A Bull Rider To Depend On. Jeannie Watt

urge to tell Skye the whole truth. To tell her what her husband was like on the road. To tell her that gambling wasn’t the only vice Mason indulged in.

      But angry as he was, he couldn’t do that to her.

      He also couldn’t handle being in her presence any longer. “You want to hide behind a lie? Fine. Have a good life, Skye.” The words came out bitterly, as if he cared in some way about what she thought, but he didn’t.

      “You, too,” Skye said in a stony voice, before walking past him, her heels tilting in the gravel as she made her way around his truck. She was almost directly in front of the vehicle when she stopped dead in her tracks.

      Ty followed her line of vision and instantly saw the problem. One of her horses was down, next to the water trough, and from the way it was lying with its neck stretched out and its head at an odd angle, he didn’t think it was napping. He got back out of his truck at the same moment that Skye started running toward the pasture in her heels.

      He might be angry. He might have been happy to never see Skye again. But no way was he going to drive away when she had a horse down.

      The horse needed help even if Skye didn’t.

       Chapter Four

      Mr. Joe lay stretched out on the ground next to the water tank, and even as Skye raced toward him, she knew it was too late. She slid to a stop close to his head, dropping to her knees in the dirt and reaching out to stroke his face. His eye came open and rolled up at her. He blinked once and shut his eyes again as he gave a rattling breath.

      “No, no, no.” Skye barely registered what she was saying as she stroked his ears and then wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against him, pulling in his scent. This day had been coming. Mr. Joe hadn’t been able to hold weight for the past year, despite her best efforts and bags and bags of senior horse chow, but, dignified gentleman that he was, he’d never shown any sign of weakness or pain. He’d eaten what he could and spent his days ambling around the pasture, hanging with his best buddy, Pepper, or just sleeping in the sun.

      Tyler dropped down beside her, checking the horse’s pulse at his throat and then running a gentle hand over the animal’s jowl as his gaze traveled over the horse’s bony frame.

      “How old?”

      “Twenty-eight.” The words stuck in Skye’s throat. She swallowed and said, “I knew it was coming, but I’m not ready yet.” As if she’d ever be ready.

      She jerked her gaze away from Tyler’s before tears could form. Why did he have to be here for this? But he was here and her horse was dying and she had to deal. Again she rested her cheek against her old gentleman’s neck and squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out. Denying. She felt the last breath. Felt him go still, but she did not move. Could not move. Mr. Joe had been with her since she was ten. He’d been her 4-H horse, her very slow rodeo horse, her friend, confidant. Companion. After Mason had died, she’d spent hours grooming the old gelding, talking to him, mourning his weight loss and the inevitable, but loving him while he was there to love.

      Now the inevitable had happened, and another big hole opened up in her heart.

      Tears now soaked the old horse’s mane, and her cheek felt grimy from the pasture dust sticking to it. She blinked hard again, then pushed back onto her knees, small rocks biting into her flesh as she ran her hand over the gelding’s soft coat one more time.

      She knew Tyler stood a few feet away now, but she kept her eyes on the horse. He’d best not try to touch her, comfort her. She didn’t need other people to help her deal with her loss. She was a master.

      And there was always the fear that she would break down if she had the luxury of human contact as she mourned. When she’d lost Mason, people had gathered near, helping in any way they could, while she was still numb, still going through the motions. It wasn’t until she was once again alone that the pain had ripped through her, burning in its intensity as she faced an empty ranch, empty house, empty bed.

      Tyler moved a few steps toward her, then stopped as she shot him a look.

      He let out a breath, pressed his lips together. There were lines of strain on his face, as if he wasn’t certain what to say or do. There was nothing he could say or do. Her horse was gone, and he was there when she didn’t want him to be.

      “Do you want me to call Jess?”

      “Why?”

      “He’s better with the backhoe than I am.”

      The backhoe. He was going to help her bury Mr. Joe. “I...uh...” She wiped the back of her hand across her damp, sticky cheeks, then lifted her chin as new tears threatened. “I’ll call Cliff.” Her five-mile-down-the-road neighbor.

      Tyler’s expression hardened. “Or Jess and I could bury your gelding.”

      “I’m not trying to be ungrateful.” But it was her right at the moment as grief once again wrapped around her.

      “You just want me off the property. I get it. Wish granted.” He turned and headed toward his truck.

      * * *

      TYLER SMACKED THE steering wheel with the heel of his hand as he waited at the crossroad for a slow-moving cattle truck. Always the bad guy. He was getting pretty sick of being the bad guy—especially when he hadn’t done anything. Okay, he’d purposely defied Skye, but not in a way meant to do her harm. Everybody partied while on the road, and Mason would have been as likely to stay in his hotel room when everyone else was having a grand old time as he would have been likely to quit bull riding to become an accountant.

      Tyler pulled out onto the gravel road, debating about whether to call Jess and tell him to go bury the old horse, or whether to let Skye handle it on her own. He’d hated leaving her alone, but it seemed as if staying would have made her even more unhappy.

      He’d tried to be nice. Twice. He was done.

      Jess wasn’t there when he got home after a quick stop at the grocery store.

      He let himself into the unlocked trailer, set down the bags and opened the tiny cupboard next to the stove. There was a reason he was eating out more than he should. It was hard to cook in the camp trailer, and even harder to keep enough food on hand. He had to step over his gear as he made his way to the kitchen, so he stopped and pushed it out of his way with his foot as best he could. He wasn’t crazy neat, like his brother, but even he was getting tired of stepping over and around everything in order to move through their living space.

      He had to get out of there while he and his brother were still on speaking terms—that was a given. His first event was in two weeks, but sometimes he had his doubts as to whether they would last that long. Jess was a peaceful guy, but even he had his limits, and living in close contact with his twin was pushing them. Tyler opened the cupboard, then closed it again and leaned his forehead against the fake wood.

      When a guy was a winner, he shouldn’t feel so much like a loser. What was he doing here in this tiny trailer, making his brother feel cramped and uncomfortable?

      Ty shoved the full bag of perishables into the fridge and then left the trailer. He needed to move, try to shake this thing that kept bothering him...whatever that thing was.

      It took him only a few miles of road to pinpoint the thing.

      Being wrongly accused. He hadn’t tried to keep Mason on the straight and narrow, but he hadn’t encouraged him to stray either. Not in gambling, nor in any other way. He’d just been a friend. Someone to party with. If it hadn’t been him, then it would have been someone else. Mason rode hard and played hard. As far as he knew, he was a good husband to Skye—except for when he wasn’t.

      The parking lot at the Shamrock was full. Tyler parked close to his usual spot in the wide gravel parking lot behind the building but didn’t get out of the truck immediately. Did he want to socialize?

      The