Dillon closed his eyes so hard they stung. Bad. “I’m scared, Coke.”
“Shh. Ain’t nothing to be scairt of. I got your back, always.” Coke sounded as if he was a hundred years old, but that torn-up hand petted his head, his back.
“I know. I know, babe.” Dillon did get it. He’d made things worse for Coke, he knew, but the man had never taken it out on him. Not once.
That rock-solid body held him, surrounded him like he was the most precious thing on fucking earth.
His muscles hurt. His bones hurt. Sam Bell was just about the epitome of what was best in bull riding, and if he didn’t recover, Dillon didn’t know how they’d all deal with it. And Beau. Beau had to get up and ride one more time.
He heard Coke’s voice—shaky and soft, praying hard like he did over each and every fallen man. His Coke believed that there was a god who cared and protected and forgave cowboys. Dillon said a little prayer, too, that Coke stayed strong and made itthrough the day tomorrow without getting any more hurt. Lord, Doc was going to be mad about that hand.
It was Coke’s warmth that started leaching the tension away, that solid heat that meant home to Dillon.
A yawn took him, and Dillon stopped watching the clock, the one on the nightstand that didn’t have an alarm that worked.
Coke had him, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter Two
“You ready, Hoss?” Nate looked like three-day moldy shit.
“Yeah, Nattie. Lafitte here yet?” Coke couldn’t warm up, much—he was so fucking stiff.
He’d gotten a little crazy last night. Hell, Mac was still puking, and Coop… Well, he’d woke up to Coop banging on the hotel room door, the man’s lady having ousted him.
“He’s in the locker room, yeah. Looks… Well.” Nate’s mouth went flat line.
“Okay. Gonna go see him. Gonna chat.” He met Nattie’s eyes. “Twelve rides. That’s it. Please, God, no re-rides today, huh?”
“Yeah. Yeah, not today.” Nattie’s lips kept moving for a moment, praying.
He leaned in, took Nate’s hand, and they prayed together, then he headed back to the locker room, needing to see that familiar hat. “Cajun? You here?”
“Yeah.” Beau was sitting there on one of the benches in splendid solitude, hands hanging between his knees. “Hey, cher.”
“You holdin’ up?” He went to sit close. If the man didn’t want him, Beau’d say.
“I don’t know.” Beau raised his head, eyes hollow under the brim of the hat. “I just got to ride.”
“You will. I’ll be there. We been praying for him.” He wanted to just get on his knees and beg Beau to forgive him.
“I know.” Beau’s hands unclenched, and one of them landed on his shoulder. “It ain’t your fault, cher. It ain’t.”
“He’s gonna pull through and come back to you.” Coke had to believe that. Had to.
“That’s what Doc says. Says he can tell after the surgery if a bull rider is gonna give up or come back.” Those blue eyes glittered at him. “Who’s gonna pull my rope, Coke?”
“Balta is. He loves Sam. He’ll take care of you.”
“He’s a good guy.” They sat like that, just quiet, until a couple of the older cowboys came in. Biscuit. Hank.
Biscuit stared at Beau. “You look like shit, Lafitte. Want a smoke?”
“Yeah. I think I do.” Beau squeezed his shoulder. “Be back in a few.”
Hank took Beau’s place, long old legs completely different from Beau’s stubby ones. “Hell of a thing, Coke. Are we gettin’ old?”
“You know it.” He felt about as old as he ever had, right now. “You make the short go?”
