Rodeo Dreams

by Sarah M. Anderson

  Even now, she could see the tape of Travis’s wreck in her mind. Rides were supposed to be eight seconds, but he’d been trapped under that bull for almost three minutes of hell. He shouldn’t have survived, but he had.

  If he had any sense about him at all, he would have retired after he had to have his pelvis and jaw reconstructed. That disaster of a ride—on a bull named No Man’s Land—still made ESPN’s All-Time Best Wrecks. At least these days, he had enough sense to wear a helmet. He was the only guy here who had one.

  June didn’t have one, either. But then, a shocking lack of common sense was what led them all to sit on the back of a two-ton animal and try to ride the danged thing.

  Up close now, she could see the serious brown eyes that cut right through the crap. She didn’t get the same threatening vibe off Travis that she’d gotten off Red. Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “You think I won’t make the buzzer?”

  “I think you won’t even get on him,” he replied.

  “Mr. Younkin—” He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she felt the air between them thicken. “Travis—I don’t recall asking your permission.”

  The corner of his mouth curved up a bit—something that might have been a smile under other circumstances. Even so, a faint dimple tried to divot his cheek, right on the edge of the beard that almost hid the sharp planes of his face.

  The girl part of her brain realized that, pissed or not—broken or not—Travis Younkin was still a handsome fellow.

  And stubborn. “I’m not letting you on that bull.”

  Her fingers tightened around her bull rope. “Don’t worry, Mister Younkin. You aren’t letting me do anything.”

  His mouth opened into something just short of a snarl when Hallowed Ground came roaring down the chute. Saved by the bull, June thought with an inward grin.

  Hallowed Ground was a bull to be reckoned with. A buck shy of two thousand pounds, his mottled white skin seemed to hang loose on his formidable bones like a boxer wearing an oversized robe into the ring. He might look big, but that only disguised the agility that had would-be riders flying off his back in all directions.

  His horns looked like he’d twisted them around the hard way, on some poor sap’s backside. She knew that was just the way horns grew, but it didn’t make him any less frightful looking. One horn was angled down behind his ear, like he wanted it tucked out of the way while he tried to gore anyone who dared to ride him with the other. If history was any indicator, Hallowed would do his damnedest to get her both coming and going.

  “Travis, if Girlie wants to ride, let her ride. It’s her neck.” June rolled her eyes in the direction of the speaker. Girlie? “You want me to pull your rope? I’m Mitch.”

  June mentally scrolled through the night’s garbled announcements. Mitch Jenner. Currently sixth in the overall standings, placed third tonight. Lasted 5.3 seconds on his last attempt to ride Hallowed Ground.

  And apparently the only friend she had right now.

  “Sure. Much obliged.”

  “This is beyond insane,” Travis mumbled. He was still standing between her and the bull.

  “Travis,” Mitch scolded, still smiling at her, “isn’t that the definition of bull riding?” A gangly fellow with glasses perched on a beak of a nose, he grinned at her. “Don’t worry about him, Girlie. He’s just a Poppa Bear in chaps.”

  Most of the cowboys here had dark chaps, from black all the way to dark brown, but Travis and his chaps stood apart. A vivid grass-green with three brown diamonds down each side, his chaps reminded her of early spring on the Plains, when the prairie was still lush from April showers. Custom chaps like that weren’t cheap. They said winner. They said confident, a showman comfortable enough to be outside the box.

  They also said he had a good Wrangler butt, the kind that got a standing ovation from the ladies in the crowd every night, good ride or not.

  “More like just a plain ol’ chicken,” Red called out. The sounds of clucking followed.

  Travis’s jaw flexed. Clearly, this was an old battle being fought on new turf—hers.

  “You’re making me look bad,” he said, the whisper sounding almost dangerous.

  “You seem to be doing a fine job of that all by yourself.”

  That was apparently the last straw, because he grabbed her arm and hauled her off to the side, out of earshot of the others. “Please don’t do this.” How nice of someone to use the magic word. His voice was low—and sexy, darn it all. She’d love to hear him say her name in that voice.

  “Go on, honey! Try to break his arm, too!”

  Travis’s hand dropped like she’d jabbed him with a hatpin.

  “Get out of my way, or I’ll get you out of my way.” Somehow, she managed to sound calm, but if she didn’t get on that bull right now, she was going to lose the last of her cool and wind up in the middle of a cowboy riot.

  Whatever concern for her she thought she’d seen seconds before evaporated beneath a frustration that bordered on pissed. “Fine. Throw your life away. But at least wear a damn helmet.” Even as he said it, he stepped to the side.

  She’d won this round. “Don’t have one,” she replied, hoping she didn’t sound smug as she handed her bull rope over to Mitch and straddled the gate.

  “Cluck! Cluuuuuck!”

  Two other cowboys had joined Mitch on the platform. She recognized the Brazilian—she was certain he had a name, but even the rodeo announcer just called him by his point of origin. He was a man apart, silent and dark as he watched the drama. June had heard whispers through the crowd that he never spoke and he sure hadn’t weighed in on the whole women-on-bulls controversy. But here he was, holding her by her vest to steady her on Hallowed’s back.

  “Thanks,” she said. His head barely dipped in response.

  The other cowboy up on the platform was the one who’d given the opening prayer—Luke Lucas, aka the Preacher. Not the best rider here, but it hadn’t been hard to see him behind every rider mounting up, head bowed in prayer for a safe ride. At least in the Lord’s eyes, she deserved the same blessing. And help with the flank strap.

  “Hallowed usually breaks right and then comes back hard to the left,” Mitch said as he took up the slack in her bull rope. “Don’t let him get you down in the well, Girlie. His back kick is vicious, so set your spurs and keep your free hand up.”

  June tested her grip, nodding for him to give the rope another tug. “I can ride a bull. And my name is June.”

  “I know. I’ve seen you do it.” June’s head popped up in surprise, but the only explanation she got was a smarmy wink. “Have a good ride, Girlie.”

  The bull twitched beneath her legs, itching to get out of the chute and grind her into the dirt. He blew snot all over the gate as he tried to shake her off.

  No fear. Roll with the bull.

  “Oooee! That girl looks mighty good up there!” She didn’t recognize that voice.

  “I bet she’d look a hell of a lot better riding the Red Bull, if you catch my drift.”

  Next time, she’d break Red’s arm.

  “Mort, this is insane. No way she should be up there. At least make her wear a damned helmet,” Travis went on.

  “What’s the matter, Travis? Afraid the little Indian princess is gonna make you look like a pansy?”

  Damn it, these men were going to stand around and take potshots all night until the bull gave up and went to sleep.

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven, watch over this woman and help her have a safe ride,” Luke intoned, his head bowed so that his low voice barely reached her ears.

  “Since when is being smart being a pansy?” Travis shot back.

  “Since you started wearing that helmet, pansy.”

  That was it. She couldn’t focus, and she couldn’t ride w
ith them chattering like monkeys. “Hey! Shut it!”

  At the sound of her voice, Hallowed tried to rear up, but he was too damned big to do much more than get his front hooves about a foot off the ground in the narrow confines of the chute. Out in the open, he’d get a whole lot higher. The Brazilian held her steady as she reset her butt on Hallowed’s still-twitching back. June wasn’t the only one who was ready to get on with it.

  Finally, silence. A tense, pissed silence, but still. Only Mitch was snickering, “You tell them, Girlie,” as Luke double-checked the flank strap.

  Travis appeared on the platform, glowering at her. “You’re really insane enough to do this?”

  “No more insane than you are,” she growled, pulling on the handle. Still not tight enough. Maybe Mitch was afraid he’d hurt her?

  Travis leaned over and pulled on the rope, cinching it down the rest of the way. His face was only inches from hers. This close, she could smell the Old Spice and see the faint white line that ran just under the beard, down the whole length of his jaw.

  A man with scars—scars he tried to hide.

  What did the rest of his scars look like? He had to have them. Everyone here did. Her own ankle bore the evidence of her obsession.

  The bull shimmied again, but Travis didn’t even flinch. She tested her handle again. Just right. “Thanks.”

  His frown was right in her face as he leaned past the Brazilian, who was still holding her vest to keep her on top of the impatient bull. This close, with no one else to hear him, she half expected Travis to wish her a good ride, good luck, but instead, all she got was “Don’t get killed out there.”

  Why was it okay for these guys to risk life and limb to do something their mothers hated, but if one woman wanted in, it was too dangerous? Stupid double standard.

  She tested her grip on the bull rope, giving it one final cinch as she let her mind clear. Roll with the bull.

  No fear.

  She nodded her head, and suddenly the world was spinning off its axis.

  One.

  Every bone in her body jolted hard right as her arm almost popped out of the socket.

  Two.

  Hallowed Ground broke left, proving once again that the good bulls never did the expected. She managed to get her weight counterbalanced just in time for the next kick.

  Three.

  He spun hard to the right, trying to whip her off like a centrifuge, all while kicking his back legs up higher than her head.

  Four.

  She dug in her spurs as he reared back again. Better points for spurring. Roll.

  Five.

  Roll, she chanted over and over as her body whiplashed right and right again. He was trying to get her down in the well, but she knew if she leaned too far left, he’d spin back that way and throw her under his feet.

  Six.

  Roll. The adrenaline dumped into her blood, making her body sing. In a moment of sheer physical clarity, she knew again that this was what she was supposed to do. This was who she was supposed to be.

  Seven.

  Hallowed bent back hard left, the jolt ripping at her grip. She couldn’t hold on much longer. Her arm was just about to give. One more second. One more—

  Eight.

  The buzzer sounded just as her fingers slipped the handle.

  This was June’s strength—landing not under the feet of a pissed bull, but on her own. “Catlike,” more than one observer had noted. No matter what she was being thrown by—the mustangs she broke back on the Real Pride Ranch, the bulls she couldn’t stay away from, even that one wild buffalo—she managed to land feetfirst. Sure, more often than not, a hand hit the ground, as well, but she’d seen video of her rides. She landed like a runner taking her mark, not a discombobulated rider on the verge of getting trampled. She didn’t know how she did it and didn’t care, as long as she hit the ground in a position to move.

  The ground rushed up to smack her, but she managed to get her torso spun around just enough that her feet hit at the same time. And she was running for the safety of the gate. A bull like Hallowed was likely to hold a grudge, and she had no desire to be on the receiving end of those lopsided horns.

  It wasn’t until she’d clamored up the side and Hallowed had trotted out of the arena to have his flank strap removed that she heard the silence. The only sounds were her heart pounding and Hallowed snorting as he muscled his way down the chute.

  It lasted about five seconds, and then the group of cowboys on the platforms, the bullfighters in the arena and the women in the bleachers exploded.

  “Did you see that?”

  “Did she just do a somersault in midair?”

  “Did she just land on her feet?”

  “Did she just ride Hallowed Ground?”

  “She did it!”

  “She really did!”

  Had she? “A good ride?” she hollered, afraid to look. She’d made the time—but had her free hand stayed clear? Women were allowed to use both hands, but men weren’t. Would she get a score? Would she qualify?

  Would she get to ride?

  “Eighty-nine,” the judge announced over the loudspeaker. “An eighty-nine for June Spotted Elk on Hallowed Ground.”

  Relief turned the adrenaline to sheer joy. This rush left her giggly and high with her own power. She whipped off her hat and flung it into the air with a “Hiiieyeee!”

  This was the sweetest ride she could remember—not only had it been a good ride, not only had she ridden a monster of a bull like Hallowed Ground, not only had so many of the men here failed to do the same, but if this had been the competition, she would have been in second place after the long go—the first round of rides. Right behind Travis Younkin’s ninety, and right ahead of Red Willis’s eighty-seven.

  This was who she was. This was what she was supposed to do.

  To hell with what everyone else—her father, Travis, Red—thought. She was tired of living hand to mouth, scraping by on scholarships and her mom’s welfare check, tired of people thinking she couldn’t do anything because she was a poor Indian woman.

  She was born to ride bulls. Men got paid good money to do the eight-second dance. Why couldn’t she? She could—the Ranger Circuit was the first step.

  And June was on her way.

  Amid the shouts and applause from the women in the audience, Mitch jumped into the arena, hat in hand and a grin on his face. “Ma’am, I’m sure I speak for Mort—and us all—when I say that we’re pleased to welcome you with open arms.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THIS WAS NOT HAPPENING.

  From his perch on the platform, Travis stared in disbelief at the scene unfolding below him. Not only had Mort let that girl on Hallowed Ground without a helmet, not only was he going to let her on the Ranger Circuit, not only were the wives down there treating her like she was rodeo royalty—but now Mitch was also down there, bowing and scraping.

  Or flirting. Knowing Mitch, he was laying the groundwork for another conquest. They didn’t call him the Heartbreak Kid for nothing.

  That girl should not do this. Travis fumed as he watched her gather up her bull rope, shake Mort’s and then Mitch’s hands, and strut out like she owned the damned place. She moved with a grace he hadn’t seen in the arena before, which had the fringe on her sky-blue chaps billowing out behind her like eddies in a stream. It was a beautiful sight—those chaps cupping that backside, her long braid brushing against both of them—one he wanted to savor. She was something a man didn’t see in a bull-riding arena very often—beautiful.

  She’d gotten lucky—Hallowed wasn’t on tonight, that was all. And that landing? A once-in-a-lifetime shot to hit the ground running.

  No, there was no doubt in his mind that the next time out, she’d regret the day she set foot in an arena. She shoul
d not do this, plain and simple. To try again was certain death. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let her die for riding bulls.

  “Travis,” Randy Sloap said as he sidled up beside him, “what are you going to do?”

  Randy was one of the younger riders, green and eager. Later, Travis would pound Mitch and his Poppa Bear comments into the ground, but that didn’t change the fact that Travis was the senior rider and a lot of these guys looked up to him. He had never been comfortable as a role model but it was a far sight better than the cult following Red was building over there.

  Those men disgusted him. Seven guys talking and laughing and groping the hour-glass figure they were cutting through the air with their hands. The bulls weren’t the only things that were going to do that girl in. This was no place for her kind.

  “Travis?” Randy was looking at him expectantly, thumbs stuck in his belt loops.

  “I’m on it.” Travis scanned the arena—and spotted Mort headed for the front gate, where he’d set up his office in a broom closet. As fast as he could without limping, Travis climbed off the platform and took off.

  Mort tried to shut the door in Travis’s face. Tried, and failed.

  “You are not letting her on the circuit.” Travis slammed the door behind him. The piece of crap bounced right back open again, but he was too hot to care. “She does not belong here.”

  “Travis, please.” Mort settled his sweaty bulk into the folding chair. “I don’t have a choice. If it were up to me, she’d be out of here—”

  “Why isn’t it up to you? Ain’t you the boss around here?”

  “She had a clean ride. She’s got her TCB permit—”

  “She’s got her what?” How the hell had she gotten that?

  Mort shuffled the papers on the folding card table. “Here—see? What can I do?”

  “J. Spotted Elk,” the photocopy of the Total Championship Bulls membership card said. “Permit status.”

  “J.!” That might work for lady writers, but it wouldn’t work here. It couldn’t. “You’re going to let that girl ride on a technicality?”