Page 9 of Rough Stock
“Yeah, that’s a problem. Bet you could find a place with the facilities and stock. But if you don’t start working at both ends of the arena, you’ll never get into a position to win any world championships,” he said, referring to the roping events at one end and rough stock events at the other. Most world championships required that the cowboy be proficient in both areas.
Shyanna laughed aloud. “World championships? I’d settle for making a living!”
“Oh, I really don’t think that’s going to be a problem. Want some chips?” he asked and when she nodded, he picked up the bag, opened it, and sat down on the sofa beside her. They both reached into the bag at the same time and when they did, the backs of their hands brushed together. The feel of her skin against his made Jensen jump.
“Oh, sorry!” she said, her face reddening.
Before he could filter his words, Jensen said, “I’m not.”
There was an awkwardness between them until Shyanna asked, “What do you want from me, Jensen? It’s not a riding partner. I don’t understand why you’re being so nice to me.”
“Honestly?” She nodded in reply. “Well, at first I felt sorry for you. I mean, you looked a bit forlorn at the bar last night. But now? I’m just, I don’t know, it makes me furious the way the other guys are treating you. It’s plain to see that you’ve worked hard to get where you are, and they’re so damn threatened byyou. I don’t get it. If you’re threatened by somebody, then work harder. Don’t blame them. They treat you like shit and you haven’t done a damn thing wrong.”
“Yeah, I have. I don’t have a penis,” she said plainly, and it was Jensen’s turn to blush. “Well, I don’t,” she said, and he knew she could see the redness on his face. God knew he could feel it. “That’s my only crime.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
How to say it?Jensen thought.Oh, hell, just be straight with her. “Are you a lesbian?”
Her eyes popped open so wide that he thought her eyeballs might shoot out across the room. “Hell no! Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but no, I’m not. Do I put out that vibe?”
“No! Not at all. It’s just that some of the guys…” he said, trailing off. He really didn’t want to repeat what some of them had said.
“Oh, I bet they’ve been calling me a dyke, haven’t they?” she asked, her lips pursed in disgust.
“Yeah,” Jensen answered with a nod.
“I get that a lot. That and tranny. It’s gotten kinda old,” she said, taking the last swallow of her beer. “I suppose this tranny dyke should get out of your hair. We’ve both got laundry to do.”
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Jensen didn’t want her to go, but he couldn’t think of a reason for her to stay. “Well, uh, okay. I’ll probably see you at the laundromat.”
“Yep. I bet you do. Thanks for the beer.” She stood and made her way to the door, and when her hand touched the knob, her gaze went back to him. “I like you, Jensen. I know I said it before, but thanks for being nice to me.”
“You’re easy to be nice to,” he said, rising to see her off. “Talk to you later.”
“I’ll be around. Bye.” With that, she closed the door behind her and Jensen was alone.
He lay down on the sofa, so tall that his feet stuck off the end over the armrest, and he closed his eyes. What traveled through his mind as he lay there startled him.
He saw Shyanna, but in a completely different way. She was tall, at least five feet and nine inches, and he supposed she was what his mother would call “lanky,” but she was proportioned beautifully. She had a sturdy look about her, and there was nothing skinny about her. Everywhere his mind went, she had a curve, and every one of them was luscious. Her skin was creamy and smooth, and those blue eyes… they were positively luminous. All he’d seen of her hair was the braid, but it was blond like a palomino, and he wondered what it would look like loose and falling around her shoulders. And lord, she was stacked. Nice round hips and good-sized breasts. From there, his mind went in the usual direction as he wondered what she’d look like without those clothes, or at least in something more feminine than jeans and long-sleeved button-down shirts, the standard attire of the rodeo world. He was six three. She could wear heels around him and it would be easy to kiss her.
What the fuck is wrong with me?he asked himself. Thinking of kissing Shyanna was probably a really bad thing to do, the absolute last thing he should do. He was pretty surethatwould never happen. And before he could stop himself, his thoughts went to Colleen.
He’d loved that woman so much. They’d met his junior year of college in SouthCarolina and been inseparable for years. They’d dated forever. His parents loved her. Her parents loved him. At twenty-eight and twenty-six, he’d proposed and she’d seemed over the moon. They decided to wait until he turned thirty to marry. She’d landed a great job with the hospital as a nurse anesthetist, and he and his Master’s degree had beenhired at the university to teach agricultural sciences and coach their rodeo team. Everything was perfect, from their jobs to their house to their future children, the ones they’d planned to have as soon as they’d been married a year.
Her parents had spent over ten thousand dollars on their wedding. The cake alone was twenty-five hundred. The venue was booked, the dresses and tuxedos ordered, “save the date” cards were sent out followed by invitations, musicians were hired, a sit-down dinner planned and all the RSVPs with entrée preferences logged in, and his parents had arranged a honeymoon for them in Cancun.
The morning of the wedding, he’d called her to tell her good morning, he loved her, and he couldn’t wait to marry her at four o’clock that afternoon. She hadn’t answered.Oh, yeah?they were getting their nails and hair done. Her polish is probably wet, he told himself. At noon, she still hadn’t replied to his message. At two o’clock, her maid of honor called him and said they hadn’t seen her since lunch.
At four o’clock, he’d stood at the front of the church as the organist played, sure she’d just gotten busy with dressing and primping and lost track of time. At four fifteen, Leo had thrown furtive glances at their parents well within Jensen’s line of sight. At four twenty-five, both sets of parents left the sanctuary of the big Lutheran church. And when they came back, both mothers were crying.
Jensen didn’t have to ask. He knew what that meant. Unable to process what was happening, he’d allowed his dad to lead him away through the door that led to the choir loft. There, in the choir rehearsal room amid music books and choir robes, his parents had to tell him the woman he’d planned spend the rest of his life with had taken the airline tickets, and she and a guy named Michael had changed the flight times and boarded aplane to Cancun. He’d been stood up. Jilted. Left behind. And his honeymoon was being enjoyed by another man.
The months following had been a blur. He’d moped for twenty-four hours. Then a spurt of anger hit him, and he rented a large moving truck and started the process of boxing up everything she’d had anything to do with in the house and putting it in the truck. As soon as it was all packed up, he sent it straight to her parents’ house. He’d thought they would show up and beg him to give her another chance when she came back.
They did not.
