Sarah M. Anderson - One Rodeo Season

“Boy,” Jack growled, “that mouth is going to get you into a lot of trouble one of these days.” But he slumped back into his chair, the fight gone from his body.

“Too late,” Ian said cheerfully. He’d won this round. Winning wasn’t everything, but sometimes, it came close. “What do you know about that Slim fellow?”

“Slim Smalls?” Black Jack chuckled. “He’s an ass. Always has been. There are some that don’t think a black man should be in the arena and Slim is always leading that charge.”

“The more things change?” Ian asked.

“The more they stay the same,” Jack agreed. “But his bulls are rank and he knows how to grease the wheels. Got friends in high places and all that crap.”

“And the Straight Arrow?”

Jack shrugged. “Man...”

“Come on, Jack. You know everything and everyone. I don’t know a thing.”

“Wait!” Jack dug his phone out of his pocket and held it up. “Say that again, Chief. I want it on the record.”

“Ha-ha. But you know what I mean. She said she’d lost her traveling partner.”

“Honest to God, I don’t remember a lady stock contractor,” Jack replied, pocketing his phone again. “I want to say that the Straight Arrow was owned by a guy named Dale? If I’m remembering right, nice guy. Never made a big deal about me one way or the other. Quiet, kept to himself.” He gave Ian a blank look. “I suppose you’re gonna want me to ask around.”

Ian shrugged. “Don’t put yourself out, man. I do have my own connections.” He could always call Travis Younkin, June’s husband and a former world-class bull rider in his own right. Travis would make a few phone calls and get back to Ian with all kinds of information.

But then, Ian could have already done that. And he hadn’t.

He wanted to know. But for some ridiculous reason, he wanted her to tell him.

Like yesterday, when she’d finally told him her first name. He could have found out, but it was sweeter hearing the name come out of her mouth because he’d earned it. The fact that she trusted him with her real name was powerful stuff.

He wanted to show her that men weren’t all Slims and Jeromes. He wanted...

Well, hell. He didn’t want to be the man he’d been seven years ago.

Ian realized he was rubbing the ink over his heart again. “We gonna get to Vegas this year?” he asked Jack.

Jack notched an eyebrow at Ian. “Might,” he drawled. “Assuming you stop pulling dumb-ass stunts like you did last week. Why?”

“No reason.”

Except for Eliot. Ian knew the boy and his family lived in Las Vegas. If Ian could get to Vegas, maybe he could see if Eliot’s folks would bring the boy to the rodeo. Maybe, after all this time, Ian could meet his son.

He found himself looking at Lacy again. What would a woman like her think of a man like him, if she knew about Eliot? Would she think he was a deadbeat dad? A serial womanizer who didn’t care what happened to the women he loved and left?

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.