Five

      Buckaroo Ranch

      20 miles south of Austin, Texas

      “Tonight’s the night.”

      Shanghai gritted his teeth. The jeering note in Wolf’s deep voice on the other end of the line set Shanghai on edge so much he wanted to punch him.

      “You’re doing it, hombre. You’re asking her the question. Tonight! Before you leave for the big rodeo in Vegas.”

      “Don’t remind me, brother.” Shanghai’s stomach tightened as he clutched the cell phone a little closer to his ear. To settle his nerves, he took another long pull from his Lone Star.

      What was he waiting for?

      “You still there, brother?”

      “Where the hell do you think I am?” Shanghai shot back in the space of a heart beat.

      “So, what’s the big deal? You know she’ll say yes.”

      “Hell, maybe that’s the big deal. You ever been married?”

      “Twice. When I was still in the military.”

      Wolf had flown helicopters in the Middle East. Recently he’d been honorably discharged from the National Guard.

      There was a short silence. “Divorced twice, too,” Wolf admitted.

      “Then you’re a two-time loser.”

      “I was gone a lot. Top-secret shit. They couldn’t take the stress.”

      “Why the hell am I asking you for advice?”

      Ever since Shanghai’s daddy had run his mother off, he’d been afraid he’d do the same.

      “Just ask her, okay. Just get it over with, you wuss.”

      “I ain’t no wuss.”

      “Not when we train. You can take any kind of pain then. But you’re a wuss.”

      Wolf was his physical trainer. Modify that—his psycho trainer. Wolf was six foot six and built like a lethal African-American god. He had a black belt in karate and had been in Special Forces. He’d even done a bit of bull riding. The man worked him until every muscle in his body ached.

      At thirty-nine Shanghai was hardly the newest kid on the block. Not that he ever liked thinking about his age.

      Bull riding was an extreme sport. He put up with Wolf’s abuse to stay in shape to ride bulls.

      Why the hell did he still want to ride bulls?—that was the million-dollar question. He’d proved himself—hadn’t he?

      Unlike most in his profession, he’d made a lot of money and had invested it well. His land, which was just south of the Austin airport, was worth more every year. Why did he keep putting off moving here and ranching full-time? He couldn’t tell himself he rode just for the money anymore.

      “When it comes to women, you’re a wuss. You see a pretty little filly you’ve bedded a few times and you like a lot in your rearview mirror, and you stomp on the accelerator. When things start getting serious, you do it every time, brother. Every time.” Wolf laughed. “Zoom.”

      “If you were here, I’d punch your lights out.”

      Wolf roared. “No, you wouldn’t. Even you’ve got enough sense not to start something you can’t finish.”

      He was so right. Although some of his bull riding friends might disagree, Shanghai didn’t have a total death wish.

      “Gotta go,” Wolf said. “A mama just walked in with her fat kiddo, who probably wants to take karate lessons. No can do. The kid’s gotta lose some major weight first. Do some jogging. Eat broccoli instead of fries.”

      “Go easy on ’em, huh? Eating broccoli may be a radical thought.”

      Eager for their blood no doubt, Wolf roared with laughter again as he hung up.

      The fat kid and his mama would be in tears long before Wolf got through talking to them. Wolf either toughened you up or he made mincemeat out of you.

      Shanghai inhaled the aroma of pine and smoke. There was nothing better than the smell of two fat grass-fed sirloins sizzling on a grill out in the country, unless it was knowing you were going to sit across the table and eat them with a loving woman, who just happened to be a gorgeous blonde and a rancher, and then share her bed. Or rather his bed.

      He would ask her. He wasn’t a wuss.

      He lifted his beer to his mouth again. Abigail Collins was better than a bar full of adoring buckle bunnies, and he’d had his share in his years on the road. Despite the ace bandage on his right arm, and maybe because of the Bufferin he’d been gulping like malted milk balls along with the beers, he was feeling pretty good.

      It was time he settled down. Way past time. For fifteen years his family had mainly been his rodeo pals. A lot of his friends his age were already retired and married with kids. What the hell had been stopping him?

      He knew what—Mia Kemble. For years he’d told himself she didn’t matter. Then two years ago she’d seduced him in Vegas and run off before he’d figured out how much he’d wanted her to stick around. He’d thought he hated her for what she’d pulled—coming on to him all hot and heavy when he’d been injured and then confusing the hell out of him the next day after they’d had sex. She’d picked a stupid fight, demanding to know how he felt and what he’d thought about her and what had happened. As if he’d known or could have put it into words.

      He’d said a bunch of idiotic stuff and had driven off furious, and so had she. Hell, he couldn’t remember what he’d said.

      Then a month later she’d called and wanted to toy with him some more. Since he’d been thinking about her for a solid month and longing for her, he’d felt off balance and tongue-tied. They’d immediately gotten off to a bad start again. His feelings had put him under some weird pressure. Maybe hers had affected her the same way.

      How come you didn’t call me, cowboy?

      How come you ran off, darlin’?

      I didn’t think you wanted me to stay.

      You didn’t think period. Neither the hell did I. So we wound up in bed when we shouldn’t have.

      Is that what you think? What if I’d gotten pregnant that night, huh? Would you even care?

      Anybody who’d known