B.J. Daniels - Shotgun Surrender

Dusty rolled her eyes. “You have to be kidding. Does anyone do that anymore?”

“I do when I pick up a woman,” Ty said, sounding indignant. “It’s polite.”

“I can open my own door.”

“That isn’t the point. Look, think of dating as a game with certain rituals involved. There are steps to go through in the relationship. Roles each sex plays.”

Dusty groaned. “Why does it have to be so complicated? Why can’t we just cut to the chase?”

Ty shook his head. “Sorry, but it doesn’t work that way. Anticipation adds to the excitement. It’s all part of the mating ritual. You just need to get into your role.”

Dusty scoffed. “This role you’re talking about. Tell me it doesn’t mean I have to act helpless, because I’m never going to be one of those women.”

“Lucky for you, there are men who actually like strong, independent women. But no man may be ready for you.”

Was Ty ready for her?

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This one is for Kayley Mendenhall. A ray of sunshine

for everyone who has had the honor of knowing her.

Best wishes for a bright, fun and romantic future!

A former award-winning journalist, B.J. Daniels had thirty-six short stories published before her first romantic suspense, Odd Man Out, came out in 1995. Her book Premeditated Marriage won Romantic Times Best Intrigue award for 2002 and she received a Career Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense. B.J. lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, three springer spaniels, Zoey, Scout and Spot, and a temperamental tomcat named Jeff. She is a member of Kiss of Death, the Bozeman Writer’s Group and Romance Writers of America. When she isn’t writing, she snow-boards in the winters and camps, water-skis and plays tennis in the summers. To contact her, write: P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771 or look for her online at www.bjdaniels.com.

Dusty McCall—The youngest of the wild McCalls was ready for love. Only, she was looking for it in all the wrong places.

Ty Coltrane—The horse rancher knew something was wrong at the rodeo. He just didn’t realize how wrong until he realized Dusty McCall was involved.

Boone Rasmussen—He had big plans for his future and a chip on his shoulder.

Letty Arnold—The news of her adoption had hit her hard. Now all she wanted was to find her birth mother. But she got more than she asked for.

Hal Branson—The private investigator had never believed in fate—until he met Letty Arnold.

Monte Edgewood—The roughstock producer thought he had everything until he got a chance to have a famous rodeo bull.

Sierra Edgewood—She had an old husband and a wandering eye and was built for trouble.

Lamar Nichols—The cowboy was supposed to be the brawn and not the brains of the operation, but even he could see what was going on.

Waylon Dobbs—The amicable rodeo veterinarian didn’t believe in buying trouble. Unless there was something in it for him.

Devil’s Tornado—He’d gone from a mediocre rodeo bull to a star overnight. But sometimes stars fall.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

The moment the pickup rolled to a stop, Clayton T. Brooks knew he should have put this off until morning. The night was darker than the inside of an outhouse, he was half-drunk and he couldn’t see two feet in front of him.

Hell, maybe he was more than half-drunk since he was still seriously considering climbing the nearby fence and getting into a pasture with a bull that had almost killed its rider at a rodeo just a few days ago in Billings, Montana.

To make matters worse, Clayton knew he was too old for this sort of thing, not to mention physically shot from years of trying to ride the meanest, toughest bulls in the rodeo circuit.

But he’d never had the good sense to quit—until a bull messed him up so bad he was forced to. Just like now. He couldn’t quit because he’d come this far and, damn, he needed to find out if he was losing his mind. Quietly he opened his pickup door and stepped out.

He’d coasted down the last hill with his headlights out, stopping far enough from Monte Edgewood’s ranch house that he figured his truck wouldn’t be heard when he left. There was no sign of life at the Edgewood Roughstock Company ranch at this hour of the night, but he wasn’t taking any chances as he shut the pickup door as quietly as possible and headed for the pasture.

If he was right, he didn’t want to get caught out here. The whole thing had been nagging him for days. Finally tonight, he’d left the bar when it closed, climbed into his pickup and headed out of Antelope Flats. It wasn’t far to the ranch but he’d had to make a stop to get a six-pack of beer for the road.

Tonight he was going to prove himself wrong—or right—he thought as he awkwardly climbed the fence and eased down the other side. His eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the dark. Wisps of clouds drifted low across the black canvas stretched on the horizon. A few stars twinkled millions of miles away, and a slim silver crescent moon peeked in and out.

Clayton started across the small pasture, picking his way. Just over the rise, he froze as he made out the shape of the bull dead ahead.

Devil’s Tornado was a Braford brindle-horned, one-ton bull—a breeder’s Molotov cocktail of Brahma and Hereford. The mix didn’t always turn out good bucking bulls, but it often did. The breed had ended more than a few cowboys’ careers, his included.

He stared at the huge dark shape standing just yards from him, remembering how the bull had damn near killed the rider at the Billings rodeo a few days before.

The problem was, Clayton thought he recognized the bull, not from Billings but from a town in Texas some years before. Thought he not only recognized the bull, but knew it intimately—the way only a bull rider gets to know a bull.

Unless he was losing his mind, he’d ridden this brindle down in Texas four years ago. It had been one of his last rides.

Only back then, the bull had been called Little Joe. And Little Joe had been less than an exciting ride. No tricks. Too nice to place deep on and make any prize money on.

The other bulls in the roughstock contractor’s bag hadn’t had any magic, either—the kiss of death for the roughstock contractor. Last Clayton had heard the roughstock outfit had gone belly-up.

Earlier tonight, he’d finally remembered the roughstock contractor’s name. Rasmussen. The same last name as the young man who’d showed up a few weeks ago with a handful of bulls he was subcontracting out to Monte Edgewood.