During the post-meal shuffle, Hank pulled Bing aside. “Have you had enough?”
“Yeah. And your dad’s about done.” Then she yawned.
“Looks like he’s not the only one.”
“Three hours of sleep.” She yawned again, wider, before lifting an eyebrow. “Are you going to see Grace?”
The thought had crossed his mind. He didn’t like how he’d left things, kissing her and running off. Again. But he didn’t have her number or address, and she likely wasn’t home anyway.
“She’s got family in town,” he said, and disengaged to go wash dishes. Men in the Jacobs house knew the rules—she who cooked did not clean up. Even Johnny grabbed a casserole dish and carried it to the sink before being shooed away.
Once all was put to rights, Hank grabbed his jacket. “I’m out. I’ve got chores to do.”
He tossed out thank yous and see you laters without slowing down. Dinner had gone better than he had a right to expect…and once he’d left, they could all relax and stop watching their tongues.
Outside, clouds had gathered on the western horizon, ushering in an early dusk. The breeze had died and the cool, still air amplified every shuffle, snort, and low, rumbling bellow from the stock pens. The sounds drew Hank like a magnet, down to the pipe-railed corrals that held the bucking horses and bulls already sorted for the following day’s activities.
While others elbowed their way through the malls, herds of cowboys would descend on the Jacobs arena for their annual Black Friday Buck Out, where up-and-coming riders could test their mettle against the new generation of bucking bulls and horses. It had been the first place Hank had been tested too, when he was fifteen, cocksure—and shaking in his cleats.
He folded his arms on a cold, iron rail and watched the bulls mill around the hay feeder, giving one another the occasional shove to maintain the pecking order. Even standing in a pen, they looked more badass than in the old days. Sleeker, more athletic, with an arrogance that was a testament to improved genetics.
A classic gray Brahma—high horns, silver-gray hide with black face and legs—caught sight of Hank and took three deliberate steps toward him, then paused to sling his head, eyes glittering. Hank’s blood rose to meet the unspoken challenge.
I could take him.
Could. Past tense.
“Consorting with the enemy?”
Hank jerked his head around. Delon Sanchez strolled over to lean on the fence, studying the bulls with only mild curiosity. Now, if they’d been bucking horses…
“They’re not the bad guys,” Hank said. “They just do what comes natural.”
Delon inclined his head. “I like the term ‘dance partners.’” And he knew damn well the Bull Dancer was Wyatt’s alias. “Do you have any idea how much I hated Joe when he first showed up here?” Delon asked, picking up the silent thread.
Hank had been too busy worshipping Joe at the time, but now it seemed obvious. “He was sorta moving in on your turf.”
Delon turned to face him, bracing one muscular shoulder against the fence and tucking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking like he’d walked out of a television commercial promoting the best pro rodeo had to offer. “I considered Violet and Beni my family, so I wouldn’t have liked anyone who waltzed in and took my place. But the fact that it was Joe made it ten times worse.”
“He can be a little rough around the edges,” Hank admitted. “But even Cole had to admit he was damn good help.”
“Exactly. Great bullfighter. Great with the stock. A real ranch cowboy who knew rodeo production inside out.” Delon tipped his head to indicate the bulls. “The things I’m not.”
To Hank, the Sanchez brothers had never been anything but cowboys, but as tough as they were in the arena, their hearts had always been in the trucking business, not this one.
“Joe is like my brother. Gil was the star—all flash and fire—while I was Steady Eddy, just plugging along behind.” Delon studied his riding hand as he clenched, then relaxed the fingers. “I used to figure people thought it was shame that Gil was the one who got hurt.”
Hank gaped at him. Was he kidding? With last year’s National Finals Rodeo contestant jacket hanging open and a gold world champion’s buckle gleaming on his belt, it was impossible to imagine anyone thinking Delon didn’t deserve the spotlight.
“What about now?” Hank asked.
A grin ghosted across Delon’s face. “I got over it.”
“Thanks to the love of a good woman?”
Delon laughed. “More like a kick in the ass. My insecurity screwed things up with Tori the first time around, and damn near the second. I didn’t think I was enough for her. It was the same for Joe with Violet. And Cole and Shawnee…” He paused, then shook his head. “That one is beyond explanation.”
Hank snorted, but his head was spinning. Here was someone he would hold up as a shining example of success, and Delon was saying he’d considered himself unworthy. And not only that…
“How’d you get over hating Joe?”
“Did I say I had?” When Hank’s jaw dropped, Delon laughed. “Just kidding. Mostly.” He shifted to press his back against the fence, feet braced as he gazed at the house. “Joe and I are never gonna be best buddies. Same for Tori and Violet. There’s some history you can’t completely erase. But if it’s important enough, you find a way to deal with each other.”
“Like me and Wyatt.”
“Like that,” Delon agreed. “Melanie was the only one in your family you could count on, and he took her. Now you’ve got to decide—do you care enough about her to tolerate Wyatt?”
As if Hank hadn’t gotten around to asking himself that question. He scowled at Delon. “Did Miz Iris send you to talk some sense into me?”
“No. I needed a break from playing nice with the other boys and girls, and I saw you down here.” Delon tilted his head back to gaze at the darkening sky. “You know what turned me around? The day Gil got pissed and told me I had too much talent to waste. I had to believe him. Gil doesn’t say anything to be nice. And you can believe it when I say the same about you.”
But… “You told me once that you weren’t sure why no one had strangled me yet.”
“You were an annoying little bastard. Maybe you still are, but I haven’t had the urge to throttle you all afternoon, so that’s an improvement. And nobody can say you aren’t talented.”
There were a dozen well-worn arguments lined up and ready to leap out of Hank’s mouth, but they shrank in the face of Delon’s casual certainty. This wasn’t his sister, it wasn’t Bing, and it wasn’t Joe. It wasn’t anyone who had a reason to prop Hank up, tell him what he needed to hear. Hell, Delon had admitted he wasn’t sure he even liked Hank that much.
Hank stared at the bulls, who had stopped eating to wander over and eavesdrop, a dozen pairs of eyes all asking the same question.
“I’m not ready,” Hank told them.
“Well, this is the place to come when you are.” Delon straightened and clapped Hank on the shoulder. “But you’re too damn good to be peeking through the fence.”
Hank stood until Delon had disappeared inside the house, then gave the bulls another long look before walking to his pickup.
He was too restless to go back to his empty apartment and too edgy to trust himself in his dad’s company. He should give Korby a call, but he wasn’t in the mood for beer and a football game. And, well…shit. He might as well just admit it.
He wanted to see Grace.