Jacobs Ranch—six weeks before the Diamond Cowboy Classic
It was surreal, standing on the back of the chutes at the Jacobs arena, strapping on a pair of chaps instead of watching all the other cowboys get ready. As Gil fastened the last buckle, Delon raised his eyebrows.
“Where’d those come from?”
“The pawn shop in Dumas.”
Delon frowned. “I gave you back all your stuff.”
And while Carma was at the Patterson ranch, Gil had spent the previous evening going through the boxes with Quint, telling the stories behind old pictures, taking grief for how scrawny he’d been at Quint’s age.
But when they’d pulled out the chaps—black with shimmering gold and metallic red fringe—Quint had picked them up with a sort of reverence. On impulse, Gil had said, “You can have them. In case you ever want…”
“But you need chaps,” Quint had said hastily.
Gil ran a hand over the battle-scarred leather. “I think I’ve outgrown these. But they’d fit you.”
It was as close as he’d come to asking his son if he was interested in riding broncs. Quint hadn’t taken the bait, but later, when he’d claimed he was tired and going to bed, Gil could’ve sworn he’d gone into his room and tried them on.
Maybe there was one positive tradition Gil could share with Quint. For now, though…
He straightened and adjusted the new chaps more squarely on his hips. They were the opposite of the Flamethrowers, plain tanned leather with no fancy conchos or tooled designs. “I’m trying to keep a low profile, remember?”
Delon gave him a long look, then nodded. Low-key. Low-risk. That was the plan they’d made, step by reasonable step. No one did controlled and sensible better than Delon. He also understood why Gil couldn’t bring combustible pieces of his past into this future.
Beyond the fence, Miz Iris, Tori, Rochelle, and Carma sat in lawn chairs, sipping sweet tea like old friends. Carma had been subdued all day, and even now she seemed removed from the conversation. Gil had worried that her day at the Patterson clinic hadn’t gone well, but when he’d asked, she’d said it was good, just a little overwhelming. Then Grace’s brother, Jeremiah, had arrived for his interview, and Gil hadn’t had another chance to talk to her.
But every time he looked over to where she was sitting, her gaze was fixed on him.
The evening was balmy and still, as pretty as the Panhandle could offer in April, but Gil was sweating under his leather vest. Beni and Quint were ready to open the gate. Out in the arena, Hank and Steve were mounted on pickup horses to fetch Gil at the end of the ride. Three horses were loaded in the chutes, all old campaigners that were barely a step up from climbing on a merry-go-round.
And still his heart thwacked against his ribs as he lowered himself onto Topper’s broad back. Was he really doing this? Yes, he was. This time, the scents of dirt and rosin were real. Instead of the wooden spur board, there was hard, warm horseflesh between his thighs as he worked his glove into the rigging. His pulse wanted to race, and his breath along with it.
Calm. Steady.
He’d expected to fumble, but after all those fantasy rides in the back room, every movement felt routine. Check his bind, slide up on the rigging, cock his free arm back. Nod his head.
The gate swung open, and Gil’s heels snapped up to plant in the gelding’s neck as he braced for the yank of the first jump. It was more like a long tug. Gil dragged his feet up to the rigging, snapped them forward again—and waited another endless moment for Topper to finish the next jump, like a slow-motion replay.
Miz Iris finally blew the eight-second whistle and Topper leveled into a smooth lope, knowing his job was done. The pickup men closed in, and Gil pried his hand out of the rigging to throw an arm around Hank’s waist and drop to his feet, not even winded.
Steve reined up beside him with a broad smile. “That wasn’t even a good warm-up. Give us a few minutes, and we’ll bring up some horses that’ll give you a little more of a challenge.”
God yes. His body was primed for a real battle. He started to agree, but Delon cut him off.
“Not tonight. The plan is to start out easy and see if you get sore. We’re sticking to it.”
Exactly as Gil had sworn…dammit. Keep me reined in. Left to himself, he’d have told Steve to run in the rankest bastard he had. Instead, he gave a resigned nod. “These will do for tonight.”
But when he stripped off his vest after the third ride, still vibrating with unused adrenaline, he felt like kicking something. Possibly his brother, who was enjoying his frustration way too much. Delon was smart enough to clear out, the boys close on his heels, though Beni muttered, “I coulda rode that last one,” as he passed.
Hell, any kid could’ve owned that horse. He hadn’t kicked high enough to scatter his own shit. Gil hoisted his butt onto the platform behind the chutes, legs dangling as he yanked out the tails of his shirt, popped open the buttons, and shoved the sleeve off his right arm to pick at the waste of good athletic tape on his elbow. Nothing he’d climbed on tonight was gonna do any damage.
Which was the point, dammit. He had no pain. And, he realized with a jolt, he hadn’t had a single doubt, no niggle of fear about reinjuring his hip, conscious or subconscious. Technically he’d made excellent rides, patient and precise, another on their list of goals. His all-out style might have thrilled the fans, but too often his loss of control had cost him. If he wanted to compete with Delon and the like, he had to eliminate every flaw.
And in two days he’d be back to take on some broncs with a little more firepower…if he didn’t explode before then.
“Lookin’ good, cowboy.”
He glanced over to see Carma stepping through the gate from the arena, her hair and skin set aglow by the lowering sun, her eyes greedy as they skimmed over him. Answering heat flared instantly, deep and hard.
That mouth of hers curved into a smile that set his blood on full boil. “I’m impressed,” she said.
“Even when I’m riding a bunch of rocking horses?”
One eyebrow rose. “Were you? I must’ve been distracted.”
She stepped between his knees, her gaze bold and hungry as her hands slid up his thighs. God. He was so on edge her touch was like fire even through his chaps. She ran her palms along his bare torso, up his sides, over his chest, leaning in to scrape her teeth along the side of his neck.
He shuddered, groaning, and took her mouth in a kiss that shot straight past any preliminaries. His hands dove under the hem of her lacy, half-transparent shirt. They had to stop. Someone might…
He tried to turn his head, but she caught his chin. “They’re gone to have apple pie and ice cream. I told them not to wait for us.”
Only the roof of the house was visible over the barn. No one could see down here, especially behind the chutes. And they all had more sense than to come looking.
Gil’s hands closed on her hips, dragging her against him as he nuzzled kisses into the sweet silk of her hair, every ion of pent-up energy translating into mind-melting desire. He made one last-ditch attempt at sanity. “You know what they’ll think if we take too long to show up.”
“Well, then…” She reached into the ugly purse she’d slung over her shoulder and pulled out a condom, dangling it in front of his nose like a ticket to heaven. “We’d better make it quick.”
* * *
Carma fell asleep on the ten-minute drive back to town, and the sun hadn’t even set.
“Wow,” Quint whispered from the back seat. “Tori was right.”
Gil shot her a concerned glance as he eased into the driveway and put the car in park. “About what?”
“Miz Iris said Carma seemed tired, and Tori said it got pretty intense yesterday with one of their patients, and she guessed it might take a day or two for Carma to recharge. That they’d have to be careful not to let her get too drained.” Quint’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror, that pucker between his brows. “Is Carma leaving us to go to work for them?”
Not that she’d told Gil. All he’d gotten was a text, a few minutes after he’d heard her van rumble into the trees out back.
Home safe. See you in the morning.
No goofy GIF. And no invitation to come on out and kiss her good night. He’d assumed the long day had worn her out, but he’d had no idea a treatment could do this to her.
Did he do this to her?
She’d never seemed drained after the times they were together, but maybe he just hadn’t noticed. He could be pretty damn oblivious. And it might be a matter of degrees.
He stroked her cheek, and her lashes fluttered open, then shut again as she burrowed into his palm. “Mmm. Sorry. Long day.”
And there would be many more to come. They were only getting started. The coming weeks would be a madhouse at Sanchez Trucking, and Gil knew from experience that he would get more demanding and even less patient as the Diamond Cowboy got closer.
But he had to be careful with Carma. Less…consuming. He’d been using her like a USB port he could plug into whenever he needed to offload excess pressure. She would never tell him it was too much because Carma was a born giver.
And Gil was born to take more than his share. Now that he knew better, though, there was no excuse. He’d have to find other outlets for his stress.
She turned her head and pressed a warm, sleepy kiss into his palm. If there hadn’t been a console between them—and a teenage boy watching—Gil would have gathered her close and let her sleep on his shoulder.
He ran a thumb along her eyebrow instead. “Wake up, darlin’. We need to get you to bed.”
He ignored the stifled snort as Quint climbed out of the back seat. “Go ahead. I’ll see you”—Quint flashed a knowing grin—“later.”
Which left Gil no choice but to drive Carma over to her van, tuck her in, and go directly home. Damn wiseass kid.
* * *
Carma woke up Friday morning feeling energized and clearheaded, her batteries finally recharged. She hummed along with the birds as she got dressed, her body twinging pleasantly from those hot, frantic minutes behind the chutes, and a little glow around her heart as she touched the spot where Gil had kissed her forehead as he tucked the blankets up to her chin.
Spurring a bronc, teeth clenched and muscles straining, he was a glorious sight. But those random, unexpected moments of tenderness were what completely undid her.
As she strolled past his house on the way to the office, the front door popped open and Quint stuck his head out.
Carma paused, one hand on the world’s most ironic white picket fence. “Good morning.”
“Mornin’.” Quint shuffled onto the front step, barefoot and rumpled in a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans, as if he’d jerked on clothes in his rush to catch her. “Are you feeling better?”
Damn. Tori must have told them why she’d been so zoned out most of the previous day, with the notable exception of that quickie behind the chutes—testimony to the fact that the sight of Gil Sanchez in chaps was enough to raise the dead.
Carma held her smile. “I’m great. How about you?”
“Good.” He smoothed a hand over his mussed hair in a very un-Quint-like gesture. “Are you going to work for the Pattersons?” he blurted. “I asked Dad and he didn’t answer, so I figured that meant yes.”
Or that he didn’t know, since Carma hadn’t quite got around to telling him. No secrets in this crowd, though. “Eventually,” she said.
Quint shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Because of me?”
“Um…what?”
“Are you leaving because I got you in trouble with my dad when I punched Sam?”
Oh. Oh! “No! Not at all. He wasn’t even mad at me.” Much. She wrapped her hands around two of the white pickets. “I came here hoping to work with the Pattersons. On-the-job training, I guess you’d say, for the program my family is starting back home. Sanchez Trucking was sort of a detour.”
“You were never planning to stay?”
“Not indefinitely. I was clear on that from the start.”
Quint’s eyes narrowed. “What about you and Dad?”
“We didn’t expect things between us to get, well, complicated. Especially not so fast.” Carma shifted under his increasingly critical stare. “And I hadn’t planned on accepting a full-time position with the Patterson clinic.”
Quint’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “So you’re just leaving this job, not us.”
Us? Did he realize what he’d…
Quint grinned, and Carma heaved an internal sigh. Silly girl. Of course Quint knew what he was saying. Didn’t he always?
“I’m staying in Texas,” she said, a whole new glow warming her heart. Us. This incredibly particular child wanted her to be a part of them. “But I’m not making any guarantees about me and your dad, except that we are trying not to screw it up.”
He nodded, looking absurdly wise for a kid with bedhead. “He can be kinda difficult. Let me know if you need any advice.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, just as solemnly. “I bought myself a firepit Wednesday. How would you feel about roasting hot dogs and marshmallows tonight? Or is that for kids?”
“Hey, I’m a kid.”
“In what universe?”
He smiled, pleased. “We’ll see you tonight.”
Quint disappeared back into the house, and Carma hummed all the rest of the way to the office.