“Even so,” the shorter one says, “once he’s out there, it’s just him and whatever talent he has. You can’t buy nine seconds on an angry horse.”
His friend nods, but I get the feeling he’s holding a grudge. “Not having to work an honest day like the rest of us probably helps.”
Hmm. I’m tempted to tap one of them on the shoulder and ask him to spill all the details. Instead, I let them order and disappear into the crowd. This mini-field trip is taking forever as it is.
I finally order and toss a couple bucks in the tip jar.
“Here we go, cowgirls and cowboys. Our first bull rider tonight is leading the All Around standings this season. Give a huge Crested Butte round of applause for Colorado local boy, Buzz Garrison!” As soon as the emcee says the name, I’m racing back to the stands, beer spilling over my hands as I dodge and weave around people.
I’m barely back in view of the chute when it opens and one angry, ugly bull comes flying out with Buzz holding on by a thin rope. He’s wearing the same black safety vest he wore for the bronco ride. A black helmet replaces his signature Stetson.
I’m relieved he’s taken all the precautions. For good reason. The bull plants his front feet and lifts his sizable rear end to kick his hind legs, not once but twice. While turning and dipping his head down low.
Buzz bounces on the back like a flag flapping in a strong wind.
Some of those bounces have to hurt.
When the bull executes a near handstand and then quickly bucks up on his front legs, I hold my breath.
Releasing, his hold on the rope, Buzz flies in the air. For a few seconds he sails through the air, over the kicking legs of the bull who’s just ejected him like a pilot from a jet.
“No,” I shout and it sounds like I’m screaming in slow motion.
With a silent thud, Buzz lands in the dirt and remains still as the rodeo clown and a few others distract the bull.
Buzz should be moving. Getting up and out of the way of the angry mound of flesh and bone that seems ready to keep kicking ass and taking names.
The clown gets the bull to chase him in the opposite direction from Buzz. Another cowboy opens a gate and the clown darts in that direction, the bull close behind him.
My focus cuts back to Buzz, who’s standing up with the help of another cowboy. He gives a half wave to the crowd before bracing his hands on his knees.
“Got the wind knocked out of himself,” some random guy in a big straw hat says from next to me. Without realizing it, I’ve moved to the fence surrounding the dirt. I’m pressed against it, squeezed between men who could be competing tonight. They’re huge and smell like hay, horse, and beer.
“Is he going to be okay?” My voice cracks with worry.
“Garrison? He’s got a deal with the devil. Worst thing he might have are some bruised ribs. Don’t worry your pretty face about him. He’s not worth it.” An older man to my left pats my shoulder.
“Oh, we’re not. I’m not, I mean. I haven’t even met the man.” I stumble through my words. “We don’t even know each other.”
His eyes trail down from my face, pausing in the general vicinity of my boobs, before skimming over my hips and legs. “Sweetheart, didn’t your momma warn you about cowboys?”
I stare at him, waiting for him to start laughing at his obvious joke. He doesn’t.
“Find yourself a nice boy with a nine to five, two weeks of vacation a year, and a 401k kind of job. You’ll save yourself a whole heap of heartbreak.” He pats my shoulder again.
I see red. Like a bull with an unwanted passenger on his back.
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice. Stop touching me and I won’t throw one of these beers in your face. Please.”
It’s his turn to stare at me. His dirty nails and ragged cuticles are still resting on my shoulder.
“I said please.” I twist away from him and his hand drops to his side. “Now don’t make me waste fifteen dollars’ worth of semi-flat beer on making my point.”
He holds up both his hands like I’m holding him up. “Don’t shoot the messenger, sweetheart. Cowboys are nothing but trouble.”
I’m about to tell him no woman likes to be called sweetheart by a strange man, when Mae coughs beside me.
“You need a back-up?” She casts a dirty look at the manhandler.
“No, I’m good. Saved your beer.” I pass her the cup. “I might’ve spilled three dollars of beer with all the excitement.”
Without a backward glance, I move away from the fence. “I’m not sure I can handle more excitement.”
“What happened? You okay?”
“Other than thinking I watched a man get killed by a bull and then having some random old guy mansplain to me about the foolishness of loving cowboys, I’m good.”
“I think there’s a petting zoo on the other side of the arena. Maybe you need some animal therapy. Hug a sheep or pet a goat. I can hold your beer.”
We weave our way through the thinning crowd as people focus on the bull riding action, the big finale before the winners are announced.
The petting area is empty of kids and toddlers. Inside the short fencing, a few sheep, a handful of rabbits, and a couple of pygmy goats meander around, sniffing the ground for overlooked treats.
“Can we pet them?” I ask, leaning over the fence, arms outstretched in the direction of a black and white goat.
“It’s supposed to be ages ten and younger, but since we’re getting ready to pack up for the night, you can hold a bunny, if you want.” The teenager in a Shawn Mendes tee and mom jean shorts is evidently in charge.
I’d been hoping to hug a sheep, but I’m not going to argue when she scoops up a rabbit and hands it to me over the fence.
“Mind if I sit?” I tilt my head toward a stack of hay bales.
“Go for it. Just promise you won’t try to steal it. I’ll get hell if my count is off again tonight.”
Mae and I meet eyes.
Again? she mouths.
With my therapy rabbit cradled in my arms, I sit on the top hay bale. Petting the softest fur ever, I start to feel better. Less ragey and full of adrenaline over a man I don’t know who’s crazy enough to ride bulls for a living.
“Helping?” Mae asks, sitting next to me.
“Much.”
She pets my rabbit’s ears.
“Um, you’re going to need to get your own bunny. This one’s mine.” I bat her hand away.
“Greedy girl.”
“Don’t listen to her,” I whisper to the rabbit. “I’m very nice.”
“Lucky bunny.” The voice over Mae’s shoulder is a familiar masculine drawl.
I peek at the worn brown suede chaps and denim covered legs standing directly in front of me. My mouth goes dry as I quickly sweep my gaze past the buckle and over the blue shirt. No more vest. Finally, I’m greeted with the lazy, sexy smile of Mr. Buzz Garrison, rodeo champion and death wish haver.
“I’m sure if you ask nicely, you can pet any bunny you want.” I replay that in my head and it sounds like “pet anybody.” Yep, dirty.
“What if I want your bunny?” His lips spread into a wolfish grin that my traitor body thinks is hot. I don’t know which is worse—his sexy full mouth or the way mischief sparkles in his dark eyes.
He did not just say that.
He did.
And the way his lips hitch up on one side, making his smile a little lopsided, tells me he meant it to sound too sexy for church talk.
Good thing it isn’t Sunday.
I glance around for Mae to confirm he’s standing here talking to me, but she’s wandered to the far side of the petting pen. Sneaky girl giving us privacy.
“Shouldn’t you be nursing your injuries?” I manage to sound casual.
“I’m fine.” He strokes the fur on the luckiest bunny ever. “Nothing that hasn’t happened before.”
“You looked dead.”
“I’m sorry that upset you. I’m guessing you haven’t been to a
lot of rodeos before.”
“This isn’t my first one.” I straighten my back.
“I know.” His voice lowers to a rumble meant only for me. I stare up at him and notice a faded cut on his bottom lip.
Chapter 10
Justin
When you climb on top of a bull named Bad Blood, you’re pretty much confirming you have some major issues.
I tell myself this as I reassure the crew I’m good. I adjust my riding hand under the rope, wrapping my fingers over the thick braid, my only tether to stay on this ton of rage. Giving the signal to open the gate, I dig in my heels and say a little prayer I walk away from this ride.
Breathe, I tell myself.
Riding a Great White shark might be easier than staying on Bad Blood. I try to count the seconds in my head while shifting to keep myself from going over the horns. Third rib from the bottom on my left side will always have a ridge on it from where I got stepped on by a bull smaller than this dude.
He kicks and bucks, dipping forward and tilting back. I sling my left arm over my head, using it to keep myself straddling his back. When he does a double-kick with his back legs, my weight shifts to the side and my hand slips.
Shit.
Hitting the ground shoves all the air from my lungs. Darkness closes in from the edges of my vision, as I tense for the impact of hooves on my body. This is going to hurt.
Sounds of stomping feet and yelling move farther away as I focus on trying to breathe enough air to keep from passing out. If I’m not in direct impact range, being still is the best plan. Let the clown and other cowboys distract the bull from me until they can get him through the chute.
Opening my eyes, I see Hobo Jim, tonight’s clown, distracting the bull long enough for the crew to get the gate open and shoo him through it.
Thank fuck.
“Let’s get you up,” Gentry says, extending his hand for me to grip.
“How many second was that?” I ask as I stand with his help.
His thick gray mustache twitches when he chuckles. “Anything broken?”
“Back might be sore tomorrow considering I used it to break my fall, but I’m okay.”
“Ten seconds.” He answers my first question. My mentor, my trainer, and most importantly, my friend, grips my hand in his.
“Not bad. That SOB had some fancy footwork.” I give a half-hearted wave to the crowd to let them know I’m okay. Hoots and hollering echo amongst the applause, along with a few embarrassing “I love you” declarations.
“Saw that. Can’t have you getting too comfortable just because you have all those championship silver buckles.”
“But they’re so pretty,” I joke with him as we leave the ring.
“Even if you think you’re okay, you better walk around so you don’t stiffen up. You’ll need to take your victory lap pretty soon.”
I’m humbled by his confidence in me. Extending my hand to shake his, I say, “I learned how to be a cowboy from you, Gent. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Tightening his hold, he nods. “The pleasure’s been mine.”
In spite of the twenty year age difference, he’s one of my best friends. So I take his advice. Stripping off my gloves, I undo my helmet and vest. The pull in my back muscles warns me the next couple of days are going to suck. I stretch out my arms and roll my neck, making sure nothing’s fucked up. Ribs seem okay as I take a deep inhale.
If Gentry thinks it’ll be good enough to win tonight, I’m not going to doubt him.
Taking my time, I stroll away from the paddocks and grandstand to the far side of the ring. A few people recognize and greet me. I brush them off with a smile and keep moving.
In a quiet corner, I spot a couple of women hanging around the otherwise empty petting pen.
The pretty brunette sitting on top of a couple hay bales looks vaguely familiar. I’m guessing she’s hung around a few rodeos this summer.
An image of a buckle bunny holding a real life rabbit amuses me. She could be on a poster with her soft pink shirt and jeans. The braid is the cherry on top.
Rock stars have groupies, cowboys have buckle bunnies. Like magpies, they’re captivated by the bright and shiny buckles. Some of them steal the buckles and wear them around. I guess it’s like wearing a player’s jersey.
Some of the guys have no respect for the bunnies. Sure, they’ll flirt with them and fuck them, but the shit they say when it’s just us guys around makes my skin crawl. I don’t participate or condone it. Hell, I’ve had guys throw punches at me for standing up for a woman and her reputation.
We’re all consenting adults around here. Even the young bucks, the guys barely eighteen and on the circuit for the first time. Away from home, being offered sex seemingly without strings can mess with a guy’s head. Both of them if he’s stupid enough not to wear a condom.
Guys like Gentry have seen it all. Every dumbass, idiot bullshit a guy can pull. They don’t stand for stupidity. I know because I was a dumb buck when I first started competing, too.
So that’s why I hesitate to start a conversation with the familiar brunette holding a rabbit. I avoid the bunnies, no matter if my reputation says otherwise. I make the decision to keep walking, but my body and mouth don’t get the signal.
“Lucky bunny,” I say under my breath.
Beautiful deep brown eyes from my fantasies flash to mine. She says something about asking nicely to pet her bunny. I think that’s what she says. I’m too caught up in her eyes and her full, rosy lips.
“What if I want your bunny?” I want to slap myself. Loss of filter is one of the signs of a head injury. And evidently, I’ve lost mine. Great. I probably have a concussion.
She asks about my injuries and I brush off her concern.
I know I know her, but she’s not one of the regulars. Running through the towns I’ve been through in the past month, I try to place here.
Jackson Hole. Cody. Cheyenne. Loveland. Steamboat. Rifle. Snowmass.
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” she says, annoyed.
Snowmass.
“I know.”
A couple of weeks ago, she and a group of friends stopped by after the show, hung around waiting to be noticed. I let her feed Cisco an apple. I remember her because she acted nervous around horses.
Slowly her eyes trail up my legs and torso to my face.
I hold her gaze. “You fed my horse an apple a couple of weeks ago in Snowmass.”
And I saw you yesterday on the trail, but I keep this information to myself. If she doesn’t recognize me, I’m happy to keep my private life separate from the rodeo world.
At least until I get to know her better.
“You remember?” Her voice sounds slightly breathless.
Guess even outside the circuit, cowboys have reputations for short attention spans and bad memories.
“Cisco hasn’t shut up about it. Keeps asking when we’re going to see you again.” I give her a genuine smile.
She plays along, “Really? I didn’t realize I made such an impression on your horse.”
I stroke the bunny, which means my fingers are inches from touching her hands, her lap, and just south from the bottom curve of her breasts. I’m crossing a line into her personal space, but she hasn’t shifted away.
“If I don’t bring you over to say hi, I’m not sure he’ll ever forgive me. The last thing I need is a moody horse, pining after a beautiful woman.”
She huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Wow, does that line work for you?”
“You tell me.” I’ve come this far with the cheesy lines, why turn back now? If I am concussed, I probably won’t remember this conversation tomorrow. Which is a good thing, because I think I’m about to eat dirt on this flirtation.
Tilting her head to the side, she studies me. With the bunny in her arms, and her fingers slowly stroking through the fur, she could be a villainess. She’s definitely dangerous.
I feel her appraisal of me and know I’m about to come up sh
ort. This woman might dress country, but there’s something different about her. I doubt she’s after a shiny buckle and bragging rights. There’s a story in her eyes, a sadness hidden behind her smile.
Curiosity tugs at my chest, pushing me to continue talking with her. It’s an unfamiliar feeling to want to know more about a woman at a rodeo.
Might be because I’m a shallow, cocky bastard. Or because I’ve kept my walls up so long, they’re covered in ivy and thorny brambles.
Not trusting people is in my blood. My family keeps to ourselves to protect our secrets. I have a hard time letting people in, but there’s something about her smile that makes me want to open the door.
“Guess I need to go break Cisco’s heart. Y’all enjoy the rest of your evening,” I drawl, purposely pouring on the charm as I reach up to tip my hat.
Only I’m not wearing a hat.
I try to pass it off like I’m going to run my fingers through my hair, but with my buzz cut I don’t have much of that either. I’m left with sweeping my palm down my head. Feeling completely off my game, I glance down at her perched on the hay bale.
Blinking her dark lashes, she snuggles the bunny’s head. “You don’t play fair.”
Waiting to see what she does next, I stuff my hands in my front pockets and rock back on the thick heels of my boots.
“Let’s go see Cisco.” She scoops up the fluff ball and then stands before setting it on the ground in the pen. “Mae, this man wants to show me his horse. I’m almost positive it’s not a euphemism, but if I’m not back in ten,” she glances at me, “five minutes, you’ll know where to find me.”
I grin in spite of the vague insult of my character. Gentry’s eardrum-splitting whistle pierces the din from the crowd and speakers. “Better make it ten. I have a belt buckle to collect.”
Holding out my elbow, I gesture for her to take my arm. “It’ll make Cisco’s day if he knows you’re watching him from the stands.”
“Right. The horse will know I’m there.” Her laugh is dry, questioning my sanity no doubt, but she loops her arm through mine.
“Horses are like elephants. They never forget a pretty face.” I lead us back toward the stalls and stop next to where Cisco is saddled and ready for me. “Or a name.”
Wild for You Page 7
