Barbara Dunlop: The Last Cowboy Standing

Danielle smiled. “You should trust it.”

His hands moved to her face, cradling it gently in his palms. “What about my other instincts?”

“You have other instincts?”

“To toss you down on the grass and ravish you in the moonlight.”

Want and need instantly cascaded through her, robbing her of her breath. She wished it didn’t sound so tempting. There were a million complicated reasons to keep her distance from Travis, even if her own desires were screaming at her to ignore them.

She came up on her toes to meet him. “Let’s take it one instinct at a time.”

* * *

The Last Cowboy Standingis part of the Colorado Cattle Barons series from USA TODAY bestselling author Barbara Dunlop!

The Last

Cowboy Standing

Barbara Dunlop

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA DUNLOPwrites romantic stories while curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood and clear the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website, www.barbaradunlop.com.

To my mother, with love.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Extract

One

Travis Jacobs could do anything for eight seconds. At least, that’s what he told himself every time he climbed up the side of a bull chute. Tonight’s Vegas crowd was loud and enthusiastic, their attention centered on the current rider being bucked around the arena by Devil’s Draw.

Putting the other cowboys in the competition from his mind, he looked at Esquire below him, checking for any sign of agitation. Then he rolled his cuffs up a couple of turns, pulled his brown Stetson low and tugged a worn, leather glove onto his right hand.

The crowd groaned in sympathy a mere second before the horn sounded, telling Travis that Buckwheat Dawson had come off the bull. Up next, Travis swung his leg over the chute rail and drew a bracing breath. While Karl Schmitty held the rope, he adjusted the rigging and wrapped his hand. Wasting no time, he slid up square on the bull and gave a sharp nod to the gate operator.

The chute opened, and all four of Esquire’s feet instantly left the ground. The Brahma shot out into the arena then straight up in the air under the bright lights. The crowd roared its pleasure as the black bull twisted left, hind feet reaching high, while Travis leaned back, spurred, his arm up, muscles pumped, fighting for all he was worth to keep himself square on the animal’s back.

Esquire turned right, twisting beneath Travis, shaking him as if he was a bothersome gnat. Three seconds turned to four. Travis’s hand burned against the rope, and his wrist felt like it was about to dislocate. The strain sent a branching iron along his spine, but he also felt completely and totally alive. For a brief space of time, life was reduced to its essence. Nothing mattered but the battle between Travis and the bull.

Esquire made an abrupt left turn, nearly unseating Travis, but he kept his form. His hat flew off into the dust. The blaring music and the roar of the crowd disappeared, obliterated by the pulse of blood pumping past his ears.

The horn sounded just before Esquire made one final leap, unseating Travis, sending him catapulting through the air. Travis summersaulted, grazing the bull’s left horn, quickly twisting his body to avoid hitting the ground head-on. His shoulder came down first, with his back taking the brunt of the impact. As the air whooshed out of his lungs, a face in the crowd danced before his eyes.

Danielle? What the heck was Danielle doing in Vegas?

Then Esquire’s menacing form filled his vision, and he leaped to his feet. Corey Samson, one of the bullfighters, jumped between them, distracting the animal while Travis sprinted to the fence.

Glancing back, he realized Danielle had to be a figment of his imagination. The crowd was nowhere near close enough for him to recognize a particular face. He heaved himself over the top of the fence and jumped to the ground on the other side.

“Nice one.” Buckwheat clapped him good-naturedly on the back.

“Hey, Travis,” Corey yelled from inside the arena.

Travis turned to see Corey toss him his hat. He caught the Stetson in midair, and Corey gave him a thumbs-up.

“Ninety-one point three,” the announcer cried into the sound system.

The crowd roared louder, while lasers and colored spotlights circled the arena, the music coming up once more. Travis was the night’s last rider, meaning he’d just won ten thousand dollars.

He stuffed his hat on his head and vaulted back over the fence onto the thick dirt, waving to the crowd and accepting the congratulations of the clowns and cowboys.

“You have got to go pro,” Corey shouted in his ear.

“Just blowin’ off some steam,” Travis responded, keeping his grin firmly in place for the spectators, knowing he’d be projected onto the Jumbotron.

His older brother, Seth, had recently been married, and he’d committed his next three years to working on the Lyndon Valley railway project. Responsibility for the family’s Colorado cattle ranch now rested completely on Travis’s shoulders. Faced with that looming reality, he’d discovered he had a few wild oats left to sow.

“You could make a lot of money on the circuit,” said Corey.

Travis let himself fantasize for a minute about going on the road as a professional bull rider. The image was tantalizing—to be footloose and fancy free, no cattle to tend, no ranch hands, no bills, no responsibilities. He’d ride a couple of times a week, hit the clubs, meet friendly women. There were no bleak, dusty, hick towns on this particular rodeo circuit. It was all bright lights and five-star hotels.

For a moment, he resented the lost opportunity. But he forcibly swallowed his own frustration. If he’d wanted to be a bull rider, he should have spoken up before now. While his brother and sisters were all choosing their own life paths, Travis should have said something about leaving the ranch. But it was too late. He was the last Jacobs cowboy, and somebody had to run the place.

A small crowd had gathered in the middle of the arena to celebrate his win. He unzipped his flak jacket to circulate a little air. Then he accepted the prize buckle and the check from the event manager and gave a final wave of his hat to the crowd.

Mind still mulling what might have been, he turned and fell into step beside Corey, their boots puffing up dust as they moved toward the gate.

“How long have you been on the road?” he found himself asking the bullfighter.

“Nearly ten years now,” Corey responded. “Started when I was seventeen.”

“You ever get tired of it?”

“What’s to get tired? The excitement? The adventure? The women?”

Travis stuffed the check in his shirt pocket. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know. When I get tired of the wheels turning, I go back to the folks’ place in New Mexico for a while.”

“Ever tempted to stay there?” Travis was trying to reassure himself that life on the road got old, that all men eventually wanted a real home.