Reckless in Texas Page 4

  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.

  Chapter 6

  He might be an arrogant jerk, but Violet had to admit watching Joe Cassidy fight bulls was worth the price of admission. Knees bent, hands on thighs as he waited for the next bull rider to nod, he was a coiled spring. Violet rubbed her palm down the front of her chaps, trying to massage away the memory of his touch. The sizzle of connection. The way his fingers had tightened when he felt it too.

  Violet jerked her hand as if it were still in his grasp. Dammit. Why couldn’t she lust after a man’s brains for a change? But no, it was always the physical. And not just looks, but how a man moved, the wonder of bone and muscle honed to perfection. Joe Cassidy was all that and more—the indefinable something that elevated a star from merely athletic to exceptional.

  Better than anything that’s set foot in one of your arenas, sweetheart.

  “Take him left,” Steve Jacobs called out to Joe. “Right around the end of the chute gate.”

  A good-natured Brangus they called Carrot Top—named for his orangey color and the tuft of curly hair on his hornless head—peered out between the slats of the chute gate. Joe flashed a thumbs-up and adjusted with a few springy steps, shooting a quick glance over to check Hank’s position. Violet released a pent-up sigh. So much for a positive role model. She’d wanted someone who’d teach Hank a little humility. Instead, she got Joe.

  As the cowboy took the last wrap of the bull rope around his gloved hand, Joe rocked onto the toes of his cleated shoes, as if the adrenaline was blasting out through the balls of his feet. He’d dumped the wireless mic, added knee and ankle braces and a Kevlar vest under his jersey. Not a whole lot of protection considering the average bull weighed as much as an entire NFL defensive line.

  The cowboy nodded, and the gate swung wide. In a flash, Joe was there, tapping Carrot Top on his curly head, drawing him around and into a bounding spin. The rider hung tight for two, three, four jumps, the crowd noise swelling. As the eight-second whistle sounded, the bull threw in a belly roll, whipping the cowboy off the side. Hank stepped in, flicking the bull’s ear. Carrot Top swung around to follow him. Hank danced backward, his hand on the bull’s head. He did a full pirouette, tapped the bull again, and danced away. Carrot Top did the equivalent of an eye roll and a shrug and lumbered toward the exit gate as Hank tipped his hat to the whistles and cheers of the crowd.

  Violet ground her teeth. Carrot Top might not hurt a flea—intentionally—but if Hank
kept showboating, one of these days he’d push his luck too far. She could only hope he got hurt just bad enough to teach him a lesson, and not enough to cripple him for life.

  Joe watched, arms folded and face expressionless. While the announcer started his spiel about the last cowboy set to ride, Joe strolled over to Hank. He raised his hand, but instead of a high five, he flicked the brim of Hank’s cowboy hat, tipping it down over his face. When Hank grabbed for the hat, Joe cuffed the back of his head hard enough to make him stagger.

  “Hey!” Hank spun around, hat clutched to his chest. “What was that for?”

  “Quit fucking around,” Joe said.

  “I was just having a little fun!”

  “You want to do tricks and take bows, join the circus. You want to be a bullfighter, get your ass over there and pay attention. Use your brain instead of just your feet.”

  Hank tossed Joe a sulky look, but put his hat on and did as ordered. Well. That was unexpected. Violet sat back in her saddle, giving Joe a second look. Then the soundman shifted into a familiar thrumming guitar lick that swelled into a thundering crescendo.

  “If you’re not already on the edge of your seats, folks, you need to get there.” The announcer’s voice rose in volume and intensity with every word, until he was shouting. “Right now, in this arena, you’re about to see the biggest, the baddest, the number-one bull in all of Texas. In chute number three, it’s a legend in the making, the pride and joy of Jacobs Livestock…say hello to Dirt Eater!”

  The chute gate swung open and for an instant the bull stood framed, silver-gray hide shading to black on his hump and head, thick horns curved like swords. Then he exploded into a right-hand spin, flinging his massive body through space at an impossible rate of speed. The cowboy hung tough, chest forward, free arm back, in perfect position. Dirt Eater made his signature move, driving his forelegs straight up into the sky, kicking with his hinds, his entire body suspended in midair for an instant. Then his head dropped, his nose swooping so low it brushed the ground and came up crusted with sand. The sheer force snapped the cowboy’s chin up, yanked his arm straight, then pile-drove him into the ground.

  Before Dirt Eater could take another step, Joe hurdled the fallen rider, shouting, “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

  The bull took a swipe and caught his leg with a horn, sending him cartwheeling into the air. He did a full twisting backflip and landed on hands and knees as Hank lured the bull clear. The crowd roared. Dirt Eater stopped, snorted, then threw up his head and sauntered away. Kicking up her horse, Violet tracked the bull out of the arena with one eye on Joe where he crouched, head bowed, hands clenched. Hank jogged over, clapping a concerned hand on his shoulder. After a beat, Joe popped up, shook his leg, then jogged in place. Violet heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for one hell of a bull, and one hell of a bullfighter. Welcome to Texas, Joe Cassidy!”

  The crowd roared again, stomping and whistling as Joe tipped his hat.

  Cole coiled his rope and dropped it over his saddle horn. “That’s all she wrote.”

  And not a minute too soon. Violet stepped off, loosened the cinches, and patted her horse’s chocolate-brown neck. “Good work, Cadillac.”

  He rubbed his head on her shoulder, leaving a streak of dust-infused sweat on her shirt. She shoved him away, then scratched the spot below his ear. Out back, hooves clattered on steel, the crew already loading bucking horses onto a truck. A second truck idled nearby, waiting to load the bulls and start the two-hour drive home, the end of their last long road trip of the year. The Jacobs Ranch was in the wide-open space north of the Canadian River, eight miles out of a speck on the map called Earnest, Texas. The closest town of decent size was Dumas, ten miles south of Earnest, then Amarillo another forty-five miles down the road. Lord, it would be good to set her feet on the red dirt of home.

  Violet unbuckled her chaps, peeled them off, and hung them on her saddle horn before leading Cadillac out of the gate. She would’ve preferred to make a beeline for the trailer, but she schmoozed through the milling crowd, pausing to shake committee members’ hands, congratulate them on a successful weekend, and mention how much Jacobs Livestock looked forward to seeing them again next year. Finally, she escaped to the trailer that hauled the four pickup horses. She slid Cadillac’s bridle off, pulled on his halter, then gave a startled squeak as something moved practically under her feet, in the dense shade beneath the gooseneck of the trailer.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Joe said from his seat on the ground. He was massaging the thigh he’d been stretching, and he was…

  Violet sucked in a breath, then let it out on what came perilously close to a giggle. Okay, not quite naked, but he’d stripped off everything but his soccer shorts and shoes, baring acres of sweat-slick skin.

  Violet swallowed hard. “What are you doing under there?”

  “Hiding from my adoring fans.”

  Damn good thing or we’d have a riot. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just a Charlie horse. Dirt Eater tagged me pretty hard.” He touched a reddening welt high on the inside of his thigh.

  Too high. Violet dragged her eyes back down, waiting. This was where he’d say something like, That’s some bull. Everyone did.

  Everyone except Joe, who spread his legs wide and bent at the waist, his chest nearly touching the ground, giving Violet ample opportunity to admire the long, sleek muscles of his back.

  “You should get some ice on that leg,” she said.

  He angled a sardonic smile over his shoulder that said, I see what you’re lookin’ at. “Believe me, darlin’, I know how to take care of a bruise.”

  “I am not your darlin’.” Violet yanked open the door to the tack compartment, blocking him from view, and jammed the bridle onto the nearest hook. “Or your girl.”

  For crying out loud. Why was she letting him get to her? Cowboys had been flinging bullshit her direction since she was two weeks old—which was about the time she’d developed a weakness for a man with a wild streak. She turned, then squeaked again when she came face-to-face with Joe. Damn, he was quick. She hadn’t even seen him move and now he was right there—one hand braced on the open door, the other holding a half-drained bottle of water, and all that bare flesh right under her nose.

  Dear sweet heaven, that was one beautiful body. Like the yellow Corvette, designed specifically for impressing the girls and taking curves way too fast. This close, she could smell the clean sweat from the clumps of damp hair around his face. His eyes were green. The color of luck, and money, and the other side of the fence. They gleamed with the same arrogant light as his smile.

  “Are you always this cranky? Or are you actually still pissed about the pickup girl thing?”

  She stiffened and stuck out her chin. “I’m supposed to enjoy being the butt of your jokes?”

  “I was just kidding around.”

  “Yeah. That’s what all the sexist assholes say.”

  He went still, all hint of sarcasm dropping away as he studied her for a few intense moments. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right. You were working and I was out of line.”

  His sincerity flustered her in a way his arrogance couldn’t. “Uh…thanks for your help. With that bareback rider, I mean. ’Preciate you being on your toes.”

  “I’m always on my toes.” He waggled the water bottle at her, then himself. “That’s why they hire us.”

  Us. As in You and I. Two of a kind. In five simple words, he’d paid her the biggest compliment of her career. He hadn’t even tagged on the usual pretty good…for a girl.

  Surprise and an unmitigated burst of pride turned her brain to mush. She heard herself babbling, “Well, um, thanks. And never mind about the other. No big deal. I’m sure you didn’t mean it.”

  The water bottle paused halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly, the glea
m in his eyes turning dangerous. “Didn’t mean what?”

  “Uh, you know. What you said about, um, me. You were just kidding.”

  “About which part?” His voice lowered to a rough purr that sent a shiver over her skin despite the heat. And just like that, the energy between them changed again. “Why wouldn’t I want you to pick me up?”

  Because…because…oh Lord. There went her last functional brain cell. He leaned closer, fully into her space, and she had to fight the instinct to retreat. The even stronger urge to press her palms to his chest and get another hit of energy off his radioactive core. She opened her mouth, but the words jammed in her throat.

  He brushed her jaw with his thumb, condensation from the water bottle leaving a damp trail on her skin. “Be careful what you assume, Violet. I might have to prove you wrong.”

  Then he stepped back, toasting her with the water and a smirk as Cole rode up. It was all Violet could do not to rub off the wet spot on her skin before it was vaporized by the static electricity crackling between them. His eyes laughed at her, even as they glowed with answering heat. Now she knew exactly what kind of trouble Joe Cassidy was—the kind she’d never been able to resist getting into.

  Chapter 7

  The Lone Steer Saloon was a neon oasis halfway between Dumas and Earnest. The Jacobs convoy took up a quarter of the gravel parking lot: two semis loaded with stock, Cole’s pickup and horse trailer, and two pickups pulling the camper trailers that housed the rest of the Jacobs family on the road.

  Cole, Hank, and Joe were the last to arrive because Cole had to double-check every inch of the arena, chutes, and stock pens for forgotten equipment, even though he’d counted each halter and flank strap as it was hung on its designated hook. Cole had a mental checklist and it was like he had to follow it to the letter or his head would explode. Compulsive—one of Wyatt’s pet words. Pain in the ass would have been Joe’s choice.