Ali wasn’t blind; the attraction was there for her, too. But that was as far as it went. As far as it would ever go. She’d shared the winner’s circle with Cody too many times to count, and still they’d never said more than a polite hello to each other. Other cowboys would tip their hats or smile in her direction. Several made attempts at conversation.
Only Cody Gunner never tried, and that suited Ali fine. Cody was an island, a loner—just like her. He didn’t flirt with the barrel racers or grin at the cowgirls who hung out near the stock pens; he didn’t tend to the throng of female fans who waited for him after every rodeo.
The longer she rode the tour with him, the more Ali thought she understood him. The fact that he kept his distance didn’t mean he was unkind, any more than she was unkind for keeping hers. On occasion, when their eyes met, Ali thought she saw a glimpse of something familiar in Cody’s soul. A respect, maybe. A sameness. Whatever drove Cody Gunner to ride bulls for a living, Ali guessed it wasn’t far off from what drove her. A passion born of something intensely private.
So while she didn’t get weak at the knees in his presence, she quietly admired his independence, the way he didn’t need people or trappings or success, but just the bull. Just the ride. He had placed second last year, just as she had.
This year—for one more season at least—they’d share the tour and the limelight with a single goal: a national championship. There was talk that Cody then might leave the tour, join Tuff Hedeman’s upstart Professional Bull Riders circuit where the stock was more rank, the purses potentially bigger. If Cody was going to leave, this could be the last year they’d tour together.
Not that it mattered. That cold January day, the beginning of her third season in the PRCA, Ali Daniels had more important details to mull over than whether this was Cody’s last season with the Pro Rodeo Tour. This was her year, the year she would stay healthy and strong and break record after record on her quest for the championship.
Ali and Ace, making history.
Her heart had room for nothing else.
Chapter Four
The season was three weeks old, and Cody Gunner was riding better than ever. The tour was in San Antonio, and his draw that night was a good one—a bull named Monster Mash, ridden just once in twenty-two attempts. A rider who could stay the course was guaranteed a score in the high eighties. Make it pretty and anything was possible.
Cody didn’t worry about the judges. Scores didn’t matter nearly as much as the eight seconds. If he got bucked off, Cody’s anger would swell and grow, desperate for release. But if he stayed on for eight, he could beat the demons that battled him—if just for the night. There was the practical side, too. Winning meant enough money to keep playing the game.
Cody hung his rope in his locker, shoved his gear bag inside, and headed down the tunnel. Like most of the winter events, this one was at an indoor arena—the Joe and Harry Freeman Coliseum. It was his fifth season in the PRCA, so Cody knew his way around most of the venues. He tucked his shirt in as he walked, making sure the buttons lined up with his belt buckle.
Before he could stretch, before he could focus on the ride, he needed to know where he was in the lineup. He came into the clearing and turned right toward the information table, the place where the judges sat in a row, their paperwork spread out in front of them.
That’s when something caught his attention.
A few feet away, leaning against the wall, was a fellow bull rider, a Brazilian who had taken first place from him three times the year before. Next to the cowboy was an older man with the same eyes, same cheekbones. The rider’s father, Cody figured. He’d seen the two of them together before, in a handful of cities.
Cody watched them, watched the way the older man put his hand on the bull rider’s shoulder, whispering something that made the cowboy smile. Probably some bit of encouragement or advice, something only a father could bring his son in the hour before a bull ride.
That was the way his own father had been with him before he walked out, wasn’t it? Kind and compassionate, there with words of encouragement when Cody was up at bat in Little League or working on a school project?
Cody clenched his fists and turned from the scene. A young woman at the information table smiled at him.
“Cody Gunner, what can I do for you?”
Images of the Brazilian cowboy and his father burned in his mind. Cody focused on the woman. “Where am I in the order?”
The woman checked a list, grabbed a scrap of paper, and scribbled something. “Here.” She handed it to him. “Good luck tonight.”
Cody took the slip, nodded at her, and headed back down the tunnel. Halfway to the locker room he opened the paper. The woman had written that he rode second to last that night. At the bottom she’d scribbled her phone number.
He ripped the paper in half and went to his locker. It was time to stretch, even if his ride wasn’t until the end. But he couldn’t focus yet, couldn’t let go of the picture in his head, the one of the rider and his dad.
What would it be like to ride bulls with his dad around, to get a dose of wisdom and confidence from his father before every ride? Cody opened his locker, pulled out his worn deerskin riding glove, and slammed the door shut. He dropped to the bench, hung his head, and closed his eyes.
Of course the thought would haunt him today. There was no way around it, not after his mother’s call that morning. She knew better than to call him the day of a ride, but she did it anyway. The news had made Cody sick to his stomach, unable to force down more than a piece of toast and an apple all day. Her call played in his mind again.
“He found us.” Her voice was nervous, mixed with fresh hope.
“Who?” Cody had still been in bed, the hotel sheets a mess from the night before. He blinked back a hard night’s sleep and tried to focus. He was alone, though he hadn’t been a few hours earlier. What was his mother talking about, someone finding them? Had Carl Joseph wandered off? “Tell me later; I’m tired.”
“Cody, you need to hear this.” His mother’s voice grew stronger, happier. “Your father found us, Cody. He called a few minutes ago; he wants to see you and Carl Joseph.”
Cody had sat straight up in bed. His heart pounded hard, sending shock waves through his chest and throat and temples. It wasn’t possible. “My father called? After thirteen years he looks us up and you sound happy about it?”
Silence stood between them for a moment.
“He’s sorry, Cody. Life hasn’t been easy for him, either.” She hesitated. “We had a long talk; he wants to see you.”
Her words hit him like a load of buckshot, ripping at the places in his heart that still cared, still ached for his father no matter how much he told himself otherwise. A sound came from him, part laugh, part moan. Was she serious? How could she consider letting him back into their lives after what he’d done?
Cody leaned over his knees, the sheets loose around his waist. “I don’t have a father.”
“Cody, that’s not how you feel, and—”
“I won’t see him.” His tone was sharp. “I need to go.” He slammed down the phone, flopped back onto the pillow, and stared at the ceiling. The nausea hit him then. How dare he walk back into their lives now? How could he complain about his own life being hard when the whole mess was his fault?
Cody pressed his fists into his stomach and forced himself out of bed. What was the problem, anyway? He’d told her the truth; he didn’t have a father.
But the conversation marred the entire day.
Normally the afternoon of a ride was marked by quiet preparation and nervous anticipation. In this case, he had both a hangover and his mother’s phone call to shake off. The buildup felt flat, and all day he fought a headache.
Voices sounded outside the locker room door, and Cody hunkered down on the bench, his eyes still closed. The other cowboys would guess he was lost in concentration, readying himself for the ride. They’d leave him alone.
He pictured his f
ather—however he must look with thirteen more years on him. Mike Gunner had played the field for more than a decade, shirked every ounce of family responsibility, and now—maybe because his son was a famous bull rider—he wanted back into their lives.
Worse, his mother was entertaining the possibility.
Adrenaline mixed with fury and ran hot through Cody’s veins. He wanted to put his fist through the locker door, but he held back. Save it for the bull, Gunner. Save it for the bull. His eyes flew open. He stood, grabbed his rope, and headed down the tunnel.
The barrel racers were competing. He climbed a fence so he could stretch and watch at the same time. Over the loudspeaker the announcer was introducing the next ride.
“Ali Daniels is up, riding her longtime horse, Ace. Ali’s on a streak of top-three finishes this season, and looking for the win here tonight. Anything less than fourteen-point-five seconds should do it, ladies and gentlemen.”
He droned on about Ali’s statistics, her intrigue and mystery.
Cody spread his legs wide until he felt the stretch along the inside of his thighs. Ali Daniels didn’t need an introduction. Next to him, she was the most well-known competitor on the tour. Beautiful, strange, and mysterious. She rode with a reckless abandon that Cody understood innately, an abandon he admired.
From the first time he saw her compete, Cody wanted to go to her, wanted to be with her and ride with her and know everything about her. She was quiet and reclusive, confident and masterful in her talent. For all the girls who gave him no resistance, Ali was the ultimate challenge.
But he didn’t allow those feelings to be anything more than fleeting. His success on the tour depended on his anger. He was twenty-one, too young to fall for a girl. Not even a girl like Ali Daniels. And so he ignored her at every rodeo—except when she competed.
Cody leaned to the right, focusing the stretch on that leg. Just then, Ali tore out of the tunnel, her head close to her horse’s mane. She wasn’t hard-looking like some of the barrel racers. Black hat and black jeans, a starched white shirt, her light blonde ponytail flying behind her, eyes intent on making the turn. Tight around the first barrel, then she blazed across the arena and around the second.
The crowd was already on its feet.
Every time Ali rode, there was the possibility of her setting a new record. That night was no exception. She rounded the third barrel and leaned forward. She and her horse blazed across the barrier at 14.35 seconds.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new arena record! Ali Daniels shaved two-tenths of a second off the previous fastest time for barrels in this arena. She’s sitting pretty safe for first place. Let’s show her our appreciation.”
Again the crowd cheered.
Cody wanted to peer into the tunnel, watch her pull up and dismount the way other cowboys watched Ali Daniels. But he wouldn’t. Times like this he was glad he’d kept his distance. He didn’t need any distractions.
He shifted his weight to the left leg, feeling the stretch stronger than before. Forty minutes passed, while the anger he harbored rose and grew within him. Forty minutes of picturing Carl Joseph’s face as their mother explained the obvious—their father was gone. Forty minutes of hating him for walking out, for not making it clear to Cody what he’d ever done wrong, how he might’ve been responsible for making his daddy leave.
Forty minutes when Ali Daniels was just another rider on the tour, when his mother and even his brother might as well have been a million miles away, when nothing mattered in life except the battle, the damage he was about to do to a bull named Monster Mash.
“You got yourself the best draw of the night, Gunner.” One of the cowboys slapped his back and took a step toward the chute next to Cody’s. “You ready?”
“Ready.”
“Let’s get ’em.” The cowboy nodded at the spectators. “It’s a good crowd tonight; they deserve a show.”
“Nothin’ but eight.”
The bull riders were lined up by then, gathered near the chute of whichever cowboy was next out. One at a time the riders flew into the arena, half of them making the eight seconds, the other half bucked off. Cody cheered them on, because that’s what cowboys did. They pulled for one another. Bull riding never pitted a cowboy against his fellow rider. The contest was against the bull, only the bull.
But even as he cheered, his heart was back on a street corner the summer of his eighth year, watching for that yellow cab.
Cody zipped up his protective vest and spread his legs. Stretching was crucial; he’d been loosening up for an hour already. He bent at the waist, nose to his right knee, two, three, four, five. A little farther, and he switched sides, nose to his left knee, two, three, four, five. A shift to the center, straight back, palms to the ground, two, three, four… The whole time he kept his eyes on the bull.
An announcer was introducing the matchup.
“Monster Mash is a Texas Brahma bull, genetically engineered by the best in the business. Wicked horns, and a twist—about to keep a cowboy guessing.”
The other announcer broke in. “Now remember, this is a bull that hasn’t been rode ever. Not once. A killer beast with an average score of forty-eight-nine. Twenty-three cowboys on; twenty-three off.”
“And Cody Gunner wants to change all that.”
Cody tuned it out.
He felt himself slipping into the zone, the place where his little-boy disappointment, his unchecked rage and pent-up hatred, could be released. If only for eight seconds.
Finally it was his turn.
He pressed his cowboy hat onto his head, low over his brow, ran a few steps in place, and climbed the gate. One leg over the top of the chute, then the other. A push and he braced himself with his hands until he was straddled above the bull. Monster Mash was an ugly beast, mottled gray with uneven coloring and evil black eyes. His horns weren’t much threat, but the hump on his back had knocked out a cowboy or two. Cody knew this, but he didn’t think about it, didn’t think about the bull’s tendencies or any of the things most riders thought about.
All that mattered was this: The bull wanted to kill him.
Cody saw it in the way those dead eyes watched him, anxious, waiting. The bull had an innate sense, an ability to spot the cowboy, sniff out the next sacrificial victim. The animal shouldered the gates and pawed at the ground. Those awful eyes never let up, never blinked.
If there’d been a way through the bars, the bull would’ve found it.
Van Halen’s “Jump” pounded out a rhythm that grew and built and filled each of the fifteen thousand fans with a frenzied anticipation. Bull riding was the last event, the biggest draw. Rodeo fans loved it. Loved the energy and intensity and possibility of horrific wrecks, the idea of mere mortals going head-to-head with an untamable beast.
“That’s right,” Cody glared at the animal, “go ahead and try it.”
The bull jerked his head, shark-like eyes rolling back into his skull. Cody could picture it, knew what would happen the instant they opened the gate. The bull would become two thousand pounds of snorting, sweating muscle, writhing and twisting and flying through the hot summer night driven by one desire: Kill the cowboy.
The bull rider didn’t need the announcers to tell him; he knew the score. Monster Mash couldn’t be ridden, wouldn’t let a cowboy sit on his back four seconds, let alone eight. Five guys stood on the outside of the gate, two of them holding tight to Cody’s jacket, ready to pull him out if the bull went psycho. But Cody was ready. He lowered himself a foot, not quite touching the animal, his feet still on the steel rungs.
“Yeah, you want me.” Cody gritted his teeth. The hatred was growing, filling him with a burning intensity, a seething red-hot rage. Everything but the bull faded from view, the bull and the profile of a face.
His father’s face.
How could he walk out on us?
The hatred bubbled within him, mingled with liquid intensity and spilled into his icy veins, pumped through his ready limbs.
&
nbsp; “Let’s go, Gunner.” A cowboy on the gate grabbed his arm and slapped his back.
It was time.
He lowered himself onto the bull, just down from the animal’s shoulder blades. The beast’s muscles trembled, furious, his hide hot and sweaty and loose over his bony spine. Monster Mash was famous for his damage in the chute, and today was no exception. The animal shifted all his weight sideways and Cody bit into his mouth guard.
He smacked the bull’s shoulder. Fiery pain shot through his knee, the same knee he’d had pinned in the chutes six times this season. He couldn’t leave the chute until he had his hand wrapped; couldn’t wrap the hand until the bull let up, moved to the center, and freed his leg. Another whack and another. Fire shot up through his thigh. The deeper the pain, the more intense his hatred.
He was just a little boy, eight years old, full of laughter and love and kindness and goodness, and his little brother…
His little brother.
The rage tripled.
He shoved the bull’s head. “Get outta there!” The animal moved three inches to the side and Cody jerked free. He shoved his right hand through the rope, palm up. Someone handed him the lead and he wrapped it hard, yanked it tight.
Cody wasn’t sure if Monster Mash would spin to the outside or buck first. Films were available on every bull, and most riders memorized that sort of detail. Not Cody. He wanted his bulls unpredictable, because fury and hatred and rage were unpredictable.
The bull rattled the chute again, jerking his head back and snorting, spraying the legs of the two closest guys, sounding like the beast he was, hating the cowboy. Cody slid forward to his tied-down hand, checked to make sure his knees weren’t trapped. He locked his eyes on the animal’s neck and gave the signal—a quick nod. A click of the latch, and the gate flew open.
“Go, Gunner!” another cowboy yelled.
He was one second into the ride when Monster Mash threw himself into a convulsion, all four hooves off the ground, twisting and snorting, kicking up dirt and dung in all directions. One-point-five seconds… two… two-point-five. The bull crashed down on his front feet, and already the animal’s body was contorting in another direction, frantic to get the cowboy off his back. Cody kept his seat centered within a fraction of an inch, his legs tight around the bull.
A Thousand Tomorrows & Just Beyond The Clouds Omnibus Page 4
