Hot and Bothered

by Lori Foster

  “I heard about the bad luck following the tour. You think it’s more than coincidence?”

  Shay sat in the saddle still and guarded—a muckraker getting her answers at any cost. He liked her a helluva lot better aroused and flustered or even spitting mad at him.

  Luke looked hard at her. “You know they are more than coincidence, don’t you?”

  “What if I do?”

  Easing his horse over into hers with his leg, Luke reached over and grabbed the front tail of her shirt in his right hand. Slowly, he pulled her toward him as he leaned toward her. “And you think I had something to do with these intentional accidents?”

  He held his breath as they stared into each other’s eyes.

  “I don’t know,” she said clearly.

  She doubted him. For some stupid reason, it hurt more than anything had hurt in his life. Her honesty should’ve counted for something, but all he felt was the hurt. And fear. Fear for her, crazily enough. Fear that she was messing around with danger.

  “You’re right; you don’t know. And you shouldn’t know. You’re a writer, not a cop. Let the WBP honchos figure it out; that’s their job, not yours. Write about it all you want, but don’t get involved.”

  “Since when do you tell me what to do?”

  Since when, indeed. Luke thought of a thousand ways to answer the question. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of them too much like a pure emotion to come out of his cavalier mouth.

  “Since you come into my world and act like a fool,” he threw back with all the disdain he could muster.

  The amber in her brown eyes sparked. “The only foolish thing I’ve done since I came into the bullriding world is get within ten feet of you.”

  “Guess you better go find a cowboy who cares, then.”

  “I don’t want any cowboy, period, unless he happens to be a killer,” Shay said, glaring right back at him.

  “You’re a terrible liar.” He knotted her shirt up tight between her breasts, revealing the expanse of her smooth midriff. Luke couldn’t resist running his forefinger down the center of her abdomen, then along the skin at the waistband of her jeans. He hadn’t been wrong about her being suited to silk. Her skin was silk.

  Shay sucked in a breath. “I’m not the only one,” she said on the exhale. “It looks to me like you’ve been lying to yourself so long you wouldn’t know a truth if it was standing next to you.”

  “Run along, girl.” He slapped her mare’s rump and she took off at a jog. “You’ll have more luck luring a cowboy who cares this way—showing off your best assets instead of your wicked mouth.”

  Reining her horse to a halt, Shay looked back at him, sad now instead of defiant. “Do you always push people away when they get too close?”

  “No, sometimes I just kill them,” Luke answered with dead calm as she rode away.

  Wandering past the bull pens, Shay wondered which would be carrying Luke for the third and last round of bullriding that night. The buzz among the bullriders was that he had drawn at the top of the pen—Undertaker, one of the best bulls, which also meant one of the hardest to ride. Everyone wanted to draw high because the bull was half a rider’s score. The rider’s performance made up the other half.

  Shay felt like she was made up of two halves, too: one-half that wanted Luke to win and the other that wanted Undertaker to deliver him some pain. Bullriders were notorious for having chips on their shoulders they hoped a good ride would buck off. Luke’s chip was hidden underneath layers of emotional calluses. Shay wasn’t being paid to find out whether unearthing that chip would make him into a man worth loving or whether he really was as charmingly shallow as he tried to seem.

  But she was being paid to find out whether he was desperate enough to kill.

  After a long cold shower in her motel room to freeze her wayward mind into submission, Shay had spent the afternoon poring over the papers Monty had sent over from the WBP. There seemed to be no pattern at first glance. The injuries had all been serious: two bullriders had died, three were still in critical condition, and one was recovering at home. Two had been top contenders, four and six on the money list, one had been in the middle of the list, and two had been near rock bottom. Three had their riggings unravel, initially blamed on the manufacturer or age or circumstance. Three had gotten pummeled by the bulls. It took one of the TV commentators’ offhand remarks for the bullriding tour officials to notice they might be more than accidents. Shay had noticed some patterns of her own. The accidents had been going on for six months, since Luke Wilder had started the tour. All the accidents of the daredevils had occurred at events he’d appeared in. It didn’t indict him, for there were dozens of other cowboys who had been there, too.

  But he’d said he’d do whatever it took to win.

  He’d said he wasn’t worth loving.

  Shay knew she needed to find out Luke’s background. So she called in a favor from an Austin PI who owed her. She expected to have all the information he could ferret out by tomorrow morning.

  The announcer’s West Texas accent, dry as the rocky, scrubby terrain around Sonora, rang out over the loudspeaker announcing the last round of bullriding for the evening. Shay walked past bullriders slipping their hands into leather gloves, using their teeth to hold the leather strap while their other hand wound it around like a tourniquet to hold the glove in place. Their focus was unmistakable and—she’d noticed—unparalleled among rodeo cowboys. While they all took their jobs seriously, the bullriders cranked it up a notch. The same men who whooped and hollered and joked with her earlier in the day wore hard faces along with their protective hoof-and-horn-proof vests and stared at the bulls in the holding pens, discussing in low tones the tendencies of each one.

  It wasn’t a good time to talk to the men, but she watched closely, noticing the two off-duty sheriff’s deputies the tour officials had hired just to patrol the bull pen area were watching, too. Cody limped up to her, smiling wanly. He’d been thrown after only three seconds in the second round, landing caught up in the bull’s hind legs. Cody had gotten stomped on a couple of times before the bullfighters in clown clothing could lure the bull away.

  “What’s the damage?” Shay asked.

  Cody shrugged, then winced. “Bruises here and there. No big deal, but I’ve got an industrial-size bandage on my left thigh over a stitched-up gash a half-foot long. I’d like to cowboy up and go into the third round anyway.”

  “Cowboy up?”

  “Rodeo term,” Cody explained. “It means to tough it out as only cowboys can, usually involving some level of stupidity and macho pride.”

  “I see.” Shay nodded in appreciation of his honesty.

  “So I’d normally be riding my draw, but my wife’s talked me out of it. This has scared her, and she’s already spooked about all the rash of accidents anyway. It’s hit us all hard, to tell you the truth, like losing a member of our family. It’s not worth it to me to worry her anymore, although I’m losing out on a lot of money. Unlike those fancy ballplayers who get paid even if they sit out hurt, if we don’t ride, no matter what the circumstance, we don’t get paid.”

  Shay’s throat thickened with emotion at the obvious sacrifice Cody was making to spare his wife’s feelings. “It sounds like your heart’s in the right place.”

  “Unlike us black-hearted types who’ll do anything to win,” Luke put in harshly as he walked past.

  Cody gave Shay a questioning look, but she was too busy watching Luke saunter away to acknowledge it. Luke wore a black-and-silver-striped western shirt, its cuff rolled up on his right arm. His Wranglers only showed through at the crotch seat and calves, covered everywhere else by black leather fringed show chaps decorated with silver conchos. He stopped to talk to another bullrider, flexing his right hand in its suede glove, the muscles of his exposed forearm rippling. He stamped his black ropers twice, leaning over to adjust his roweled silver spurs before he straightened and moved on. The shadow cast by his black felt Stetson hid his face as he turne
d the corner toward the bullriding chutes.

  “That’s not like Luke,” Cody said, shaking his head. “He’s usually at his most charming when charged with adrenaline before his ride.”

  “Maybe he’s spent his charm on someone else.”

  “Nah, he always has plenty to go around for the ladies.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t consider me a lady,” Shay offered dryly.

  “Then he’s crazy,” Cody said with an eyebrow-raised look at her.

  “That’s my line,” Shay laughed. “Do you have a few minutes for a question or two?”

  Cody nodded toward the main building. “Sure, if you don’t mind we talk over by the bull chutes so I can watch the rides. I have to help Luke get settled on his draw, too.”

  As she walked with Cody, Shay’s heart pounded at the thought of being near Luke as he rode. She didn’t want to admit—even to herself—that she’d felt like throwing up both times she’d watched him ride before. How could she care about what happened to a callous, crazy cowboy she half suspected of being a killer?

  The rodeo officials all knew to give her free access behind the scenes, so they just nodded as she crowded in with the bullriders waiting for their rides. The first rider was let out of the chute on a bull named Homewrecker.

  “Great names these bulls have,” Shay remarked sarcastically as they watched Homewrecker spin his rider off after four seconds.

  Cody looked at her as he climbed up the metal fence for a better view. “Aw, it all adds to the show time. We’re just entertainers, pure and simple, like most sports stars nowadays. Ours just has a little extra testosterone thrown into the mix.”

  Which was exactly why she had to keep her emotional distance from this crew, Shay reminded herself as she joined him on the fence. She might have grown up in a world that supported the little-woman theory of marriage, but she was living her life independently despite it.

  “You might not want to get up on the fence in that skirt,” Cody warned with a wink. “The boys will be trying to sneak a peek.”

  Shay looked down at the denim broomstick skirt she wore cinched at the waist by a concho belt. She wore a sleeveless, scoop-necked bodysuit on top; brown pointed-toe alligator boots covered her feet. “I’ll risk it.”

  “Don’t underestimate the low-down, dirty mind of a rodeo cowboy,” Cody said with a chuckle.

  “I’ll try to remember that.” Shay couldn’t resist a glance at Luke, who was talking with a trio of other bullriders.

  Tim Auerbach was up next on Straightjacket.

  “He’s going to spin away from your hand!” Cody called to Tim.

  “No, he’s not; he’s going to jump right,” Tim answered as he hunkered down on the Brahma, left hand white-knuckled on the top of the chute. The bull pawed and snorted and heaved under him.

  Shay’s body suddenly flushed in memory of the intimate bullriding lesson Luke had given her that afternoon. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself in the rider’s place, the hot muscles of the bull tight between her thighs, the power just barely leashed. As she heard the gate open, she opened her eyes and looked straight into Luke’s. He stood ten yards away, but the gleam in his silvery eyes told her that he knew what she’d been thinking, felt what she’d been feeling. She hated it but couldn’t look away.

  While she watched, he put the thin leather glove strap in between his straight white teeth and began winding it around the glove at his wrist, slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. Shay fidgeted against the rail, despising herself for letting him control her desire so skillfully from long-distance.

  In her peripheral vision, Shay saw Tim hit the ground hard on his shoulder. Luke’s eyes never left hers as he slipped his mouthpiece in. Meanwhile, Cody was shaking his head as he watched Tim clamber out of the arena, white-faced with anger. “That boy hasn’t been right since Hugh got hurt last year. Hugh’s his brother. He’s paralyzed now, neck down.”

  Nodding absently, Shay made a sympathetic noise. She felt a flush moving up her chest from the obvious suggestions in Luke’s gaze, so she finally turned back to Cody: “Do you think someone is behind these accidents?”

  “You heard about those? Well, I don’t know for sure that anyone really is behind anything, or maybe it’s just coincidence We all have an uneasy feeling about it, but it could just be the WBP folks being paranoid. Riggings go bad. Bullriders have bad nights. Bulls go crazy. We’re not high-tech around here. It’s an old-fashioned sport, so it’s tough to imagine anyone having enough control over bullriding to sabotage it.”

  “But if you were to try, how would you wreck a rigging that no one would notice until too late?”

  “I guess you could treat it with something to deteriorate the rope. Those that failed literally unraveled in two. Too late to check now, though. I think they all got pitched at the arenas and are long gone.”

  “It could happen, right? You guys aren’t especially vigilant with your things, are you?”

  “No, although some of us are more so now, but not by much. We’re bullriders. We’re risk takers. Most of us also think we’re invincible.”

  “You don’t think your injury was anything more than an accident?”

  “No, ma’am. My rigging is still in good shape. I felt good out there until he twisted right. It wasn’t the bull’s fault I fell right in between his legs. He just wanted me off so he could run back into the pen.”

  The announcer listed the placings; Luke was in second after two rounds with no one yet riding to the eight-second buzzer in the third round. Shay watched him talk with the other bullriders as he made his way down his chute.

  “How long have you known Luke?”

  “Ten years. We met at the high school rodeo championship, which Luke won hands down. Then we both did the weekend amateur circuit for years while we were both working, always finishing at the top there together. Finally my wife told me I ought to give the pro tour a try; she’d work while I made a go of it. My wins and some corporate sponsorships are paying the bills, so I’m still at it. Luke joined up with the pro tour at the beginning of the year.”

  “Why now?”

  “I don’t know really. Truth be told, he should’ve joined the pro tour out of high school; he’s better than I am, always was. But instead he went to college, then went back to work with the family business. His dad owns a computer empire, and Luke absolutely hated the work. But to his family their work is the only work. He tried working as foreman of the family ranch, but it didn’t last. Now he’s here, and with his focus all screwed up, acting like the devil himself is after him. If you get him to tell you why, you’re a magician. Luke’s a big talker, just not about himself.” Cody paused and looked toward the chutes. “Luke’s up.”

  As they clambered off the rail and walked toward the chutes, Cody looked at her curiously. “You putting all this in your article?”

  “No, this is just personal curiosity.”

  “I like you a lot, Miz McIntyre. I respect the way you can talk back to that redneck fool. But I gotta tell you something else about Luke: he’s never dated the same girl more than once.”

  “I’m not looking to date him.”

  “Uh-huh, what are you looking for then?”

  “Answers, that’s all.”

  “Be careful,” he said with a long look at her. “I’d hate to see you hurt.”

  Shay wasn’t sure whether he meant with the investigation or with Luke or with both. Cody put his hand on the brim of his straw Stetson to excuse himself before he elbowed his way to Luke’s chute. The Undertaker was making a racket, leaping up, clanging his horns against the rails, bellowing and fighting as the rodeo officials tied his flank rope. When Luke slid on his back, the bull nearly crushed Luke’s leg against the gate before he leaped back up on the rail. Shay’s heart pounded as she drew closer, trying to make note of the people around the chute for her investigation but finding her gaze returning repeatedly to Luke. He perched on the top of the gate, his tan face stony, his narrowed eyes fixed on t
he thrashing bull.

  Monty shouldered his way in next to the chute. “Wilder. We’re letting you do a re-ride. Take another draw. This bull’s off.”

  “No, thank you, sir. I’ll take him.”

  “Don’t be a damned idiot, Wilder. We don’t want you to be a statistic.”

  Luke looked past Monty for an instant to lock gazes with Shay. She saw in his storm cloud eyes he was doing this to prove to her he wasn’t the killer. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe; she was drowning in a thousand different emotions. She shook her head. Luke looked back at Monty.

  “Yes, sir, I understand, but I’ll still take Undertaker.”

  Monty opened his mouth to say something else, then shook his head and threw up his hands.

  The bull had settled down for a second, sweat frothing on his neck, his sides heaving with exertion. Luke jumped on and wound the rigging rope around his right hand. His left pounded on the tight binding. One. Two. Three. Shay’s concentration was so deep, she felt like she was on the bull with him. His left hand grabbed the chute’s top rail as he settled his seat. Then, the bull began thrashing again, and Luke nodded fast and hard.

  “OK, boys, OK.”

  The gate swung open. The Undertaker plunged into the open arena, and Shay understood for the first time in her life how time could slow, even stop. Each tenth of a second took a lifetime. Each twisting, roiling buck. Each vicious lunge.

  Shay didn’t know she’d held her breath until she began to feel faint. She sucked in some air, not sure whether the eight-second buzzer had sounded or not. Then she heard the roar of applause from the thrilled crowd and knew he must have made it. Still he rode as the bull began spinning wildly.

  “Damned if he isn’t just doing it for show now,” one of the bullriders commented. “Someone needs to tell the boy they start marking you off for stupidity every second you stay on after the buzzer.”