Reckless in Texas by Kari Lynn Dell

money. Which begged the question—did anyone on this ranch understand what they were wasting?
    Joe shifted and stretched, his muscles twitchy despite a four-mile jog just before dusk. Too much sitting around. Too much thinking. Too much he didn’t want to think about. He tilted his head back and stared up at the half-moon that rode too high over the trees, muting the stars so he couldn’t even get his bearings by way of the constellations. They’d probably be out of whack down here anyway. Everything else was.
    Back home, he wouldn’t have wasted a balmy evening sitting around his dinky apartment. He would’ve saddled a horse out at the High Lonesome and headed for the scrub-filled canyon that curved up the side of Cayuse Butte, where he’d flush a few mule deer, maybe even an elk. When the trail topped out on the plateau, you could see clear to the Nevada border. If a man had to think, that was the place to do it. The mere suggestion of giving it up curled his hands into fists. He had to work things out with Dick. The alternative—being barred from the ranch—was unbearable.
    Joe forced his rigid muscles to relax, dragging his gaze and his attention to the square of light in the office window. He supposed he could go knock on the door, but talking to her across a desk wasn’t anything like what he had in mind. Better to wait. He pulled out his phone and redialed the last number called.
    Wyatt answered on the second ring. “Two phone calls in the one day? You are homesick. You got my email with the names you asked for?”
    â€œYeah. Thanks.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.” A spoon clinked on glass, Wyatt stirring whatever he was drinking. Probably one of those god-awful smoothies he made in his thousand-dollar blender. “Who are you buttering up, the old man or the daughter?”
    â€œJust being helpful.”
    â€œThe daughter, I’m betting.” Wyatt’s voice sharpened with curiosity. “You haven’t chased after a girl since I’ve known you. Are you smitten, or is this a classic case of avoidance?”
    The latter, Joe suspected. Playing tag with Violet was a whole lot better than being pecked to death by what-ifs and worst case scenarios. “I’m bored. I hate twiddling my thumbs between rodeos. That’s why I have a job.”
    â€œHad a job,” Wyatt corrected. “Or did you already call Dickhead and beg to be forgiven?”
    â€œNo!” The denial was sharp, its edge honed by every time in the past five days Joe had held his phone in his hand, on the verge of dialing.
    â€œIf you’re going to cave, do it before Wednesday. After that, I’m out of the betting pool.”
    A barb aimed for Joe’s pride, so blatant he was disgusted that it hit its mark. Better, though, than admitting the truth. He wasn’t paralyzed by pride, but fear. What if Dick really meant what he said in Puyallup? What if—panic skittered around inside Joe’s rib cage—he could never go back?
    He grasped at something to fill the void that threatened to swallow him from the inside out. “How well do you know Delon Sanchez?”
    â€œSafety Man?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou’ve seen him ride. You know what I mean.”
    â€œHe’s strong.” Should be—he had a chest and arms like Popeye on a spinach bender. Joe stretched out his legs, slouching into the cushions of the wicker love seat. “Hardly ever see a horse get him out of shape.”
    â€œBecause he’d rather stay tight and win third than open up and risk getting bucked off.”
    â€œHe’s number one in the world.”
    Wyatt slurped, and it even sounded disgustingly healthy. “He’s been lucky. Drawn the right horses at the right places. His lead won’t hold up at the Finals.”
    â€œConsistency is good when you’re going ten rounds,” Joe argued, purely for the sake of winding Wyatt