Gil had suffered every form of insomnia known to man, but it had been a long, long time since he was too excited to sleep.
Declaring his intentions out loud had been the mental equivalent of swinging open a gate. All the thoughts he’d tried to keep penned up stampeded through his head. Who should he tell next? And how? Phone calls seemed like a mediocre way to share news this big. He wanted to see faces, savor the shock and awe.
He’d have to start with Quint…unless he gathered everyone up and told them at once. Delon would be home Sunday. So would Steve and Miz Iris. It would mean sitting on this bombshell for days, but it would be worth it. And the delay would also force him to give the bruise on his ass plenty of time to heal.
In the meantime, he would sneak in as much time as he could on the spur board, and he could study video of current competition, which had always been one of his favorite ways to improve his own riding. He sure as hell wasn’t making any progress on the Heartland Foods contract. If he wanted to rodeo, they couldn’t sign it anyway. There was no way they could do a decent job of it if Gil cut back his hours. Delon would be rightfully pissed after all the work he’d put in, but he’d understand.
Closing his laptop, Gil grabbed his tablet, popped in his earbuds, and stretched out on the bed. Five minutes and a credit card number later, he had access to the video archives of all ten rounds of the previous year’s National Finals Rodeo. He started with the first bareback ride of the first night and worked his way through, pausing and rewinding to analyze every detail. To be the best, you studied the best.
That kid from Manitoba was tall, but he hardly ever got whipped out of shape. What was he doing with his free arm to keep his upper body so controlled? On the flip side, that other poor bastard had gotten slammed into the dirt three nights in a row. Why was he getting jacked up over his rigging at around the four-second mark every time? Gil also made reams of notes on the horses. Usually they had a pattern to the way they bucked, and having an idea what to expect could give a cowboy the edge.
Plus a lot of the same stock would be bucking at the Diamond Cowboy.
Yes, he would be insane to try to go from zero to ninety-point rides in less than two months. That’s what it would take to have a shot at the Diamond Cowboy title, and in his heyday Gil had only broken the ninety-point barrier twice. What made him think he could do it now?
Better training, a persistent voice whispered in his head. The program Tori had designed and constantly tweaked for Delon was light years beyond the workouts they used to do. Better horses. All he had to do was pull up highlights from ten years ago to see how much the horses had improved—more jump, more kick, more chances for a cowboy to score points.
Or get thrashed.
He’d be smarter to ease into this, but how could he ignore the Diamond Cowboy when it was right in his front yard? Where else could he go to face that level of competition, with that much at stake? The monster summer and fall rodeos like Cheyenne and Pendleton—wins that were career highlights for any cowboy—only accepted contestants who were currently in the top forty or fifty in the world standings, which counted him out.
Even a berth at the Texas Circuit finals would be a serious stretch with the season halfway over. He’d have to hit every rodeo left on the schedule and win consistently to catch up, and that was too much time away from the shop.
The Diamond Cowboy was the only chance he’d have at something big until next year. Gil had never competed without a championship in his sights. He didn’t want to start now.
Plus it would be a good measure of where he stood. If his game wasn’t up to snuff, he could pack his gear away and say he’d given it a shot. And it wasn’t like he’d be jumping straight into the main event. He had to get through the qualifier first.
He was deep into the fifth round when his bedroom door swung open. He slapped the tablet facedown onto the bed.
“What are you doing?” Quint blinked groggily at him. “It’s four in the morning and you still have your clothes on.”
Gil swiped a guilty hand down the front of his T-shirt. “I got caught up in…stuff. Why are you up?”
“I had to piss. I saw your light on.” Quint frowned, and Gil felt like he was the delinquent kid. Busted. “Turn that thing off and try to get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quint made a growly noise and stumbled off toward his bedroom. Gil was sorely tempted to pick up where he’d been interrupted, but now that he’d stopped to blink, he realized his eyes were gritty and throbbing from staring at the screen. Plus Quint might come back to check on him. Sighing, he set the tablet aside, stripped down to his underwear, and crawled in bed.
An hour and a half later he eased into the weight room, not wanting to wake Carma while he rummaged through the storage bins under the workbench. Where were his old chaps? Oh, right. Delon had also taken those when he’d confiscated the pictures and stuff that he was afraid Gil would destroy. Good job, little brother. But since Gil had no idea where they were stashed, he would have to wait until after his big announcement to find out if what he’d called the Flamethrowers still fit.
He’d also need a glove and a rigging, and those couldn’t go straight from the store to the arena. It took hours to get them just right, treating the glove with benzoin to add stiffness, adjusting the handhold by sanding here and gluing in pieces of leather there until the fit was perfect. But Gil could skip a few steps by borrowing one of Delon’s backup gloves and riggings and adjusting it to fit him. And with some help from Steve Jacobs—
His cell phone vibrated. Duty calling. He checked the number, sighed, then shoved the bins back under the bench and headed to the office to deal with the first crisis of the day.
At seven Carma strolled in. She’d pulled her hair back into a sterling-silver barrette and was wearing a deep-pink, fluttery sundress. She looked so delicious Gil had to have a taste.
When he eased out of the kiss, she smiled. “Good morning to you, too.”
He looped his arms loosely around her waist, enjoying the thrum of his blood. “How’d you sleep?”
“Better than you,” she said, studying him critically. The eye drops apparently hadn’t erased all the signs of his video binge.
“I’m fine. No, scratch that. I’m great.” He grinned, feeling ridiculously cheerful. “I have to run over to the house—I forgot my tablet. Ignore any messages for me that don’t start with I’m upside down in a ditch and on fire.”
“I can do that.”
He kissed her again, quick and light, then headed back to his house. Outside, the birds were clearing their throats in the damp, sweet predawn air. It reminded him of waking in his mother’s hogan and tiptoeing out to find her sitting on a blanket, greeting the sunrise. He didn’t understand a word of the traditional Navajo morning prayer, but he’d loved to listen anyway, enchanted by the rise and fall of her voice.
Another reason, perhaps, that he’d fallen so easily under Carma’s spell. Then he shook his head. No, he shouldn’t say that, even as a half-assed Navajo. Witches were considered a real and present danger that walked among the Diné. Carma might be something other than so-called normal, but she was definitely not evil.
She was…unique. Fascinating. Every conversation with her forced him to rethink how he viewed the world. He couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of talking to her. This was why he envied his brother and all his happily paired-off friends. Companionship. The simple pleasure of being known and appreciated. If a marriage could be like this—a partnership between two people who could talk and laugh, have each other’s backs and call each other’s bullshit…
His heart stuttered. Marriage? Where the hell did that come from?
Sure, he’d like to have that kind of life, but he’d accepted that he wasn’t a likely candidate. An addict. A workaholic. A self-absorbed bastard at the best of times. Honestly, he didn’t even know what he was asking Carma. Hang out with me, baby? She had plans. Places to go, people to help. A life and a home that weren’t in Texas.
What could he offer her in exchange for all of that?
He paused halfway between house and shop as the sky brightened with the imminent arrival of the sun. As he watched, a pinpoint of light appeared, then spread along the horizon. His mother had told him it was the opening through which prayers could pass to the spirit world…or something like that. He did remember that the morning prayer was meant to clear his head and make him fully present in the coming day, so he stood, and breathed, and did his best to empty his mind. When he could no longer look directly into the sun, he closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the sky, uttering a silent plea.
I know I haven’t earned any favors, but for the sake of everyone else I could hurt, if I’m taking a wrong turn, could you give me some kind of sign?
He listened for a full minute. There was no answer except the chatter of birds and the rattle of a Jake brake as a Sanchez truck came home to roost. Gil continued toward his house, impatient to get on with his day.
And his suddenly wide-open life.