Читать книгу A Bull Rider To Depend On - Jeannie Watt - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Mr. Joe lay stretched out on the ground next to the water tank, and even as Skye raced toward him, she knew it was too late. She slid to a stop close to his head, dropping to her knees in the dirt and reaching out to stroke his face. His eye came open and rolled up at her. He blinked once and shut his eyes again as he gave a rattling breath.

“No, no, no.” Skye barely registered what she was saying as she stroked his ears and then wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against him, pulling in his scent. This day had been coming. Mr. Joe hadn’t been able to hold weight for the past year, despite her best efforts and bags and bags of senior horse chow, but, dignified gentleman that he was, he’d never shown any sign of weakness or pain. He’d eaten what he could and spent his days ambling around the pasture, hanging with his best buddy, Pepper, or just sleeping in the sun.

Tyler dropped down beside her, checking the horse’s pulse at his throat and then running a gentle hand over the animal’s jowl as his gaze traveled over the horse’s bony frame.

“How old?”

“Twenty-eight.” The words stuck in Skye’s throat. She swallowed and said, “I knew it was coming, but I’m not ready yet.” As if she’d ever be ready.

She jerked her gaze away from Tyler’s before tears could form. Why did he have to be here for this? But he was here and her horse was dying and she had to deal. Again she rested her cheek against her old gentleman’s neck and squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out. Denying. She felt the last breath. Felt him go still, but she did not move. Could not move. Mr. Joe had been with her since she was ten. He’d been her 4-H horse, her very slow rodeo horse, her friend, confidant. Companion. After Mason had died, she’d spent hours grooming the old gelding, talking to him, mourning his weight loss and the inevitable, but loving him while he was there to love.

Now the inevitable had happened, and another big hole opened up in her heart.

Tears now soaked the old horse’s mane, and her cheek felt grimy from the pasture dust sticking to it. She blinked hard again, then pushed back onto her knees, small rocks biting into her flesh as she ran her hand over the gelding’s soft coat one more time.

She knew Tyler stood a few feet away now, but she kept her eyes on the horse. He’d best not try to touch her, comfort her. She didn’t need other people to help her deal with her loss. She was a master.

And there was always the fear that she would break down if she had the luxury of human contact as she mourned. When she’d lost Mason, people had gathered near, helping in any way they could, while she was still numb, still going through the motions. It wasn’t until she was once again alone that the pain had ripped through her, burning in its intensity as she faced an empty ranch, empty house, empty bed.

Tyler moved a few steps toward her, then stopped as she shot him a look.

He let out a breath, pressed his lips together. There were lines of strain on his face, as if he wasn’t certain what to say or do. There was nothing he could say or do. Her horse was gone, and he was there when she didn’t want him to be.

“Do you want me to call Jess?”

“Why?”

“He’s better with the backhoe than I am.”

The backhoe. He was going to help her bury Mr. Joe. “I...uh...” She wiped the back of her hand across her damp, sticky cheeks, then lifted her chin as new tears threatened. “I’ll call Cliff.” Her five-mile-down-the-road neighbor.

Tyler’s expression hardened. “Or Jess and I could bury your gelding.”

“I’m not trying to be ungrateful.” But it was her right at the moment as grief once again wrapped around her.

“You just want me off the property. I get it. Wish granted.” He turned and headed toward his truck.

* * *

TYLER SMACKED THE steering wheel with the heel of his hand as he waited at the crossroad for a slow-moving cattle truck. Always the bad guy. He was getting pretty sick of being the bad guy—especially when he hadn’t done anything. Okay, he’d purposely defied Skye, but not in a way meant to do her harm. Everybody partied while on the road, and Mason would have been as likely to stay in his hotel room when everyone else was having a grand old time as he would have been likely to quit bull riding to become an accountant.

Tyler pulled out onto the gravel road, debating about whether to call Jess and tell him to go bury the old horse, or whether to let Skye handle it on her own. He’d hated leaving her alone, but it seemed as if staying would have made her even more unhappy.

He’d tried to be nice. Twice. He was done.

Jess wasn’t there when he got home after a quick stop at the grocery store.

He let himself into the unlocked trailer, set down the bags and opened the tiny cupboard next to the stove. There was a reason he was eating out more than he should. It was hard to cook in the camp trailer, and even harder to keep enough food on hand. He had to step over his gear as he made his way to the kitchen, so he stopped and pushed it out of his way with his foot as best he could. He wasn’t crazy neat, like his brother, but even he was getting tired of stepping over and around everything in order to move through their living space.

He had to get out of there while he and his brother were still on speaking terms—that was a given. His first event was in two weeks, but sometimes he had his doubts as to whether they would last that long. Jess was a peaceful guy, but even he had his limits, and living in close contact with his twin was pushing them. Tyler opened the cupboard, then closed it again and leaned his forehead against the fake wood.

When a guy was a winner, he shouldn’t feel so much like a loser. What was he doing here in this tiny trailer, making his brother feel cramped and uncomfortable?

Ty shoved the full bag of perishables into the fridge and then left the trailer. He needed to move, try to shake this thing that kept bothering him...whatever that thing was.

It took him only a few miles of road to pinpoint the thing.

Being wrongly accused. He hadn’t tried to keep Mason on the straight and narrow, but he hadn’t encouraged him to stray either. Not in gambling, nor in any other way. He’d just been a friend. Someone to party with. If it hadn’t been him, then it would have been someone else. Mason rode hard and played hard. As far as he knew, he was a good husband to Skye—except for when he wasn’t.

The parking lot at the Shamrock was full. Tyler parked close to his usual spot in the wide gravel parking lot behind the building but didn’t get out of the truck immediately. Did he want to socialize?

The fact that he was questioning the matter told him no. He did not. Rare, but it happened, especially when something was eating at him.

He leaned his head back against the seat rest, half closed his eyes and watched as people came in and out of the back door of the establishment. When he saw Shelly Hensley go in, he made his decision. No socializing tonight. Shelly was banned from the place, and he wasn’t up for the ruckus that would ensue when the owner, Thad Hawkins, or his nephew, Gus, escorted her from the premises.

Decision made, he reached for the ignition.

Was he getting old?

No way. He was just not in as much of a mood to socialize as he’d thought he was. He’d go back to the trailer, eat something, crawl into his bunk and read. In the morning he’d go for his run, then hit up some Realtors and do his best to find a place to buy before he let his winnings trickle through his fingers...and before he and his brother came to blows. The last time he’d won big money, he’d made a healthy donation to the recovery of a fellow bull rider, a guy with a new baby and a toddler, and a broken back. He didn’t expect to see that money back anytime soon—which was why he needed to invest his new winnings now. While he had the money in hand and before another of his friends got seriously injured. He wasn’t a light touch, but a friend in need got whatever Ty could give.

He’d barely touched the key when someone knocked loudly on the back of his truck and then a familiar face pushed against the window, features distorted through the glass. Tyler lowered the window, forcing Cody Callahan to jerk back. The kid was eight years younger than him, and an up-and-comer on the bull-riding circuit.

“How many times do I got to tell you not to beat on my truck?” he asked.

“I needed to get your attention.” Cody jerked his head in the direction of the back door of the Shamrock. “Going in or coming out?”

Tyler debated for a second. “Going in.” Now that he had company, he may as well make a night of it.

“Then shake a leg, man.” Cody stepped back so that Tyler could open the door. “I’m parched.”

* * *

HUMBLE PIE NEVER tasted good. Today it was going to taste like ashes, but Skye was going to eat it and smile. As well as she could, anyway. She was working the second half of the morning shift that day, having traded shifts with her pregnant coworker, Chloe, but she’d called Angie at the café just before opening and asked the question that had weighed on her mind for a good part of the night. Well, yes, Angie confessed, maybe she had told Blaine that Tyler was trying to buy himself a clear conscience by offering the loan. And...yeah...it was possible she’d mentioned it to other people. No, she wouldn’t say anything else about the matter...but it was probably too late.

No kidding.

Skye had hung up knowing that Tyler was right about one thing—she should have sidestepped Angie’s question about why she and Tyler were talking near her car instead of telling her the truth and providing rumor fodder—but in all honesty, she’d hoped that Angie might know of someone who could help her obtain financing. After all, Angie knew everyone. How on earth was Skye to know that the woman would put her own spin on the matter? Usually she gossiped verbatim.

Things will blow over. Somebody will do something gossip-worthy. It’d been a while since Shelly Hensley had picked a fight in public. Maybe she’d do something spectacular and then everyone would forget about Skye and Tyler. Regardless, she felt as if she owed Ty an apology for the rumor. She may not have spread it, but there was no getting around the fact that—whether he did it out of guilt or generosity—he’d tried to help and she’d conveyed the wrong message to Angie, expressing amazement at his nerve when she’d discussed the situation, and Angie had eaten it up.

After finishing her morning chores, Skye let herself into the house and walked through her sparkling-clean kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. The coffeemaker gleamed and there wasn’t one water spot on the carafe, but cleaning everything she could get her hands on last night hadn’t done much to take the edge off the pain caused by losing her equine friend, or to still the whispers of doubt that had been growing louder as the hours passed.

Mason hadn’t lied to her about Tyler...had he?

His only lies—and they had been major—had been by omission. He’d neglected to tell her about his growing gambling problem—he probably would have never told her if he hadn’t won a huge check and brought home exactly nothing. All of his winnings had been lost on a casino table in one unlucky roll of the dice. He’d tried to defend himself; tried to explain that since he’d dislocated his shoulder during the ride, he probably wouldn’t have gotten another big check that season. He’d needed to double their money.

Skye had simply stared at him as they sat together in their hotel room, wondering who this man was. How he could have made such a reckless move with their future. When asked that question, he’d broken down, explained that he had a growing problem. It wasn’t the first time he’d gambled, but usually he either won or broke even. His record had given him confidence. What were the chances of losing everything when he’d played so carefully and consistently?

That was when they’d mortgaged the ranch, because the ranch fund had been too small to save them, and Mason had sworn he wouldn’t gamble—that he wouldn’t even go out in the evenings. He’d stay in his hotel room or in the camper. Watch TV, play video games.

When he had gone out, instead of staying in his room, he’d confessed, as if Skye had spies. She hadn’t. He was her husband and she trusted him, so when he said that he went out only because of Tyler’s relentless needling, she believed him. Since he brought home his checks when he won—the actual checks—and handed them over to Skye, she had no reason to believe he was gambling. No reason to suspect that he’d tapped into the ranch fund.

It had been a little after midnight and deep into the cleaning when she acknowledged to herself that, if Mason had secretly emptied the ranch fund because of his addiction, he might also have lied about Tyler. He might have needed an excuse in case he was seen at the tables. He was there watching Tyler gamble.

She may be totally off base. Tyler could be guilty, but they had to live together in this small community, and on the off chance that he was innocent, she was going to apologize for that, too. Make nice. End this thing between them once and for all.

Skye sipped her coffee, then pushed it aside. It tasted like acid.

Decision made, she picked up her purse and headed for the door, pausing on the porch to stare off across the field to where faithful Mr. Joe lay. Cliff had operated the backhoe for her—her skills there had never been beyond beginner basics—and helped her bury her horse in his favorite sunning place in the pasture.

Her throat started to close up again, but Skye swallowed the big lump and headed for her car. She didn’t think she had any tears left to shed, but one never knew and she didn’t need her eyes any more swollen than they already were—especially if she was going to confront Tyler Hayward.