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Tank chuckled. “I wasn’t sure what event I would get here, hon. I kept getting contract bullshit from the big show.” Not that those folks hadn’t been great. They had.

“Well, I’m tickled shitless to have you home. I can’t wait to hear all the stories.”

“There are a shit-ton.” Tank had a feeling he would be telling them for days. Good thing he was a champion bullshitter. He did love to spin a good yarn.

“You working tomorrow? Have you talked to the team?”

“Not yet, and yeah, I’m supposed to be. Jonah went to work with the Cervis for a while.” Jonah Park was a great bullfighter, but he preferred working the big stock shows and staying home with his new baby twins more.

“Ah. Yeah, those baby boys are calling his name. Have a seat, you. The twins have dealt with the assholes.”

“Thanks.” He grabbed a folding lawn chair. He needed to reoutfit his trailer some when he picked it up. He’d gotten spoiled sleeping in hotels.

He had to admit, there was something deeply happy-making about this, though. This wasn’t an after-party or eating with a ton of fans staring at you while you tried to get enough meat off the buffalo wings at Hooters to satisfy your empty belly.

This was grills and beer and everyone he knew. He scanned the crowd of cowboys and cowgirls, refamiliarizing himself with faces and playing the name game.

Every so often, someone would come and sit, then wander. Finally it was Mr. Denver who settled in next to him like a king on a throne.

“Evenin’, Mr. Martin. Glad you made it.”

“Thank you, sir.” He nodded easily. “So am I. Been a long while.”

“Yes. You did good. Still, I’m happy to have you back.” Denver Jakoby—hell, all the Jakobys—were fiercely loyal, totally focused on their family, blood and not.

“It’s good to be back.” It was too. His shoulders and neck already felt better, his whole body more relaxed. At the risk of sounding like a whiny baby, there was a lot more pressure up at the big show. The bulls were faster, the riders were worth more money, and the cameras followed a man everywhere.

“Things here haven’t changed much. I mean, I’m spending more time at home. Linda has her hands full with Darius and Dakota…. Lord have mercy. The boys and Deb have been dealing with a ton of the dailies so I can beat teenagers.”

“Teenagers. Good God, boss.” He gave Denver a mock-horrified look. “You mean Dalton and Dustin aren’t teenagers anymore?”

Denver snorted. “No, sir. Those boys have grown up good. Different in how they work, for all they’re twins too, and thank God for it.”

“Good deal. You can use the help.” Tank scanned the ever-changing crowd again, idly hunting the twins.

They showed up together, backlit, both of them strutting like bull riders, so sure of their place in the world that it hurt.

Tank stared when they walked into the light. Dalton stood on the left. Tank would know that tanned face anywhere, even though he supposedly looked just like Dustin. Holy shit and Shinola, look at that.

That wasn’t the skinny little pimpled teen who had come on to him after a stolen beer one night.

Shit no.

Dalton was the fucking vision of cowboy—jaw like chiseled granite, roper’s scar on the corner of one lip, eyes like chips of blue ice in the dim light. He stood there, hipshot, and was pure muscle, a lean little stud of a man in Wranglers.

Tank’s heartbeat kicked up a little. Christ. “Definitely all grown.”

The boys came over to them, Dalton right there in front of him, like a candy store.What the actual fuck?

“Hey, son.” Denver said it like they were one person. “How’s it going?”

“All dealt with, Pops,” Dalton said, and Dustin nodded.

“Beer, Dee?”

“Please, Bubba.” Dalton nodded to Dustin, offered him a conspiratorial grin.

“You got it.” Dustin headed for the coolers, and Dalton sat near Tank.