by B. J Daniels
Dylan smiled grimly. He’d just set a pack of rabid dogs after his once best friend.
* * *
FROM THE NONDESCRIPT van he’d rented, Sebastian Cooper watched Dylan drive away from the prison and swore. He could think of only one reason Dylan would visit J. B. Crowe. He slammed his fist down on the steering wheel. His friend had just screwed him. As if things weren’t bad enough.
“What now, boss?” the bozo in the van’s passenger seat asked.
Sebastian watched Dylan disappear in his rearview mirror, then studied his own reflection. His dark good looks had always gotten him what he wanted, the jet-black hair, the ebony eyes, the hard, lean jawline. His looks had gotten him Julie.
Julie. Damn her soul.
He reminded himself that it was his brains that had gotten him through Texas A and M with a business degree, hooked him up with a troubleshooting consulting firm and finally gotten him his own business, Cooper Consulting, Inc.
And it was his brains that he needed to use now.
He knew that he should never have gotten involved with the mob. He had J. B. Crowe to blame for that. J.B. was still running the mob from behind bars through his captain Luke Silva. While Silva was no match for Sebastian, Crowe still had an incredible amount of power. And everyone knew it was just a matter of time before he was out on good behavior and back on the streets, so to speak.
Sebastian didn’t want that day to ever come. If he could get rid of Crowe permanently, he could take over the organization in this part of Texas and the Southwest. Killing Crowe was out of the question. That would just invite retaliation.
But if Crowe were to spend the rest of his life in prison… Well, that was another story.
Sebastian had been smart. He’d protected himself by collecting evidence against the mob and putting it on microfilm. If that evidence were to end up in the hands of the feds—anonymously, of course—Crowe would never see the light of day again. Sebastian had been extra careful to cover his own tracks so he wouldn’t be implicated along with the mobster.
But he had made one mistake. Trusting his damned wife, Julie.
He had to find her and get the locket she wore around her neck, the locket with the microfilm inside. Julie didn’t have a clue what she had in her possession. That she held his entire future in that locket. Julie’s own future didn’t look as bright.
When she’d first disappeared, he’d thought she might really be dead. But his old friend Dylan had found her—Sebastian was sure of that now. Julie had become a liability, an expendable one. Only when Sebastian tracked her down and she was out of the picture would he be safe.
* * *
WHILE SHE STILL had the computer, Chelsea did some checking and found that Ace Winters would be bull riding at the Lubbock rodeo tonight and C. J. Crocker was one of the clowns, just as Lloyd had thought. She printed out a copy of both schedules, and Jackson Robinson’s while she was at it. When she compared them, she was surprised to see that both Ace and Jack were riding in the same rodeos. Wasn’t that odd?
She compared C. J. Crocker’s schedule and noted that he would be at most of the same rodeos as well. She called Lloyd.
“It’s not that strange, really,” he said when she told him. “Those are the top-paying rodeos and these are the top guys in their fields. Jack and Ace are trying to make enough to qualify for the Big Dance.”
“The Big Dance?” she asked.
“Sorry. The National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas in December. The top fifty cowboys who’ve earned the most money on the circuit get to ride for the big bucks and buckles in Vegas.”
“Oh.” She realized she didn’t know diddly about professional rodeo. Or Jack’s life, for that matter. But while on the computer she did find out that he’d won seven world championships at the National Finals.
“I hope you’ve given some more thought to what we talked about last night,” Lloyd said. “Roberta’s right. Might be best to just let sleeping dogs lie, you know?”
She knew. But damned if she could do it.
Back at the rodeo grounds, she asked where she could find Ace Winters, but was told he’d already ridden. No one seemed to know whether or not he’d left for the next rodeo yet. As for C. J. Crocker, one of the cowboys pointed to a small trailer at the edge of the camp.
She glanced around. She knew it was just a matter of time before she ran into Jack. Just as she knew he wasn’t going to like seeing her again any more than he had last night.
As she made her way to C. J.’s trailer, she had that eerie feeling once again that someone was watching her. She glanced around but didn’t see anyone paying her undo attention. Everyone seemed to be busy getting ready for the upcoming rodeo. Or packing for the next.
She tapped lightly at C. J. Crocker’s trailer door.
“Come in,” he called.
She opened the door to find him sitting in front of a mirror, applying his makeup. His long, thin face was already covered in white and he was drawing an exaggerated bright-red mouth when she stepped in.
He didn’t seem to recognize her. And now that she was here, she didn’t know where to start. As was her character, she jumped in with both feet.
“I’m Chelsea Jensen and I need to ask you some questions.”
He nodded and continued putting on his face. “Now isn’t the best time for an interview, Ms. Jones.”
“Jensen, and I’m not a reporter. I’m the daughter of Ryder Jensen. The Wishing Tree Ranch. Outside of San Antonio.”
He stopped applying his makeup for a moment.
“You worked for the ranch about ten years ago,” she said, waiting for some recognition in his happy-clown face.
“This isn’t about some tax thing, is it?” he asked.
“No.” She looked around the cramped trailer. “Would you mind if I sat down?” Her legs were shaking.
He glanced at his watch.
“It will only take a minute and you can keep getting ready. I don’t mind.”
He shrugged. He appeared to have filled out some, but was still tall and slim, and God help him, his face was definitely horsey, just as Lloyd had said. He finished the big red mouth and began to draw large black circles around each eye. It reminded Chelsea of her first attempts at makeup.
The only other seat was the couch against the wall behind him. She sat down, watching him in the mirror, and tried to think of some diplomatic way to launch into cattle rustling. She already had the man worried about taxes.
“That summer, there was a fire, you might recall.”
He didn’t act as if he’d heard her.
“And later in the season Ray Dale Farnsworth was killed. Bucked off his horse in Box Canyon.”
C.J. filled in the black around his eyes and began to draw two tears under one eye, taking what she thought was undo care for a man who’d be spending a great deal of his night in a barrel.
“Let me be honest with you,” she said. “Ray Dale was rustling our cattle. I’m trying to find out who he was working with. The statute of limitations on such a crime has long since run out,” she rushed on. “I have no intention of taking any action. I just need to know who it was. I was hoping you might have some idea and could help me.” She finally took a breath. “The six of you were all living in the same bunkhouse that summer so I thought…”
C.J. stopped working on one large tear to meet her gaze in the mirror. In stark contrast to his smiling clown face, his brownish-green eyes were as hard and cold as marbles. Chelsea actually felt a little afraid.
“I don’t know anything about anything, especially Ray Dale and rustling,” C.J. said, drawing out each word. “I hope I’ve made myself clear.”
Perfectly. Chelsea got to her feet, then hesitated, not wanting to give up this easily. “Anything you tell me would be kept in the strictest confidence.” His deep-freeze glare followed her as she moved to the door. “If you should change your mind…” She put her card on the small shelf by the door with both the ranch number and her cell phone on it
, then ventured one last glance in the mirror at him.
His expression said he wouldn’t be changing his mind anytime soon.
She reined in a shudder. After today, she’d never feel the same way about clowns. She bolted from the trailer.
“I thought you left?”
Damn. Chelsea recognized the voice at once. She turned slowly to find Terri Lyn Kessler, barrel racer and bad cook, scowling at her.
“I hate to miss a rodeo when I’m in town,” Chelsea quipped. She was still shaking from her encounter with C. J. Crocker and not up to a battle.
Terri Lyn was all decked out in her rodeo cowgirl outfit, big hair, glittery gold western duds and almost as much makeup as C.J. the clown. She was holding the reins of a horse and looking very angry. Not that Chelsea could blame her. Under the same circumstances, she would have been a little miffed herself.
The announcer’s voice echoed across the grounds, calling for all riders to check in. Relieved that the rodeo was about to start and Terri Lyn had better things to do than light into her, Chelsea made her retreat with a quick, “Break a leg.”
She could feel Terri Lyn’s gaze boring into her back like a knife as she made her way up to the stands and sat down at the end of one of the long rows of almost-full wooden bleachers. Her legs felt like rubber and her heart was pounding.
Settle down. It wasn’t as though C.J. threatened you. Not exactly. Or Terri Lyn, for that matter.
But C.J. had scared her. And Terri Lyn had wanted to. She was safe now, though, sitting among the rodeo crowd. Her heart rate calmed. But Lloyd and Roberta were right. This could be more dangerous than she thought.
C. J. Crocker’s response still bothered her. She just didn’t know what to make of it.
Did he know something? He’d certainly acted as if he did. Was he covering for someone?
The rodeo started with a group of cowgirls riding in with the U.S. and Texas flags and a variety of business banners. Chelsea bought a program from a cowgirl dressed in red, white and blue and thumbed through it, disappointed to find that Ace Winters wasn’t listed. But Jack was. He was riding a bull named Free Wheelin’.
When she looked up, she saw Jack over on the rail fence with some other cowboys. Just the sight of him kicked up her recovering pulse rate. Damn, she hated her body’s reaction to him, especially knowing the way he felt about her. What a waste of lust. And love.
“I thought you left.”
Is that all anyone could think to say to her? Chelsea looked up to see Jack’s daughter standing over. Sam had on a western hat and shirt, jeans and boots. The hat was pulled low over her face, her braid tucked up inside. Nothing about her resembled a girl. But with that face and those long legs, Chelsea predicted Sam was going to be a real beauty one day.
“I decided to stay for the rodeo,” she told Sam.
The girl eyed her suspiciously from beneath the brim of her hat. “Does Dad know you’re here?”
Chelsea glanced toward the fence. Terri Lyn had horned in on the group of cowboys and hung on the rail next to Jack as if she belonged there. “Not that I know of.” Chelsea slid over a little to give Sam room to sit down. “Want to join me?”
Sam looked anything but delighted at the prospect, but reluctantly, she sat down.
“I thought Ace Winters was riding today,” Chelsea said.
“He probably rode slack and skipped the perf.” She must have seen Chelsea’s confused look. With obvious patience, Sam explained, “There are more bull riders than there is time during the rodeo, so some ride early so they can get to the next rodeo.”
“What’s the point of riding if there isn’t anyone to see you ride?” she had to ask.
Sam rolled her eyes. “The idea is to get the best score, win the purse and get on to the next rodeo. That’s how you make it to the National Finals.”
Oh.
The afternoon kicked off with saddle bronc riding.
“That was a good ride,” Chelsea said after the first cowboy finished, trying to make conversation with Jack’s daughter.
“He dropped a leg and didn’t spur,” Sam said, looking at her. “Don’t you know anything about rodeo?”
“My brother used to ride saddle broncs.” Not that Chelsea had paid much attention, except when Cody was thrown. She enjoyed that part because then he wasn’t quite so smug.
The ground crew set up for the next event: barrel racing. Chelsea watched Sam out of the corner of her eye during Terri Lyn’s ride. The girl didn’t like the barrel racer and Chelsea wondered if there was more to it than jealousy over Terri Lyn’s interest in her father.
“She rides well,” Chelsea commented.
Sam let out a snort. “Shows what you know. She should have cut in tighter on that second barrel.”
On a hunch, Chelsea asked, “Do you ride?”
“Sure. Some of the cowboys let me ride their horses when Dad’s there to watch. He’s afraid I’ll get hurt if I do anything more than trot around the arena.” She stopped as if she’d said too much. “Do you ride?” Her tone indicated she highly doubted it.
“I’ll have you know I’ve been riding alone since I was three.”
“Three?” Sam cried. “Your dad let you ride at three?”
“That’s when he bought me my first horse, but I’d been riding from the time I could sit,” Chelsea said in her defense.
Sam looked dutifully impressed. She stewed on that thought for a while. “You ever barrel race?”
“No,” Chelsea had to admit.
“Barrel racing is for girls,” Sam said.
“What’s wrong with being a girl?” Chelsea had to ask.
“Nothing. As long as you aren’t a sissy girl.”
“Oh. I guess I didn’t understand the distinction.”
Chelsea offered to buy them something to eat if Sam would get it. The girl returned a few minutes later with two Cokes, popcorn and a hot dog.
Sam handed Chelsea a Coke and the popcorn. “Has the bull riding started yet?” she asked as she devoured the hot dog, which was smothered in ketchup, mustard and pickle relish.
“Just about.” Chelsea had spotted Jack over by the chutes.
“Dad got a bad bull,” Sam said, sounding glum.
“A bad bull?” Chelsea knew enough about rodeos to realize that bull riding was the most dangerous event, and she doubted having a “bad bull” was a good thing.
She felt her heart rate jump up a notch as she watched Jack climb to the top of the chute. Did this bull have a reputation for hurting riders? Or had it never been ridden yet?
She still couldn’t see the bull in the chute but she could hear him in there banging around. There seemed to be some problem. Her anxiety level rose as she watched Jack hover over the chute—and the bull.
“Our first rider is Jackson Robinson, all-around top bull rider for eight years before his accident.”
Accident? Chelsea shot a look at Sam.
“This Texan from Amarillo took a nasty spill last year and got himself gored and out of the running,” the announcer was saying. “But this year he’s back and on his way to reclaiming his title.”
“Your dad got hurt last year?” she asked, her voice a little too high.
“Almost died. Devil Twist put him into the fence, then stomped and gored him.” Sam made it sound like a badge of honor. “But Dad says he’s too tough for a bull to keep him down.”
Yeah, right. Chelsea stared at Jack, wondering what in the hell he was doing riding bulls.
“We seem to have a little problem with this bull,” the announcer said as the animal banged around in the chute. “Free Wheelin’ is just not willing to cooperate it seems.”
A clown—not C.J.—was doing silly things in the middle of the arena with a golf club and a giant ball. Nervously, Chelsea glanced over at Samantha. The girl didn’t seem worried, just unhappy, and wasn’t even looking in the direction of her father or the clown.
Chelsea followed Sam’s gaze and saw what had drawn the girl’s a
ttention. Terri Lyn Kessler had moved to a section of fence away from the bull chutes to watch. She hung on the fence, her gaze intent on Jack.
Chelsea smiled to herself. Terri Lyn was going to have a terrible time getting close to Jack if Sam had her way.
“Dad should have just turned out on this one,” Sam said, her attention returning to the cowboys trying to get the bull to calm down enough so Jack could ride him.
“Turned out?” Chelsea asked.
“Not showed up.”
“Can he do that?”
“Sure. He can do whatever he wants. It’s his career.” It was obvious Sam was repeating something she’d heard Jack say. His career. Chelsea turned again to watch Jack lower himself to the bull’s back. Jack considered this a career?
She was just beginning to realize how little she knew about pro rodeo. She certainly couldn’t understand why Jack had chosen to ride bulls. Maybe she hadn’t known him as well as she’d thought.
She could see the bull slamming around in the chute, snorting and kicking at the wooden slats as Jack moved to straddle the bull. As she watched, he slid a gloved hand into what looked like a leather noose tied to the bull’s girth.
Her heart nearly stopped. “He’s not tying himself on, is he?” she cried as she watched him work one gloved hand into whatever was tied around the bull, while another cowboy on the fence leaned over the chute to pull the rope tight.
“He has one hand tied by a rope to the midsection of the bull,” Sam said, not bothering to look at her. “The rope is held tight by Dad’s grip.”
Jack raised his other gloved hand and gave a nod. The gate swung open and he and the bad bull burst out.
“He has to keep his other hand up at head level or he can be disqualified,” Sam said. “And he gets more points for spurring the bull.”
The bull began to spin in a tight circle.
“Not good,” Sam said, raising Chelsea’s anxiety level. “He’s too far inside the spin. He’s heading for the well.”
The bull was still whirling, Jack still spurring him on. “What happens if he falls into the well?” she asked on a breath.
“The bull keeps spinning. The rider can be crushed by its hooves. That’s what happened to Brent Thurman on Red Wolf. Crushed his skull.”
