Chapter Seventeen
“S econd thoughts?”
Tucker looked up from the bridle he’d been cleaning and over to where Jackson was wielding a hoof pick on the left front hoof of the cantankerous Splatter.
The piebald was named for the unusual splash of black with smaller spots that looked exactly like someone had thrown a bucket of paint at him—and Tucker could see why someone would.
The pinto tried to dance away yet again as Jackson waited for an answer. Tucker tried to steer the conversation in a harmless direction.
“You talking to me, or yourself?”
Jackson gave him a sideways look, then looked at the big, black and white horse, then back to Tucker again. He let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Yeah, yeah, remind me again how I fell for the pretty colors.”
“Nah,” Tucker said. “You just wanted him for Jeremy, because he looks like Pie.”
“True,” Jackson said. “But right now he’s not allowed anywhere near my son.”
“Maybe you need to call in Logan again.”
“No maybe about it,” Jackson muttered. “This clown needs a lot more of that whispering of his.”
He wrestled with the horse long enough to finish clearing the pebble the animal had gotten wedged in his hoof, then released the leg and straightened up.
He tossed the hoof pick back into the open box of grooming tools next to the stall door, untied the fractious pinto and led him into the stall.
He stepped back out, closed the lower half of the door, and only then reached up to unhook the lead rope.
He’d learned, obviously, that leaving the halter on the animal made it easier for next time.
Then he turned to face Tucker and began again. “You know darn well that’s not what I meant. I was asking you if you were having second thoughts.”
Tucker grimaced. He’d been hoping Jackson would drop it. No such luck. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I’m having a lot of second thoughts right now.”
“About being the rodeo star tomorrow, or talking to Lily Highwater? Or maybe not grabbing the chance to ask Emily Stratton for a date when you had the chance?”
Tucker straightened up, staring at his closest friend. “Did Nic put you up to this?”
Jackson shrugged. “She might have suggested that last part. The rest I figured out all by my lonesome.”
Tucker checked the lid on the can of leather oil, just because it gave him something to do. Then he put it back in the toolbox, shoving the cleaning rag he’d been using into his back pocket.
“Tuck?”
Letting out a disgusted breath Tucker turned to face him.
“What do you want me to say? That I’m surprised they wanted me to pull the trigger at the rodeo?
I am. That I’m wondering what on earth made me say yes to that reporter?
And once I did, wondering what made me pour my guts out like that? I am. I’m wondering all of that.”
“And Emily?”
“Don’t start, man.”
“Nic says she’s wonderful. Besides being beautiful, she’s honest, sweet, caring, and the list went on but I can’t remember,” he finished rather lamely. “And there, I kept my promise that I’d tell you how great she is. In case you hadn’t figured that out on your own.”
“That’s the problem,” Tucker muttered. “I did figure it out. She’s all those things. And more. Plus she was born and raised here, led a straight-arrow life, happy, mostly carefree, is still tight with her folks, all that. She’s the all-American dream girl.”
Jackson frowned. “And your point?”
“My point is we have absolutely nothing in common.”
Jackson studied him for a long, silent moment.
Tucker braced himself. A lot of people had at first assumed Jackson was just another self-absorbed actor, good at pretending he was someone else, but not much more.
But Tucker knew better, knew that one of the things that made Jackson so good on screen was his ability to observe and interpret what he saw in others.
And when he finally spoke, there was such knowing in his voice it made Tucker wince inwardly.
“And yet you look at her like I’ve never seen you look at another woman. Ever.”
He supposed it was probably true. Because he’d never felt that kind of instant reaction before. But that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it. He’d already poured his guts out enough for one week, and the way he was regretting that should be a clue not to do it again.
Not even to his best friend.
He scrambled for a distraction. “I gaped at Swiffer’s red Ferrari, too.
” Of course that had been more at the stereotype of the wealthy producer buying the flashy sports car to compensate for aging, balding, and generally letting himself go, rather than for the car itself. “Didn’t mean I wanted one.”
But wanting Emily? Oh, yeah, he could manage that.
“Felix Swiff is the one thing I don’t miss most about Hollywood,” Jackson said dryly, and Tucker dared to hope his diversion had worked.
“Dad! Dad!”
Well, that diversion will work.
He smiled as he thought it. How could he not when he saw how Jackson’s face lit up as he spun around to see Jeremy racing toward him.
He’d seen it countless times now, but when the boy never wavered but ran full tilt, and with full faith, and Jackson swept the boy up into his arms in one practiced move, he felt that little twinge inside.
All his happiness for these two seemed to be tinged with regret that it was likely he’d never know that kind of love.
And he hated feeling like that. Wished he was a better man, good enough to simply be glad his friend had found such peace and joy again.
And then Nic was there, and his emotions shifted to gratitude that she hadn’t walked in on their conversation a few minutes ago. All she’d need to do was realize they’d been talking about Emily Stratton, and she’d be off and running. And he’d be dodging.
And then she hit him with it before he even said hello.
“Emily was there for Jeremy again,” Nic told Jackson. “She’s so sweet about looking out for him.”
“An’ we invited her and Lobo to come out and play,” Jeremy said enthusiastically.
Tucker blinked. Flicked a glance at Jackson, who gave him a “Don’t look at me, I didn’t do it,” look.
“Lobo ’n’ Mav will have lots of fun. We could go up to the pool, and they can play in the water.” He shifted his gaze to his father. “Can we, Dad?”
“As long as it’s not at the same time as we have a therapy session,” Jackson said, his voice very serious. “You’re the ambassador for Thorpe’s Therapy Horses , after all.”
“What’s a ’bassador?”
“It means,” Nic said at the boy, grinning as she reached out and teasingly tweaked his nose, “that you’re the front man, the one everyone comes to see and talk to.”
“Nah, that’s Dad. He’s the famous one.” Jeremy looked over at Tucker. “Him and Uncle T.”
Tucker swallowed hard before he said, “But you’re the one who can show them it all works, that the horses will help them. That’s the most important thing, for those kids who feel like you felt.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened in understanding, and Tucker knew he’d somehow found the right words.
“Oh,” the boy said. “I better be here then.”
“Yep, you’d better,” Jackson said, but his gaze was on Tucker, sending a silent thank you.
“But now I gotta go see Maverick,” he said, squirming to get down. “I want to tell him Lobo’s gonna come.”
“Yes, you do,” Nic agreed as Jackson set the boy down. “I’m sure he’s missed you. He always mopes around until you get home.”
The boy looked worried then. “I better run.”
“You do that,” Jackson said with a laugh, but the boy was already racing toward the barn.
“That was nicely put,” Nic said, and Tucker was surprised to see she was looking at him.
“It was,” Jackson confirmed. “You made him feel really good.”
Tucker shrugs. “He makes me feel good.”
He meant it, he realized, in a rather new-to-him way.
Because he felt as if he were a part of something that had a deeper meaning.
It wasn’t the roar of the Sunday crowd at a rodeo, it wasn’t the raging success of a TV show, this was real, down to the bone, sometimes painfully real.
He was helping to help kids going through hell.
A hell he was all too familiar with.