Sarah M. Anderson - One Rodeo Season

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.