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.
Tyler’s head came up off the pillow as the beating sound intensified, but he was having trouble opening his eyes. When he finally pried one lid open, he realized that someone was knocking on the trailer door. Short intense raps that seemed to echo in his head.
“Get that, would you?” Jess called from the back of the trailer. He sounded the way Ty felt. Like crap.
“Yeah.” The word croaked out of his throat. “Coming,” he yelled as he shoved his legs into his jeans.
He heard the sound of retreating footsteps as he approached the door, stumbling over his boots on the way. Whoever had been at the door was leaving, but since he was now vertical and semidressed, he figured he may as well see who the visitor was. Pushing open the door, he stepped out onto the small landing his brother had built out of scrap lumber. Skye Larkin was walking toward her car, which was parked where his pickup would be if he hadn’t left it at the Shamrock and caught a ride home with Blaine.
“Hey.”