“Too bad for Kip Brown. Black Betty is a tough one,” the announcer said cheerfully. “Hopefully, he’ll have better luck on his next ride.”
Ryder tested the tie on the heavy leather glove encasing her right hand and then pulled her gloved fingers through the snug handle of the rigging. Skoal shifted restlessly under her.
“Next up, we welcome Marc Ryder. Our only female competitor in bronc and bull riding, this will be Ms. Ryder’s first event since a bad meeting with a bull put her out of competition for a few months. She’s drawn a good ride for the occasion, Red River Skoal, two-time national bucking horse of the year.”
She leaned back and straightened her legs to lift her spurs above the horse’s shoulders. Riders were disqualified if they failed to “mark out” their ride, meaning they had to keep their spurs in that position until the bronc’s front feet touched the ground after breaking from the gate.
She stared down at her mount and uttered the good-luck charm that completed her ritual. “Flyin’ ain’t hard. You just throw yourself at the ground and miss.”
She popped in her mouthpiece and raised her left hand high over her head. She gave a firm nod and the chute steward yanked the bucking strap tight at the same time the gate swung open.
Legs forward as Skoal’s heels went skyward, then spurs to ass as the horse reared. Rear, kick, turn, rear and launch upward, then down hard with heels nearly vertical to the ground. Crow hop on all fours, then back to the rear, buck, rear, buck.
It was a textbook ride.
While bull riding is the most dangerous, bareback bronc riding is considered the most physical of the rodeo events. The faster, more energetic buck of the horse flings the rider back and forth like a rag doll. But few horses buck with the body twist favored by the bulls, and Ryder found their rolling motion much easier to follow.
At the sound of the buzzer, she abandoned her usual gymnastic-style dismount that won her points with the crowd and waited for the pickup men to sandwich her bronc between their horses so she could slide up behind one of them and be deposited gently on solid ground.
She didn’t need the crowd’s roar to know she had done well. She had felt the perfect rhythm of it. Hell, her hat was even still sitting securely on her head. But she pulled it off now and waved it at the cheering fans when the scoreboard flashed a high eighty-eight for her ride.
That score was her best, but her other two rides went pretty much the same. At the end of the day, she placed a close second to the winner. So she wasn’t surprised when Ashley waved her over to the ESPN camera for an interview.
Blond and lithe, Ashley was a former barrel-racing champ who had hung up her chaps when she married and started having babies. She was just Ryder’s type, and they’d hooked up once. But Ashley was more straight than bisexual, and they both wrote it off as a good time.
Ryder’s hair had grown long enough that it was starting to curl around her collar, and Ashley eyed it critically. “Not a bad look. It could use some styling, but I like it longer,” she said.
Ryder lifted her hat to brush her hair back from her face. “Don’t get used to it. I’m getting it cut tomorrow.”
Ashley shrugged. “Ready?”
“Yeah. Let’s do it.”
They turned and waited for the cameraman’s cue.
“That was a spectacular return after several months off the circuit. How’d it feel out there today?”
“It felt good. Real good. I think the layoff actually helped. Everybody else is sore and tired from the long rodeo season, but I’m rested and ready to go.”
“How ready will you be for the bulls on Saturday? You suffered some pretty bad injuries the last time you rode one. No reservations about getting back out there?”
Actually, it was a cold ball of fear in her belly that she actively nurtured. It helped block out the ache that squeezed her chest so tight she couldn’t breathe every time she thought of Bridgette. But fear wasn’t what her fans paid to see.
She tipped her hat back and grinned at the camera.
*
Bridgette smiled and waved at the two students sitting in the grass when one held up her art-history book in a gesture that said “We’re studying for your exam,” even though they’d been studying each other’s tonsils—not their art history—a moment before they spotted her.
She loved this college campus. Her heart bloomed with its abundant trees and flowers every spring. She relaxed with the shorts and flip-flop atmosphere of the summer term, and the artist in her thrilled at the explosion of color that each fall brought to the foothills where Cherokee Falls was nestled. She felt lighter, unfettered, walking now among the peak of this year’s spectacular autumn palette.
There was still the matter of Marc. She didn’t want to abandon her like others had done. She had survived opening the dreaded crate, but Marc was a new risk. She flushed at the thought of her. Maybe a bigger risk than Stephan.
Marc was passion and tenderness and mind-numbing hot sex. A cliff with an edge waiting to crumble under her feet. A parachute that might not open.
She would think about that later. She had Marc’s contact information. Maybe she’d e-mail her. Maybe she’d wait to see if she would show up at Skyler and Jessica’s for Christmas. It was a little less than two months away, but time she needed to examine her feelings.
She pushed through the doors of the student center on her mission to secure a large chai latte, an essential part of her exam-writing routine. The questions were already taking shape in her head.
But as she circled around the lounge area, a familiar husky voice stopped her. Twenty or more students were gathered before the big-screen television where a larger-than-life Marc Ryder peeled her eyes off the pretty blond ESPN sportscaster, tilted her Stetson back, and grinned at the camera.
“I love riding bulls. If it wasn’t dangerous, it wouldn’t be as much fun. Saturday can’t get here fast enough for me.”
“Besides the thrill, what makes the bulls special?”
“The challenge. They aren’t as neat and predictable as broncs. They twist and spin and throw their horns back. When you’re up on that bull, you don’t have room to think about anything but staying on his back and away from those horns.”
“A lot of riders who suffered the injuries you did would consider retiring from bull riding. What drives you to get back out there?”
Ryder shrugged. “It’s not really anything driving me, just nothing stopping me.”
“Well, there was certainly nothing stopping you today. Congratulations for your success and good luck on Saturday.” The blonde turned to the camera as it moved in for a close-up. “Marc Ryder, still making a name for herself in an almost exclusively male sport, celebrating an excellent return to the rodeo circuit today and looking forward to Saturday’s bull riding. Back to you, Jim.”
The picture switched to three cowboys in a studio.
“Bull riding is certainly a dangerous sport and not for the faint of heart,” Jim told the camera before turning to his co-announcers. “And a lot of people think it’s no place for a woman. What do you think, Ty?”
“I think an athlete is an athlete,” the middle-aged cowboy in the Western-print shirt said. “There are sports where women aren’t physically big enough to compete against men, like basketball and football. But rodeo requires only strength and timing. If a woman is strong enough and skilled enough, then I say go for it.”
“What about you, Jimmy? There certainly weren’t any women competing with the men when you were rodeoing.”
The old cowboy wearing a stylish white Resistol winked at the camera. “Well, Jim, my daddy used to say you gotta be a little stupid and a lot tough to ride bulls. I’ve known some pretty tough women in my day. If one of them is stupid enough to climb up on two thousand pounds of meanness, then I wouldn’t stand in her way.”
“Two thousand pounds of meanness is exactly what Marc Ryder encountered her last time out.”
The picture cut away to a video cl
ip of Ryder settling onto the back of a huge black bull. Then the gate swung open and the bull launched into the arena, spinning and bucking.
Bridgette unconsciously rubbed her arm as she watched Ryder being jerked this way and that as the bull constantly changed directions. When the eight-second buzzer sounded, she tensed.
Instead of lying back on the bull, Ryder was hunched forward, working her hand loose from the rigging, when the bull kicked his heels high again. She pitched forward at the same time the bull threw his head back, and her forehead banged against the unyielding base of the bull’s horns.
The students groaned. “That’s gotta hurt,” one boy remarked.
Tears stung Bridgette’s eyes as though the blow had been to her own forehead. Don’t look, don’t look. But she was paralyzed, unable to turn away as Ryder’s limp body slid off the bull onto the ground.
The rodeo clowns leapt into action, but Ryder’s body jerked several times as the bull’s heels came down on her leg, bounced up, and came down again before a clown could get the animal’s attention.
He snorted and pawed at the ground, preparing to charge. The clowns waved bandanas and shouted. One clown taunted from behind a large padded barrel, daring the bull to charge to the other side of the arena. For a minute, it appeared that he would. Two roadies edged over the top of the railing, ready to jump into the arena and drag Ryder to safety.
Then the bull wheeled and, instead, charged the figure sprawled and unmoving. He plowed his horns into the dirt to root under Ryder and throw her into the air. She hit facedown and he snagged one curved horn under the back of her vest.
The bull stomped again on her injured leg, then lifted and shook his great head as Ryder dangled from his horn. He tossed her into the air a second time. One fearless clown rushed forward to grab the bull’s tail and give it hard crank. When the bull whirled, the clown was halfway to the barrel. The animal gave chase and the clown jumped into the barrel a split second before the bull rammed into it.
The heavy barrel rolled away and the bull stood, snorting. He swung his body back toward Ryder, but two men were already there, each slipping a hand in the armholes of her vest to grab hold. Ryder raised her hand, then dropped it again as they dragged her away.
The students cheered. “Show it again, show it again,” they chanted.
Bridgette sprinted to the restroom and vomited her lunch in the first empty stall. A couple of students looked at her curiously when she emerged, and she quickly rinsed her mouth at the sink.
Marc’s fine. She’s fine. She was walking around Cherokee Falls just last week. She’s not dead, not paralyzed, not crippled. She’s fine.
But the mantra in Bridgette’s head didn’t stop the second wave of nausea, and she hurried to the art building next door, slamming into her office and falling to her knees in the small bathroom. Her gagging soon turned to weak sobs.
Marc. Baby.
The thought of her being tossed about like a doll wasn’t what crushed her now. It was thinking of Marc, in pain, alone in the hospital. Was there anyone who held her hand, wiped her brow, and spooned ice chips into her mouth after surgery?
It was too late to push her away, too late to be friends. At that moment, she knew with concrete certainty that she was in love with Marc Ryder.
Losing Stephan hurt because she had wanted him to always be there for her.
This was different. She wanted to be the one who was there for Marc, holding her, loving her, healing hurts and protecting her from new ones.
Even worse, she knew Marc was in love with her. She had known it, had felt it the night they made love in Eleanor’s mansion.
She covered her face with her hands and groaned. What was she going to do?
“It’s not really anything driving me, just nothing stopping me.”
She climbed to her feet and hunched over the sink to splash her burning eyes with cold water. She dried her face and straightened.
She needed to see Marc. She stuffed her exam materials into her laptop bag.
The two of them had to stop running—from their fears and from each other. It was time to pony up, and she wasn’t taking this ride alone.
Chapter Twenty-one
It was three in the morning, and Marc looked adorable.
She had answered the door in black boy shorts and a faded T-shirt with the logo of a jumping horse and slogan that said GRAND NATIONAL HUNT AT AINTREE. She had cut her dark hair short, and the spikes stood up like a halo. Her eyes were sleepy, her mouth open in surprise. She blinked.
“God, I hope this isn’t just a dream.”
“No talking,” Bridgette said. She pushed Marc back into the condo and followed her inside. She closed the door and locked it. “You just need to listen.”
“Bridge—”
She pinned Marc against the wall.
“I said no talking.”
She brought her mouth close, as close to Marc’s as possible without touching. She ran her hands under Marc’s shirt and smiled when she jerked. Her hands wouldn’t be cold for long because Marc’s skin was warm and soft as velvet. Her nipples were hard.
“Pay close attention to everything I’m saying to you,” she whispered.
And then she kissed her. She kissed Marc tenderly with every emotion she’d been holding back, then deeper with every ounce of passion that bloomed inside her. She kissed her until she moaned, they both moaned, and Marc sagged against the wall.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
Marc started to answer, then closed her mouth and pointed. She took Marc’s hand and led her upstairs to stand beside the king-sized bed where, moments before, Marc had been sleeping. She hadn’t considered the possibility, but she paused to mentally thank the gods another woman wasn’t snuggled among those rumpled covers.
“Watch, but don’t touch,” she said softly as she stepped back and began to undress.
She slid her blouse from her shoulders and Marc stared at her breasts. She swirled her middle fingers over her own erect nipples, their outline clear under the silky material of her bra. Marc licked her lips in anticipation and her gaze locked on Bridgette’s chest as she slowly reached behind to unclasp her bra and let it drop to the floor. She pinched her own nipples and groaned. Marc’s hands twitched.
Then she turned her back to Marc and slowly lowered her jeans and panties in one movement. She heard Marc suck in a breath when she bent over to slip off her shoes and remove the clothes now pooled around her ankles. Marc’s hands were moving again as she faced her.
“No touching until I say so.”
Marc’s hands twisted the tail of her T-shirt in an effort to restrain them. Her eyes were no longer soft and dazed. They were hungry.
She went to Marc and caressed her cheek, then freed her hands from their entanglement. “Off,” she said, tugging the shirt upward until Marc raised her arms to let her remove it.
Bridgette edged closer until their nipples were almost touching. Almost.
“You are a warrior goddess,” she murmured, running her fingertips down Marc’s sides and blowing gently across the stiff nipples. Her mouth watered to suck them, but she would get to that later. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a stronger, more beautiful female body.”
She drifted slowly lower, until she was on her knees, and drew the boy shorts down Marc’s hard thighs. She breathed in the scent of Marc’s arousal and, without stopping to think, buried her nose in the dark, wet curls. Marc trembled under her hands and she knew this was how she’d claim her first.
She gently pushed Marc down onto the bed and shouldered her legs. Propped on her elbows, Marc watched her, eyes blazing as Bridgette rubbed her cheek against her thigh and met her gaze. Could Marc see how much she wanted her?
“I love the way you smell.” She smoothed her hands up Marc’s taut belly and brushed her palms over her breasts. “I love the way you feel. Hard, yet so soft.” She fingered Marc’s rigid nipples, rolling them between her thumb and fingers until Marc closed her eyes and m
oaned.
Then she tasted her, salty and sweet. Marc’s clit was firm under her tongue, and she wasted no time sucking it into her mouth and scraping her teeth across the swollen flesh.
“Bridgette. Oh, Christ. I can’t—”
She filled Marc with two fingers, stroking her inside and out. Marc’s breath hitched and her body bucked. But she held on, riding out Marc’s orgasm until she collapsed, panting and jerking with the aftershocks.
She wiped her wet cheeks against Marc’s belly, but kept her fingers inside as she moved to lie beside her. She kissed Marc’s slack mouth, laving her tongue across the full lips before plunging inside. When Marc responded, dancing their tongues together, she began to stroke with her fingers again. Marc whimpered but opened her legs, surrendering to her.
She moved over Marc to straddle her thigh and assuage her own burning need as she added a third finger. She thrust, slowly and gently at first, and Marc slid her hand down to wedge her fingers between her thigh and Bridgette’s sex to reciprocate. She pumped harder and with purpose, and Marc moved with her.
Marc’s eyes widened when she pressed her pinkie lower, against her small puckered ring of muscle, but she didn’t protest as Bridgette plunged the small digit inside. She laid her thumb against Marc’s clit and held her gaze as she took her completely.
Something fragile and fleeting flashed in Marc’s eyes. Usually quiet and restrained in her orgasms, she dropped her head back and roared with her climax, soaking Bridgette’s hand. Marc’s fingers convulsed against her sex, triggering her orgasm, too.
They were both slick with exertion and desire when she collapsed, spent yet unsated. She didn’t worry whether the strong body under hers could bear her physical weight. But could the heart that beat against hers hold up under what she was feeling, what she was still afraid to confess?
She felt Marc’s chest hitch and caught a glimpse of tears before she turned her face away. She bit back the words that had been on the tip of her tongue, and they lodged in her throat to choke her.
Every Second Counts Page 17
