There were at least two dozen riders already surrounding the bull pens. Some were shooting the shit, and others were immersed in their preparations. Janice looked casually over the group for the one cowboy who made her pulse race. He was one of the early draws, but Dirk Knowlton hadn’t made his appearance yet.
Although he’d never looked sideways at her, Janice had followed Dirk’s rodeo career since high school when they’d competed on the same team. He’d ridden rough stock while she’d competed in breakaway roping. She’d always enjoyed working with ropes and livestock. Roping required speed, skill, and near perfect coordination between horse and rider—practical skills that were invaluable on a working ranch—and Janice was nothing if not practical. She’d been real good at it too. Probably could have gotten a scholarship or even gone pro if her family’s needs hadn’t kept her tied to the ranch.
In the end, she’d gone to work full time for her father, and Dirk had won a full scholarship to Montana State. She’d run into him on occasion since then, mainly during branding season when all the ranches helped each other out, but he’d never taken notice of her then either. He’d been too wrapped up in Rachel Carson. Along with half the boys at Twin Bridges High, he’d only had eyes for Rachel. Gangly Janice had never stood a chance against the pert, blue-eyed blonde.
Since graduation she’d only occasionally run into Dirk, usually no more than a hat tipping at the ranching co-op or the stock sale, but now that she was working the rodeos, their paths had once more crossed—not that it made any difference. Little had changed. Rachel was still the rodeo queen, leading the grand entry glittering with rhinestones, while Janice looked on from the rough stock chutes, mired ankle-deep in manure, and smelling like the livestock. Even now that she’d finally filled out in all the right places, she was either completely tongue-tied or jabbered like an idiot whenever Dirk came around, which was every day for the past week.
With her heart lurching into her throat, Janice watched as the cowboy of her dreams swaggered up to the holding pens. It wasn’t just his rugged good looks that made her palms sweat, there was something about Dirk, besides his long and lanky physique that put him head and shoulders above the rest.
He was clad in ass-hugging denim with leather chaps flapping, white Stetson shadowing his ice-blue eyes, and rigging bag slung over one broad shoulder. She watched him throw his rope over the coral panel in preparation for his ride.
Now or never, Janice. He’ll be called up any minute.
With her heart hammering, she inhaled for courage and licked her lips with a tongue that suddenly felt as dry as sandpaper. “I watched you on Outlaw Josie Wales in the second go ’round yesterday,” she blurted.
“Why thank you, ma’am.” Dirk tipped his hat with a mile-wide grin.
“You about spurred his head off,” she continued. “It was one of the best rides I ever did see.”
Grady Garrison leaned over from his perch on the adjoining pen and spat a wad of dip. “Good thing pretty boy scored so high on the broncs cause he sure as shit won’t make the cut on the bulls.”
“That so?” Dirk paused in prepping his rope, his ice blue eyes meeting Grady’s for only a second. “Funny, as I recall it just last week in Red Lodge I made the whistle while your ass hit the dirt.” He went back to work, crushing the lump of rosin and wrapping his gloved hand around the bull rope.
Grady jumped down from the pen with narrowed, steely-colored eyes. “I’m still going into the short round with the high score. You’re delusional as shit if you think to beat me.” His shoulders were thrown back and his thumbs hooked in his belt loops—the ones that supported the huge Collegiate Champion Bull Rider buckle.
Any stranger who didn’t know them as longtime rodeo buddies would surely think fists were about to fly, but Janice suspected it was just pre-ride posturing. Cowboys as a rule were ridiculously competitive. Still, she bit her lip at the tension of rising testosterone.
“Maybe you’re right, Grady, but a closed mouth gathers no boots.”
“What’re you sayin’? You think I’m all talk?”
Dirk shrugged. “I think a lotta rodeo legends are made by a flannelmouth on a bar stool. So maybe you’ll wanna put your money where that big fat mouth is?”
She wondered how far they’d want to take this pissing contest. Dirk was a decent bull rider, but the smaller and wiry Grady was one of the best. Unfortunately, like a lot of cowboys, he too often let his mouth run off, and his ego get in the way of his good sense.
“All right pretty boy. How ’bout the lowest score on the next ride buys the drinks tonight? And none of that cheap shit either.”
Dirk stood up straight, rolled his neck and shoulders, and then extended his hand. “You’re on.”
Grady accepted it with a laugh. Janice breathed a sigh of relief. The announcer gave the final scores on the barrel racing and then broadcasted the imminent start of the bull-riding.
Grady puffed up like a fighting cock as soon as audience attention riveted to their end of the arena. “Now the real rodeo begins.”
“Plenty of people watch the other events too,” Janice protested. “The broncs are my personal favorite.” She darted a glance to Dirk. “Classier than the bull riding.”
“Bullshit,” Grady scoffed. “You know as well as I do that the bulls are what eighty percent of these people come for. No one really gives a rip about all the warm up acts, though team ropin’s probably the worst.” He looked to Janice with an air of expectancy.
“Don’t ask why, Janice,” Dirk warned. “It’s his worst joke—and the one he always uses when he’s itching for a bar fight.”
“Oh yeah?” Janice couldn’t stifle her grin. “Why’s that, Grady?”
Grady smirked. “Because team ropin’s a lot like jacking off, sweet cheeks—kinda fun to do, but no one wants to watch it.”
Dirk rolled his eyes and Janice shook her head with a derisive snort.
Grabbing her flank ropes and hook, she methodically moved down the row of massively muscled, shifting, snorting bovines. Janice spoke in low, calm tones as she handled each animal. She knew every bull in the circuit by name, and endeavored to handle each one with the care and respect they deserved. To her annoyance, Grady followed her, jabbering on about nothing, while she flanked her bulls. It was damned irritating how the cocky SOB refused to be ignored.
After finishing with Sudden Impact, Janice double-checked the bulls in the pens. When she returned, Dirk was armored with his Kevlar vest and standing on the platform above Magnum Force. “You the gunner?” she asked.
“Yup.” Dirk nodded. “Drew this big bastard. New one isn’t he?” He jerked his head toward the massive Brahma shifting restlessly in his pen.
“Yeah. He’s new all right.”
“What happened to that ol’ sonofabitch, The Enforcer? Did you retire him?”
“Hell no. Daddy sold him. Pocketed a big chunk of change and still had enough left to buy two replacements that he found down at this shithole farm in Arkansas. Mag here is one of ’em.” She nodded to the bull.
While her father had made a respectable name in stock contracting, she’d always felt his methods were a bit hit or miss. He’d struck it lucky enough times to stay in the business, but would never make it to the top because he was too quick to sell his best bulls for cash in hand. To Janice’s frustration, he’d never focused on the business of breeding his own stock. They had the land and the know-how, so it seemed a wasted opportunity.
Janice, on the other hand, saw a future in bucking bulls. While traditional rodeo was dying out and struggling just to break even, the new bull-riding associations were packing ’em in, even in the big cities. It was the new “extreme” sport. Breeding the rankest bulls for the toughest cowboys was her dream—what she was secretly working toward. She just needed the right foundation bull. She’d already wondered if Mag might be the one. If he made it big
on this circuit, she was determined to buy him out for breeding—no matter the cost.
“I detect a pattern here. Outlaw Josie Wales? Magnum Force?” Dirk chuckled. “Your ol’ man’s a real Clint Eastwood fan, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s always named his rough stock after favorite movies but the primest of the lot are called after Clint Eastwood flicks. Be careful with this one, Dirk. I think Mag just might be the rankest bull we’ve ever had. He’s no chute fighter, but once that gate flies open, he’s unpredictable as hell.”
“Oh yeah? If you’ve got any other secrets to share, I’m all ears.”
Grady snorted and spat another black wad of dip. “You so scared of eatin’ dirt that you’re asking the stock hands for lessons?”
“Damned straight, Grady. Her father owns the bull and I’m one ride away from winning the overall.”
“Shit. If you’re so hard up for teachin’, you shoulda just watched me ride that badass.” He jerked his head at Texas Tornado, the notorious bull he’d ridden for a high score of eighty-six points.
“Your style wouldn’t cut it with Mag, Grady,” Janice interjected.
“Oh yeah?” Grady pulled out another chuck of wintergreen Skoal and stuffed it under his lower lip. “There ain’t a bull in the world that can’t be rode, sweetheart—”
“Or a cowboy that can’t be throwed,” Janice finished with a smirk of her own. Although one of the top contenders, Grady needed to be taken down a peg or two and Janice hoped Dirk would be the one to do it.
“And just how many bulls have you rode now, sweet pants?”
“None,” she shot back. “But that doesn’t mean I’m ignorant. Maybe you forget I grew up with these animals. I know when I load ’em what kinda mood they’re in and most times how they’re gonna act.”
“That may be, but all bets are off once you’re actually forking the SOB with the flank rope on.”
Janice shrugged. “I’m just sayin’ look out if you ever draw this one, Grady. Usually the bulls clue you in on what they’re thinking, but not this one. When you assume he’s gonna spin into your hand, he blows, or he looks like he’s fading right and then ducks off left, or maybe takes a sudden nose dive and snaps his head like ol’ Bodacious did. He’s smart as hell and he’ll set you up for a big hurt in a heartbeat. This bull’s gonna rearrange a lot of cowboy faces in his new career.”
“Then it’s too bad Grady didn’t draw him this go round,” Dirk taunted his buddy. “Rearranging his ugly mug could only be an improvement.”
Grady grabbed his crotch. “It ain’t my face the buckle bunnies are after, pretty boy.”
Janice ignored the vulgar exchange. “Mag’s an ornery bastard if you yank a foot on him. Ride him too aggressive and I promise he’ll eat you up. If you don’t want to be the first one to kiss that bull, Dirk, you’d do well to spare the spurs.”
Dirk attached the bell to the rope and gave her a crooked smile that revealed a deep left sided dimple. “I hear you loud and clear.”
Every bucking horse and bull presented its own challenge and Mag was new and an unknown entity. A savvy rider studied his draw before his ride and talked to the stock hands. She was glad Dirk was willing to listen.
“Why all this concern about that dink?” Grady muttered, jerking his head in Dirk’s direction.
“Maybe ’cause he actually asked my advice.”
“How ’bout I give you some advice, sweet cheeks? Don’t waste yourself waitin’ around on Dirk. Everyone knows he has it bad for Rachel. They’ve been playing it hot and heavy for years. ’Sides, there’s better cowboys willing to bear company with a sweet thing like you.”
“Better cowboys?” She let her gaze flicker over Grady for a fraction of a second. “Like who?”
Grady grinned big, broad, and bad. “Why yours truly, of course.”
“Really?” She cracked a smile despite herself. “Does anyone besides you and your momma share this grandiose opinion of Grady Garrison?”
“Oh yeah, baby doll. Ask any buckle bunny from here to Houston.”
“That so?” Her smile instantly faded. “Then I ain’t interested.”
“Maybe I just need the right woman to make me wanna settle down.”
Janice snorted outright. “What a crock! Does that line of bull really work for you?”
He grinned shamelessly. “More times than I could count.”
“You’re the one who’s wasting your breath, Grady. I don’t sleep around, especially not with horndog cowboys.”
Ignoring her racing pulse, Janice double checked the flank while Grady hooked Dirk’s rope around the animal’s massive barrel. A moment later, Dirk climbed up and over the chute, then quietly lowered himself onto the bull’s back. He warmed the rosin-coated rope before tightening it around his bull, and then tied himself on. He’d passed on a protective helmet to keep his white Stetson instead.
“Who said anything about mattress dancing?” Grady smirked. “I’m only offering you a drink after the rodeo—Dirk will be buying of course.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Then how ’bout another wager? One just between you and me?”
“What kind of wager?” She knew better than to commit to anything Grady came up with without hearing all the details first.
“If I beat his ride you’ll go to the party with me after the rodeo.”
“Isn’t it a private event, only for the team members?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “But I’m on the team and I’m inviting you.”
“I’ll think about it, Grady.” Janice eyed the bull, hoping to hide the sudden flush in her face. Mag appeared deceptively docile, but there was a dangerous fire blazing in his eyes. Her gut told her the bull was gonna blow.
As the daughter of a stock contractor she’d seen more rodeos than she could remember, and more wrecks than she could ever forget, but no matter how hard she tried, she’d never become desensitized to the gory aftermath of any bull ride gone bad—usually resulting in lots of blood and mangled bones twisted at unnatural angles.
Up to this point, the finals had been surprisingly free of injuries, but the bull riding was where most of them happened. The last seconds in the chute never failed to send Janice’s heart into her throat. She’d kept a close tally of Dirk’s points and knew just covering this bull was all he needed. She hoped he wouldn’t slough off her advice about spurring. Her fingers closed tightly around the cold steel of the chute panel as Dirk raised his right arm and nodded at the gateman.
* * *
Straddling the rails above the bull, Dirk focused solely on his routine. Releasing one foot at a time from the steel rail, he stepped lightly onto the bull’s back, testing Mag’s reaction and then easing himself into position behind the animal’s massive shoulders. The bull snorted, pawed, and then tensed, a dangerous shiver of awareness rippling through the three-quarter-ton beast.
Wrapping his gloved hand around his rope, he gave a few swift jerks up and down and then pulled the sticky, rosin-coated rope through his hand in a suicide wrap. Closing his fist, Dirk sidled his hips up closer to his hand and then pounded his closed fist to cement his hold.
Although he’d spent plenty of time backing broncs, nothing on earth compared to the addictive rush of a bull ride. The sensation of backing a bull was a heady shot of pure adrenaline that coursed through his body, exciting every nerve. Just like a junkie seeking the next “fix,” hundreds of cowboys risked life and limb grasping for the elusive eight second high.
It was balls to the wall every time the chute opened.
He inhaled deeply and then slowly emptied his lungs. In these final seconds his senses were hyperaware. Everything seemed magnified—the noise of the crowd buzzing in his ears, the familiar smells of dirt, sweat, and cow shit. Dirk shut his eyes, and closed his mind to everything but the snorting mass of muscle and sinew u
nder him. “Fuck Grady,” he murmured. “This is between you and me, Mag. It’s just us.”
With his jaw set in fierce concentration, Dirk opened his eyes, raised his right arm, acutely aware of his own heartbeat, of the sensation of his blood pulsing through his veins, of the metallic click of the gate latch echoing in his ears, as he gave the nod to the chuteman.
The gate swung free to the last gong of AC/DC’s “Hells Bells,” and Mag exploded out of it like a derailed freight train. With his body jerking in all directions at once, Dirk countered the frenetic and frenzied fits of jumps, kicks, dives, and spins in the battle of domination with the bull.
With his right arm ever reaching for that precarious sweet spot of equilibrium, Dirk rose into his riding hand on each kick, and pushed his fist deep into the bull’s shoulder on every rear, following the bull’s lead in the deadly dance. Hell bent on hurling him through the air, the bull snorted and grunted with the jarring force of each buck and kick.
Heeding Janice’s advice, Dirk held off plying his heel—at least for the first five or six seconds, but with only a second or two remaining, he raked his spurs upward into the bull’s hide hoping to score extra points. Just as Janice had warned, Mag kicked up with a furious toss of his horned head that narrowly missed Dirk’s face. Undeterred, he dropped his heels back into position for another go—but the buzzer sounded.
Dirk fisted the air to proclaim his victory, but a millisecond later when he grabbed the rope tail to release himself, the bull dropped his head and ducked off into a hard right that threw his body hard left. And in the blink of an eye he was cast into the middle of a slow motion nightmare. Time seemed suspended as Dirk flailed for balance—completely at the mercy of a raging bull.
Mag bucked, leaped, and jackknifed in midair only to land in a clockwise spin that pitched Dirk over the bull’s right side—into the well of the spin. He struggled to keep his wits about him and his feet on the ground long enough to free himself, but the bull had other ideas, hooking him with his horns, and tossing him into the air and onto the other side ... now the outside of the spin.
Slow Hand Page 25
