Carma yanked a comb through her hair hard enough to make her eyes water.
The fucking nerve of Jayden, looking at her like she should be thrilled to see him. Screw that bullshit. But had she told him so? No. She couldn’t say a word while she was being gang-tackled by the ghosts of feelings past—hers and his.
But she’d managed to call Gil a prick for trying to salvage a few scraps of her pride.
She heaved a disgusted sigh and tossed the comb aside. The interior of Shawnee’s trailer was dim, the shades pulled tight against the midday sun. It was tempting to hide out in there for the rest of the afternoon. Bad enough that she had to explain herself to Gil, but she also had to face Tori. And Shawnee. And…everyone.
God, why couldn’t she just be normal for five stinking minutes? And had she mentioned—damn Jayden.
She pulled on a camisole constructed of layers of black lace and gauze to replace her sweaty tank top. God. It was like a bad dream, Jayden and Gil coming face-to-face.
But seeing—and feeling—the two men in close proximity had been a revelation. In contrast to Gil’s diamond-hard sheen, Jayden wavered like a candle, vulnerable to every breeze and in need of a constant outside source of oxygen. No wonder she’d sometimes felt suffocated. He used up a lot of air.
She pushed her hair back over her shoulders and tied on a beaded headband to hold it off her face. Then she made direct eye contact with herself in the mirror. Suck it up, Sunshine. Lord knew it wasn’t the first time she’d looked stupid where Jayden was concerned.
But thanks to Gil, it might be the last.
When Carma pushed the door open, she found Tori sprawled in one of the loungers, also in shorts and sandals, a snug red tank layered under a matching crocheted tee, sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head.
Carma curled her fingers in a Bring it on gesture. “Go ahead. Hit me.”
“If Gil hadn’t been here, would you have gone with him?” Tori said promptly.
Carma sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s honest at least.”
Carma slumped into a lawn chair, dropping her face into her hands so she wouldn’t have to read the judgment in Tori’s eyes. “I don’t even know how to explain to a person like you.”
“And that would be what kind, exactly?”
“Someone with too much self-respect to let that happen.” Carma flung an arm toward where Jayden had last been seen.
“I haven’t always been this cool,” Tori said dryly. “You’re looking at a woman who dragged some cowboy home from a New Year’s Eve party, jumped his bones, then let him waltz in and out of her door for months—no calls, no flowers, not even a damn Valentine’s card in between.”
Carma hands dropped limp between her knees. “You?”
“Me.” Tori shrugged. “I was nuts about him, and my self-esteem wasn’t the best back then.”
“Did you end it, or did he?”
“I moved to Cheyenne and didn’t leave a forwarding address, because I knew if he called, I’d cave. Then I met my first husband and he taught me what it means to be in a real relationship.” Her expression clouded, and Carma recalled that she’d been widowed in her twenties. Then Tori grinned. “For the record, Shawnee would’ve body-slammed you before she let you leave with that jerk.”
Carma blinked. “She doesn’t even know me.”
“Like that’d stop her. And she knows enough. If you want to do a really thorough background check, just talk to a few team ropers. And what they didn’t know, Analise told me.”
Carma’s stomach dropped. “So you also know…”
“About the semi mind-reader thing? Yeah.” She made a wry face. “You have no idea how hard it’s been not to ask you to guess what I’m thinking.”
“It makes some people uncomfortable,” Carma said carefully.
“So I imagine. But weirdly enough, Gil doesn’t seem to be one of them, considering how much he hates sharing his feelings.”
Carma stifled a grin at the hopeful note in her voice. “Sorry. He’s good at projecting what he wants the world to see. Even I can’t get past it most of the time.”
“Well, that’s disappointing, but I doubt you would’ve told us anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
Tori smiled. “Gil is also very good at knowing who to trust.”
Possibly past tense. Carma blew out a defeated breath. “He’s pretty pissed at me.”
“He’ll give you a chance to explain.” Tori settled her sunglasses onto her nose as the rodeo announcer launched into his welcome spiel. “When you live by the twelve steps, you don’t leave things to fester.”
She could only hope. Carma let the sudden blare of music be an excuse to stop talking and follow Tori—not to the bleachers, but to the space behind the bucking chutes. They stepped around bronc saddles, dodging elbows and knees as cowboys flexed and kicked, warming up. Carma spotted Beni and Quint over at the stripping chute, even more striking in their cowboy hats, pretending they didn’t notice a gaggle of girls ogling them from the stands. Lord, those two would be a hazard if they put their minds to it.
Or should she say when. Just give them a year or two…
Tori and Carma climbed up to a catwalk that led to the announcer’s stand and commandeered a space along the rail. The grand entry was already in progress, with flag bearers galloping around the arena, sponsor banners snapping. Tori gestured down at the bucking chutes. “One of the perks of being tight with the rodeo contractor. We get the bird’s-eye view.”
“Nice.”
Directly below, a cowboy squatted on the narrow platform that ran along the back of the chutes, knees splayed wide and head bowed either in concentration or prayer. His horse peered out between the bars of the gate as if picking the spot where it would like to head-plant him.
Tori nudged her with an elbow. Carma looked where she pointed, and whatever she’d been thinking dissolved at the sight of Gil in a white straw cowboy hat, his dark-purple western shirt tucked into starched jeans, a belt with a gleaming trophy buckle cinched around his hips. He bent to adjust the flank strap on a huge piebald sorrel and Carma whispered, “Oh my God.”
Tori laughed. “And bless Him for his generosity, for He gave the world a rare treat when He created the Sanchez boys.”
“Amen,” Carma said fervently. She could brood later. For now, she intended to enjoy the scenery. Recalling their stroll through the mob of contestants, she asked, “Do you ever run into that cowboy you used to…um…date?”
“Constantly.”
Oh. Well. “That must be awkward.”
“It was when I first moved home from Cheyenne.”
“And then?”
Tori grinned. “Since he was so determined to be underfoot, I went ahead and married him.”
* * *
Once upon a time, Gil had thought he would get over the aching void that opened up inside him every time he heard a rodeo announcer and smelled rosin. He never had. And now, with no pain in his hip to remind him why he couldn’t ride, it was actually worse.
As he stood watching the grand entry and the first couple of bareback riders, his muscles twitched in anticipation, expecting to hear, “Hey, Gil! We’re coming your way next,” from the chute boss, relaying orders Cole barked from out in the arena.
He glanced up to where Carma stood, her hair rippling in the wind, her brown skin glowing in the sun. Could she tell, just by looking at him?
He jerked his attention back to the pasty-faced rookie beside him. “You ready?”
“Yep.” But his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped.
Gil didn’t blame him. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend was a brute—her back nearly level with the top rail—and she had earned her name. Every trip out of the chute was an explosion of raw equine fury. Most rodeo broncs just loved to buck, and any injury to the cowboy was incidental. Gil was convinced this one enjoyed inflicting pain. As he double-checked the position of the rigging and flank strap, the mare’s ear swiveled, tracking him like a radar dish.
And taking aim.
He tapped the second highest bar on the chute and told the kid, “Keep your feet up here and try not to touch her while you’re getting set.”
Crazy-Ex rolled her eyes back to watch the cowboy work his hand into the rigging. Gil latched onto the kid’s vest, ready to haul him out of danger if the horse blew up inside the dangerous confines of the chute.
The mare shifted as noise welled from the crowd. Another horse bucked across the arena, half a jump ahead of a rider who couldn’t get his feet moving fast enough to catch up. Gil winced at every yank and slam. He remembered how that felt, too. Mercifully, the whistle blew and Cole and Shawnee closed in. She tripped the flank strap so the horse would stop kicking. The rider threw an arm around Cole and swung across the pickup horse’s rump to land on his feet on the other side, safely clear of flying hooves.
Gil paused a moment to admire their flawless teamwork as they escorted the horse out of the arena. Then the gateman and the judges moved into position in front of his chute.
Gil held his breath as the rookie eased down, knuckles white where he clutched the top bar of the chute. The mare’s eyes rolled again, showing the whites. Her nostrils flared. Gil could feel her winding up to explode.
Hurry up, kid.
He did, his butt barely making contact with Crazy Ex’s back before he gave a slight jerk of his head. His spurs lashed out, planting in the mare’s neck…a full beat before the gate opened.
Oh, shit. The horse had nowhere to go but up.
There wasn’t time or space to get clear as she reared and twisted, hooves lashing. Her foreleg caught Gil square across the chest and sent him flying. For an endless moment he was caught in the sickeningly familiar sensation of hanging in the air. He clearly heard every gasp and shout. Then he slammed into the hard-packed dirt—a one-point landing square on his so meticulously reconstructed right hip—and new agony exploded through him.
No. No.
Goddamn it, not again.