www.millsandboon.co.uk

      In memory of Tommy Wilson McCarley,

       January 27, 1952–February 7, 1971.

       A true cowboy and a gentleman…and my first true love.

      A special thanks to bronc rider Travis Ring

       for answering a zillion questions about rodeos and bronc riding.

       Your willingness to share information

       is a testament to the Cowboy Code.

      PEGGY MORELAND

      published her first romance with Silhouette in 1989. She’s a natural storyteller with a sense of humor that will tickle your fancy, and Peggy’s goal is to write a story that readers will remember long after the last page is turned. Winner of the 1992 National Readers’ Choice Award, and a 1994 RITA finalist, Peggy frequently appears on bestseller lists around the country. A native Texan, she and her family live in Round Rock, Texas.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      One

      There were times in a cowboy’s life when eight seconds seemed like a lifetime.

      For Pete Dugan those times were few and far between.

      Not that he considered himself any more talented than the other bronc riders he competed against, nor did he feel he had more nerve. He just loved rodeoing. The lights, the crowds, the sleepless nights on the road chasing from one town to the next, the people, the camaraderie. The thrill of climbing onto the back of a mean-tempered bronc.

      And this rodeo was no different from any other. Country music pulsed from a state-of-the-art sound system, while cowboys milled behind the chutes, shooting the breeze and joking around, passing the time until it was their turn to compete. The air all but crackled with the energy created by wired nerves and was thick with dueling scents—some enticing and drifting from the concession area, others earthy and familiar and associated with the roughstock penned behind the chutes.

      Feeling the rush of adrenaline that every ride drew, Pete hitched a boot high on a rail of the chute and pulled himself up to look out over the rodeo arena. Dust thickened the air around the chutes, churned by the livestock, but through it Pete had a fair view of the filled stands.

      A full house, he thought, and began to smile. And a noisy one. He liked that. Crowds made some cowboys nervous, but not Pete. He liked playing to a full house. And he liked his broncs full, too…electric, even a little rank.

      The blue roan he’d drawn for the Mesquite Championship Rodeo was just such an animal, a high roller who shot straight up in the air right out of the chute and continued that sky-high bucking throughout the eight-second ride. Though Pete knew the horse he’d drawn, Diablo, would score high with the judges, he also knew the remainder of the points were his to earn.

      “Ready?”

      Pete turned to grin at the chute boss. “Always.”

      He gave the leather strap on his resined glove a yank, tightening it around his wrist, then leaned over the railing to check the tension on his rigging’s cinch. Satisfied, he swung a leg over the chute, bracing his feet on the railings and his body above the horse, then slowly eased down over the bronc’s back. He felt the horse blow up beneath him, bowing his back, and knew without a doubt that the roan would be airborne the minute the gate opened.

      And Pete was ready to fly.

      He jammed his Resistol down over his ears, then leaned way back, curling his gloved fingers tightly around the handle of the rigging. He could feel the heat of the resin working, holding his gloved fingers in place. Drawing his knees up, he positioned his spurs high on the horse’s shoulders, then jerked his chin, signaling he was ready to ride.

      The gate swung wide and the horse spun for the opening, looking for freedom…he found it one step out into the arena. He leaped high, then kicked out, throwing his rump hard against Pete’s spine. Muscles burned, and ligaments, already stretched and torn, took another beating as eleven hundred pounds of horsepower hit the end of the hand Pete gripped on the rigging.

      He set his jaw against the pain and searched for the rhythm. It was there waiting for him, as familiar as a lover’s dance. With his spine almost level with the roan’s broad back, he focused on the timing, drawing his knees high and his toes out, spurring in sync with the bronc’s wild bucks, while whipping his free hand through the air above his head to keep his hips centered in the swell with each of the horse’s sudden twists and turns. He heard the loud cheers coming from the stands and knew the fans were getting their