More Than a Cowboy (Reckless, Arizona) Page 8

  Chapter Six

  “If this is about you taking on my father as a client—”

  “It isn’t.” Deacon cut Liberty off before she could finish.

  She started to rise. “I think maybe we’re done here.”

  It wasn’t his intention to be rude. “I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”

  “We all do, Deacon.”

  “You’re right.” He attempted an appealing smile.

  She didn’t return it. But neither did she leave.

  They were seated at the picnic table, facing out toward the arena, their backs leaning against the tabletop. Liberty had folded her hands neatly in her lap.

  Deacon studied her rings. The jade one had caught his attention in the restaurant and earlier today when she’d placed her hand on his arm. He hadn’t wanted her to stop there and imagined her fingertips sifting through the hair at his temples right before he pulled her into his arms for a lingering kiss.

  “If not Mercer, what do you want to talk about?”

  Liberty’s question vaporized Deacon’s fantasy. Just as well. It could only ever be a fantasy.

  “First, I wish I could have told you about working for your father. It wasn’t fair to spring the news on you like he did, and I apologize for my part in it.”

  She mulled that over for a moment. “And the second thing?”

  Deacon swallowed and dove in. “I may have been seventeen when I worked for your mother, but I took my job and my responsibility very seriously. She put me in charge of the bulls because she knew how dedicated and conscientious I was.”

  “Okay.”

  “I always double-checked the latches and locks on the bulls’ pen. Sometimes triple-checked them. I didn’t forget the day of the accident. I didn’t overlook anything. I didn’t get sidetracked. Those gates were closed and locked when I walked away from the pen. More than that, the bulls had eaten and were bedded down for the night. Not riled or agitated.”

  The Becketts had owned ten bulls at the time. They were housed in an area well separated from the rest of the livestock for obvious reasons. Bulls were dangerous animals. Precautions were taken and strictly enforced. Two gates led to the pen, an exterior one and an interior one with a short corridor connecting them.

  While it was possible for someone—Deacon—to forget locking one gate, forgetting both was unlikely. Impossible. He wouldn’t have done it. No one in their right mind would have.

  “There was no sign of the locks being tampered with,” he continued. “And if I didn’t do it, and I didn’t, then someone deliberately opened the gates after I left.”

  “Why?” Liberty shook her head. “It makes no sense.”

  “I’ve asked myself that same question a thousand times. The only answer I’ve come up with is that someone wanted me to take the fall.”

  “Or they had a grudge against Ernie.”

  Deacon’s gaze drifted to the empty bull area on the far side of the arena. Nowadays, it was used only during rodeos to house the leased bulls. “Who knew he’d be standing outside the gate at the exact moment the bulls figured out they could escape?”

  “They could have called him over.”

  “I just can’t believe they intended for him to be hurt. That’s extreme.”

  “Why let the bulls out at all?”

  “So that I’d be blamed.”

  At his remark, her demeanor changed. Became less defensive. “My mother shouldn’t have assumed it was your fault.”

  Deacon thought the same, then and now. Sunny’s lack of faith in him when he’d been an exemplary employee had wounded him. More than his father’s indifference and his mother’s selfishness.

  “Ernie’s accusations were pretty convincing.”

  “People can be cruel.” Liberty moved, and her thigh inadvertently came in contact with Deacon’s.

  Like before when she’d touched his arm, his train of thought immediately derailed.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “Which is why I need to find out who was responsible and expose them. Reckless is a small town. Too many people still believe I’m the one who let the bulls escape. Because of that, they don’t trust me, and one thing an attorney needs is the trust of his clients. Without that, I have no hope of building my practice.”

  “I understand.”

  Did she? There was so much more he wanted to say. How working with her was another reason he had taken on her father as a client and that he thought about her all the time. Instead, he stuck to the subject at hand. Anything else would only complicate matters.

  “What do you remember about the accident?”

  “Very little. I was a kid. I didn’t get involved with the bucking stock then.”

  “Your mother always carried a key to the bulls’ pen. A second one hung on a rack in the office. That was the key I used. I replaced it when I was done.”

  “Did you that day?”

  “Absolutely. But no one saw me. And it was missing after the accident. Missing and never found. Afterwards, your mother changed the locks.”

  “The office doors stay open during the workday. Anyone could have walked in and taken the key.”

  “They would have had to be quick. The bulls escaped not five minutes after I left them.”

  “Who was here that night?”

  “Too many to count,” Deacon said. “The Wild West Days Rodeo was the following weekend. A lot of cowboys had signed up for practice. There must have been twenty or thirty that day alone. Plus the wranglers. The bulls were worn-out. It seems strange that one of them would have charged.”

  “Bulls do get riled at the smallest things.”

  “Or someone purposely riled them.”

  “But who?” Liberty repeated. “And why?”

  He shrugged. “It could have been a rivalry. I was headed for a state junior rodeo championship. But I wasn’t the only one. There were ten or twelve from Reckless alone. Including Ernie.”

  Cowboys came from as far away as Mesa and Tucson to practice before a rodeo. Pinpointing a single rival, especially one angry or threatened enough to take drastic measures, would be nearly impossible.

  “The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced Ernie was the intended target. It just makes sense.”

  “Except,” Liberty countered, “you were a victim of bullying.”

  “Calling someone names is a lot different than setting out to injure them and possibly others.”

  “Have you talked to Ernie? Maybe he remembers something.”

  Deacon chuckled drily.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think he’d be willing.”

  “Don’t know if you don’t try.”

  This time his laughter was filled with humor. “You remind me of someone.”

  “Who?” Her eyes lit up.

  Damn, they were blue. And the way she looked at him—if they were a normal couple he’d be making some of those fantasies about her come true.

  “A mentor,” he said, forcing himself to concentrate. “He helped me out when I really needed it.”

  “I’d like to hear about him.”

  “Maybe one day.”

  More like never. Deacon wasn’t about to admit he was the proud owner of a juvenile record or talk about the detention officer who’d changed his life. He was already having enough trouble convincing folks he wasn’t responsible for Ernie’s misfortune.

  “Maybe we could go out for lunch or happy hour.”

  Had she just suggested a date?

  “Seeing as we’ll be working together,” she clarified.

  “Yeah, right.” A meeting between business associates. Not a date. Stupid him.

  It didn’t matter. Deacon would still go. Anywhere or anytime, just for the chance to be in her
company.

  “I’d better get back to work.” She hesitated, almost as if she was waiting for him to insist she stay.

  His mind said those exact words. What came out of his mouth was, “What time tomorrow is good for you?”

  “Ten-thirty. I’ll be done with classes by then.”

  He didn’t suggest that Sunny be the one to babysit him while he reviewed the arena records, and Liberty didn’t offer. Deacon tried not to read too much into that and simply counted his lucky stars.

  They stood, first her, then him.

  He surveyed the nearly empty grounds. “Looks like the roping clinic was a success.”

  “We’re thinking of hosting one every other month. Tom’s a popular instructor. We’re fortunate to have him.”

  “I should sign up. I sometimes wish I’d concentrated more on roping and less on steer wrestling.”

  “But you were good. You’d have won the state championship if you didn’t quit.”

  “I ran away. Not much call for rodeoing on the streets of Phoenix.”

  “So, that’s where you went.” She seemed to have forgotten about work.

  “For a while.” After a few months, he’d wound up in a juvenile detention facility in Mesa. Awful as it was, it had changed his life, setting him on an entirely new course.

  “Your parents didn’t know where you were,” Liberty said. “I asked them.”

  “They knew. They just didn’t want to say.” And Deacon didn’t blame them. “I haven’t wrestled a steer since college.”

  “I bet you still can.” Liberty grinned impishly, and a tiny dimple appeared in the corner of her mouth.

  What would it be like to brush his lips across hers? Let them linger on that dimple? Tease her with his tongue until she moaned with need?

  Focus, he told himself. “I probably can, but my time would stink.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “I’d embarrass myself.”

  “Come on. Give it a go,” she insisted.

  “I will. One of these days.”

  She perked up. “Why not now?”

  “It’s after ten.”

  “All the better. No one to see you.”

  “See me fail.”

  “You saddle your horse. I’ll bring a steer from the pen and operate the chute.”

  “I’ll need a hazer. You can’t do both.”

  “Kenny hasn’t left yet.”

  The teenager who worked part-time and drove the tractor? “How good is he?” Deacon asked, still skeptical.

  “Okay in a pinch. I’ll ask him.” Liberty started off.

  “Wait.” Deacon took hold of her arm before she got very far. “Why are you even suggesting this?”

  “I think you need to prove some things to yourself. And this is one of them.”

  She had a point. A good one. He was impressed by how well she read him. “All right. But there has to be a prize. It isn’t a competition without one.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you have in mind?”

  “My best time back in the day was three-point-four seconds. I can’t come close to that. But I’m pretty sure I can beat twelve seconds.”

  “And if you do?”

  “You agree to help me find out what really happened the day of Ernie’s accident and who opened the gates.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Ten seconds, and you have a deal.”

  He laughed then and extended his hand.

  She hesitated taking it. “I have my own condition.”

  This was getting interesting. “Which is...”

  “Mercer still loves my mom.”

  “He told me.”

  Her brows rose. “He must be serious.”

  “Evidently.”

  “I’m thinking my mom also has feelings for him. I’d like to try and help things along.”

  “Huh. Can I ask why?”

  “I want Ryder to come home. And he might if my family’s reconciled.”

  He admired her motives. “I don’t know what I can do.”

  “Get them together. You’ll think of something.” There was a hint of challenge in her voice, one Deacon responded to.

  “All right. We have a deal.” Excitement stirred inside him. Too many years had passed since he’d competed.

  It was nothing, however, compared to the excitement he felt when he captured Liberty’s hand in his and held it tight.

  * * *

  THE MOMENT LIBERTY set foot in the steers’ pen, they scattered in every direction. She finally cut one loose and herded it through the gate, down the narrow corridor and toward the chutes. The steer wasn’t happy. Neither were his buddies, who resented being disturbed at a time usually reserved for sleeping.

  Okay, she admitted it. Steer wrestling with Deacon at nearly ten-thirty at night was one harebrained idea.

  It was also great fun and gave her an excuse to help Deacon clear his name. He deserved nothing less for everything he’d been through. What she didn’t want was for her mother and sister to think she’d switched sides in this showdown with Mercer.

  The steer stopped midway through the corridor and bellowed a loud protest. He was joined by his buddies in the pen. Liberty bit her lip and glanced nervously about. The ruckus would draw the attention of anyone hanging around, and they could do without an audience. Her family in particular.

  At the moment, Cassidy and their mother were in the house. Mercer had returned to the Dead Broke Inn, where he was staying until he found a permanent residence or—if his and now Liberty’s plan succeeded—moved back into the Becketts’ home. All three had been known to return to the arena late at night to check on one thing or another.

  “Shoo, shoo.” Liberty waved her arms at the steer, relieved when it reluctantly continued on its way.

  What did she wish for more? Deacon to win their bet—or her? Deacon winning made more sense. There probably wasn’t any way for him to help reconcile her parents, though he did have Mercer’s ear and could plant a seed or two.

  The steer stopped again outside the chute and stubbornly refused to enter. During a rodeo or practice, he’d have several steer behind him and two or three wranglers convincing him to hurry along. Tonight, there was only Liberty. And Kenny, if he ever finished saddling up.

  The kid drove a hard bargain. His assistance was going to cost Liberty four pieces of her mother’s leftover fried chicken and some homemade pineapple coleslaw. She’d conceded without a fight. Deacon needed a hazer, and Kenny was their only available option.

  “Come on, you mangy beast. Quit your dawdling.”

  Shouting and clapping her hands, she moved the steer the last few feet into the chute.

  Liberty hopped the fence and secured the spring-loaded door. That task completed, she fastened the barrier rope around the steer’s neck—a sometimes tricky task that, thankfully, went easy tonight. Next, she readied the second rope, which would be strung across the box once Deacon was positioned inside it. When the steer broke from the chute, the barrier rope would snap off and release the rope barricading the box. Only then could Deacon spur his horse into action and begin the chase.

  Hearing the sound of hooves on hard-packed dirt, she looked up. Deacon approached the arena on Huck, his bay gelding. Smart choice, Liberty thought. Of his two horses, Huck was also her pick.

  “Ready?” she called to him.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  If he doubted his abilities, he didn’t show it. Deacon sat tall in the saddle as he confidently guided the horse into the box. Once in position, he looked up, and their glances locked. Neither of them spoke.

  The next instant, Kenny rounded the corner of the barn on one of the Becketts’ ranch horses. He nudged the lanky gray into a fast trot, his big smile re
vealing the sizable gap between his two front teeth.

  “I can already taste that chicken,” he said as he lined up his horse on the opposite side of the chute.

  “Sure you don’t need a practice run?” Liberty asked Deacon, willing to consider it if he said yes.

  He shook his head. “Got the timer?”

  She pulled the electronic device from her pocket. Before going after the steer, she’d located a spare timer in the office. Normally, contestant runs were tracked by an electronic clock in the announcer’s booth. They were going old-school tonight.

  Holding the timer high for Deacon to see, she placed her other hand on the chute lever and readied herself.

  He took another minute to adjust his seat in the saddle, check the reins and shove his hat farther down onto his head.

  Liberty considered taking out her phone and capturing the image with her camera. This was the Deacon she liked most. The man who was all cowboy without a trace of lawyer. Because he’d no doubt wonder why she was taking his picture, she settled for committing the image to memory.

  An emotion, and the revelation that came with it, swept swiftly through her, leaving her slightly unbalanced. She didn’t just like Deacon. Wasn’t simply attracted to him. Her feelings were far more complex...and deeper.

  She’d only just righted herself and replaced her hand on the lever when Deacon gave the “go” signal by nodding curtly.

  Heart pounding a mile a minute, Liberty pulled the lever. With a bang, the chute door opened and the steer bolted for the open arena. Kenny and the gray set off at a gallop, running parallel to the steer and keeping him in a straight line.

  An instant later, the barrier rope broke, and Deacon was out of the box, already leaning forward in the saddle, his left foot leaving the stirrup in preparation. Huck’s hooves dug into the arena floor like giant shovels, spraying clumps of dirt in their wake.

  It took only a second for Deacon to catch up with the steer. Dropping the reins, he launched himself out of the saddle and, in one spectacularly fluid motion, dropped onto the ground, grabbing the steer’s horns as he landed. The heels of his boots plowed into the dirt, at first losing then gaining traction. His shoulders bunched, and the fabric of his shirt pulled tight around the thick muscles of his upper arms.