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Dalton couldn’t imagine it. He loved the old homestead, and he missed his momma, but he’d never had anyone special to go home to. His twin was right here on the road, and so was—everyone else.

Everyone but the babies, the dogs, and Momma, and they were home, where they belonged. One day he hoped he had… something. Something to be home for that wasn’t his siblings or the rodeo. He’d thought Rocket might have been that, for about six seconds of an eight-second ride, but they hadn’t even managed to ride each other long enough to deserve a score on the leaderboard, not in the grand scheme of things.

Fuck.

He grabbed what was left of his beer. “Gonna call it a night, boys.”

“We’re not playing for lunch, Dee? You quit now, you’re paying by default.” Dustin grinned at him.

His ass hit the seat again. “Not happening. Bring it on.”

“That’s what I thought.” Dustin tossed the dice into the cup and started shaking.

Yeah, yeah. He needed to stay and be social. He could go nurse his butt-hurt alone anytime.

Shit, what did he have to be a bitch about? He was here. He was with his people.

And, hell, there wasn’t a thing wrong with having Tank Martin’s hard body to admire under the brim of his hat.

Chapter Seven

SUNDAYS WEREalways a huge contradiction. The mornings were lazy as hell if a man didn’t go to the cowboy church service, and Tank was a praying man who felt like being out under the sun was his way of communing with his Lord.

It was also short-go day, and that was a busy damn afternoon. But it was 9:00 a.m., and Tank had coffee and a sausage biscuit, and he was in heaven watching Dalton Jakoby work the two horses he hadn’t been riding this weekend.

Tank thought it was a little like watching one of them half-man, half-horse beasts from a myth. Dalton was shirtless, wearing jeans and boots and a beat-to-hell hat, settled in the middle like he’d been born to ride.

The man had core muscles. Ripped, delineated, sheened-with-sweat abs. Tank was drooling, and it wasn’t the biscuit.

Dalton was using nothing but his legs, throwing out one loop after another so the horse didn’t shy away from the rope. Man and horse worked together, and every time the big mare hesitated, Dalton talked her into the move, low-voiced and crooning instead of barking orders.

“He’s got a way with them, doesn’t he? More than any of us except for my dad.” Denver leaned against the fence, shaking his head. “I swear that boy was born in the saddle.”

“I think so. He’s amazing.” Now Tank felt like a perv, watching Dalton with the man’s daddy right there.

“He is. You happy to be back, still? Not bored?”

“Not one bit.” He grinned. “I know it’s a lot less time on the arena floor, but I got plenty to do in-between. I actually feel busier here.”

“Well, in a small getup like this, we all have more jobs. Doc says Greg had a broke rib? He doing okay?”

“He’s mad I tattled on him to Dustin, but he’s breathing better for it being taped up.” That was his job, taking care of the other guys.

“He’s got the same panties to get glad in.”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “I reckon Greg likes to be grumpy. He’s always rumbling about something.”

“Some folks are like that.” Denver sighed. “I’ll be glad to get out of here. There’s something ugly about the air. Something unfriendly for a Sunday.”

“Been a weird couple of weeks up here, huh?” That fight with Dalton and the one rider…. Well, Tank was keeping his eyes peeled.

“It has. Uncomfortable. It happens sometimes. We hit a place we don’t belong.”

“Yessir.” That had happened way more on the bull riding tour. “I ever tell you about that casino in Connecticut?”

“You didn’t. Share.”

“Well, we was all standing around talking about how nice the weather was up there in October,” he said, giving Denver his best grimace-grin. “And these fancy-assed boys in an SUV wanted our parking spot.”