One Rodeo Season. Sarah M. Anderson
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on Ian’s watch, that was for damn sure.
Well, he amended as he heard her snap something out at the older man, maybe afraid wasn’t the right word.
As Ian got within earshot, he heard the older man say, “...to see something bad happen to a pretty little thing like you, Evans,” in tones of mock concern.
Evans what? Surely that wasn’t her first name.
The man’s tone was dismissive and threatening. Ian had heard plenty of men talk to his cousin June that way because she wanted to ride bulls. Ian had backed June up when she wanted to ride. Just because Evans didn’t necessarily like him didn’t mean she didn’t deserve the same.
“You wouldn’t,” she shot back. Her voice wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been with him. “You’d only hate it if someone else got first crack at the Straight Arrow.” She held her ground and, as Ian came up behind her, stood as tall as she could. “Stay the hell away from me and my bulls, Slim.”
Okay, so these two had history—that much was clear. A small gathering of cowboys had formed around Evans and Slim. Ian noticed that most of the cowboys were standing behind Slim. Evans looked small and very alone.
Nope, not happening on his watch.
Slim smiled the oily smile of a man who would get what he wanted, one way or the other. “Or what?” he asked, the mock concern replaced by sheer menace.
Ian cleared his throat and crossed his arms. She started, but didn’t make a noise. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder and made eye contact with Ian. He gave her a curt nod that he hoped said, I’m on your side. At least in this matter.
The corner of her mouth twitched, as if she wanted to smile but wasn’t going to. Then she turned back to Slim, who was now glaring at Ian with undisguised hatred. “Do you really want to find out, Slim? Because I guarantee you won’t like it. I’m not afraid of you.” This statement was only slightly contradicted by the way her voice wavered. “My father wasn’t afraid of you, either.”
Slim spat. “He can’t protect you anymore, you little—”
“Watch your mouth around a lady,” Ian growled as he flexed his muscles. That was a threat, plain and clear. And sometimes, a threat had to be met with a threat.
Slim snorted. “What are you going to do about it, Geronimo? Scalp me?”
Ian charged. His vision narrowed until all he could see was Slim. Just like when he’d been on the football field, when all he could see was the quarterback, the ball. His body primed for the hit, the satisfying crunch of pad against pad, bone against bone.
He didn’t make it. Suddenly, he was jerked to the side. At the same time, Evans turned around and put both hands on his chest, pushing him back.
“Dammit, Chief,” Jack hissed in his ear. “You’ll get kicked off the circuit.”
“Don’t,” Evans said, her wide eyes all the wider with a mix of horror and fear. Then she pitched her voice up louder. “He’s not worth it.”
Ian’s vision widened enough to see that Slim was now standing behind two riders Ian didn’t know real well. Ian could have easily taken them both. “What’s the matter?” he asked, shaking off Jack. “You’ll threaten a woman but you’re too much a coward to man up?”
“Boy,” Slim said, spitting the word out as if it was an insult. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.” Then he turned on his heel and walked off.
Ian watched him go and then turned his attention to Evans. “There,” he said. “That should—”
“What the hell is your problem?” Evans demanded, cutting him off. “Are you trying to ruin my life or what? Because you’re doing a damn fine job.”
“I was trying to help,” Ian said through gritted teeth.
“Well, don’t. I don’t need any help, certainly not from you. I don’t know how I can make it any clearer, buddy— Leave. Me. Alone.”
And with that, she turned and stormed off for the second time in less than fifteen minutes.
Ian blinked, but this time she really was gone.
“What the hell happened?” he asked Jack.
“I think,” Jack replied, his Texas drawl stronger than normal, “you made her mad.”
“Yeah, thanks for that insight,” Ian shot back. He looked again, but he didn’t see Miss Evans from the Straight Arrow Ranch anywhere.
Ian started after where he’d last seen her, but the promoter began shouting that the short goes was starting and everyone needed to stop standing around and gawking like schoolboys.
Ian had to get back to work.
But he wasn’t done with Miss Evans.
HER HANDS SHAKING, Lacy Evans walked back to where Rattler was penned after his go. Please let the animal be okay, she prayed. Without Rattler...
The thought brought on a wave of nausea so strong it almost stopped her in her tracks. She didn’t stop, though. She couldn’t afford a single sign of weakness. No throwing up. No hysterics. And absolutely no crying allowed.
What would Slim Smalls do if he caught Lacy in a true moment of weakness? Bad enough he’d obviously seen the bullfighter take Rattler down—worse that he was hoping Rattler would never get up. Lacy had no doubt about that.
Rattler was the only thing keeping the Straight Arrow going. If she lost that bull, Slim would say something misogynistic about how a “pretty little thing” like Lacy had no business in stock contracting, no business running a ranch—no business existing. And when she broke—or he pushed her too far...
She tried to swallow down the rock in her throat that was pushing against her tongue, but it didn’t budge. So she kept walking.
She saw Rattler in the pen and for a moment, she thought he was holding a leg funny.
She tried to push the panic away as she hurried to the pen. Without getting in there with him, she looked over the bull as carefully as she could—especially his legs.
He shifted his weight onto the leg. Thank God.
In place of the panic, a new emotion took root—anger. The anger felt good. She was furious with that bullfighter. What the hell had he been thinking, twisting her best bull to the ground like that? For God’s sake, he could have killed Rattler! Snapped a leg—or several legs, given the force with which he’d dropped Rattler, as if the eighteen-hundred-pound bull was little more than a stuffed animal someone had thrown at him. Who the hell did that bullfighter think he was?
Chief. That’s what the other bullfighter had called him. The thorn in her side had a ridiculous name like Chief. Of course he did. Lacy didn’t know if that was his real name or another dig at him being an Indian. Because she was pretty sure he was an American Indian. There’d been his faint accent, a different way of clipping his vowels. But beyond that, it was Chief’s dark hair and dark eyes and bronzed skin and eagle nose and strong jaw and muscles moving beneath his shirt.
Not that she’d noticed all those muscles when she’d put her hands on his chest and held him back.
A very small part of her brain replayed the scene again. The whole thing hadn’t taken more than twenty seconds. The bull rider hadn’t made it past five, which was good for Rattler’s statistics. Then there’d been the few agonizingly long seconds where the bullfighter had thought about running. Lacy had seen it in his face. Anyone else would have dodged out of the way. Rattler was no pussy cat—he was a mean son of a bitch who’d broken her father’s arm once and launched Murph, one of her hired hands, fifteen feet into a fence.
But