by Drake, Laura
What the hell are you thinking, Cahill? Obviously his Johnson had taken over that duty. Uh unh. Not going there again. No more buckle bunnies or one night stands for him. Not that he’d never again consider a relationship, but Katya was too amazing to ruin his chances by rushing things.
The last time he’d rushed, he’d ended up hitched together with Candi. Within six months, she’d wanted out of the ties more than he, slashing her way out with careless claws.
He reached for his hat, and bowed to Katya. “Thank you for coming out with me, Ms. Smith.” He put his hat on.
She dropped a quick curtsy, her eyes full of questions. “Thank you for dinner, Cam. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He left as fast as he could.
CHAPTER
14
In the locker room the next night, Cam bent to buckle his spur. “The stuff worked. That’s all I’m saying. My knee didn’t keep me up last night.”
“Oh, I hear what you’re saying, partner.” Tuck held a side lunge, warming up. “You’re saying you’re drinking her Kool-Aid.”
Cam glanced around the crowded, noisy locker room. No one stared, but he sensed ears cocking. “Tuck, pay attention. I drank her tea.”
“You took her to dinner, then back to her hotel room. Bud, trust me, you’re drinking her Kool-Aid.”
A few anonymous chuckles came from the cheap seats.
Tuck scratched his chin, considering. “You said she’s a Gypsy. You could be in trouble. Maybe she slipped you a love potion.” He squinted at Cam. “Just how long did you stay?”
“You’ll want to watch your mouth, Hoss. She’s a lady.”
At his junkyard-dog growl, Tuck’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, it’s like that.”
Cam stood to buckle his chaps. “Quit standing there with your face hanging out. You’d best focus on your ride, not my love life.” He rummaged in his locker for his mouthpiece and slipped it into the pocket of his vest.
He turned around to find that Tuck hadn’t moved. Neither had a couple other riders. “What?”
“I’m just trying to get my head around you using ‘my’ and ‘love life’ in the same sentence.”
“Yeah, well, stranger things can happen. You could actually manage to stay on a bull tonight.” He slammed the locker door, ignored the watched feeling crawling on the back of his neck, and walked out.
As he rounded the hallway’s last turn, the smell hit him—a heady mixture of animals, people, popcorn, and potential that was bull riding’s signature perfume. When he stepped into the area behind the chutes, the sound washed over him; the pounding beat of a country song set to the shifting rise and fall of crowd noise. People streamed from the concourse, down the steps to their seats, hands full of beer and cardboard trays of food.
The familiar mule kick of adrenaline slammed into his chest, and his pulse caught a gear. After almost fifteen years on tour, he still got a buzz. These arenas felt more like home than his cabin in Texas.
The bulls waited. The night lay ahead, a shiny perfect thing.
A tide of emotions rose in him: pride, belonging, anticipation. His glanced at the JumboTron. It flashed the PBR schedule for the remainder of the season.
After this weekend, only four events until the finals.
His shiny mood popped. It’s all slipping away. The future was hurtling at him. The events were ticking past like white dashes on freeway pavement. Four events until the finals. Six weeks to his last ride. Then what?
A black hole, that’s what. His mind toyed with options, but nothing sparked his interest. Desperate, he even considered shoehorning himself back into life with his family on the home place. But he was about as useful there as an ice tray in hell. He shrugged the weight of worry off his shoulders. He had a job to do tonight.
One bull at a time. The mantra had served him well over the years for more than just bull riding. He rounded the corner of the chutes.
Katya stood back to him, looking through the metal slats of the out gate, a folded stretcher in the dirt beside her. Her shoulders hovered near her ears, her back humped like an old crone. Her fingers clutching the gate shone white. From her body language, you’d think Lucifer himself stood in that arena.
Her soft blouse and feminine flowing skirt against the stark utilitarian backdrop looked more out of place than usual. Like a… “Gypsy at a rodeo.”
She jumped and whirled, fists coming up, eyes huge and spooked.
Jesus. This girl was more than wound tight; she was terrified. “Katya, it’s just me.” He talked low and slow, in his horse whisperer voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Cam. You scared me.” She put a shaking hand to her chest. “How long until the start?”
He stepped beside her. “About twenty minutes.” It didn’t escape him that she’d ignored his question. “You know, now that you’re working the arena, you might want to buy yourself some Wranglers.”
Her eyes narrowed.
He smiled. “Don’t get me wrong. I surely do appreciate the sight of a lady in a skirt. But this environment is hell on soft clothes.” Her white ballet shoes, already stained, sunk in the red dirt.
She looked at her feet, then at him. “You may have a point.” The pink in her face was a good change from pasty-white. “No offense, but when I want fashion advice, I won’t be consulting a cowboy.”
“That’s probably wise.” He’d give money to know what put the fine tremor in her hands.
Could she be worried about me getting hurt? If he asked, and he was wrong, he’d look like the arrogant ass she’d thought him to be that first day. And yet, he’d still give a bit to know.
He wanted to hold her hands, to rub away the shakes. To stand next to her, to let her know she didn’t stand alone.
But this wasn’t the time, or the place. “At least it took your mind off whatever’s scaring you in that arena.” He looked through the slats, to where camera crews were setting up in the round shark’s cage in the center. “Maybe sometime you’ll tell me what that is.” He tipped his hat and walked away, to prep his first bull.
He’s right. I’ve got to calm down. Yeah, like she hadn’t thought that eight hundred times since she’d fallen out of her sleepless bed. The cement-mixer in her digestive tract made breakfast out of the question, so she’d gone for a run instead.
Six miles of pavement pounding hadn’t helped much, so lunch was out, too. To calm herself, she’d ground up every herb in her stash. When that didn’t work, she’d poured the packets of hotel coffee and sugar in her mortar and ground them to dust. Not to drink, just to grind. Still, her nerves felt like twitching live wires, sparking and spitting.
Finally, time passed, and she escaped the coffin-like hotel room. But it was worse here. She looked out at the arena, imagining herself running in on one end of the stretcher, kneeling in the dirt beside a downed cowboy.
P-R-I-C-E—protection, rest, ice, compression, elevation. Her hands would move with speed and efficiency, stabilizing injuries. Doing her job.
Another vision kept intruding; one where she stood over the cowboy, frozen, while the entire hushed arena watched.
That would be the end of everything: her job, her bank account, her chance to get back to her unit. And her chance to go out with Cam again.
Cam? Where did that come from? Get a grip, soldier.
Realizing her hands were at her mouth, she dropped them to her sides and made herself turn away from the visions in the dirt.
Doc Cody strode through the door from the locker room. She straightened, lifting the corners of her lips. Isn’t that what a smile felt like? Well, it would have to do. “Hey, Doc. I’ve got the stretcher, straps, and braces. And the ER kit is right over there.” She pointed. “We’re ready.”
He tipped his hat back, ignored the equipment, and focused on her instead. “We’re going to be fine, Katya. With luck, we won’t be needed tonight.”
Yeah, like her luck worked that way.
“I’ll be up on the chutes.” He pointed up
the stairs across the gate from her. “I’ll be right here if something goes bad.”
“Yessir.” Thank God. She’d pictured him standing next to her all night. Watching. Judging. She let out a breath.
A deep voice boomed over the PA system. “Folks, you might want to find your seats. We’re five minutes from showtime.”
The cowboys streamed out of the locker room, lining up in front of her gate. She looked down the line, surprised to realize she could put a name to almost all the faces. She didn’t see Cam, but halfway down the line, Buster’s red hair and huge smile stood out of the crowd. He tipped his hat to her.
She smiled back, a real smile this time, and mouthed, “Good luck.”
He winked at her.
The arena went black. The music cut off, mid-note. The crowd fell silent. For a few seconds, there was nothing.
Then, a deep, strong voice boomed out of the dark. “Welcome to the toughest sport on earth. My name is JB Denny, and I’ll be your announcer for tonight’s event. Sit back and get ready because this is the P (bang!) B (bang!) R (bang!)” The arena exploded with flashes of light and what sounded like gunfire.
She was ready this time. The pyrotechnics made her duck, but she just managed not to cover.
The gate swung open and when a spotlight hit her, she scrambled back to a dark corner. The riders were announced, and one by one, they stepped into the blinding light, raising their hats in salute to the crowd as they strode into the arena.
Each received their share of applause, but when Buster stepped out, the applause swelled. He ducked his head and ran into the arena, smile brighter than the spotlight.
She watched from the shadows, proud and happy for him. And jealous. He ran out to meet the night and all that it could bring, good or bad.
Fearless. He was the poster boy for the slogan. Buster was going to get on a ton of pissed-off, stomp-your-guts-out bull, and he smiled.
All she had to do was pick up the pieces after a ride gone wrong, and she was light-headed with fear.
You are such a wuss.
When cowboys lined both sides of the arena, the spots were doused and the announcer’s voice sliced through the dark. “This kid came up from the Challenger ranks twelve years ago, to take the National Final event in Las Vegas. The next season, he captured the world title in a storied season, winning seven individual events, a record still unbroken. The next year, he fought back from a career-threatening injury to again take the world title gold buckle. Ladies and gentlemen, our two-time world champion, ‘Cool Hand’ Cam Cahill!”
Katya craned her neck. Behind her, on a platform high above the bucking chutes, the spotlight hit Cam. The blast of white light flattened him to a two-dimensional study in light and shadow. He looked bigger than life and badder than bad. His chaps flared, following the slight bow in his legs, up to hug his hips. His huge gold champion’s buckle flashed in the lights. When he doffed his hat, the crowd’s voice swelled to ear-split level. He looked like a movie star—unknowable, untouchable.
Damn. Every buckle bunny in the place must be squirming in their tight bling jeans. A small thrill shot up the back of Katya’s neck.
You’ve been on a date with that cowboy! Hell, she’d kissed him.
She shook herself. You know that’s all carefully staged. Just the same, she tucked the thrill away, to take out later. The spot went out. The arena lights came up, the cowboys trotted past her and up the steps to the chutes.
A teenage girl entered the arena to sing the National Anthem.
Ten minutes later, it began. In the metal cage closest to her, she watched Jory Hancock lower himself into a chuteful of bull. When the gate swung open, the bull exploded into the arena. Jory sat, hat smashed down, clinging to his rope with one hand, the other in the air.
Katya peered through the metal slats. It was one thing to watch from the stands. Bull riding was different when it happened six feet in front of you. Like the difference between standing in a battlefield with soldiers fighting around you, and watching the news clips on television. This close, the brute power of the animal was real and very personal. She felt the heavy thud of hooves in her chest. Saliva flew in a long arc from its mouth, and when the bull turned into a spin, Katya saw intent in its white-rimmed eyes. It was pissed. If it had its way, someone was going to pay.
Her heart hammered, and her white-knuckled hands grabbing the slats were all that kept her from running for high ground. She was afraid. For Jory, for herself. That bull looked strong enough to burst through the fence, into her face. The crowd screamed encouragement.
These cowboys are insane!
She understood why the bulls were called animal athletes. The bull bucked, muscles bunching, straining to get the rider off his back. Jory sat in the center, spurring with his outside leg, to wow the judges. Smiling.
Yes, she saw it twice as he flashed past. He was smiling.
The buzzer sounded. Jory reached down, jerking the rope out of his hand. The bullfighters stepped closer. The bull kicked out and launched the cowboy, who tried to duck and roll. Except he was too high in the air for that. He came down on his shoulder, his body landing in a heap.
Shit! Katya reached for the strap of the bulky first-aid kit, threw it over her shoulder, then reached for her end of the stretcher. You can do this. You can. The world tipped. She swayed, dizzy. You have to. She shook her head to clear it. Gritting her teeth, she peered through the gate, hand on the slide bar closure.
Jory was on his feet, running for the fence. Grinning. The bullfighters hazed the still bucking bull to the exit.
“Jory gets the best of the bull, to the tune of eighty-seven and a half points!” The announcer’s voice boomed. The crowd cheered.
She dropped the stretcher and the bulky kit in a heap at her feet. She sagged against the fence, leaned over, and put her hands on her knees, partially to stop their shaking, partially to clear her head.
That was only the first ride.
The night stretched ahead, ponderous and hulking. She glanced up to see Doc Cody watching her from the catwalk above the chutes. She stood and waved to him, hoping he wouldn’t see past her flimsy, facade-smile.
The rides blew by. A little of her tension eked out every time a rider walked or limped out of the arena. Maybe it was just that a body couldn’t sustain terror for an indefinite time. Whatever the reason, she was grateful. She found herself absorbed by the drama on the dirt of the arena.
Seeing past the fear, up close, she could feel the high the riders got from doing this.
Katya let out her held breath when Cam rode his bull to the buzzer, and managed to land on his feet.
The color commentator and cameras were waiting when he stepped through the gate. He straightened his hat, unzipped his padded vest, and strode to them.
The diminutive commentator batted her eyes at the camera. “Cam has been a bit inconsistent of late, but you’d never know it, seeing that ride.” She turned to him. “You looked more comfortable up there tonight, Cam, what was the difference?”
“I got a good night’s sleep. I feel good.” He flashed a quick smile at Katya then focused on the commentator.
A thrill of pride shot through her chest. Grand’s tea helped! She’d known it would.
The Cam in front of the cameras looked so different than the Cam she was getting to know. His face was closed, carefully composed. A Cool Hand Cahill mask.
The woman with the mic said, “Well done, Cam. Good luck in the final round.” The camera’s lights went out. With one more glance at her, Cam climbed the stairs to the catwalk.
When Katya turned back to the gate, the world tilted again. Something was wrong. Her stomach twisted, suddenly, massively hollow, but nauseated at the same time. She felt weak and shaky, her feet light, as if gravity were loosening its hold. A clammy sweat popped on her face and palms.
She took deep breaths, and within a minute, the feeling faded.
The cowboys in the final round were all able to walk to the locke
r room unaided. Cam led the standings with a ninety-point ride.
JB Denny’s voice came over the loudspeakers. “And so we’ve come, ladies and gentlemen, to the last ride of the night. This teenager burst onto the scene this year and quickly became a fan favorite. A serious contender for Rookie of the Year, Buster Deacon is making his mark on the tour. He’s got guts, too. In the bull draft, he reached in and picked the top bull in the pen tonight, Bone Dancer.
“This bull is unridden in fifteen outs. He’s smart, he’s sneaky. And he’s mean.”
In the chute, Buster locked his fingers over his rope with a pound of his fist. He pushed his hat down, crossed himself then nodded.
The bull hung his horn on the chute, so his hindquarters swung out first. Once free, he lunged, twisting in midair, too close to the chutes. Buster came off and crashed headfirst into the unforgiving metal. Katya felt the vibration though the slat under her hand.
Seeing the rider on the ground, the beast ignored the bullfighters and charged, running along the fence, trampling the unconscious cowboy.
Katya had shouldered the kit and lifted her end of the stretcher by the time Doc Cody arrived. He hefted his end, and slid aside the lock on the gate. The bull thundered by. When its hindquarters disappeared through the exit, he said, “Let’s go.” He pushed the gate open.
They ran into the arena. Guts shaking, she didn’t have time to think.
When they reached Buster where he lay in the middle of a semicircle of protective bullfighters, Doc Cody knelt beside him. She spread the stretcher open and locked it, trying to avoid the moment when she’d have to look.
“Buster? Buster, can you hear me?” Doc Cody’s voice sounded calm.
She looked.
Blood sheeted down his face from a flap-like cut in his scalp, his copper-orange hair wet with it. His eyes had rolled back, the whites pallid as a hard-boiled egg. Red dirt spattered across his face. Or maybe it was freckles, her vision was blurred.
“Come on, son. Wake up now.” Doc pulled gauze from the kit and pressed it to Buster’s head.
