an altercation with a bottle of bleach, a T-shirt with the sleeves whacked off—presumably with a pocket knife—and he'd tied a pink bandana into a headband over his wild mop of hair. The overall effect had Violet hoping the local sheriff didn't happen by and pick him up as a transient.

Then he shook out his leg and broke into long, loping strides, so easy and graceful it seemed like he barely touched the ground. Violet's heart clenched, mostly in envy. Lord, to be able to run like that, instead of thundering along like a plow horse.

Steve slapped the fence rail again. “No sense standin' around flappin' our jaws. Let's get these colts sorted and run them through the chutes a few times so they remember the way.”

It was crowding five o'clock when Violet shuffled into the house, her clothes, skin, and hair layered with dust and sweat. She grinned at her reflection in the living room mirror. Unlike her, the colts looked great. She flipped her baseball cap onto the hat rack near the door, anticipation bubbling in her veins. Tomorrow's practice session would be the first chance to see the four-year-olds with real live cowboys on their backs. Hot damn, she couldn't wait.

On the end table, her phone chirped. Violet heaved a resigned sigh and checked the text message from her sister.
Wear the red shirt I gave you for your birthday.

Violet shook her head as she tapped keys.
It's not really my style.

The response came back before she could set the phone down.
I know. It makes you look like a girl.

Violet stuck her tongue out at the phone, glad Beni wasn't around to see.
It's very…red.

It looks great with your dark hair and it
doesn't even show any cleavage. WEAR THE DAMN SHIRT.

Violet ground her teeth.
Whatever, bossy.

Bet your ass. Don't try to blow me off, Violet Jacobs. I have spies everywhere.

Violet would have laughed, but Lily wasn't kidding. If Violet didn't follow orders, she would hear from her sister as soon as she stepped out in public. Funny how the short people in the Jacobs family packed the biggest attitudes. She'd let Lily win this one, though. It was just a stupid shirt and she knew it was clean, seein's how the tags were still on it.