Shotgun Surrender. B.J. Daniels
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as she leaned lazily against the jamb and smiled at them. “Hey, Boone.”
He nodded in greeting. Sierra wore a cropped top and painted-on jeans, a healthy width of firm sun-bronzed skin exposed between the two. She was pinup-girl pretty and was at least twenty years younger than her husband.
“It will be interesting to see how he does in Bozeman,” Monte continued as he slipped past his wife, planting a kiss on her neck as he headed for the fridge. He didn’t seem to notice that Sierra was still blocking the kitchen doorway as he took out two cold beers and offered one to Boone.
After a moment, Sierra moved to let Boone pass, an amused smile on her face.
“He’s already getting a reputation among the cowboys,” Monte said heading for the kitchen table with the beers as if he hadn’t noticed what Sierra was up to. He never seemed to. “Everyone’s looking for a high-scoring bull and one hell of a ride.”
Boone sat down at the table across from Monte and took the cold beer, trying to ignore Sierra.
“Are you talking about that stupid bull again?” she asked as she opened the fridge and took out a cola. She popped the cap off noisily, pushing out her lower lip and giving Boone the big eyes as she sat down across from him.
A moment later, he felt her bare toes run from the top of his boot up the inside seam of his jeans. He shifted, turning to stretch his legs out far enough away that she couldn’t touch him as he took a deep drink of his beer. He heard Sierra sigh, a chuckle just under the surface.
He knew he didn’t fool her. She seemed only too aware of what she did to him. His blood running hot, he focused on the pasture out the window and Devil’s Tornado, his ticket out, telling himself all the Sierra Edgewoods in the world couldn’t tempt him. There was no greater lure than success. And failure, especially this time, would land him in jail—if not six feet under.
Devil’s Tornado could be the beginning of the life Boone had always dreamed of—as long as he didn’t blow it, he thought, stealing a sidelong glance at Sierra.
“Everyone’s talking about your bull, son,” Monte said with pride in his voice but also a note of sadness.
Boone looked over at him, saw the furrowed thick brows and hoped Monte was worried about Devil’s Tornado—not Boone and his wife.
There was a fine line between a bull a rider could score on and one who killed cowboys. And Devil’s Tornado had stomped all over that line at the Billings rodeo. Boone couldn’t let that happen again.
Sierra tucked a lock of dyed-blond hair behind her ear and slipped her lips over the top of the cola bottle, taking a long cool drink before saying, “So what’s the problem?”
Monte smiled at her the way a father might at his young child. “There’s no problem.”
But that wasn’t what his gaze said when he settled it back on Boone.
“The bull can be too dangerous,” Boone told her, making a point he knew Monte had been trying to make. “It’s one thing to throw cowboys—even hurt a few. But if he can’t be ridden and he starts killing cowboys, then I’d have to take him off the circuit.” He shrugged as if that would be all right. “He’d be worth some in stud fees or an artificial insemination breeding program at this point. But nothing like he would be if, say, he was selected for the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas. It would be too bad to put him out to pasture now, though. We’d never know just how far he might have gone.”
A shot at having a bull in the National Finals in Las Vegas meant fifty thousand easy, not to mention the bulls he would sire. Everyone would want a piece of that bull. A man could make a living for years off one star bull.
That’s why every roughstock producer’s dream was a bull like that. Even Monte Edgewood, Boone was beginning to suspect. But only the top-scoring bulls in the country made it. Devil’s Tornado seemed to have what it took to get there.
“I wouldn’t pull him yet,” Monte said quickly, making Boone smile to himself. Monte had needed a bull like Devil’s Tornado.
And Boone needed Monte’s status as one of the reputable roughstock producers.
After more rodeos, more incredible performances, everyone on the circuit would be talking about Devil’s Tornado. That’s when Boone would pull him and start collecting breeding fees, because it wouldn’t matter if the bull could make the National Finals. Boone could never allow Devil’s Tornado to go to Vegas.
But in the meantime, Devil’s Tornado would continue to cause talk, his value going up with each rodeo.
If the bull didn’t kill his next rider.
Or flip out again like he did in Billings, causing so much trouble in the chute that he’d almost been pulled.
Devil’s Tornado was just the first. If this actually worked, Boone could make other bulls stars. He could write his own ticket after that.
But he could also crash and burn if he got too greedy, if his bulls were so dangerous that people got suspicious.
Monte finished his beer and stared at the empty bottle. “I don’t have to tell you what a competitive business this is. You’ve got to have good bulls that a cowboy can make pay for them. But at the same time you don’t want PETA coming down on you or those Buck the Rodeo people.”
Boone had seen the ads—Buck the Rodeo: Nobody likes an eight-second ride!
Monte looked over at him. “When I got into this business, I promised myself that the integrity of the rodeo and the safety of the competitors would always come first. You know what I’m saying, son?”
Boone knew exactly what he was saying. He looked out the window to where Devil’s Tornado stood in his own small pasture flicking his tail, the sun gleaming off his horns, then back across the table at Sierra Edgewood. Boone had better be careful. More careful than he had been.
Chapter Two
Sundown Ranch
Asa McCall heard the creak of a floorboard. He turned to find his wife standing in the tack room doorway. His wife. After so many years of being apart, the words sounded strange.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Shelby asked, worry making her eyes dark.
“I’m saddling my horse,” he said as he hefted the saddle and walked over to the horse. The motion took more effort than it had even a few weeks ago. He hoped she hadn’t noticed, but then Shelby noticed everything.
“I can see that,” she said, irritation in her tone as she followed him.
Shelby Ward McCall was as beautiful as the day he’d met her forty-four years ago. She was tall and slim, blond and blue-eyed, but her looks had never impressed him as much as her strength. They both knew she’d always been stronger than he was, even though he was twice her size—a large, powerfully built man with more weaknesses than she would ever have.
He wondered now if that—and the fact that they both knew it—had been one of the reasons she’d left him thirty years ago. He knew damn well it was the reason she had come back.
“I’m going for a ride,” he said, his back to her as he cinched the saddle in place, already winded by the physical exertion. He was instantly angry at himself. He despised frailty, especially in himself. He’d always been strong, virile, his word the last. He’d never been physically weak before, and he found that nearly impossible to live with.
“Asa—” Her voice broke.
“Don’t,” he said shaking his head slightly, but even that small movement made him nauseous. “I need to do this.” He hated the emotion in his voice. Hated that she’d come back to see him like this.
Shelby looked away. She knew he wouldn’t want her to see how pathetic he’d become. He wished he could hide not only his weakness but his feelings from her, but that was impossible. Shelby