Joe leaned against the fence, intrigued by the cozy chat Delon had with Violet after his ride. What was their deal, anyway? Other than the kid. That part was obvious, but the rest of it was hard to figure. The whole Jacobs family had fallen all over Delon when he’d showed up the night before, like he was one of their own. Even Cole had paused in the middle of his chores long enough to chat, and Cole took strong and silent to a whole new level. Or should that be height? The guy was a beast, just like his uncle. Joe had noticed, though, that Delon had bedded down in Cole’s trailer, not Violet’s.
It was hard to picture them as a couple, but Joe could definitely see the attraction. Violet wasn’t hard to look at when she hadn’t been mud wrestling. Joe allowed himself a grin at that memory. Wet or dry, she had that all-American thing going on—tall, strong, the one you’d pick first for your beach volleyball team—but the men’s jeans she favored didn’t do much for her, and she never slowed down long enough to fuss much with her hair or makeup. Violet was in constant motion, organizing this and fixing that when she wasn’t working in the arena…or chasing after Beni. Violet, her parents, Cole, Hank, and the truck drivers all pitched in, tag-team style, to chase Beni. The grown-ups weren’t winning. At best, it was a draw.
A hand tapped his arm and he nodded and smiled at whatever a chubby brunette said as he took the rodeo program she held out. At least the fans in Texas were happy to see him. Violet was still giving him the stink eye, acting like he was putting her out—an NFR bullfighter showing up to work for peanuts at her little Podunk rodeos. Yeah. He could see why that would be annoying.
No one should be more pissed than Joe. Damn his stupid hide for letting Wyatt twist his head around and convince him to give Dick a taste of his own medicine. Right. Like that would work. Nobody forced Dick Browning to do anything. Back him into a corner, and he’d just bellow and sling snot like a belligerent old bull, hooking the shit outta anybody who got too close. Joe had lasted fourteen and a half years longer than anyone else who’d worked at the High Lonesome because he understood Dick. Keep your mouth shut, let all the bluster blow right over your head, and a week from now he wouldn’t remember why he was chewing your ass to begin with. Every day that Joe bit his tongue and stuck it out, Dick relied on him more. Put enough of those days together…
But he’d blown it all in Puyallup. Fate had handed Joe a golden opportunity to prove he could and should be the one who picked up the reins when Dick was ready to set them down, and he’d turned it to dust. Why couldn’t he just stand there and let Lyle make an ass of himself? But no, Joe had to knock the little bastard on his butt, and compound the problem by running off. Now he had to stand his ground because he’d called Dick out. And because Wyatt’s voice kept echoing in his head: Have some pride, Joe. Then he remembered all those people in Puyallup watching, listening…
Joe signed his name in savage, illegible slashes, passed the program back to the girl, then stepped down the fence into the shade of the bucking chutes to watch the last couple of bareback riders. A skinny guy from Waxahachie settled onto the back of a buckskin they’d named Thumper, for good reason. The stocky gelding pounded the ground like it had insulted his mama. That kid better be stronger than he looked, or this wasn’t going to end well.
The cowboy cocked his arm back and nodded. He spurred the hell out of Thumper clear to the end of the chute gate, then the horse jammed his front feet in the dirt and jacked the kid up onto the rigging. The next lunge whipped his shoulders back and his head slammed off Thumper’s butt. He went limp, knocked out cold. Joe sprang away from the chute, racing toward the middle of the arena as Violet and Cole spurred into action.
The cowboy’s body flopped off the side of the horse, his weight pinning his gloved hand in the rigging. Thumper dragged him by one arm, boneless, defenseless, the horse’s rear hooves crashing down around his legs. Violet rode hard to the horse’s left side while Cole came up on the right to flip the catch on the flank strap so the buckskin would stop kicking. They thundered around the end of the arena, three abreast. Violet made a lunging grab and got hold of the back strap of the cowboy’s chaps, hauling up hard to lift his body out of harm’s way. Thank God he was a scrawny little shit, Joe thought as he sprinted to meet them.
Cole bailed onto Thumper’s neck the way a steer wrestler would jump a steer. He buried his feet in the dirt, his arm locked around the buckskin’s nose, his mass and strength too much for even the stout gelding. As they slid to a stop, Joe leapt to the horse’s side, yanking at the latigo of the rigging.
“Got it,” Joe said, pulling the strap free.
Cole let go of Thumper, stepping in front of him so the horse stumbled backward, then wheeled and trotted away. The cowboy sagged, his full weight hitting the end of Violet’s arm. Joe caught the kid around the chest, Cole grabbed him by the thighs, and Violet let go as the two of them lowered his body gently to the ground, hand still stuck in the rigging. From beginning to end, the whole thing had lasted half a minute—an eternity if you were in the middle of it.
The cowboy opened his eyes, blinking groggily as the EMTs rushed up to hunch over him. Violet circled around and rode up close, her knee nudging Joe’s back as she leaned out in her stirrup to watch the medics perform a brisk examination of head, neck, and limbs. Finally, they let the kid sit up. A wave of relieved applause rolled around the bleachers as they helped him to his feet.
Joe turned, and his shoulder bumped up under the edge of Violet’s chaps, against a muscled thigh. His body did an instinctive hmmm. Instead of moving away, he held up a hand. “Nice catch.”
“Thanks.” She actually smiled at him as she held out a palm.
Instead of a slap, Joe clasped his hand around hers and gave a congratulatory squeeze just to be contrary. His thumb skimmed her wrist and he felt her hammering pulse, the thrill of the save pounding through her system. He knew the feeling. Hell, he lived and breathed the feeling. Their eyes met, and an electric jolt of shared adrenaline and the flash of awareness in her eyes set his blood humming in a whole different way. His mind jumped straight from the arena to her trailer—or the nearest sturdy, vertical surface. The sex would be incredible when two people were revving that hot.
Violet jerked her hand away like she’d read his mind.
Joe held her gaze as he clicked on the wireless microphone so his voice echoed over the loudspeakers. “Give our pickup girl a hand, folks. She’s even better than she looks.”
Her eyes narrowed and she yanked the reins, spinning her horse around so its ass slammed into Joe, nearly planting him face-first in the dirt. He laughed for the first time since his fist collided with Lyle’s jaw. How ’bout that? Sweet Violet could say fuck you plain as day, without even moving her lips.