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“Yeah,” LeAnn said, smiling. “But I bet no one wakes you up at six o’clock in the morning singing Tammy Wynette songs while hogging the bathroom.”
“No, that would be a new experience for me.”
“Just once, I want to sleep late and have the bathroom all to myself.”
“It’s good to have goals,” Dylan said.
“I should get going before my sisters come looking for me. They’re overprotective.”
Dylan wanted to tell her how much he enjoyed tonight. But he didn’t want to make it weird. He also wanted to kiss her good night, but he wasn’t sure that the kiss would be enough for either of them. So he walked her back to her car, wishing they could prolong their conversation. As he watched her drive away, he wondered if they could make a long-distance relationship work when they were both in different states at different rodeos. Dylan knew he should concentrate on just being the best damned coach to LeAnn that he could be. But a part of him wanted a shot at being more than her coach. He just didn’t want to risk being a distraction, because winning was what she wanted more than anything. He wanted that for her too. All he had to do was keep her safe while she achieved it.
Chapter Seven
Dylan went back to the barn to check on Lola one last time. The lights were still on even though most of the crowd had gone home. He wondered who the hell was still here. He hadn’t counted on having company. If he had wanted to chit-chat, he would have gone to a bar. He was surprised, however, that the two men in the barn weren’t cowboys. They were suits. They weren’t actually wearing suits, but their Levi’s were bright blue, and crisply pressed. Their shirts were clean, unwrinkled white Oxford shirts, with real silver bolo lariats around their necks studded with shiny stones. Since they were nowhere near his horse, Dylan figured he’d just ignore them, but they looked up when he entered the barn.
“Dylan Porter, good to see you.” The man with the onyx bolo tie came over to him, holding out his hand. He looked like a cross between a used car salesman and a mafia hitman. He had slicked-back hair and an easy grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
Dylan had no idea who the hell this was, but he forced a smile and shook the man’s hand anyway. “It’s too nice of a night to be hanging out in a barn,” Dylan said, hoping for some context clues on who these guys were.
“I’m just giving Mr. Hickory a tour of some of our athletes,” Onyx Bolo said, patting a horse on the neck.
Mr. Hickory, whose bolo tie had what looked to be real turquoise on it, piped up, “We just came from seeing the bulls. Mean sons of bitches, aren’t they?”
“Not usually,” Dylan said. “Not this time of night, anyway.”
“Well, that’s probably because they don’t have a rope around their balls like they do when they’re in the chute.”
Dylan didn’t know who Mr. Hickory was, but it was obvious he was an idiot and knew nothing about bull riding. “The rope doesn’t go around their balls. It goes around their back haunches. And that’s not what causes them to kick and fuss. They’re bred to do that.”
“Maybe not up here, but I’m more familiar with those Mexican fighting bulls. Those sons of bitches are ornery and mean as hell.”
“Yeah, they are.”
“But I would be too if I had a rope around my balls.”
Dylan wasn’t going to argue. It wasn’t as if this man was ever going to get on a bull anyway. As long as he wasn’t from PETA or another animal activist group, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t Dylan’s job to defend the rodeo circuit. He turned away to check on Lola’s food and water and to murmur a few words of encouragement. He was relieved to see that Lola’s eyes were no longer clouded in pain. At least one of them would be resting comfortably tonight.
“So how you feel about your chances in Fort Worth next week?” Mr. Hickory said.
“I’m going to win,” Dylan said. Was there another answer to that question?
“Good. I placed a bet on you. Don’t lose me money now.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“If you want, you can give me some money and I’ll put in a bet for you on your behalf. You could earn some extra cash that way.”
Wasn’t a bad idea. Once LeAnn’s tuition cleared, he’d have a thousand dollars. It would be nice to double that.
“Now, Mr. Hickory, you know that’s against the MPRC’s rules,” Onyx Bolo said.
Was it?
Dylan had never bothered to check the handbook they’d given him when he first started traveling the circuit. But apparently Onyx Bolo was a corporate shill.
“Jackson, don’t be such a stick in the mud,” Mr. Hickory said.
Dylan stiffened. Jackson? Jackson Blevins? Great. He was in the barn with the chief executive officer of the Men’s Professional Rodeo Circuit of America. If that wasn’t an invitation to get the hell out of here, nothing was.
