Sarah M. Anderson - One Rodeo Season

“Don’t do it again,” Jack said, and Ian had to nod in agreement. Jack had been a bullfighter for close to twelve years and this was Ian’s first year at this level. Bullfighters made it to the bigs as a team. Jack was calling the shots like a quarterback. Ian was, once again, the linebacker doing the blocking. Funny how the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Ian dumped half a bucket of water over his head to knock the dust and sweat down a layer. Bullfighting might be a lot of fun, but it was a dirty job on the best of days. As the water dripped down the back of his neck, he said, “Don’t get knocked on your ass again, old man.” Jack had been a much higher ranked bullfighter before he’d gotten stepped on in a bad wreck two years ago. This season was about him getting back on top of his game. “Then I won’t have to save—”

“Hey! You!” An angry voice cut through the din.

Ian whipped his head around to see the cowgirl he most definitely had not imagined stalking toward him. The look on her face might turn a lesser man to stone, but Ian held firm. Besides, he had the advantage of height. This woman was a little thing, probably a solid foot shorter than he was—but she clearly made up for that in sheer ferocity. She might even be pretty, if she wiped that scowl off her face.

But pretty was not the word for her. Violent would be better. Ian opened his mouth to say something—“hi” was always a good place to start—but she cut him off. “What was that?”

“A damn good save,” Ian replied confidently. He stood up straight and puffed out his chest.

Her eyes widened and a spark of electricity flowed between them as her features softened. She was pretty, he noticed. Delicate features, wide eyes with fringed lashes. Her skin was tanned, but she had a smattering of freckles over her nose. Her lips were lush and lightly parted. Her face was diametrically opposed to the unsexed cowboy outfit, almost as if she were trying to hide herself under a cowboy hat.

The electricity between them felt good. He admired a lot of beautiful women in the bars, but that spark—he hadn’t felt that in a long time. “Hey,” he said in a more seductive voice, hoping to fan the flames a little. “Tonight at the bar—”

Anything pretty or sparky or electric about her disappeared as she sneered up at him. “You do not touch the bull, you understand?”

“What?” Ian said, bristling. “I’ve got a job to do. I’m there to protect the riders. I protected the rider. I don’t give a damn about the bull.”

A look of hatred twisted her features. “That animal is worth a hundred grand. You so much as rub his fur the wrong way and I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth.” She gave his dirt-and-muck-stained pants and the red-and-black shirt that matched Jack’s a dismissive glance. “Which obviously isn’t much.”

“What is your problem, lady?” Even as he said it, he realized what she’d said. She’d sue him.

“He’s my bull,” she snapped. “Touch him again and you will live to regret it.”

“You’re the stock contractor?” But he said it to her back as she turned and stomped off in the direction of the pens. “She’s the stock contractor?” he asked the only other person who was listening.

Jack didn’t answer. He was too busy laughing.

Ian twisted back around and tried to see where she’d gone. Who was she?

Someone tiny and fierce and unafraid of him. Someone who had a hell of a lot of spark.

It wasn’t as if Ian hadn’t been yelled at before—he had. Especially the time he’d dated two girls years ago. Yeah, that hadn’t been his smartest idea. But Ian was a big guy—especially compared to a slip of a girl. Most women—hell, most men—wouldn’t confront him like that. She’d gotten the drop on him, and that, he didn’t like. Next time—if there was a next time—he didn’t want to be caught off guard.

He hoped there was a next time.

He located her as an older man in a ten-gallon hat stepped in front of her. The huge hat topped off a face pinched into a permanent sneer. The long mustache did nothing to improve the man’s appearance. Neither did the potbelly that hung over his belt buckle. Aside from the belly, everything else about the man was scrawny—scrawny mustache, scrawny legs, scrawny neck. He was ugly and mean looking, but the cocky grin on his face said loud and clear that he enjoyed the meanness.

The man said something to her. Even at the distance of twenty or so feet, Ian saw her reaction. Her shoulders tightened and she took a nervous step backward. The older man said something else, and the woman backed up again.

The hackles went up on the back of Ian’s neck and he started moving. Okay, so that woman might have dressed him down in public, but Ian didn’t like the way the man was leering at her and he especially didn’t like the way the woman was reacting. Where was the no-fear, take-no-prisoners woman who had threatened him within an inch of his life? She was gone, replaced by a small woman who was afraid of the older man.

Not on Ian’s watch, that was for damn sure.

Well, he amended as he heard her snap something out at the older man, maybe afraid wasn’t the right word.

As Ian got within earshot, he heard the older man say, “...to see something bad happen to a pretty little thing like you, Evans,” in tones of mock concern.

Evans what? Surely that wasn’t her first name.

The man’s tone was dismissive and threatening. Ian had heard plenty of men talk to his cousin June that way because she wanted to ride bulls. Ian had backed June up when she wanted to ride. Just because Evans didn’t necessarily like him didn’t mean she didn’t deserve the same.

“You wouldn’t,” she shot back. Her voice wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been with him. “You’d only hate it if someone else got first crack at the Straight Arrow.” She held her ground and, as Ian came up behind her, stood as tall as she could. “Stay the hell away from me and my bulls, Slim.”

Okay, so these two had history—that much was clear. A small gathering of cowboys had formed around Evans and Slim. Ian noticed that most of the cowboys were standing behind Slim. Evans looked small and very alone.

Nope, not happening on his watch.

Slim smiled the oily smile of a man who would get what he wanted, one way or the other. “Or what?” he asked, the mock concern replaced by sheer menace.

Ian cleared his throat and crossed his arms. She started, but didn’t make a noise. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder and made eye contact with Ian. He gave her a curt nod that he hoped said, I’m on your side. At least in this matter.

The corner of her mouth twitched, as if she wanted to smile but wasn’t going to. Then she turned back to Slim, who was now glaring at Ian with undisguised hatred. “Do you really want to find out, Slim? Because I guarantee you won’t like it. I’m not afraid of you.” This statement was only slightly contradicted by the way her voice wavered. “My father wasn’t afraid of you, either.”

Slim spat. “He can’t protect you anymore, you little—”

“Watch your mouth around a lady,” Ian growled as he flexed his muscles. That was a threat, plain and clear. And sometimes, a threat had to be met with a threat.

Slim snorted. “What are you going to do about it, Geronimo? Scalp me?”

Ian charged. His vision narrowed until all he could see was Slim. Just like when he’d been on the football field, when all he could see was the quarterback, the ball. His body primed for the hit, the satisfying crunch of pad against pad, bone against bone.

He didn’t make it. Suddenly, he was jerked to the side. At the same time, Evans turned around and put both hands on his chest, pushing him back.