Sarah M. Anderson - One Rodeo Season

When the bull got within feet of him—close enough that Ian could smell the rank bull snot coming out of his nose—he stepped to the side and grabbed the bull by the horns.

Bad idea, he thought as he dug in his heels and twisted to the right, trying to get his left arm under the bull’s jaw. Normal steer wrestling meant falling on a five-hundred-pound castrated bull from the back of a horse. This bull was the moving definition of aggressive and weighed maybe three times that much. Plus, Ian didn’t have momentum on his side. The bull was dragging him and bearing down on Randy and Jack was shouting and Ian was losing his grip. Hard. Bad, bad, bad—

Then the bull slowed, shaking his head as if Ian were nothing but a fly he could shoo away. Ian held on, fighting to drag the bull’s head to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, Ian saw Jack grab Randy by the arm and haul him to the side. The bull slowed another half step, trying to decide if he wanted to change course to go after Randy or focus on Ian. That half step gave Ian the chance to get his grip.

He twisted the bull’s head up. His muscles screamed at the awkward angle and for a second he thought the bull was going to throw him instead of the other way around. He put everything he had into getting the bull’s jaw up and lifted. Come on, come on. If this didn’t work...

He felt it the moment he gained control. Instead of being dragged along with the bull’s momentum, Ian was suddenly able to get his heels into the dirt. Then it happened in less than a second. The bull’s feet flipped out from underneath his body and the animal went down on its side with a muffled grunt of surprise.

Ian lay on the bull’s neck and checked the arena. Randy was up and hobbling toward the fence. Jack was off to the side, staring at Ian with his mouth flopped open in shock. The handler on horseback had his lasso ready to rope the bull and drag him out.

The whole place—the arena, the cowboys waiting their ride, the spectators in the stands—was eerily silent. The hair on the back of Ian’s neck stood up. Bull riding was many things, but “quiet” wasn’t one of them.

“O...kay...” Jack mumbled. “You need any help there, Chief?”

“Just gotta get up,” Ian replied as the bull tried to lift its head. The animal made a deep bellowing sound, one of pure bovine anger. Getting up wasn’t a problem. Getting up without getting kicked? That was another story entirely.

Jack came and stood within an arm’s reach, crouched down on his heels and braced himself. “On three?”

Ian nodded. One, two— He let go and rolled to the side as fast as he could. Everyone always worried about getting a bull’s horn up the ass, but any cowboy worth his salt knew that the hooves were what killed a man. And this bull had all four hooves pointed at Ian.

Jack latched onto Ian’s arm and yanked him up so hard it made the world spin. Both men took off for the fencing as fast as they could.

The bull stumbled to his feet, but by the time he got all four on the floor, Ian and Jack were climbing up the fence to safety and the rider had the bull roped.

It was only when the bull had successfully made it down the chute and Ian was straddling the fence that he heard it—the roar that swelled with each passing second until it damn near deafened him.

“Damn, man,” Jack shouted over the noise. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

“Back on the ranch,” Ian yelled back. Which was partially true. He’d done plenty of bulldogging back on the ranch.

But never a bull that size. Never from the ground.

Adrenaline pumped into his system. Had he really done that? Taken down a charging bull in a test of strength and skill?

Hell yeah, he had. Damn, he felt invincible. The number of men who could do that and not get killed could probably be counted on one hand. He turned to the stands and took off his hat, waving it for the crowd. They yelled their approval. A pretty blonde caught his eye and blew him a kiss.

God, he loved this job. Best damned job he’d ever had.

The rodeo clown joined in with the crowd. “That’s our very own Chief, everyone! Using those Indian superpowers to save Randy Sloap from certain death!”

Ian gritted his teeth. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been called Chief. When your last name was Tall Chief, it was unavoidable. But he hated it when people ascribed his hard-won physical skills to some mystical Indian gift.

Ian was a cowboy, a linebacker, a bullfighter. He was not some noble savage who communed with bulls, dammit all.

From somewhere behind the chutes, he heard what sounded distinctly like a war whoop. Ian rolled his eyes at Jack, who shrugged helplessly. Just another day on the job.

He looked back at the chutes, and a cowboy caught his eye. At least, it looked like a cowboy. A little shorter, a little rounder. With a jolt of awareness, Ian realized it was not a cowboy, but a cowgirl, which was unusual enough. Aside from his cousin, June Spotted Elk—who was one of the better bull riders in the world—there weren’t usually a whole lot of women behind the chutes during the rides. Buckle bunnies had no place back there. Ian tried to think. Had there been a cowgirl out in the arena for the preride introductions and prayers—another rider? He didn’t think so.

But what made her more unusual was that the cowgirl was glaring at him as if Ian had personally slapped her on the ass and told her she should be pregnant, barefoot and in a kitchen somewhere. What the hell?

He nodded his head at her, which only made her scowl harder. Everyone else in the arena tonight was his biggest admirer. To hell with what one woman thought.

Randy limped up to him. “Man, I owe you one for that.”

Ian shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

Randy grinned. “It’s one hell of a job, ain’t it?” He slapped Ian on the leg. “I’ll catch you tonight at the bar—drinks on me!”

Ian nodded and grinned. After that save, the bar was going to be a lot of fun tonight. It’d been more months than he wanted to admit since he’d picked anyone up. Maybe he’d cut loose and find a beautiful woman to spend the evening with. He might not have the street cred of a bull rider, but bull riders tended to be on the scrawny side of things, like Randy. That kid probably didn’t weigh 170 pounds wet. Ian brought a certain physicality to the table. It went with the whole football player thing.

Even as he was thinking about buckle bunnies, his gaze drifted back over to where he’d last seen the angry cowgirl. She wasn’t there.

“Did you see that woman?” he asked Jack.

“The blonde? Damn straight I saw her,” Jack replied with a low whistle. “She didn’t see me, though. Only had eyes for you, curse your red hide.”

Jack was about the only man on the planet who could say something like that to Ian and not get the pulp beat out of him, mostly because Black Jack Johnson was, in fact, black. Aside from a few Brazilians and Mexicans, there weren’t a lot of men of color on the circuit. Jack and Ian stuck together.

“Never seen anyone pull a stunt like that in the arena,” Jack went on, shaking his head. “Damn foolish, too. What if you’d hurt the bull?”

“I’m fine, but I appreciate your concern,” Ian retorted as they hopped down off the fence and headed back toward the water. They had about twenty minutes before the short goes started. “This isn’t the first time I’ve wrestled a steer. I know what I’m doing.”

Mostly, anyway. And he had a feeling he wasn’t entirely fine. The right side of his body was screaming from the strain now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He must have pulled something. Ian did a couple of preliminary twists and felt a twinge. Damn. The latissimus dorsi on his left side was definitely strained. Looked like he would have to take an ice bath tonight.