Texas Fierce

by Janet Dailey

  Flowing through the empty tank, they ripped the sheeting with their sharp hooves and poured toward the truck.

  Bull took careful aim and fired at the leading steer, the bullet striking squarely between the eyes. The animal dropped just short of the truck. The cattle coming from behind stumbled over its body, jamming together before they separated and veered to the sides. Bull downed two more steers, creating a low barrier that would slow the animals and force them to go around the truck. Three shots. He had three more left.

  By now the truck was surrounded by a sea of moving horns and bodies. Protected only by the metal sides of the truck bed, Bull braced for balance while they surged around him, rocking the pickup as they rammed and shoved in mindless terror.

  Two more shots downed a huge steer before it could crash into the truck. One bullet left.

  Beyond the truck, the herd crashed through the fence that marked the property line and fanned out over the scrubby open rangeland, where they would tire, stop, and be rounded up the next morning.

  Now, finally, the stampede was thinning. As the last trailing steers raced past, Bull saw three riders emerge from the darkness. The man in the lead, mounted on a tall buckskin, rode toward the truck. Even at a distance, in the night, there was no mistaking Ferg.

  Bull gripped his pistol, rage heating his blood. He had one bullet left—and if he could use it to kill one man in the world, that man would be Ferg Prescott.

  His finger tightened on the trigger as Ferg rode up to the truck, reared the horse like the Lone Ranger, flashed Bull a triumphant smirk, and galloped away.

  Bull lowered the pistol. Only the thought of going to prison for murder had kept him from firing the gun. Much as he hated the idea of retreat, there was nothing to do but drive away and take the boys back to the ranch. He would leave the water project until he could confront Ham and demand that Ferg be kept away from the property.

  This weekend he would drive to Atlanta and do his best to win some desperately needed cash for the ranch. If Ferg was telling the truth about Susan, there’d be no need to fix up the house for her. But there were plenty of other places for the money to go.

  Susan.

  If she’d really gone back to Ferg, it was all over. He would never trust a woman again.

  CHAPTER 14

  “BUT WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU WANT TO GET A JOB, DEAR?” Sitting in the shade of a blooming oleander, Susan’s mother stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into her iced sweet tea. “You certainly don’t need the money. Besides, you’ll be in school. You won’t have time to work—especially if you join a sorority. You are going through rush, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.” At least living in a sorority house would get her out from under her parents’ roof. But even thinking about it all—the social pressure, the parties, the snootiness, the silly songs and rituals—made Susan want to squirm. Maybe she was afraid that a sorority would turn her into her mother.

  “I was a Chi Omega, you know,” Vivian said. “They were lovely girls. I’m sure they’d be glad to have you. But you wouldn’t have to move. You could live at home with us until next summer when you marry Ferguson.”

  Susan sighed, gazing across the blue-green expanse of the swimming pool to where her father, who was making a good recovery, was practicing his golf swing. Her parents had refused to hear her protests that she would rather go to prison than marry Ferg Prescott. She was young and didn’t know her own mind, they’d insisted. But sooner or later she would come to her senses.

  She knew better than to tell them about the rape. They would only shame her and redouble the pressure on her to marry and make things right. They wanted a secure life for their daughter. But mostly they wanted the Prescott Ranch in the family. For that, they’d be willing to overlook a few sins.

  Last week, when she’d learned she wasn’t pregnant, Susan had wept with relief. The worst part of her nightmare hadn’t come to pass. But the helpless violation she’d experienced under Ferg’s pumping, sweating body would be seared into her memory forever.

  Through all this, she had never stopped wanting Bull. But if she was pregnant that would be the end for them. She couldn’t even risk trying to contact him until she knew for sure.

  Now that the worry was gone, the longing to see him, or at least hear his voice, was becoming more urgent with every day. She needed him to anchor her to the earth, to hold her until the pain of awful memories eased. She needed to know they were still there for each other.

  She knew he was coming to Atlanta—all it had taken was a few phone calls to find out he was scheduled to ride. She had her own car, and she could always tell her parents she was going with friends.

  She could get there, all right. But what then?

  What if he’d given up on her, or simply lost interest?

  What would she do if Bull turned his back on her and walked away?

  * * *

  Bull gazed past the chutes into what he could see of the huge arena. This was the big-time—the big crowds, the top cowboys, and the big money. He didn’t have the talent to be here. He was too big, too slow, and too far out of shape. All he had going for him was grit and determination. But somehow, one miserable, bone-jarring ride at a time, he had made it.

  By the skin of his teeth—and thanks to the bad luck of some younger riders—he’d qualified for the final round. But his two afternoon rides had been rough. The bulls here were champion buckers who could rack up spectacular points. But his body had taken a terrible pounding on both of them. He’d managed to hang on, though not with the style and control of the top riders who’d devoted all their time to the sport.

  Going into the finals tonight, he had taped ribs, a strained back, and an old shoulder injury that was acting up. But he’d resisted the pain pills because he wanted to stay sharp. Two more rides remained if he could stay on. There’d be just one if he took a tumble. Either way, he’d be done for the season—and for good if he had any sense.

  His next bull was ready. Geronimo, a burly black–and-white hulk, was banging the sides of the chute and tossing his massive blunted horns. Not a good sign. But for the few cowboys who’d managed to ride him, he’d racked up some impressive scores.

  After securing his Stetson on his head, Bull straddled the top rails of the chute and, with the help of another rider, pulled his rope tight. Hearing his name, and Geronimo’s, on the loudspeaker, he took a breath, dropped onto the broad back, and gripped the rope handle with his gloved left hand. As Geronimo tried to smash his leg against the chute rails, Bull gave the nod. The gate sprang open, and the monster bull exploded into the arena.

  * * *

  Susan watched from the stands, her heart in her throat. Because she’d arrived too late for the semifinals, this would be the first time she’d seen Bull ride.

  The black-and-white bull, a huge beast, bucked and twisted, the heavy bell clanging below his chest. Bull kept his grip on the rope, his right arm high and clear. He was looking good. Then one powerful, spinning jump tossed his body up and to the side. Clinging to the rope, he hung on. But he was taking terrible punishment. How long could eight seconds last? Watching with clenched fists, Susan just wanted the hellish ride to be over.

  And then it was. Just before the eight-second buzzer, Geronimo changed direction in midair. Caught off balance, Bull lost his grip, flew off, and landed rolling. As he struggled to his hands and knees, the huge animal wheeled, hooked him with a horn, and tossed him into the air. As the clowns rushed in, Bull hit the dirt with a crunch and lay facedown. A moan went up from the crowd.

  While Geronimo was driven off to the pens, two paramedics rushed in with a stretcher. Supporting Bull’s body, they eased him onto it and carried him out of the arena. Susan realized she was sobbing. What she’d seen that monster do could have killed any man, even Bull.

  What if she’d lost him?

  On her feet now, she shoved her way to the stairs and rushed down into the corridor under the stands. The fifteen mi
nutes it took to find her way through a maze of people, animals, and equipment to the far side of the arena, praying all the way, seemed like an eternity.

  When she finally spotted Bull through the crowd, he was sitting on a bale of hay, drinking from a bottle of Gatorade while a medic finished checking his vitals. He’d taken a terrible beating, and looked it. His shirtless body was bruised and battered, but he was alive. Right now, nothing else mattered.

  “Susan!” He got to his feet. “What the hell—”

  Her legs could barely hold her. She stumbled toward him and would have flung herself into his arms, but something in his eyes—something cold—stopped her like a wall. She hesitated.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, sensing the awkwardness between them.

  “I’m fine. Big bastard knocked the wind out of me, that’s all.” He scowled down at her. “What are you doing here, Susan?”

  “I came to see you ride—to see you!”

  “Did you?” His voice was flat with sarcasm. His gaze flickered to her bare finger. “What about Ferg? He told me you two were getting back together. And that wasn’t all he told me.”

  “What did he—? Oh, Lord . . .” Susan went weak as the realization hit her. Ferg had told Bull his version of what had happened. And Bull had no reason to disbelieve it.

  “Ferg lied!” she said. “It isn’t true!”

  Bull’s expression didn’t change. “So why haven’t you called, or even written? What was I supposed to think?”

  “We need to talk. Can we go somewhere?” Telling him the truth—everything—would be as hard as anything she’d ever done, but it was her only hope of moving past this painful time.

  The medic had finished. Bull glanced around as he buttoned his shirt. “I’m done here. I’ll take you to dinner if you’ll settle for a burger and fries. I’m not dressed for anyplace fancy.”

  “That’s fine, as long as it’s someplace quiet. We can take my car.”

  Bull had told her he was all right, but he limped as they found an exit to the parking lot. Knowing Bull, he was hurting a lot more than he’d let on.

  The sporty silver Mustang her parents had given her for her sixteenth birthday had been valet parked. The attendant took only a few minutes to bring it.

  “I take it you know where we’re going,” she said. “Do you feel up to driving?”

  “Sure. I’ve always wanted to try one of these little critters.” Bull held the passenger door for Susan, then eased his body into the driver’s side and slid the seat back as far as it would go. He was cool and polite, but as he drove, Susan sensed that he was holding back. He was far from ready to trust her again.

  * * *

  They drove to a quiet-looking roadhouse that served drinks and food. Bull had never been there, but he’d heard it was good. He parked the car, biting back pain as he climbed out. Inside, he ushered Susan to a corner booth. The place was quiet, the country music little more than a low, throbbing beat in the background.

  Excusing himself, he used the restroom to wash off the worst of the dust and bull smell. The face he saw in the mirror looked like a prizefighter’s after ten rounds in the ring. But the older bruises were from the fight with Ferg—the fight over Susan.

  He knew better than to pass judgment on her until he’d heard her side of the story. But this woman had left him with wounded pride and a broken heart. Deeply as he ached to believe and forgive her, he wasn’t fool enough to let her hurt him again.

  He returned to find her waiting with two cold Bud Lights on the table. “I went ahead and ordered,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. Our hamburgers and fries will be out in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.” He took a seat where he could face her. The ice-cold beer glided down his dusty throat. She sat looking at him, her eyes soft in the shadows. He saw the glimmer of a tear.

  “Oh, Bull,” she whispered.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “I’ll help you.” He still felt that angry edge. “Ferg told me that you and he had a hot time in the stable. Is that true?”

  She shook her head. “Ferg . . . raped me, Bull. I fought and cried and screamed, but he just went ahead and . . .” Her voice broke.

  Bull willed himself to ignore the rage welling inside him. Women had been known to lie about such things. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything until he knew she was telling the truth. But the need to believe and love her was winning the battle against doubt.

  “Afterward he laughed and said maybe he’d gotten me pregnant. That was why I left, and why I didn’t write or call you after that one time. I was afraid it might’ve happened. And I knew that if it had, we were finished. I couldn’t contact you until I knew for sure.”

  “And you’re all right now?”

  She nodded, her lips pressed together hard.

  “Lord, why didn’t you tell me, Susan?”

  “How could I? I didn’t know what you’d think, or what you’d do. I still don’t.”

  “What would you have done if you’d been pregnant? Married Ferg? Or maybe risked your life with some back-alley abortionist?”

  She shook her head, tears glimmering in her eyes. “I don’t know. None of the choices were good. I only knew that I couldn’t make this your problem, too.”

  “What about now? Since you’re not pregnant, what comes next?”

  “I’m here.”

  The last of Bull’s resistance crumbled as his eyes met hers. When he thought about how this precious, innocent woman had been hurt, part of him wanted to find Ferg and kill him with his bare hands. But the emotion that surged inside him now was pure protective love. She was his. Nothing on earth could change that. And nothing would keep him from claiming her.

  He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “I wish you’d told me, Susan,” he said, meaning it. “Either way, I would have been there for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

  “I should have known that,” she said.

  “You know it now.”

  She glanced toward the kitchen. “You know, I don’t feel hungry anymore. How about you?”

  “I could pass on the burger. What have you got in mind?”

  A faint but knowing smile teased her lips. “I have a room in a nice hotel,” she said. “We can get there sooner if you let me drive.”

  Leaving cash on the table, Bull rose and followed her out to her car.

  * * *

  Susan’s hand trembled as she thrust the room key into the lock. She’d driven to Atlanta, knowing that she wanted Bull to make love to her. Earlier, when he’d greeted her so coldly, she’d feared it wasn’t going to happen. Now that it was almost a certainty, doubts and worries swirled in her mind.

  What if Bull was put off by the thought that Ferg had been with her first? Worse, what if he didn’t believe it had been rape at all?

  Or what if the memory of Ferg, along with the shame and disgust she’d tried so hard to bury, burst to the surface and she froze or panicked?

  Never mind, she wanted this. She wanted him. And she couldn’t let her fears keep her from the man she loved.

  Bull reached past her and opened the door. The room was dark except for a single lamp, glowing faintly, on the nightstand next to the king-sized bed. She had left the bed turned down.

  Closing the door behind them, he turned and gathered her into his arms. He held her gently at first, kissing her with tenderness as if he knew, perhaps, that they’d both been wounded and needed to heal. Then the kisses deepened—tasting, nibbling, licking kisses that made Susan’s pulse race. Her body responded with throbbing urges that shimmered upward from the place where she wanted him to be. She released a slow breath. She was going to be all right. But was he?

  Pulling back a little, she gazed up at his battered face. He looked as if he’d run a gauntlet. But she would ask him about that later. Right now the only thing that mattered was giving herself to him.

  “Make love
to me, Bull,” she murmured.

  “Now?” He gave a low chuckle. “I smell like I’ve rolled in a corral. I could use a shower first.”

  Willing herself to be bold, she gripped his belt buckle and pulled him against her. “Now,” she said.

  With a raw laugh, he bent and kissed her again. This time his lips were rough and seeking. She felt the scrape of the stubble on his jaw and tasted the beer he’d drunk and the tobacco he’d gone back to using for the rodeo. The smells of the arena swam in her senses, strangely arousing. He was all man—her man.

  He winced as she wrapped her arms around him. Her fingers felt his taped ribs through his shirt. “Oh—” She stepped back with a gasp. “Will you be all right to—?”

  “We’ll manage fine.” He grinned. “But you’ll need to do the riding.”

  He got out of his clothes. Lamplight sculpted a muscular body that was battered and scarred like a gladiator’s. He lowered himself to the bed, easing onto his back and stretching out full length. Susan had looked away briefly to toss her clothes on a chair. When she turned toward the bed, she saw that he was fully erect and had managed to add protection. A shiver of anticipation passed through her. He was stunning, and she wanted him. But the next move would be up to her. What if she didn’t know what to do?

  “Just let me look at you,” he said. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Susan—and how much I’ve wanted you?”

  Susan felt her skin warm as he filled his gaze with her. He was holding back, giving her time, she realized. And she knew why. He was letting her take control, giving her a chance to set the pace and back off if she became uncomfortable. He wanted this, their first time together, to be the furthest possible thing from the awful rape that was locked in her memory.

  She loved him for that.

  Leaning over the bed, she kissed him—letting her lips feather over his, then deepening the contact. As her tongue brushed along the sensitive inner surface of his lower lip, she felt his breath quicken. She could sense the strain as he willed himself to lie still.