Violet stood in a corner of a conference room in a Las Vegas hotel at the annual meeting of pro rodeo stock contractors and committees, soaking it all in. For the first time, she was one of the chosen few who would have stock bucking at the National Finals, and Jacobs Livestock was the biggest news in town until the rodeo kicked off tonight and the real stars took the stage. Every second person who passed stopped to shake her hand with congratulations on the success of the Dirt Eater sale, for an amount of money beyond her wildest dreams.
She was now business partners with someone she’d watched on dozens of movie screens. They had Wyatt to thank for the infusion of Hollywood money. Scary he might be, but extremely well-connected. And speak of the devil…
“You’re looking very confrontational for a woman who’s got everything she wanted.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If Dick Browning doesn’t stop glaring at me, I’m gonna have to throat punch him.”
“I’ll hold your purse,” Wyatt said, and tossed a brilliant smile in Dick’s direction. Dick snarled and turned away.
Violet grinned. Wyatt took some getting used to, but his fierce loyalty to Joe made him impossible to dislike. Besides, as Melanie had pointed out, “As long as he’s on our side we should be safe.”
Safe being a relative term.
“I’m glad you stayed for Thanksgiving dinner,” she said. “You really didn’t have to sit at the kids’ table.”
“I wanted to.”
For reasons known only to the good Lord and Wyatt. “Sorry about the food fight. I suppose that jacket was Armani or something. My cousin swears her kids never act like that unless Beni’s around, but I’ve heard rumors to the contrary.”
“They’re all awesome. I want ten.”
“Now I know you truly are insane. And I will warn you once again.” Violet leveled him her sternest Mama Bear glower. “No matter how many times he asks, or what line of BS he feeds you, Beni does not get a ride in your airplane.”
“I’m an exceptionally good pilot.”
“And still—no.” She turned away before he could lure her into a debate she would surely lose and focused her attention on the world’s most unlikely marketing team. Across the room, her father and Joe were chatting with the committee chairman from Tucson and a man who might be the greatest stock contractor of all time, Harry Vold. Violet was beginning to realize there was no one in upper echelon of pro rodeo that Joe didn’t know.
“I may have created a monster,” she said.
“You wanted to expand.”
“Well, yeah, but who knew Daddy would take that bit in his teeth and run?”
Or, more accurately, saunter. In a room littered with distinguished men, Steve Jacobs stood—in most cases literally—a head above the rest, at least in Violet’s admittedly prejudiced opinion. Dressed for business in a western-cut jacket, starched shirt, bolo tie and spotless white hat, he carried himself with a stately confidence that made the people around him stand straighter and pay attention.
Beside him, Joe looked lean and agile and slightly disreputable in spite of his dark jeans, polished boots and a black button-down shirt plastered with sponsor logos. It was the hair. Violet had made him promise not to cut it short again without her leave, and that would be a long time coming. She planned to spend many, many more hours running her fingers through that hair. And over that body…
Wyatt laughed. “Okay. Now you look like the girl who’s got it all.”
“Not yet.” She lifted her eyebrows with vintage Joe Cassidy arrogance. “But give me a few years…”
With the unnerving way he had of feeling her eyes on him, Joe glanced over, caught her gaze, and smiled, and her heart tumbled all over again. Damn. Six weeks of spending nearly every day together and he could still knock the breath clean out of her from thirty feet away. With Cole’s blessing, Joe had taken up residence at his family’s place. Wyatt had made himself at home there, too, while they trained for the National Finals and helped rebuild the rundown corrals, the extra pens a necessity with the addition of the McCloud stock. As a nod to Cole’s daddy, they’d decided to make that the bull facility.
And bless his heart, Wyatt was a genius at finding excuses to drag both Cole and Beni out from underfoot for at least a couple of blissful hours every day.
Her father turned, too, and waved Violet over. When she joined the group, he rested a proud hand on her shoulder while he made introductions. “My daughter, Violet. She’s the brains of the operation. These gentlemen would like to know if we’re interested in sendin’ some stock to the rodeo in Tucson next spring.”
“I’m sure we can figure something out.” Violet whipped out her ever-present tablet, punched up the calendar, and got down to business.
Twelve hours later, she watched the first of ten performances of the National Finals Rodeo wind down. She stood in the big center alley between the bucking chutes, holding the backup pickup horses, a job Joe had wrangled for her. There were no insignificant chores at the NFR. The man opening and closing the gate was a world champion all-around cowboy.
And in three days, Cole and her daddy would be on the back of the chutes when one of the top fifteen bull riders in the world climbed down on Dirt Eater’s back and the chute gate flew open on Jacobs Livestock’s virgin trip at the biggest show in rodeo.
But not their last. Her pulse did a happy jitter at the possibilities opening up where not so long ago she’d seen only walls. She propped her elbows on a metal rail, peeking through the foot-wide gap between the big yellow Wrangler sign and the top of the gate. Her eyes gravitated to Joe. She would to have to stop going soft in the head every time she looked at him once they were working in the same arenas again.
Joe had signed on for half a dozen of next season’s rodeos—and yes, he was working cheap. He said the fringe benefits more than made up for lower wages. By which, he hurried to assure her parents, he meant cheap rent and Iris’s home cooking. Her father pretended to believe him.
At the moment, Joe had one hand hooked on the front of a bucking chute and the other propped on his hip, talking with the chute boss as they all waited for the final cowboy to nod his head. The bull reared, slamming his bulk into the back of the chute as hands dragged the cowboy to safety. The bull sank onto his belly, and the chute boss pulled the sliding gate, allowing the bull to right himself and move forward a slot.
“How does this matchup look to you, Joe?” the rodeo announcer asked, to fill the gap while the cowboy reset his rope.
Joe flipped on his wireless headset. Honest to Pete, what were they thinking giving him a microphone in front of eighteen thousand fans? Violet held her breath every time he opened his mouth.
“This bull should go right into J.W.’s hand, and settle into a nice spin. I’m betting he’ll spur the hair off him.”
“Sounds like a winner.” The announcer segued into a sponsor plug as the cowboy eased over the bull, tugging his rope into place.
Joe retreated a few steps so he was directly in front of Violet. And there it was—that look, that smile, the way his eyes lit up when they landed on her. He closed his hand over the microphone as he spoke. “Good night?”
“The only way it could be any better is if I was out there,” she joked, nodding toward where the pickup men sat waiting for the chute gate to open.
“Well, hell, if that’s all you want—”
Before she had time to draw a breath, Joe had ducked out the gate, handed the horses off to a surprised bystander, and dragged Violet into the arena.
“Joe! What are you—”
“Hey, Boyd,” he called out, holding tight to both of her wrists as he cut into the announcer’s patter. “There’s somebody special I’d like you all to meet. Ladies and gentlemen, Violet Jacobs is the only female pickup man currently working in professional rodeo.”
Oh no. He did not…
She looked up and felt her knees turn to water. Yep. There she was, her face big as a billboard on the massive video screen. She gave a feeble smile. The audience responded with a ripple of applause.
“Pickup man?” the announcer asked.
She tugged at his grip, trying to hiss words through a smile and pitch her voice too low to be picked up by the microphone. “Joe! Stop it.”
Joe only cocked his head, as if giving Boyd’s question serious consideration. “My mistake. Pickup lady. And a damn good one. But the rest of you are gonna have to stand back, because this lady is all mine.”
And then he kissed her. A roaring sound filled Violet’s ears, punctuated by whistles and the stomping of feet. She started to cringe, then tipped back her head and laughed instead. Joe Cassidy was just as bold and brash and shameless as the day they met—and she wouldn’t have him any other way. She fisted her hands into his jersey, yanked him close, and kissed him back.
And the crowd went wild.