D. Graham - Rank

D.R. GRAHAM

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Harper Impulse an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper Impulse 2015

Copyright © D.R. Graham 2015

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover design by HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd

D.R. Graham asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780008140083

Version 2015-03-09

For my Papa and every other cowboy with heart and try.

Contents

Cover

Title Page Rank D.R. GRAHAM A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright Harper Impulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by Harper Impulse 2015 Copyright © D.R. Graham 2015 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015 Cover design by HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd D.R. Graham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress. Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780008140083 Version 2015-03-09

Dedication For my Papa and every other cowboy with heart and try.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgements

Also by D.R. Graham…

D.R. Graham

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Facial wounds bleed a lot. I was reminded of that the day my brother Cole had a bad wreck at a rodeo in Lethbridge, Alberta. In the finals on Sunday, Cole drew a rank bull that hadn’t been ridden in fourteen outs. It was a nasty looking black and white Brahman that rammed its skull into the rail I was standing on.

After Cole eased down into the chute, I took a deep breath, pulled the bull rope, and slapped his back three times for good luck — just the way our dad used to. Cole secured his hat and tucked his chin before he nodded. The gate opened and the bull exploded into the arena with the same force as the adrenaline that shot through me.

A country song blared over the loud speakers, and the crowd cheered as the bull cranked out a succession of belly rolls and shivers. The bull turned into Cole’s hand and side bucked before it whipped around and reared back. He spun twice more to the left, then jumped and kicked with a twist that should have knocked my brother off. When the eight-second buzzer went, Cole reached down with his free hand, jerked his riding hand out of his rope, dismounted, and landed on his feet. He didn’t even lose his hat.

Once I was sure he was all right, I hollered, “Yeah! Now, that’s how it’s done.”

The other guys working the chutes gave me high fives before I leaned over the railing to slap palms with a bullfighter named Mutt. A score of ninety flashed up on the board, Cole tipped his hat to the crowd and then fanned the bull as it ran by him.

Mutt chuckled. “There he goes, stirring the pot again.”

“Shit,” I mumbled and checked over my shoulder. The last thing we needed was Cole disrespecting the stock contractor. I jumped down from the chute and jogged over to where Cole was making his way down the front row signing a bunch of programs and one particularly nice cleavage. Saving him from himself was getting to be a full time job.

“Okay, tone it down,” I said as I pushed him under the grandstand where it reeked of stale beer and popcorn.

“Why? I’m just giving them their money’s worth.”

“Yeah, well, Ron Miller looks like he’s about to stroke out because you fanned one of his best bulls. Stop showboating.”

He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “I get sponsors by working the crowd, not by kissing a stock contractor’s ass. I couldn’t care less about Ron Miller.”

“You should care because —”

We both stopped talking and watched the last rider leave the chute. He needed a ninety-two to beat Cole, which wasn’t likely, but it was possible.

After the eight-second buzzer went, Cole mumbled, “Damn. That was a good ride.” His cocky attitude faded and he chewed on the leather cuff of his glove as he stared at the scoreboard, waiting. Eventually, an eighty-seven flashed up on the screen. “Yeah, baby!” Cole shouted and thrust his arms victoriously into the air. “Looks like we’re eating steaks tonight.” He jumped on my back, hooting and hollering.

I pushed him off. Partly because he was acting like a fool, and partly because I was too tired to celebrate. “Just go get your buckle and the cheque so we can get the hell out of here.”

“Aw, come on, Billy. I want to party and the girls here are half-decent. Let’s stay a while.” He shoved my chest. “I bet that new barrel racer you’ve been staring at all weekend wouldn’t mind if you hung around tonight. What’s her name again?”

Although I knew exactly who he meant, I wanted to sleep in my own bed for the first time in two weeks, not hang around while he got rowdy. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” I pulled my hat down at the front and spit tobacco juice on the dirt near his boot.

He laughed at my avoidance tactic. “Yes, you do. The blonde with the white horse and the tight ass.”