A Dark & Stormy Knight: A McKnight Romance (McKnight Romances) (21 page)

“Okay. I’ll just put—”

“Gideon will take care of Spitfire. Won’t
you, Gideon?”

“Yeah, sure.” Gideon climbed over the
fence and took the reins.

Georgia
found herself resenting his casual attitude. Didn’t he care that Eden’s heart was about to be broken?

She mentally cursed Sol again for making
her clean up his mess.

“Gramma’s got Popsicles in the fridge,” Eden said. “I bet she’d let us have some if you ask her.”

Georgia
smiled. Her daughter. Working the angles. Then she remembered what she was
about to do. Her smile felt brittle. “That sounds like a plan to me. I’ll meet
you on the front stoop.”

Eden
’s prediction was on the money, and Georgia emerged from the house with two Popsicles. “Which one do you want?”

Eden
took the grape one—no surprise there—leaving her mother the orange one.

They peeled back the wrappers and each
took a long pull. The orange flavor burst in Georgia’s mouth. One of the cool
things about having a child was getting to enjoy the things she’d treasured in
her own childhood, like Popsicles on a warm day. A couple more pulls, and Eden flashed a purple tongue at her mother.

Georgia
chuckled then took a deep breath, girding her loins.

“This summer’s shaping up well, isn’t it?”

“It’s the best.”

A thousand possibilities came to mind
about what she could say next, questions she could ask, but all of them danced
around the topic she had to broach. She let Eden enjoy several more licks of
her Popsicle then drew another deep breath. “Your daddy tells me you want to ride
in the rodeo.”

Eden
didn’t flinch, but Georgia felt her daughter’s sudden
tension. She took another lick of her Popsicle then looked up at Georgia, her eyes empty, as if she’d never believed it would happen anyway and wasn’t
willing to show how much she cared.

Oh, God. She already knows. My baby
expects
me to squash her dream.

Georgia
’s
heart crumbled. She could tell herself all day long this was for Eden’s good in the long run. Her reasons were as valid now as they’d been five minutes
ago. Wasn’t her daughter’s disappointment today over not riding better than
having her heart broken in a few years by some stupid cowboy?

Except it was today and it was going to
be more than disappointment. Sol was right, damn him. She was going to break
her daughter’s heart.

Georgia
’s
throat closed up. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision started to blur.

Eden
’s
voice came from a great distance. “Mama, are you okay?”

Georgia
leaned forward and put her head between her knees.

“Mama!” Eden’s voice was panicky.

Georgia
groped for her daughter. Eden’s hand closed on hers, warm and solid. “Okay,” Georgia croaked. “I’m okay.”

She wasn’t. Not yet. But the world was
stabilizing, or at least the toes of her boots were. She stayed down until the
world seemed to be in place once again, then cautiously, she straightened,
brushing back the hair that had fallen over her face.

“Mama?”

“I’m okay, sugar.” She squeezed her
daughter’s hand then decided the hell with that, and pulled Eden into her arms.
Eden squeezed back hard.

Georgia
let her go and looked into her daughter’s face. “I’m not going to lie to you. I
have reservations about letting you ride. I’d rather you didn’t, but—” She took
a tentative breath. Yeah, she could do this, even though it felt as if her
heart was about to shatter. Well, better hers than Eden’s. “If you really want
to, and if Daisy thinks you’re ready”—she caught her daughter’s shoulders
before she could start bouncing with excitement—”
and
you wear a helmet—I
won’t stop you.”

Eden
’s
eyes shone. “You’re really going to let me?”

“Yes.” Her daughter’s glow tempered her
misgivings.

As Eden dove into her arms and hugged her
hard, Georgia decided it was official: Snow cones were on sale in hell.

“Fuck, son of a bitch, rat bastard,
asshole, shit, hellfire and damnation.”
Man, that felt good.
Sol leaned
back in the passenger seat of Terry’s truck and released a satisfied sigh.

Terry grinned as he pulled out of the
McKnight ranch onto the road, heading for the interstate. “I’d ask what bee got
up your bonnet, but you don’t sound all that pissed.”

“I been saving that up. Gideon suckered
me into betting that I could stop cussin’. Every swear word costs me a buck. I’m
goin’ broke.”

Sol didn’t appreciate the gusto of Terry’s
laughter, but he let it go. He’d have found it just as funny if it were Terry
instead of him.

They caught up on Terry’s recent rodeo
exploits then dropped into a companionable silence. The miles ticked by. Sol
sat slumped in his seat, lost in thought, when Terry finally broke the sound
barrier with, “So Georgia’s back around. How’s that going?”

Sol straightened. “How’d you know Georgia was back?”

Terry cast a sideways look at Sol, an
amused smile on his lips. He looked back at the road and shook his head as if
he couldn’t believe Sol was such an imbecile. “I don’t get it.”

“You don’t get what?”

“Every time Georgia shows up, you stop
being fun. You’re normally a hell of a kick on the road. I like traveling with
you, but not when you’ve been around your ex.”

“How am I not fun?”

Another head shake accompanied by
something that looked suspiciously like a suppressed eye roll. “You get so
damned serious when Georgia’s in your sights. It’s like your sense of humor
evaporates. You don’t kid around. You don’t set anyone up for a joke. And you
don’t ride for shit.”

Sol stared at Terry, his mouth agape. It
wasn’t true. He was who he was. All the time. It had nothing to do with Georgia.

“I ride okay when Georgia’s around—”

“Okay ain’t good enough.”

Sol scowled. “And I don’t lose my sense
of humor.”

“You do a hell of a good imitation, then.
Tell me you ain’t been thinking about Georgia for the last hour.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then what were you thinking about?”

“I was thinking—” Sol tried to remember.
Oh, hell, it wasn’t as though Terry would know the difference anyway. “About Eden.”

“What about her?”

“Well, Georgia’s mama had a stroke—”

The look Terry shot Sol practically
screamed, “See?”

“This ain’t about Georgia. I’m explaining why Eden’s at the ranch for the summer.”

“Well, that explains the ban on cussing
at least.”

“Yeah. She’s here until Georgia’s mama recovers enough for them to head back to Dallas.”

“So we’re still talking about Georgia,” Terry said.

“No. We’re talking about Eden. Daisy’s been training a barrel racer, and Eden wants to ride her in a rodeo.”

Terry grinned, which seemed to relax him.
In his world, nothing was more absorbing than talking rodeo. “Is Georgia going to let her?”

Sol glowered. Maybe he
was
beginning to lose his sense of humor. Just a little. “Why does everyone seem to
think it’s up to Georgia? My opinion counts. If I decide she can ride in a
rodeo, she’ll ride.”
Yeah, when pigs grow wings and fly south with the
geese.
But he wasn’t telling Terry that.

Terry laughed. “Where’d you get the idea
your opinion counted? Georgia decides everything about Eden. Always has.”

Sol folded his arms over his chest. “Well,
that’s changing.”

He could see Terry fighting more
laughter. As predicted, Sol’s sense of humor was fading fast.

“When did you get Georgia’s permission to grow a set of balls?”

Sol nearly choked. Terry’s question hit
way too close to the mark. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about Georgia.”

“You’re right,” Terry said, but he still
wore an amused smirk. “So tell me about the horse Eden wants to ride.”

Sol told him about the mare. Somehow, they
segued into talking about the local horse rescue where Daisy volunteered. After
that, they moved on to rough stock, stock contractors, and the McKnights’
bucking bull business.

At a deeper level, Sol’s thoughts kept
coming back to what Terry said about his lack of balls. He hated admitting,
even to himself, that it was true. He let Georgia have her way about
everything.

And they weren’t even sleeping together.

He was surprised they hadn’t revoked his
man card years ago.

###

The festivities were well under way when
Sol and Terry pulled into the rodeo grounds. They’d both called it much closer
than that in years past, arriving with barely enough time to pull out their
equipment, jump on their designated bulls, and ride. There were advantages to
being the last event of the night. Even so, they didn’t have any time to goof
off.

They found the locker room, which was
really more of a wide, open space behind the arena where the other riders were
getting ready. The muted sounds of the announcer and the crowd provided a
steady background that quickly faded from Sol’s awareness.

He hadn’t seen most of these guys in a
while, but to varying degrees, he knew them all. He and Terry found an open
corner and dropped their equipment in a pile as they exchanged greetings. Sol
sorted through his stuff while Terry went off to check in with the rodeo
secretary and find out which bulls they’d drawn.

He’d rosined his bull rope, donned his
spurs, and was taping up the knuckles of his riding hand when Terry returned,
dropping down beside him. “You are the luckiest son of a bitch I know. You drew
Colonel Mustard.”

Yeah. Lucky. That was his middle name.
More like Sol Not-So-Lucky McKnight. He groaned as he bit into the edge of the tape.
The nick made it easy to tear the tape and finish with his knuckles. “Colonel
Mustard? Fuck a damned duck.”

Terry tsked and wagged a finger in Sol’s
direction. “Language,” he said in his best schoolmarm voice.

“Fu—dge,” Sol corrected. He started
taping between each finger.

“I don’t know why you’re swearing anyway.
You got a rank bull. You could score good on him.”

“Yeah.” He wrapped strips of tape between
his fingers to support his hand and to protect the calluses. “Or I could end up
eating dirt like I did the other two times I got on him.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” Terry sat down
on the bench beside him, picked up Sol’s rosin, and started applying it to the
tail of his bull rope. “You pulled him in Mesquite that time.”

Yeah. Right after Georgia threatened to kill him for running off one of her potential suitors. That actually hadn’t
turned out so bad. He’d traded a mild concussion for a decent score, and in
spite of her threat, Georgia had watched over him that night.

“And last season in Fort Worth on that
damned bull. I thought I tore my rotator cuff.” And missed six weeks of the
season because of it. “And that was after he tried to beat me stupid against
the inside of the chute.” Now that he thought about it, he’d seen Georgia the day before that ride, too. Maybe Terry was on to something when he’d said Sol
rode like shit when she was around.

In the past two years, his injuries
seemed to come at regularly spaced intervals, just close enough to keep him
down in the rankings. He’d work on strengthening his upper body then injure his
knee, so he’d work on his legs, and he’d hurt his hand. He’d get that squared
away, then his shoulder would give him grief.

What was it again that he loved about
this miserable lifestyle?

“Sheesh, you gotta get your head
straight, buddy,” Terry said. “You get on this bull’s back thinkin’ you’re
going down, sure as shit, you will.”

He was right. Sol needed to see Colonel
Mustard as a challenge, a chance to score well, and get jacked up about it.

Near them, Wayne Baxter started taping up
his knee. Only in his second year of riding in the PRCA, Wayne was just a kid
in Sol’s road-weary eyes, but he’d been on the circuit long enough to already
be injured. He grimaced in obvious pain.

Across the room, his older, more
experienced road partner, Don Ames, shook a plastic prescription bottle so the
pills rattled. “Need some cowboy candy?”

Wayne
hesitated a second then nodded. He caught the container neatly in his cupped
hands. “Oxycodone,” he read from the label. “Fucking-A.”

“Hey, none of that language.” Terry
clamped his hands over Sol’s ears.

Sol swatted him away.

Don snorted. “Since when does Sol have
virgin ears?”

“Yeah, ‘coz he sure don’t have no virgin
tongue,” another of the cowboys chipped in. Their laughter had a good-natured
quality.

“Sol’s trying to quit swearing, y’all,”
Terry said. “He’s got a daughter with impressionable ears.”

“Oh, man,” Don said with a groan. “I go
through that every time I get home.”

“Stars and bars,” one of the younger
cowboys murmured. Everyone stopped and looked at him. He looked up and blushed.
“That’s what my dad says.”

“When we were kids, my sister called me a
futher mucker,” Wayne said. “Dad washed her mouth out with soap anyway.”

“When someone cuts my mom off in traffic,
she calls them a stupid gerbil,” one of the other cowboys offered up.

“Holy sheepdogs,” another one said.

“My granny used to say, ‘sugar balls.’“

“Rats and beans. That’s my wife’s
favorite.”

“My wife says, ‘mother flower,’“ came
another offering.

“Son of a biscuit,” came in the midst of
their laughter.

“Son of a biscotti,” someone else said,
hot on the heels of the biscuit remark.

“Son of a tea cozy,” another threw out.

“Ahole,” one said, pronouncing the
e
so it sounded Spanish.

“Holy Hannah in a hail storm.”

“My wife adopted ‘some beach’ from that
Blake Shelton song.”

Sol didn’t think Georgia would go for that, but he liked it.

“My sister uses Frappuccino and
Bolsheviks,” another cowboy said. “Oh, and shish kebab.”

“Butterscotch.”

“Jesus wept.”

Sol grinned. His mama used that one,
usually when her kids were trying her patience beyond a reasonable point. He
fastened a spur to his boot.

“Cain and Abel.”

“Snickerdoodles.”

They were coming fast and furious and
with so much laughter, Sol couldn’t hear them all. He wouldn’t be able to
remember half of them, but then, he didn’t need to. He only needed enough to
get him through the rest of the summer.

Sol’s gaze landed on Rory Calhoun, who
sat silent in the corner. Rory shook his head. “Don’t look at me. The women in
my family swear worse than all of us here put together.”

One of the other cowboys snorted. “You
should hear my sister. She’s in the Army. When she comes home on leave, about
the time she has to go back is when she can finally make a sentence in front of
Mama that won’t get her backside tanned.”

The guys were laughing about that when a
cowboy appeared in the doorway. “Y’all ready to lock and load? It’s nearly
time. Rory, you’re up first. Then Don and Terry.”

The bull riders chuckled as they settled
down to their final preparations, broad smiles painted on their faces.

While they’d been exchanging swearing
substitutes, Terry had finished his preparations. He slapped Sol’s thigh with
the back of his hand. “C’mon, partner. Let’s roll.”

###

Terry’s bull, Dapper Dan, was rank—not as
rank as Sol’s—but Terry rode him sweet and scored an eighty-six. Good enough to
get him in the short round.

Six more riders were up before Sol. Some
guys needed time to get “in the zone.” Not Sol. If he gave himself too much
time, he’d overthink the ride, so he helped out at the chute.

When there were only two riders ahead of
him, he pulled his gloves from his hip pocket and tied them on with a rawhide
cord. A few minutes before his bull was run into the chute, he did some
stretching exercises, took a couple of deep breaths to oxygenate his muscles,
and made a last check of his gloves.

The rodeo loaded two alternating chutes,
cutting down the waiting time between rides. Colonel Mustard, nearly one ton of
muscle, bone, and attitude covered by a hide the color of Grey Poupon, passed
through a railed alley and into a nine-foot-long, three-foot-wide chute. When
the gate clanged shut behind him, he rammed a shoulder into the heavy metal of
the arena gate on his left, testing it for weaknesses.
Ornery bastard.

Sol jumped onto the eighteen-inch-wide
catwalk on the back side of the chute. He ran his tongue over his mouth guard,
put his foot on the bull’s back, so the bull would know he was there, then
eased himself down. His feet rested on the horizontal slats of the chute, his
spurs carefully kept away from the bull’s hide.