It figured that the only open table at the Lone Steer would be stuck off in the far corner of the massive honky-tonk. As they wove through the maze of tables, many of the occupants called out greetings to Bing, and she returned them with a wave or a friendly word.
“What the hell?” Johnny asked as he held her chair.
She tilted an amused look up at him. “Did you think I’d been sitting in the apartment all week?”
Honestly? He’d spent more time thinking about where she wasn’t—across the breakfast bar from him sipping her morning coffee, breezing in from helping Hank, curled on the end of the couch, painting her nails.
In his kitchen, kissing him senseless.
She asked the waitress for water with a lemon slice before turning back to Johnny. “I have breakfast every morning at the café, and I’ve been going to yoga class with Analise.”
“Oh.” Johnny ordered a beer, then thought twice. “Do you mind?”
“I accepted an invitation to a bar, so obviously not.” Her hair had grown, and she’d feathered the ends around her face instead of spiking it on top. The result was softer, but her gaze was no less direct. “I don’t have a drinking problem, but booze has contributed to most of the worst days of my life, so other than special occasions, I prefer to keep it nonalcoholic.”
As always, her bluntness was disconcerting. Johnny had played—and lost—the guess what I’m thinking game with his wife for so long that he couldn’t get used to simple honesty. Not that there was anything simple about Bing.
In the muted light of the dusty wagon-wheel chandelier, her golden-bronze skin glowed against her newly turquoise nails as she propped her chin on her hand to study the crowd. What was it about those fingernails that drove him to distraction? His wife had had hers done at the salon every other week, and all he’d ever noticed was the cost.
Now he couldn’t stop seeing Bing’s nails gliding over his skin as she’d shaved him. Digging into his back as he…
She cocked her head, eyes quizzical. “What are you thinking?”
“Things I shouldn’t be.”
“Ah. That.” She sounded as if she could relate.
The waitress arrived with their drinks, and when they’d both ordered the prime rib special, he slouched back in the chrome and red vinyl chair, shifting his focus to something other than Bing. The tables were packed with folks like them who’d opted for a late supper. Korby was bellied up to the bar that stretched the length of one wall, testing his charm on a well-stacked brunette who appeared to be keeping her options open, but Hank wasn’t anywhere in the three-deep crowd around them.
At a table near the door, enterprising 4-H club members were selling replicas of Delon’s National Finals back number—the traditional red-and-white shield with D. SANCHEZ above a black 23. And as a nod to the season, red and green twinkle lights had been tacked up here and there, and the moth-eaten deer heads wore Santa Claus hats. Instead of his usual cigar and sombrero, the stuffed armadillo next to the cash register had a glittery party horn and a miniature top hat.
And of course sprigs of mistletoe hung from every light fixture. Johnny tilted his head back to give the one over their table the stink eye. “Did you know that mistletoe is a parasite? It eventually sucks the life out of the trees it grows on.”
Bing’s brows rose. “Is that a metaphor, or your idea of romance?”
He hitched his good shoulder. “Hearts and flowers have never been my strong point.”
“No. You’re more of a cactus kind of guy.” But she smiled to soften the jab. “What about your kids?”
He frowned, not following her.
“They both have a lot of heart,” she said. “I’d say they came by it honestly.”
She…what? “I didn’t think you liked me.”
And he sounded as if he was in middle school, still waiting for his balls to drop.
Her mouth curved into the kind of smile that did crazy things to his pulse. “I thought I’d made it obvious.”
“That’s different.” At her cocked eyebrow, his face heated a few more degrees. “I mean, you can like someone that way without actually liking them…can’t you? I mean, don’t women…” Oh, geezus. Could he cram his foot any farther down his throat?
“I like you.” A wicked gleam came into her eyes to match that smile. “And I like you.”
He gave a strangled growl. “You’re killing me. You know that, right?”
“I’m sorry.” She poked at the lemon slice in her water with one blue-tipped finger. “It won’t be much longer.”
His gaze jerked up to her face. “I thought you were staying until New Year’s.”
“Plans change. I thought Hank would have to make his peace in spite of his father, not because of you. The two of you don’t need me.”
“Bullshit.” Damn. He needed to be able to reach across this dinky table and grab her hand. Force her to listen. He leaned in as far as he dared. “And I think you need us, too. I know you have to go home, but give Hank a few months to settle in, and he might actually be happy if I could persuade you to come back for good.”
She pressed her lips together. “That’s the problem. It’s like I got dropped into the middle of a fairy tale—hunky cowboy, my son by another mother, the ranch—everything my heart could desire.”
Hunky? “Why is that bad?”
“Because I learned a long time ago that I’m no Cinderella.” There was something far darker than regret in her eyes, and it twisted up his gut. “You can only bust that glass slipper so many times before it can’t be glued together again, and I won’t bet what I have with Hank on my ability to make a relationship work.”
Dammit. All the battles she’d survived, and she picked now to give up without a fight? There had to be a way to convince her—
A flurry of shouts caught his attention, and he glanced over to see that Hank had arrived with Grace in tow. Johnny watched a shock wave of turning heads and dropping mouths ripple across the room. Who could blame them? All they knew of Hank and Grace was what they’d seen on that awful night three years ago.
And Grace looked…wow. She’d done something with her hair that made it into little ringlets that practically sparkled under the lights. She was wearing more makeup and a cropped denim jacket over a peacock-blue shirt that she’d left untucked but cinched with a wide belt low around her hips. Her jeans were snug clear to her ankles, tucked into short high-heeled boots that brought her almost to Hank’s shoulder.
“Hot damn,” Bing said. “Little Gracie turned it up a few notches.”
Hank caught Johnny’s eye and waved before Korby dragged them into the middle of a huddle of twentysomethings—rodeo friends from across the Panhandle, schoolmates, and at least two former girlfriends.
But he’d never treated them the way he did Grace. This was no casual hand propped on a shoulder, his date half-forgotten while he bumped fists and exchanged insults with his buddies. The arm that tucked Grace close to Hank’s side was protective and blatantly possessive, and the way he looked at her…
“That is terrifying,” Bing said.
Johnny agreed, but he still shook his head. “He couldn’t do better than Grace.”
“Probably not, under other circumstances.”
“Meaning the—” He caught himself before saying baby as their server arrived with massive slabs of prime rib swimming in au jus. Crap. He had to watch his tongue.
When the girl was gone, Bing reached over and slid his plate to where she could cut up his meat. The couple at the next table smirked. Johnny ignored them. “You said he was handling it really well.”
“He is.” She pushed the plate back to him and tackled her own. “Hank isn’t the one I’m worried about.”
Johnny paused in the act of dipping a chunk of meat in the little plastic cup of horseradish. “Grace? But she’s had all kinds of time.”
Bing shot him a pitying look. “Three years is a snap of the fingers. Even if she is one hundred percent comfortable with her choices—and my gut says she’s not—I’m betting the last thing she expected was for Hank to turn to her instead of away. Look at her.”
Johnny looked. Grace was smiling at something Korby said, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright. “She seems happy.”
“Look closer.”
He did, and noticed that the fingers hooked through Hank’s belt loop were clenched tight, and Grace’s gaze kept darting here and there as if plotting escape routes. “I’d be self-conscious too, considering,” he argued.
“I’m sure that’s part of it.” Bing took a bite of prime rib. “Mmm. Very nice.”
“But?” Johnny prompted.
She chewed, swallowed, and sipped water, maddeningly slow to answer. “Watching her, I see a classic deer in the headlights…except she knows the crash is coming and still can’t make herself step aside.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Bing sighed. “What she went through can really do a number on a woman. And being raised in a family like hers…”
“Have you explained that to Hank?”
“You heard him. He’s convinced she’s what he needs, and if I push it, I risk alienating him.” She shrugged, resigned. “There’s nothing I can do. We just have to be ready to pick up the pieces.”
Talk about positive thinking. But before Johnny could say so, a cowbell clanged as the bar manager stepped onto the bandstand and shouted, “It’s nine o’clock! Who’s ready to rodeo?”
Cheers rose above a fluttering sea of SANCHEZ back numbers. Then the noise settled back to a nervous chatter as the unmistakable arena came into view on all five flat-screens. Whoops sounded when the camera zoomed in on Delon, relaxed and smiling with his protective vest unzipped as he exchanged go get ’em shoulder slaps with the only man who could snatch the gold buckle out of his hands.
Tonight, with all the chips on the table, they would be the last of the fifteen cowboys to nod their heads. As each of the rides before them was completed, the tension in the bar ratcheted up another notch, reaching a nearly unbearable pitch before the event wound down to the final two. Delon had clawed his way to a slim lead in world standings, so he had the advantage of riding last and knowing exactly what he had to do to come away the winner.
A hush fell over the bar as the youngster climbed down into the chute, flipping the legs of his chaps clear of his feet as he settled onto the horse’s back.
“Well, folks, the moment has arrived,” the commentator said. “Will a Canadian be the world champion bareback rider for the first time since 1933, or will Delon Sanchez cement his spot in the Hall of Fame with his third title?”
“The other cowboys aren’t making it easy,” his partner chimed in. “Remember, if Sanchez has a qualified ride tonight, this young man needs to place third or better in this go ’round to have a chance at winning the title. And with all the great rides we’ve seen, he’ll have to score at least eighty-six points.”
As the Canadian worked his gloved hand into the rigging, the camera panned to Delon, jaw set and eyes intense as he rocked side to side and rolled his shoulders, his focus entirely on the horse in the chute below him. Johnny realized his own fists were clenched and forced them to relax.
With a nod of his head, the Canadian burst from the chute, his heels set solidly in the horse’s neck. One jump…two…three…every stroke was perfectly timed as they crossed the arena. If he kept it up, this was gonna be… But six seconds into the ride the horse reached the fence and hesitated, breaking the cowboy’s rhythm. He missed a single stroke when the bronc rolled left, then finished strong.
One mistake. Was it enough?
“Oh man,” the commentator groaned. “Eighty-four points! That leaves him just short of taking the title outright. Now all he can do is sit and watch while the pressure shifts to Delon Sanchez. He only needs seventy-four points to maintain his lead in the aggregate and take home the gold buckle, but this big mare is unbelievably strong, and she’ll do everything but pull a knife to get a cowboy off her back.”
Once again, the camera zoomed in on Delon. As in every other round, Steve Jacobs stood on his right, ready to haul Delon to safety if the horse acted up, but the hand that clapped his shoulder as he scooted his hips up snug to the rigging didn’t belong to Cole. Tonight, Violet had his back.
Johnny’s lungs were so tight he could barely draw a breath as Delon leaned back and cocked his free hand. Then he nodded, the gate swung open, and all hell broke loose.
The mare’s front end shot straight in the air and she hung there, nearly vertical, for what seemed like forever. Somehow, Delon set his feet and held them solid in her neck through the rear, the descent, and the slam of her forefeet into the dirt.
And then the fight was on. The horse’s grunts were audible as she threw her body to the right, then left, then right again. Unlike his previous rides—shoulders thrown back and spurs raking clear to the rigging—Delon stayed compact, his upper body tight and his knees tucked in closer to the midline, stealing the power from the horse’s lunges. Muscles bulged in his forearm and his teeth flashed in his dark face, gritted against the torque of eleven hundred pounds of horseflesh doing her damnedest to rip his hand out of the rigging.
Five…six…seven…eight…
The instant the whistle blew, Delon’s grip broke and the mare sent him flying head over heels to crash facedown in the dirt. Inside the bar and on the television screen, spectators sucked in a collective breath.
Then he pushed onto his knees and thrust a triumphant arm into the air, and the Lone Steer Saloon exploded. Johnny leapt to his feet along with everyone else, nearly tearing his sling in half when he forgot and tried to clap. He had to settle for pounding his fist on the wood-paneled wall.
As a grinning, sweating Delon strode back to the chutes, the commentators shouted over the din. “Eighty-one points! Ladies and gentlemen, there is your world champion! What a veteran move by Delon Sanchez, dusting off his old riding style to be sure he got to the whistle and took this title back to Texas!”
The cameras swung up into the crowd, where Tori and her dad were hugging it out while Shawnee howled and pounded her chest and Gil did a complicated hand jive with Beni. Up at the bar, Hank had hoisted Grace off her feet and was kissing her as though they were the only two people in the room.
Johnny caught Bing’s eye and tipped his head toward his son. “I think you’d better stick around as long as you can.”
Worry dug a crease between her brows. “I think you’re right.”
Johnny heaved an invisible sigh of relief.
He was tired of settling for whatever life decided to hand him. And he had seen enough of Hank since he’d been back to believe that, after the initial shock, he would give Johnny his blessing if he promised to do everything in his power to keep Bing happy—and in Texas.
Johnny just had to convince her that this cranky, unromantic Prince Charming wouldn’t turn into a toad.