proven himself to be an honorable man. The wreck on No Man’s Land hadn’t changed that. If anything, it had made Travis, the bull rider, more fascinating. He’d survived something that would have killed a lesser man and come back for more. Clearly, he was something more.
He was an honorable man who didn’t want her to ride.
Fine. That was the way it was. He was another man she had to prove wrong. The only difference was, she was attracted to this man. And that was a problem. When Red hit on her, he was trying to put her in her place—let her know she was nothing more than a girl among men. But Travis? He took her need to ride as a personal insult.
All the more reason for her to get on a bull in two days’ time.
Finally, she spotted Apollo Coffee Shop. Coffee shops usually had free Wi-Fi. Free was the important point.
Jackpot! She had a connection. She parked as far away from the building as she could while maintaining the link.
It had taken a lot of planning to get permission to finish her final semester online. She’d taken several courses out of order, and curried serious favor with important professors to make sure the chips would fall in her favor. She’d even invited the Native Studies chair to a tribal wedding and funeral so that he could document indigenous ceremonies firsthand.
If there was one thing June hated, it was being documented.
But it had paid off. She would finish her final eighteen credit hours online. She’d left campus during spring break and driven to the Illinois rodeo to twist Mort’s arm into letting her on the TCB Ranger Circuit.
That had been the deal. Her boss, Joseph Yellow Robe, and the Real Pride Ranch he owned, would kick in the seed money if—and only if—she finished college. He hadn’t been happy about her long-distance learning plan, but she’d convinced him that the sooner she got on a professional bull and earned enough money to live above the poverty line, the sooner she’d be able to get back into the classroom as a teacher.
Right after she finished this paper.
After her quick purchase, with green tea in one hand, iced water for Jeff in the other, she settled back into her seat. The car was a disaster zone, what with Jeff shedding on the sleeping bag in the back and two days of fast-food wrappers all over the place, but it was easier to think about the New American Frontier out here than inside where hipsters and past-their-prime yuppies blew wads of cash she didn’t have on organic, shade-grown, fair-trade coffee.
At least tonight, she could crash at a friend of a friend’s—if they were home. No one had picked up the phone yet.
“Could be another night in the car,” she muttered. Another in a long string of nights in the car. On hot nights, Jeff slept on the floor, legs twitching as he chased prairie dogs and jackrabbits in his sleep. On cold nights, he hefted his bulk onto the backseat with her. “We can handle the car, right, boy?” The only response she got was his wet nose on the center console, and the thump of his tail in the back. At least one male liked her.
She dove into her work.
* * *
FOUR HOURS LATER, June was far more interested in getting a third cup of tea than in the sociopolitical tensions of the New Frontier. All she could do was watch the people and hope her eyeballs uncrossed sometime soon.
Even from the parking lot, the people-watching was good. Mesquite was a hopping place at rush hour. Standard pickups dominated the traffic, but there were also minivans and sedans.
Traffic hadn’t just picked up at the intersection. People were pouring into the Apollo drive-thru. Still, the actual parking lot was fairly empty. Not another car within four spaces.
Until a Bronco that sounded like it had left its muffler by the side of some dirt road pulled in three spaces down from her. The windows were tinted, but the passenger’s was down, and what sounded like old-fashioned country music wafted toward June. She had a clear view of the occupants and darn it, she couldn’t help taking a look.
The passenger removed his cowboy hat. The dark hair, the carved jaw—was that the Brazilian?
June watched in shock as the Brazilian leaned over and apparently kissed the heck out of someone. That someone was kissing him right back. She could only see the back of the Brazilian, but hands were everywhere as the two threw caution to the wind.
What little she knew of the guy said he wasn’t the kind who made out in the front seat of a Bronco in a parking lot. She knew she shouldn’t look, but she couldn’t stop. The kiss went on and on. And on.
She looked away to blot out the hot and heavy next door, and found herself thinking about the glimpses she’d had of Travis Younkin unbuckling his pants behind a see-through gate.
Not that she’d seen much—all the guys wore compression shorts underneath their jeans for support—but still, he’d been a whole lot closer to naked than he had been when the jeans were up. She’d seen the tail end of a wide, raised scar just below the bottom of his shorts. It’d made her hurt for him.
Despite the scar, he’d still had the kind of Wrangler butt cowgirls sang songs about. His legs were muscled, the tight bike shorts highlighting each curve—and bulge. Not that she was the kind of girl who stared at bulges. Not for very long, anyway. Just enough to know that he bulged in all the right places. Combined with the intense way he looked at her and that near-beard he wore? If she wasn’t so mad at his overbearing, Travis-knows-best attitude, she’d be forced to admit that the man was hot. Well, he’d always been hot. But now he carried a certain amount of smolder about him. She wondered if he even realized how attractive he was. Probably not. He hadn’t acted like a man who knew he could turn a woman on with one focused gaze.
Luckily, the chances of someone forcing her to admit that Travis Younkin still had it were slim and none. She couldn’t let her appreciation of the hotter things in life distract her. And she wouldn’t. She needed to ride to earn enough money to get off—and stay off—welfare, but more than that she wanted to prove she was good enough to ride with the big boys.
That she was good at something.
Finally, the action in the Bronco broke up. When the Brazilian turned to put his hat back on, she hoped to hell she was invisible. That didn’t stop her from watching the Brazilian in her rearview mirror as he walked into Apollo, next to—
Next to a tall, gangly cowboy?
Mitch?
Mitch Jenner?
June spun around in her seat, wondering if her eyes had crossed too far, but the image didn’t change. Two cowboys were walking into Apollo. They weren’t touching—they didn’t even look like they were talking, which was much more par for the course.
The Brazilian? And Mitch?
“Jeff, you stay put,” she said as she shoved her laptop back into her bag and crammed it under the front seat. Within seconds, she was out of the car, trying to look casual as she checked out the Bronco. The Brazilian had left the window down, and it was obvious there was no one else in there.
The Brazilian. And Mitch. Making out in the Apollo parking lot. And then acting like they hadn’t.
What the heck was she supposed to do now? If this were common knowledge, it would be common enough that she’d
