Earnest, Texas—two weeks before the Diamond Cowboy Classic
The day after Bing’s birthday party, Carma left Gil once again holed up with his mother and Delon, debating how they could absorb the increased business from Express Auto while still in the process of expanding to accommodate the Heartland Foods loads.
Debate being a polite way of putting it. There was intense disagreement over what other clients might have to be weeded out, and which drivers had the skill and attention to detail required for hauling cars, apparently one of the trickier types of loads.
Carma had made her escape at five o’clock on the dot.
The temperature had climbed into the mideighties, too hot to go for a walk for another couple of hours, but she was too restless to sit. She cranked up some Linkin Park on the van’s stereo and dug one of her ropes, idly twirling it in the shade of the huge trees around the van.
“Would you teach me?”
She spun around to find Quint watching her, hands in pockets. Other than the night of the weenie and marshmallow roast, he hadn’t come near her campsite. Whatever he wanted now, it wasn’t just roping lessons. “Sure. There’s another rope right there next to the van.”
He picked it up and, to her surprise, deftly built a loop. When he saw Carma watching, he said, “Tori taught me how to rope the dummy. And Shawnee showed me a couple of things.”
“Did she now?” Carma propped her hands on her hips. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He demonstrated a basic twirl and a wobbly ocean wave, with the rope wrapping around his arm halfway through the second circle. “I haven’t practiced much,” he muttered as he untangled it.
“Have you ever tried roping cattle?” she asked, remembering his interest in Tori’s team-roping video.
“Not real steers.” He made a new loop and gave the ocean wave another try. “A couple of times at Tori’s place they pulled the practice dummy around while I roped it off her horse, but we were barely even trotting.”
Carma paused in the middle of adjusting her own loop. “I got the impression you weren’t crazy about horses.”
“They’re fine, if they’re super calm and I know I can trust them. I like Cadillac and Fudge. And Shawnee’s got a cool horse named Roy.”
And what did they all have in common, other than being extremely well broke? Duh. Carma couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to get a clue. “You want to be a roper.”
Quint’s rope tangled around his arm again. “Someday.”
“Why not now?”
He took great pains to straighten out the rope. Carma waited while he adjusted the loop to some precise, predetermined size. Then he let his hands fall to his sides without taking a swing. “How was Dad when you saw him last night?”
Frightening. She didn’t have say it. She saw it in Quint’s eyes. “What happened before he came over here?” she countered.
“Nothing. Not really. I mean, he was really upset about falling asleep and all, and he told me to call Grandma and have her come stay with me.” This was the point when Quint usually would have rolled his eyes or made a face to let her know that he knew why his dad might not be sure when he’d get home. Quint didn’t do either of those things. “He said to tell her to guard all the keys.”
“Um…keys?” Like, lock him out of the house?
“To the car and the trucks and everything. So he couldn’t go to the bar.”
Carma did a double take. “He told you that?”
“Not the part about the bar, but why else?” Quint fiddled with the hondo on the rope. “Grandma and I kept watch to be sure he didn’t try walking instead.”
It was only a quarter of a mile, max. Carma sometimes walked down to the Kwicky Mart or the Smoke Shack just to get out of the office at lunch, and the Corral Bar was just across the street. “He stayed here,” she said.
In the van, eventually, but they’d slept in their clothes, on top of the blankets. She hadn’t suggested otherwise, getting the distinct sense that Gil felt naked enough just coming to her in that state. He’d left her at dawn with a kiss on the forehead and a whispered “Thank you.”
And today in the office, he’d seemed like his normal self, which said volumes about how good he was at hiding his struggles. So good that he’d fooled Carma into thinking his addiction was just the reason he didn’t drink, the butt of his caustic jokes.
She suspected it was the same for Quint, and he must be even more shaken than she was. This was his father.
“Anyway,” Quint said, “Grandma and I talked about how everything is changing in the office and everybody’s stressed, but it’s the worst for Dad because he’s the one they all go to when they have a question. So we talked to Uncle Delon, and he was gonna talk to Max and Analise and Jeremiah, and everybody’s gonna try real hard to take some of the load off of him so he doesn’t get so…”
“Tired,” Carma supplied.
Quint smiled faintly. “Yeah. And we figured you should know what’s going on, too.”
“Good call.” Her own smile wobbled. She’d spent the whole day scheming how to make Gil’s life easier, and they already had it covered. She didn’t even have to worry about butting in. “We’ll take care of him.”
“Thanks. Just don’t tell him, okay?”
She was feeling way too close to tears, and that was someplace neither she nor Quint wanted to go, so she deliberately went off on a tangent. “About the team roping, you mean? ’Cuz I could swear I saw you working out on the spur board with them the other day.”
Quint was suddenly fascinated by the hondo on his rope. “Uncle Delon insisted. He thinks I might want to be a bareback rider.”
“Where did he get that idea?”
He sighed. “I sorta accidentally gave my dad the wrong idea.”
“I see.” Carma folded her arms and leaned back against the side of the van. “How does a person sorta accidentally do that?”
Quint huffed impatiently. “We were looking at his old pictures and stuff, and his chaps were there, and they’re just really cool, you know? He wore them at the National Finals. The biggest rodeo in the world. And I don’t have anything else of his, the way Beni has his dad’s old Finals jackets and stuff. I was checking them out, and Dad asked if I wanted them.”
Ah. Now it made sense. “And he assumed you were fascinated because you wanted to follow in his spur tracks.”
“Yeah.”
Carma took the time to really look at him. See what she could feel. “Are you scared to ride bucking horses?”
“What sane person wouldn’t be?” he shot back. “I’ve seen how sore Dad is, and he’s only been bucked off that one time. They joke about how bareback riding hurts even when you make a great ride. What’s supposed to be fun about that?” Quint eyed her suspiciously. “You aren’t gonna tell him, are you?”
“Nope. Are you?”
“Not until after the Diamond Cowboy.” He stubbed at a weed with his toe. “He probably won’t be very happy.”
Typical roughstock rider. But Carma couldn’t help teasing Quint a little. “You could try riding a couple of those easy horses. You might be so terrible they’ll write you off after the first few tries.”
“Fat chance.” He gave a gloomy snort. “I’m good at everything.”
“There’s that Sanchez humility.” She picked up her loop and started it spinning. “Let’s see if we can teach you how to do a butterfly before it gets dark, Ace.”
For the next hour, they spun ropes and talked about the highlights and lowlights of Carma’s career as a performer. She made Quint laugh with a story about singeing off the ends of her hair when she’d tried twirling a flaming loop. He made her choke on her own spit with the dry observation about fire-resistant fringes.
And yes, by the time they finished, he could do a near-perfect butterfly.
* * *
“This may be the first time in my life I’ve been sweaty at a track meet.” Carma swiped an arm across her glistening forehead. “At our regional finals it’s always about fifty degrees with the wind howling off the mountains. Sometimes there’s a chance of snow.”
And Gil wouldn’t be admiring how that white tank top clung to every curve and set off the bronze glow of her skin. There was a lot to be said for warmer climates.
Everyone was staring at her, and it wasn’t entirely due to the fit of her khaki shorts. The regional track meet was her official Earnest debut as GIL SANCHEZ’S GIRLFRIEND. All caps, in neon orange, even though it was mostly being whispered between bent heads and muttered behind hands. She was an outsider, she was Native, and she was the first woman they’d seen him with since high school. The two of them couldn’t have caused a bigger buzz if he’d driven one of his trucks onto the field while she danced on the hood.
Gil was not ashamed to admit he was enjoying it. Look all you want, assholes. She’s mine.
He should have been disturbed by the hot surge of possessiveness. Instead he savored the burn. That night beside her van, when she’d forgiven his sins and rescued him from the devil temptation, something fundamental had shifted inside him. He had sunk close enough to smell the muck that coated rock bottom, and because he’d reached out to Carma instead of turning away, he’d been able to haul himself back to the surface.
And he’d felt a hundred pounds lighter ever since. Even the pressure at the office had dialed down, and he wasn’t sure if it was because everyone was finally settling into the new routines or he was just handling it better.
He peeled his gaze off Carma and called the next high jumper. Over in the bleachers, Bing, Miz Iris, and Rochelle had set up camp, complete with fans, wide-brimmed hats, and coolers of food and cold drinks. Beni and his buddies were lounging just far enough away to be cool, but close enough for frequent snack raids.
They had plenty to watch, as Quint hustled from the long jump to the hundred-meter dash, back to the triple jump, then to the starting line for the two-hundred-meter hurdles. He flew around the track and through the air with such ease and grace that it made Gil’s heart twist in envy. He’d been that boy once—all wiry muscle, distilled energy, and cocksure grins.
He wouldn’t go back for all the beer in Texas. He’d barely survived the first time through, and besides, look at what he might have missed if he changed the tiniest thing. One fewer mistake and he could’ve ended up somewhere else entirely. No Quint. No Carma.
He just had to figure out how to hold it together this time.
As they picked up either end of the downed high-jump bar, he grinned at her across the thick foam landing pad. “If the school had known we were bringing you, they could’ve sold tickets.”
“And I didn’t even have to take off my clothes this time.” Shocked giggles erupted from a trio of Earnest girls who were strolling past. Carma rolled her eyes behind big movie-star sunglasses, lowering her voice. “Give it an hour, and half the town will be debating whether Carma is a stripper name.”
He laughed and called the next high jumper.
Cheers erupted from the triple-jump area, and Gil glanced over to see Sam Carruthers accepting high fives as he brushed sand from his legs. The fight had obviously served to break the ice for Quint. The eighth-grade boys appeared to be equally divided between the pro-Sam camp and the pro-Quint crew, with a few either brave or oblivious souls who tried to be both.
Sam and Quint kept a careful distance from each other until the last event of the day. The 1,600-meter relay was the race that had started their feud. One lap around the track for each boy, with Quint running the cherished anchor leg. With Quint’s added speed, Earnest’s team had done well at the last few out-of-town meets, and today they finally had a legitimate chance to beat archrival Sunburst.
But what in God’s name was the coach thinking, switching Sam to the third leg? Sure, he might match up better against that Sunburst runner, but it meant he had to hand off the baton to Quint. The exchange was all about timing, coordination, and communication…between two boys who didn’t speak to each other.
Of course when Gil asked, Quint said it was fine.
As the teams took their positions, Gil steered Carma to a prime viewing spot near the finish line and beside the exchange zone. Sunburst and Earnest had drawn lanes three and four, side by side and in the middle of the track, ideal for the expected head-to-head battle. As the first runners stepped into the starting blocks, a hush settled over the crowd.
Bang!
The gun fired and the runners burst out of the blocks, pushed by a roar from the crowd. When they rounded the second turn and came down the straightaway, Earnest was fifteen yards off the pace.
Gil clamped tense arms over his chest as they watched the runners pass the batons without mishap. “We’re good. They led with their second-fastest guy, so we expected to lose some ground.”
Carma nodded, her attention glued to the action.
The rest of the teams fell back, but the margin between Sunburst and Earnest remained steady throughout the second lap. Then the baton slapped into Sam’s hand and away he flew, closing the gap stride by stride as the two runners raced down the back straightaway, while coaches and fans screamed themselves hoarse. They rounded the far turn, and both boys grimaced in agony as they fought through the last hundred yards.
“Stay loose,” Gil muttered, remembering all too well how his hamstrings had felt as if they were tied in knots at that point. “He’s just gotta give Quint the stick with less than three seconds to make up.”
Carma grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his biceps, her lips moving in a silent plea.
In front of them, Quint stood waiting in the exchange zone, cocked like a pistol. The Sunburst runner arrived first, with Sam a dozen strides behind. As the baton passed to the Sunburst anchor, Sam yelled, “Go!”
Gil cursed under his breath. “Too soon!”
Quint went, but his head start was too much for Sam’s flagging legs. Realizing the error, he slowed just as Sam gave a desperate lunge, thrusting the baton forward. There was a collective gasp as Sam’s leading foot caught Quint’s heel and they both staggered. Sam pitched forward, the baton bouncing off Quint’s elbow and clattering onto the track as Sam fell, skidding on the rough, rubberized surface.
The entire Earnest contingent groaned in unison.
Quint stumbled to a stop and dropped his hands to his thighs as the remaining teams raced past and the Sunburst runner circled the track uncontested. Blood tricked down the back of his ankle from a pair of gouges left by Sam’s spikes.
Son of a bitch. Gil took a furious step toward his son, but Carma held him back. “Wait.”
Slowly, Quint straightened, then turned toward where Sam sat on the track, angry red scrapes marking both bent knees and one of the elbows he rested on them, head hanging. Quint walked up to him and extended a hand.
“Sorry,” he said. “I took off too fast.”
Sam angled his head back, squinting suspiciously. “My legs were shot. I should’ve got closer before I told you to go.”
“So we both screwed up.” Quint wiggled his fingers, and after a beat, Sam took hold and let Quint pull him up. They stepped off the track and watched with identical expressions of disgust as the Sunburst runner cruised through the tape, throwing his arms up in triumph.
“Shit,” Sam said. “That was our last shot at them.”
“This year.” Quint scowled at the celebrating mob of Sunburst athletes, then extended his fist. “But we’ve got all of high school to get even, and that’s the last time we let them beat us.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed, his jaw squared, and he bumped his fist with Quint’s. “Bet yer ass.”
They strode off shoulder to shoulder, refusing to limp or swipe at the blood trickling from their wounds. Gil let out a long, pent-up breath.
Carma pressed a quick kiss on his cheek. “That’s some kid you’re raising.”
He gave a strangled laugh. “Hey, I’m the daddy-come-lately. I don’t get to take the credit.”
Carma gazed around, catching the approving nods among the parents and fans.
“Sure you do,” she said, and dragged him over to raid Miz Iris’s cooler for cold drinks and cookies while Quint accepted back slaps and condolences from both his fan club and Sam’s.
Gil looped his arm over her shoulders and squeezed, sure she could feel the pride that threatened to bust his chest wide open. That was his son, and dammit, he must’ve done something right along the way.
And maybe—just maybe—Gil was more like the man Carma saw in him than he’d let himself believe.