One Rodeo Season

Would she still trust him with her name?

Jack stood up and began to stretch. Ian did the same. They’d get loosened up, don their matching work shirts and suffer through the opening rounds of the same tired jokes that the rodeo clowns used at every stop along the way. Then it was time to dance with the devils in the late-summer light.

“She brought that bull I took down last week,” Ian told Jack as he stretched. His back was still tight where he’d pulled it last week. “Rattler.”

“Yeah? The bull wasn’t hurt, was he?”

“Nope. She wouldn’t even let me pay for the vet visit.”

Jack cracked a wide smile. “You be careful. A woman like that doesn’t take crap from anyone—not even the likes of you.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

They went out for the introductions and the opening prayer. The Land of the Misfits, Ian thought. It wasn’t far off. He didn’t fit anywhere else. He had a job back on the Real Pride Ranch and the rez would always be home, but he’d wanted more. He’d thought football was his ticket to the rest of the world, but it hadn’t worked out like that.

He found Lacy. She was behind the arena fence, apart from everyone else. Instead of having her head down in prayer, her hands were clasped as she stared up at the dusk sky. For a woman who was not to be taken lightly, there was something fragile about her that pulled at him.

The fireworks shocked him back to himself. They were all noise and smoke, but they got the crowd energized after Preacher’s solemn prayers for safe rides. Heavy metal music blared through the speakers as the riders got back behind the chutes and began to mount up on their bulls.

He couldn’t think about Lacy right now. Distractions could be deadly. He had to focus on the bulls and the riders. He let the music push him until his adrenaline was flowing and his head was in the game.

Lacy would have to wait.

It was time to go to work.

CHAPTER FIVE

WRECKERATOR WAS NOT in the mood to be ridden. He came flying out of the gate awkwardly, slamming into the chute hard enough that Lacy had to grab onto the top of the gate to keep her balance. The rider had no such luxury—he lost his grip and went down.

The crowd gasped as the rider bounced off the ground. Then Ian and his partner were there. They threw themselves in front of Wreck, arms waving as they shouted at him.

Wreck’s flank strap didn’t fall off, which meant it was still irritating him. He was not the sharpest knife in the drawer and, in his pissed state, he got confused by the noise. Still bucking, he lowered his head and charged at Ian. Lacy held her breath. He wouldn’t try to wrestle Wreck, would he? She wanted to shout at him, but her voice got stuck in the back of her throat and all she could do was watch in horror as Wreck bore down on Ian.

Ian made a stutter step to the right, and then spun left as Wreck blew past him. Lacy leaned forward, trying to see around her bull to where Ian was—had he gotten clipped?

But no. Ian was standing in the middle of the arena, hands on his hips, shaking his head as if Wreckerator—a fourteen-hundred-pound bull—was a naughty child. Lacy felt herself breathe again in relief as the crowd cheered.

Wreck’s flank strap loosened and fell to the ground. Ian’s partner, Jack, danced in front of Wreck, moving toward the open chute that would funnel the bull back to the pens. Wreck charged, but it didn’t have the same murderous intent. When Black Jack dodged, Wreck saw the opening and kept right on going, still kicking up his back heels as he was shunted down the chutes.

“That’ll earn Garth Whitley a reride, folks,” the announcer proclaimed. “And let’s hear it for our dedicated bullfighters Ian Tall Chief and Jack Johnson, ladies and gents! They’re working hard for our riders tonight!”

Both men tipped their hats to the crowd. Lacy couldn’t help but note that the sounds of female voices seemed to drown out male cheers. She realized she was scowling at the crowd and forced herself to stop.

Gah, she was being ridiculous. Ian was a good-looking man—well, they both were. Of course the ladies were going to cheer for them. Bull riders tended to be lightweights and the bullfighters were anything but. Ian and Jack were both well over six feet and even their dorky matching shirts couldn’t disguise their muscles.

Muscles she’d touched. Muscles she’d seen in detail when Ian’s wet T-shirt had clung to his chest.

She shook the image out of her head and wondered how many of the people here had heard about Ian wrestling Rattler to the ground. She’d meant to see if anyone had posted a video, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to walk into her father’s office and turn on the computer, not when the box was still sitting on the desk, exactly where she’d left it. The Straight Arrow was far enough out in the middle of nowhere that Wi-Fi and broadband were still pipe dreams. Dad had sprung for a satellite connection when Lacy had gone to college so she and Mom could email, but Lacy couldn’t get her laptop hooked into the system. Well, she probably could, if she could bring herself to go into the damn office. But she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. She would. Soon.

Besides, she hadn’t had time to do any online digging into Ian Tall Chief in the first place. Murph, her hired hand, had come down with the flu and Lacy had been doing most of the ranch work herself. The vet had come to preg-check the cows and had looked at Rattler while he was there. After loading a couple of hundred cows into a holding chute, she’d barely been able to do anything other than stumble into the shower and collapse into bed. At least she’d slept. She had that going for her.

Lacy climbed down off the chutes and threaded her way back to the pens to check on Wreck. No one messed with her, not during the rodeo. Bull riders were a superstitious lot. No one wanted to risk her jinxing them before a ride.

She took a deep breath and let the smell of dirt and manure and bulls fill her nose. For a moment, she could be. It was as close to free as Lacy felt these days.

Wreck was safely in his pen, blowing snot on everything and bellowing his dissatisfaction with not getting to crush anyone to death.

“It was a good effort,” she told the bull. “You have to get out of the chute, though. A no-ride doesn’t do either of us any good.”

If only Wreck could get it together—he could be such a good bull. But he was still too green to be reliable.

She headed back up to the front. Chicken was due up soon, and she liked to be near him. Where Wreck was all impatient, Chicken Run had gotten to the point where he’d seen this, done that. After this year, she’d retire him out to the ranch and he’d live out the rest of his bull days among the fawning herds of cows, hopefully making mean little bulls that would grow up to be as rank as their daddy.

That was the plan, anyway. The six months of the season felt like a long time to go.

She watched a few of the other rides from the side of one of the chutes, well away from the rest of the riders. She located Jerome Salzberg on the other side of the chutes. He was in the middle of a crowd and didn’t seem to notice her. That was how she liked it.

But even looking at him caused her to tense up as she remembered the feeling of his breath on her cheek and the trailer biting into her back. She had to be smarter. She knew that. She couldn’t let someone like Jerome or Slim surprise her again and she absolutely couldn’t let anyone get close enough to touch her.

She didn’t have a belt holster for her pistol and she wasn’t sure how she’d feel open-carrying it around. Her father had never needed to pack heat when he traveled. The gun was there in case an animal got injured and had to be put out of its misery. She’d seen it happen a couple of times and it was a hard thing to watch.

Cowgirls didn’t cry. Not in public, anyway.

Ian was in the middle of the arena, bouncing on the balls of his feet. All of his attention was focused on the chutes. She thought it was the same guy who’d nearly gotten crushed by Rattler—until Ian had saved his hide.

Ian really was good—there was a fearlessness about him that she admired. She wished she could be that certain, that confident. Instead, she was going through the motions, hoping everyone else didn’t see how close to the edge of total collapse she really was.

Chicken had a good ride, bucking his rider off at the 6.8 second mark. A better rider would have made the time, but this one committed to the right when he should have gone left.

The moment he’d dumped his rider, Chicken trotted toward the gate. Ian hadn’t even moved during the ride. She hadn’t realized she was staring at him until he looked up and caught her gaze. She could feel heat build on her cheeks, especially when his mouth quirked into a smile. For her.

She didn’t smile back. Yes, Ian had said they were friends. But because he’d said so didn’t make it true. She would not do anything he might take the wrong way. She was smarter than that.

Still...

She touched the brim of her hat in acknowledgment. It was more than a nod, less than a smile. It was the best she could do.

He did the same back.

Not that it mattered. She wasn’t here for Ian. She was here for the bulls. She followed Chicken back to make sure he made it into the pens without a problem, but she didn’t have to worry. The old bull wanted some water and hay.

Part of her thought she should watch the rest of the rides, but part of her wanted to stay back here with the bulls. When she was with the bulls, she didn’t have to worry about sending the “wrong” signals or defending herself or any of that crap. She had to make sure they didn’t step on her. It was easy in its simplicity. Don’t make a mistake. Don’t get crushed.

Rattler was going tomorrow. She hoped like hell he had a good ride. They needed another three-hundred-and-some-odd points before she could start negotiating with the promoters for appearances at the Challenger level.

She climbed into her truck. She had a good view of her trailer and the pen where her bulls were held. She should probably eat dinner. She knew she’d eaten breakfast—the hotel had served doughnuts and coffee, that sort of thing. But she wasn’t sure she’d eaten lunch.

She had the feeling that, if her mom were still alive, she’d give Lacy that look and say, “Honey, I know you can do better than this.” It was Mom’s favorite phrase, one she deployed equally for underwhelming grades or a messy room. And then Dad would say, “Linda, go easy on the girl. She’ll get it next time—won’t you, honey?” And Lacy would nod and promise that next time, she’d do better.

As an only child, Lacy had often thought it was unfair that her mom expected her to be so perfect all the time. But now that Lacy knew the truth...

How much of that prodding had been Mom hedging against Lacy’s true nature?

What was Lacy’s true nature?

The answers were in the box. The box that Lacy couldn’t bring herself to look into again.

She couldn’t ignore that box for the rest of her life. At the very least, she needed to get back into Dad’s office, sort through the bills that were way past due, pull the stock contracts out—that sort of thing. She couldn’t let the box loom over her.

She wouldn’t. Tomorrow, the bulls would buck and she’d load them up and drive home. And this week, she promised herself, she’d go into the office and face the box again.

She would do better. She knew she could.

* * *

TAP, TAP, TAP.

“Lacy?”

She started awake—wait—when had she fallen asleep? She blinked groggily as she tried to remember where she was.

Knocking, again. “Lacy?” the voice repeated, more concerned this time.

She swung her head to the left and saw him. He stood there like some sort of dream—although this time, he wasn’t in a T-shirt, wet or otherwise. He was in a bright blue button-up shirt with white buttons. The sleeves were cuffed, revealing his massive forearms. He had a brown leather strap around one wrist and a brown felt cowboy hat on his head. He looked good, she thought dimly. He’d look better naked, though.

Wait—had that been real?

She rolled down the window and, to her horror, heard herself say, “I liked the wet T-shirt better.” Which was shortly followed by, “Oh, hell—did I say that out loud?”

Ian blinked. “If you did,” he said, giving her an easy out, “I didn’t hear it. You’re not sleeping in this truck alone, are you?”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she lied. “And I have a gun.”

He gave her a look that was probably supposed to be stern, but didn’t quite make it. “Is it still in the glove box?”

“Maybe.” The cobwebs started to clear out of her head.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” he asked. She didn’t much care for his tone. It was too much like the way she’d always imagined big brothers talking to their irritating little sisters.

At least he hadn’t made it sound as if she should be sleeping with him. Even if she might have been dreaming about doing just that. Even though it hadn’t been real, none of it, an image of his mouth closing around her nipple flashed back through her mind. She shuddered. “I have a hotel room.”

He nodded. “Have you eaten today?”

“Yes.” She wasn’t quite sure when. “I know I had breakfast. Doughnuts.”

That got her another irritated big-brother look. “I’ll buy you dinner.”

“No,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to.” Dinner after the rodeo was something she’d always done with her dad. They’d make sure the bulls were secure for the night, and then hit a local diner or something. Lacy had always spent so much time with her mom, going to and from school, that those times with her dad had been special.

As nice as it was of Ian to offer, she didn’t want to replace Dad in that ritual.

Not that Ian knew that. “I know I don’t. But I want to.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “Another time?” she said, because that seemed like something her dad would say.

Ian gave her a long look then, one she couldn’t hide from. Most people looked past her. She wasn’t a pretty woman—never had been, never would be. And she didn’t fit into anyone’s neat little box about how a woman should think or act. As a result, most people ignored her, which suited her fine.

But Ian? He did not ignore her. He didn’t look through her.

He saw her. God, it was unnerving.

Finally, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“That’d be good.” She realized she meant it. She wanted to see him tomorrow. To see what he’d do in the arena, to see if he’d tip his hat in respect to her.

It had nothing to do with the dream.

“I’ll help you load the bulls up after the rodeo. That’s our deal,” he added before she could protest. “I keep my word.”

“You know that’s not normal?” The words were out before she could think better of them. She must not be as awake as she’d thought she was. “Most people don’t.”

Up until that moment, he’d kept a reasonable distance between him and the truck. He was fond of leaning against the driver’s-side mirror, she noted.

But when she said that, he leaned forward, his hands on her door, his face where the window would have been if it’d been rolled up.

For the first time, he entered her space. Not because he wanted to shake her hand and seal the deal, and not because she was in between him and a man who had it coming.

This wasn’t incidental. This was intentional. They were close enough to touch.

Close enough to kiss.

Her body tightened with awareness, taking the vague frustration leftover from the dream and making it painful. She heard herself gasp, but she felt as if she was holding her breath. His eyes were a deep, dark brown—maybe black. She couldn’t tell in this light. But they were intense—and focused on her.

Kiss me. Don’t. The two thoughts hit at exactly the same moment, swamping her in confusion. She couldn’t lean in and she couldn’t lean away. She couldn’t do anything but stare into those eyes and wonder what he saw when he looked at her.

When he spoke, his words were a quiet whisper that she somehow felt deep down in the very center of her body. “I’m not most people, Lacy.”

Then he was gone, leaning back and tapping his hand against the hood of the truck. “Get some dinner and some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He started to walk away, and Lacy blurted out, “Ian?”

He paused and turned back. “Yeah?”

“It was a good rodeo tonight.” No, no—that’s not what she’d wanted to say. Of course, she didn’t know what she wanted to say. Something that wasn’t bitchy or dazed, something that said that they were friends.

“I mean, you were good tonight. In the rodeo.” Ugh, that was not any better. “I mean...”

He saved her from death by embarrassment. “Thanks.” Then he was gone, walking off into the night.

Lacy fired up the truck. Dinner. She’d go get some dinner.

For the first time in a long time, she was hungry.

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