I Gave You My Heart, but You Sold It Online Page 6

  “Oh, my gosh!”

  Allison stared at the building, visible in its entirety from their parking spot in a far corner of an immense lot. She thought immediately of a circus. The low-slung structure’s clapboard siding was painted a vivid red. Hanging from the roof were red, white, and blue inverted fans of bunting, held in place by yellow stars outlined in neon tubes. Atop the building a realistic Brahma bull charged a barrel, from which a clown periodically popped up his head. Pulsating lights gave the image animation. She had seen pictures of the restaurant, but they hadn’t prepared her for the visual assault.

  “It’s too bad Jill couldn’t come with us,” Allison said. “She should see this.”

  “Who?” Quint asked.

  “Jill. My daughter?”

  “Oh, of course. Jill. Sorry, I was just trying to take it all in.”

  “You mean you haven’t seen it before?”

  “Naw. I missed his grand opening.”

  “Well, it has family appeal, I’ll say that. Your friend must like kids.”

  “Yeah. At rodeos, he was always surrounded by a bunch of rug rats.”

  Allison sent him a glare, concluding that he didn’t really like children at all.

  If he noticed how his remark about kids had put her off, he didn’t show it. “Well, pretty lady,” he said, giving her a Hollywood smile. “Ready to check it out?”

  “Well, that is why we made the drive.” She reached for the door latch and hopped to the ground, thankful she hadn’t worn spike heels. Quint hurried around the front of the pickup and grabbed the door and she realized she should have waited for him to open it and help her out. She hadn’t been on a date with a gentleman in so long she had forgotten that chivalry still existed. She felt her face flush and she gave him a self-conscious laugh. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little too independent sometimes.”

  “That’s all right, darlin’. I’ll take independent any day of the week. Weak women bring out the worst in me. A strong woman challenges me, especially if she’s the prettiest gal in Texas to boot. Guess I’m still an ol’ adrenaline junkie.” His mouth tipped into a bad-boy grin. “Just promise me I can help you get back in. I kinda liked that part.”

  As they ambled toward the restaurant’s entrance he looped an arm around her shoulders and she didn’t pull away. It felt good being treated like a woman again.

  “Why did he name it Double-Kicker?” she asked. “Is the food spicy?”

  “Not if he’s still cooking the way he used to. Double-kicker’s a rodeo word. That’s what we call a bull that kicks up with his hind legs, walks on the front legs, then kicks again with his hind legs before his feet touch the ground. An ol’ bull like that’s real tough on riders.”

  Allison recognized the description of the move, but didn’t realize it had a name. She had been with Quint less than two hours and already she knew more than she had ever wanted to know about bulls…not to mention bullshit.

  seven

  In the restaurant’s entryway, they were greeted by a lifelike statue of a Brahma bull and George Strait’s mellow voice crooning “If It Wasn’t for Texas.” What could be more appropriate in a Texas barbecue joint?

  As a hostess led them into the noisy dining room, Allison looked around, absorbing as much as possible. She wanted to describe all of it to Jill later. The first thing she spotted was a mechanical bull and a teenager hanging on desperately. The machine’s steady rocking and spinning finally tossed him onto the surrounding red, white, and blue floor mats. His friends and spectators on the sidelines jeered.

  From behind her, Quint laughed. “I’d say that boy’s got a long way to go before he gets to the pros.”

  “I suppose so,” she replied, shunting her gaze to the shiny wooden picnic-style tables that marched down the center of the huge room. They were occupied by diners of every age and description. To the right she saw a small dance floor, barely enough room for the half-dozen couples shuffling to the music coming from the jukebox in the corner. A karaoke machine sat to the side, along with a handmade sign that read EVERY NIGHT IS KARAOKE NIGHT!

  Everywhere she looked, she saw laughter. Groups stood in knots throughout the room, holding mugs of beer, salty margarita glasses, or quart-size plastic glasses of iced tea. Fun was the word that came to Allison’s mind.

  The atmosphere reminded her of a scaled-back Billy Bob’s, the Fort Worth honky-tonk of all honky-tonks that was now being promoted as a family-friendly hangout. Exactly whose family she didn’t know. Blending adult activity with underage children might be an everyday event in Fort Worth, but not in West Texas. Here, when it came to having a good time, choices were few and well defined—either church- and school-sponsored events or bars and dance halls. Water and oil. From the looks of her present environs, Quint’s friend had managed somewhat to bridge the two.

  She looked forward to meeting this Tag Freeman, who had put this business together. He obviously had good marketing skills and she was always anxious to learn new ideas.

  A man with a limp was headed in their direction. His gait thrust his hip to one side, almost in rhythm to the music. As he moved in and out of tables, slapping backs and shaking hands, his baritone voice carried across the room.

  She couldn’t keep from watching him. His limp didn’t detract from his appearance. He was tall and slender, but also muscular. His carved-in-granite features belonged on a roadside billboard reminding every passerby how a real man should look. From the big grin on his face when he looked their way, she knew this was Tag Freeman.

  In terms of appealing men, she had thought her luck had changed when she saw Quint in her living room a couple of hours earlier, but now, if this was indeed Tag Freeman, she had hit the mother lode. Meeting one attractive eligible man a year was all a single woman could hope for or dream of. Meeting two would be a dream all right, but in this case, it was a nightmare, because the two most desirable men she had met in years were best friends with a long history.

  Mental sigh. Oh, well, what difference did it make? Tag Freeman was surely married. Good. Married men were off-limits. She could relax. The evening and her good time were saved.

  As Tag Freeman made his way toward his old friend, Quint Matthews, he couldn’t take his eyes off the good-looking woman with him. No, good-looking wasn’t the right word. Make that beautiful. Redheads had always caught his eye.

  He stopped the waitress bearing down on the couple, her hands filled with large menus and silverware bound in napkins. “Tracy, I’ll take care of this one.”

  He reached Quint and his date, extending his right hand. “Matthews! Glad you could make it, buddy.”

  Quint grabbed his hand in a test-of-strength handshake. “Hey, Dink. Damn, man, you’re lookin’ good.”

  Tag laughed. Dink. At the beginning of his career in rodeo, Quint had hung that handle on him.

  Quint’s introduction of the woman with him came almost as an afterthought. Allison. Tag liked that name.

  “So how’s the old hip doing?” Quint asked.

  “Coming along. You know how it is. Can’t let a few deer keep me down.”

  Allison’s brow furrowed. “Deer? I thought you were a rodeo clown?”

  Tag looked into her remarkable green eyes, eyes like he had never seen. “No disrespect to rodeo clowns, ma’am, but I’m a bullfighter. I never did consider myself much of a clown.”

  “Unless you count the times he took on a snot-slinger and lost,” Quint said on a chuckle.

  Allison laughed then, a sincere, self-deprecating laugh that lit up an already bright face. “Forgive me for being so naive,” she said, “but I thought a bullfighter was a matador.”

  “That’s down in Mexico. Up here, we don’t kill any bulls. If we did, the SPCA would shut us down in a heartbeat. They’re already mad at us all the time anyway,” he said on a laugh. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “In rodeo, the difference between a clown and a bullfighter is sort of like the difference between bar whiskey and Royal Crown.”

&nb
sp; “Sorry,” she said, “but that doesn’t tell me much.”

  Tag chuckled again. “Clowns entertain the crowd. Bullfighters entertain the bull. I did do some clowning a long time ago. Still do on occasion. Get Quint to bring you to my house sometime and I’ll show you some tapes. Then you’ll know the difference between clowning and bullfighting.”

  “Oh, okay. But I’m still confused. You said a few deer? You had an accident with deer?”

  Quint interjected the story of the freak accident and Tag’s injuries.

  “Oh, my goodness.” A frown of concern knit her brow. “That must have been awful. You must have suffered terribly. And losing a career in the prime of your life had to have been devastating.”

  Devastating? An empty, meaningless word considering the multiple surgeries, the endless months of rehabilitation, and the depression into which Tag had sunk after the prognosis had been handed down. His career in the rodeo arena was over. Devastating didn’t come close to describing the state of mind in which Tag had functioned for the five ensuing years. More than once he had considered taking a shotgun to himself. Even now he couldn’t recall how or explain why he hadn’t.

  His only answer was that he had visited Walter Reed Hospital in Washington and seen those kids who had come home from the Middle East, some of them missing multiple limbs. He had seen their courage, admired their fortitude, and envied their upbeat attitudes. After that, he knew that many a man and woman lived with worse handicaps than his and for a more noble reason. After that, Tag Freeman chose life.

  Allison’s hand touched his forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I hope you’re doing better now.”

  Tag was impressed. Most pretty women, upon hearing the circumstances surrounding his accident, steered the conversation toward asking if he had gotten a lot of money from a lawsuit, their mental cash registers tallying up the loot. He sensed that this woman might be different. She seemed to care and understand what he had been through. Where in the hell had Quint met this incredible female?

  And why in the fuck did he have to bring her here?

  Three hours later Allison realized her earlier presumption had been wrong. Tag had been married; now he was divorced. But she could still relax. The only commitment he was ready to make was to remain uncommitted. The stream of females of all ages that flowed through the restaurant and stopped by their table—Wrangler-clad hotties with firm bottoms and exposed navel rings—gave her a clear picture of just how active his social life was. Having made that observation, why was she still drawn to him? Her life was too complicated for additional complications.

  Still, she was having fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so much. Both men entertained her with hilarious stories, and with each one, another frosty mug of beer appeared in Quint’s hand. The restaurant’s customers were eager to buy the rodeo celebrities a drink and Quint and Tag lifted mugs and nodded thank you to each one. The only difference was that Quint drank his while Tag sipped on one and motioned a waitress to remove the others from in front of him. It wasn’t lost on Allison that he remained in total control of himself and his surroundings.

  The same was not true of the world champion, Quint Matthews. Soon he had consumed way beyond what the law allowed the driver of a motor vehicle.

  Now, while Quint manned the karaoke machine, singing along loudly and off-key, Allison turned to Tag. “Quint said you two have been friends for more years than he wanted to admit,” she shouted to be heard.

  “That’s a fact,” Tag said, leaning so close she could see the dark stubble on his jaw and smell his scent—musky man and cologne she believed to be one of her favorites. Hugo Boss. Yum. “We go all the way back to the beginning of both our careers,” he added.

  “I heard him call you ‘Dink.’”

  “He’s the only man who’s ever called me that. Or who ever will.”

  “Most nicknames like that have a special meaning, so I assume that one does, too.”

  Tag laughed as he pulled one of the untouched beers toward him and sipped. “It’s something just between us two. A dink is a bull that doesn’t live up to his fierce image. Or perform as expected and desired in competition. Maybe he doesn’t buck hard enough. Or maybe he just runs around the arena. A dink’s worthless in competition. He poses a threat to only two things—a stock producer’s blood pressure and a rodeo cowboy’s wallet. A weak-performing bull don’t get asked back and those entry fees ain’t refundable.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling her face flush. “Guess I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it.” He leaned in close again. “It’s an industry word. Not even most rodeo fans know what it means.”

  She cocked her head and looked at him, appreciating his effort to make her feel at ease and studying his expressive brown eyes. “So how does it apply to you?”

  “In the beginning, I guess I was somewhat of a dink. It took a while to get that fearless bullfighter reputation. It started when a certain young comer got bucked off a man-hating Brahma and got hung up in his bull rigging.”

  “Quint?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, don’t stop there.”

  He hesitated, his gaze leveled on her face. Even in the dim lighting, she saw a spark in his eye and she resisted the urge to lick her lips.

  “You really want to hear this?” he asked.

  “Of course I do.”

  He paused a moment longer, just looking at her. “Okay,” he said finally, turning back to his beer. “We were both just kids. A rodeo in Green River, Wyoming, is where we were. Tough stock. Bunch of mustangs for broncs. I don’t know where they got them bulls, but they were rank sons-a-bitches. Quint was a skinny little fart, but he was tougher’n whang leather. He’d made it to the finals on sheer guts. That ol’ bull—Cyclone they called him—bucked him off right out of the chute.

  “I didn’t know what I was doing and neither did Quint. Ol’ Cyclone was throwing him around like a rag doll and dragging him all over the arena.”

  Tag began to use his hands to accompany the story and Allison felt herself getting caught up in the drama.

  “Quint kept trying to get himself loose, but that ol’ bull was so strong, Quint couldn’t get a hold. All I could see was danger and destruction. When that hard-charger ran past me, I vaulted up on his back and hung on with one hand. With the other, I finally got Quint’s rigging loose. End of story. We’ve been friends ever since.”

  “Was Quint hurt?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forget now exactly what got broke. I’m sure he got hurt just as bad many times after that. Being hurt is just part of bull riding. That’s why bull riders gotta be tough and hardheaded.”

  “Gosh,” Allison said with a smile and a wish that it was Tag Freeman who would be taking her home. “You really are a hero.”

  “Nope. Just doing my job. But you get the picture. Without bullfighters, bull riding would be a lot more dangerous. A lot of cowboys might not survive it. You see, that’s what I meant when I said it ain’t clowning. Bullfighting can be a matter of life and death.”

  Quint had just started a rendition of “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” Allison looked toward the karaoke machine. “Speaking of life and death, my escort shouldn’t be driving. I’m not sure how we’re going to get home.”

  “I thought he’d had a little too much hooch a couple of hours ago, but I figured you’d drive.”

  “His pickup’s so big. And I can’t drive a stick shift. Between the clutching and the braking and the shifting, I’d be hours making it home.” She laughed. “Can I drive all the way to Salt Lick in first gear?”

  “Well, you could,” Tag said with a chuckle, “but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  A frown tugged at her brow. “I think I’m in a bit of a bind.”

  Tag knew there was only one solution, only one logical solution. For him, as the own er of the restaurant and bar, to allow Quint to drive away in his present condition would be an
irresponsible act. Driving Quint home was the least Tag could do as a friend. Quint would do the same for him.

  But as a man with a strong attraction to the woman Quint had brought with him, it was a dubious undertaking. Just the thought of sitting close to Allison in the intimacy of a truck cab kicked up his pulse.

  Despite all of his misgivings, he was compelled to do something. “I might be able to help you out,” he said. “How far is it to Salt Lick? Sixty miles?”

  eight

  An orchestra of bass drums thundered in Quint’s head. He wished he could just lie still with his eyes closed, but he felt a presence and heard motion. Then something cold and wet touched his neck. He opened one eye and saw a black dog the size of a small calf shimmying and whining. The monster let out an earsplitting bark and both of Quint’s eyes sprang open.

  Where the hell was he? He vaguely remembered lying in the backseat of his truck while someone else drove.

  As the dog continued to dance about, a male voice spoke. “Jake! Sit or I’ll make you go outside.”

  That voice belonged to Tag.

  “Mornin’, sunshine.”

  That voice, too, belonged to Tag. Quint rolled his eyes toward the voice. His old friend was leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, his bare feet crossed at the ankles.

  “I hope you don’t feel as bad as you look,” the voice said, and the body that went with it walked over and scruffed the dog’s ears.

  “What time is it?” Quint asked.

  “Just after ten. You gonna sleep the day away? I’ve been up for hours.”

  The dog was now prancing and barking loud enough to send a shudder through Quint’s whole body. He glared at the beast. “What’s with your dog? Am I in his bed or something?”

  “It’s probably that baloney sandwich you’re sleeping on.”

  “What?” Quint raised his head from the pillow just enough for inspection and felt the sandwich firmly pressed against his cheek. “Fuck. What am I doing sleeping with a baloney sandwich?”