He grabbed the handle that was woven into the rope, and positioned his hand so his pinky rested against the middle of the bull’s back, and then moved it just to the right. With his long arms, it’s where he felt most comfortable.
Bullet shook his head, and Buck tightened the rope once more. Using his opposite hand, Bullet took the rope from Buck and laid it across his riding hand. He made sure the rosin started right at his pointer finger, and took the wrap behind, so there wasn’t any slack, and then forward again to lay it back across his hand. He took the tail of his rope and threw it behind him. He’d ridden too many hooky bulls. If the bull felt the rope, it might throw its head back to get rid of the nuisance.
He got up on his rope with his knees bent slightly. His feet were in front so his center of balance was ready to ride the buck. His calves were tight, his toes out so every part of his leg was right against the bull’s body. His riding arm was slightly bent, his back was straight, and his chin was tucked so he was looking right in front of his riding hand, at the bull’s shoulders. He put his free arm in front of him, kept his toes forward, and nodded his head for the gate to be opened.
As soon as he felt the bull move out of the chute, he turned his toes out and squeezed his legs, going with the bull’s buck.
When the bull went right and reared, Bullet kept his back straight and got up on the inside of his legs. He kept his chin tucked and rode into the kick. He transitioned from being up on his legs to shoving his hips and lifting on his rope.
The bull spun away from his hand, to him that was an easier ride. He got over the bull’s shoulder and drove his body down with his own riding shoulder. He kept the line tight, and when the bull kicked again, Bullet shoved his hips forward. The bull went back into a spin, kicked again, but Bullet stayed right with him.
He heard the whistle blow and positioned himself to get off into his hand. With the bull still moving, he rocked over his shoulder and kicked his leg at the same time. He let go and landed on his hands and knees on the ground. He crawled out and watched as the bullfighters distracted the bull and got him through the gate.
He jumped up, threw his fist in the air, and then spun around until he found the section of the arena where he knew Tristan was sitting. He looked straight at her and stood perfectly still until the announcer gave the score.
Bullet won the round with an eight-five-five point ride on K-Bar’s Rusty Rags, which pushed his season earnings to $431,230 and beat his next closest contender, who sat at $407,475.
Bullet Simmons was the first rookie ProRodeo cowboy to win a world title in his first year since Hall of Famer Joe Beaver won the tie-down roping in 1985 at the first finals held in Las Vegas.
The crowd went wild, but Bullet didn’t take his eyes off Tristan. When PRCA’s Clown of the Year, Timmy Islip, approached him in the arena, the crowd went silent.
“Damn, son,” Timmy said to him through the mic. “I ain’t never even heard of you before.”
Bullet laughed, and then thanked Bill Patterson, Buck Bishop, and the guys from Flying R Rough Stock. He put his hand over his eyes to shield the glare from the bright lights. “And I’ve got a question for a very special lady who’s here watchin’ tonight.”
Catcalls and hollers sounded from around the audience. When everything quieted down, Timmy handed the microphone to Bullet. He walked forward a couple of steps, to where Tristan, who had run down the aisle, was standing at the rail.
Bullet knelt down on one knee but kept his eyes riveted on her. “Tristan,” he began. “I wore these chaps, tonight, believing they’d bring me good luck.”
Tristan smiled and nodded through her tears.
“And tonight, I won the world title for bull riding.”
She nodded again.
“So I’m just wonderin’…you think Lost Cowboy might consider sponsorin’ me now?”
The crowd was on its feet, roaring and cheering for him again. Bullet couldn’t hear anything above the beat of his own heart. Timmy put his hand on Bullet’s shoulder and guided him toward the chutes.
He looked over his shoulder in time to see Tristan wave and blow him a kiss.
2014
“Look at him,” Dottie nudged Bill. “Just look at him. That’s our boy. Billy’s the World Champion Saddle Bronc Rider.”
Bill closed his eyes, just briefly, and said a silent prayer of thanks to God, for keeping his boy safe.
Epilogue
Tristan put the finishing touches on the story of the Lost Cowboy who found his way.
It was Bullet’s story, but it was so much more than that. She had two more drawings to do, and when she finished, she’d send them off, along with the manuscript, to the designer who would turn it into a book ready to be published.
It would be the first book in the Lost Cowboy series—picture books for little cowboys and cowgirls, who could read about their heroes, and dream of one day becoming rodeo champions.
She already had the idea for the second book. It would be about Bill Patterson and his wife, Dottie, and how, even though he gave up his own chance to be a rodeo champion, his son, Billy, grew up to win a world title instead.
About the Author
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Also by Heather Slade
COWBOYS OF CRESTED BUTTE
Available Now!
Book One: Fall for Me
Book Two: Dance with Me
Book Three: Kiss Me Cowboy
Book Four: Stay with Me
Coming Soon!
Book Six: Sing to Me
BUTLER RANCH
Available Now!
Book One: The Promise
Book Two: The Truce
Book Three: The Secret
Book Four: The Gift
Coming Soon!
Book Five: The Truth
New Series Coming Soon!
The Winemakers
Book One: Ridge
Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next
heart-poundingly sexy novel in
Heather Slade’s
Cowboys of Crested Butte Series,
coming soon,
Sing to Me.
Want more from Heather Slade?
Keep reading for a short excerpt from
The Promise,
the first book in
the Butler Ranch series.
Sing to Me
“Where you runnin’ off to, baby?”
Damn, she’d almost made a clean getaway. It wasn’t as though Kingston West wasn’t hot as all get-out, or a nice enough guy, it was more that she didn’t have time for him. Not just him, Lyric Simmons didn’t have time for anyone. All she’d done the last few months was clean up her brother’s messes and play sidekick to a never-ending cast of characters from Flying R Rough Stock.
“Not runnin’ off anywhere. What about you?”
While she answered, she didn’t look at him until enough time had passed that she wondered if he’d walked away. So she looked. And he hadn’t. He was leaning up against the wall of the concourse, just outside the arena of the Thomas Mack Center, and if Lyric didn’t know better, she might’ve thought he’d forgotten she was there. Every cowgirl and buckle bunny who passed him by got the full behind inspection from ol’ King.
She turned back around and was headed toward the exit when she felt him behind her. He didn’t have to touch her for her to know he was there. She could sense him; feel him under her skin. His slow, concentrated breathing, put her every nerve ending on high alert.
“I asked you a question,” he breathed, running those fine lips right above the surface of the skin on her neck.
God, that made her knees weak.
“I answere
d you.”
King spun her around to look at him, as though they weren’t in the midst of twenty thousand people trying to exit the arena. “It was a bullshit answer.”
“I’m goin’ to the same place everyone from Flying R is goin’,” she stammered.
King’s gaze was fixed on her, seemingly oblivious to the dirty looks they were getting from the people who had to weave their way around them because they stood right in the middle of the concourse.
“C’mon,” she said, finding her voice.
Lyric pulled King by the hand over to where they’d be out of the way. Fortunately he followed, because there was no way in hell she could’ve moved him if he wasn’t ready to. The man was massive. Not surprising, considering he jumped off the back of a moving horse and wrestled steers to the ground.
Once they were out of the way, King backed her up against the wall, wrapped his tree-trunk-size arms around her, and gripped each cheek of her ass in his herculean hands.
“Don’t lie. You were leavin’.”
He was right; she had intended to leave, but once she got herself into a cab, she wouldn’t have gone through with it. She had to go to the party, if only for her brother.
He wasn’t the only one who won big this week, though. King had too. He wasn’t world champ, like Bullet was in bull riding, but King had landed in second in bulldogging and, with it, got a payout of $263,267.32.
“I told you, I was headed to the party at the Hyperion.”
“Without me?”
“You’re supposed to be there already, aren’t you? Settin’ up?”
A few months ago, Ben Rice, from CB Rice, had arranged for a meeting with her dad, Nate Simmons from Satin, and Mark Cochran from Cochran. While CB Rice was middle-of-the-road rock, Satin and Cochran were full-on heavy metal bands. The three had been playing together and writing songs every chance they got. Sometimes King sat in with them.
“I’m not playin’ guitar tonight.”
Lyric raised an eyebrow.
“I’m gonna play you instead.”
“We could probably…”
King’s gaze was impenetrable while he waited for her to continue. The man had patience like Lyric had never seen. He could wait fifteen minutes for her to finish her sentence, and barely blink. After the second or third time she’d tried to wait him out, she never bothered again.
“You know, stop at the room, or somethin’.”
“Somethin’?”
Gram used to say that the first amendment was written just for Lyric. She never had trouble saying exactly what she thought at the very moment she thought it. But when it came to King West, she found herself tongue-tied more often than not.
“You really need me to say it?”
His big brown eyes smoldered as he caressed her cheek with his finger, and he nodded in that way that made her swoon the day she met him. Lyric reached up and ran her hands over his wide shoulders, down his strong arms, and to his powerful chest. To look at him, King appeared to be a big teddy bear with a boy-next-door smile. Underneath, though, he was a grizzly.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears when he crushed his lips against hers, and she moaned into his mouth. “King…”
“Say it, baby.”
“I need you.”
“Tell me what you need, and maybe I’ll give it to you.”
Lyric looked left and right at the hoards of people who continued to swarm around them. Not a single one seemed as though they noticed King practically taking her right where they stood.
“God, help me,” King moaned, pulling back from her. “Let’s go.”
Lyric was as shocked as she was elated. The man with infinite patience was the first to cave tonight.
The surprises from him continued as King hustled her into the back of a long, black limousine, and before she could even ask whose ride they were hijacking, heard the driver ask, “Where to tonight, Mr. West?”
“Hyperion,” King answered and closed the door in the driver’s face.
“That wasn’t very nice—”
King’s mouth covered hers to shut her up, that she didn’t doubt. His hand hit a button, and a dark panel closed between them and the driver.
“Climb on up, baby,” he demanded more than asked, and pulled Lyric onto his lap, situating her so she was straddling him. “We’re gonna start our celebration here and now.”
He reached over and opened a small door, pulling out two bottles of beer.
Lyric laughed. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t be opening a bottle of Champagne.”
“Shit, no,” mumbled King, reaching around her to twist off the caps. He handed her one of the bottles and took a swig of the other.
“If all we’re doin’ is drinkin’ beer,” Lyric looked around the expansive back of the limo, “why do I hafta be on your lap?”
She watched as King took another swig, and another, until he emptied the bottle and set it aside. Then he took hers and set it in a cup holder.
When his hands were free, he cupped the cheeks of her bottom, like he’d done in the concourse, and pulled her closer to him. Lyric wound her arms around his neck and leaned in to kiss him.
“I missed you,” he murmured before he let her tongue do battle with his.
It had been King’s idea to leave Las Vegas two days ago, after the steer wrestling finals were over, in order to look for a woman who had falsely accused Lyric’s brother, Bullet, of being her unborn child’s daddy. When Bullet swore up and down that it wasn’t possible, that he hadn’t laid a hand on her, Lyric had defended him.
What complicated the whole thing was their suspicion that Bullet’s girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend was setting Bullet up. Up until King offered to go back to Colorado Springs and hunt this woman down, there was little hope of proving what was really happening.
This morning, King delivered the woman, and Bullet was able to straighten it all out and prove to Tristan that he hadn’t been unfaithful to her.
At the end of tonight’s finals, after Bullet had the best ride of his life and won the championship, he got down on one knee in the middle of the arena. Everyone, including Lyric, was sure he was going to propose. He didn’t though. He only asked if her company, Lost Cowboy, would consider sponsoring him now that he’d won.
The crowd had gone wild, and Lyric had to hand it to Bullet. It had been an epic move. She didn’t doubt her brother would eventually propose; he was crazy in love with this woman. But knowing him, the proposal would be just as epic as his stunt in the arena had been. Bullet didn’t do anything in an understated way. No one in her family did.
“I don’t think I properly thanked you for saving my brother’s ass,” Lyric whispered, leaning forward to run her tongue over the saltiness of his skin.
King growled, like the grizzly bear he was, and moved his hands from her bottom, to cup each of her breasts, pushing them together and burying his face in her cleavage.
His phone vibrated at the same time Lyric’s did. King wouldn’t answer, but she sure as hell would—and it pissed him right off. Since she was on top of him, it wasn’t hard for him to hear Ben Rice asking if she knew where he was.
“He’s right here.” She put her phone to his ear and went back to licking his neck.
With his free hand, King reached under her tank top and circled her beaded nipple with his index finger.
“What’s up, boss?”
“There’s somebody here lookin’ for you. Says it’s important, but won’t tell me what it’s about. Are you and Lyric on your way?”
“Sure enough,” King answered as Lyric climbed off his lap, moved away from him, and folded her arms.
“The nightmare continues,” she barked at him after he tossed her phone on the seat next to her. “Guess somebody’s lookin’ for your DNA now. I knew it,” she huffed. “I knew you were lettin’ those bunnies polish your buckle.”
There was no point responding to her until he knew exactly who was looking for him, and why. He could explain that he
hadn’t had sex with anyone but her since the day they met, but why bother. She wouldn’t believe him even if he decided to be enough of a pussy to admit it.
The limo pulled up in front of the Hyperion Hotel, and before the driver could get around to the other side of the car, the valet had their door open.
“Welcome back, Mr. West,” the kid said, moving out of the way so King could offer Lyric his hand to help her out.
Instead of taking it, she slapped it away. The valet was standing close enough that King could hear his sharp intake of breath.
He just laughed. Lyric Simmons, all five feet two inches and not much over a hundred pounds of her, was a force of nature. She reminded him of the tornadoes that ripped through Oklahoma—the kind that you didn’t see coming, but tore the landscape to pieces a moment later.
She was pacing in front of the elevator doors, probably willing one to open quick enough for her to jump in before he reached her, but none did until he stood next to her. He followed her in and, when it closed, leaving them alone, pushed her up against the back wall.
“Don’t,” she snapped, trying to move away from him, but he was too quick and too big for her get away. After all, he wrestled steers weighing six hundred pounds to the ground in under five seconds. Did she really think she had a chance to get away from him?
When he held tight, he felt her exhale her fight and let her soft body cushion his. He was almost disappointed.
“Someday you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt, baby.”
She huffed again, but not like before.
“That’s him,” Ben pointed when they walked into the banquet room where Flying R Rough Stock was hosting the party to celebrate the end of a very successful National Finals Rodeo.
Win Me Over (Cowboys of Crested Butte Book 5) Page 26
