Shotgun Surrender. B.J. Daniels
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him.
“I could come with you,” she said without looking at him.
“No, thank you,” he added, relieved when she didn’t argue the point. He didn’t need a lecture on how dangerous it was for him to go riding alone. He had hoped to die in the saddle. He should be so lucky.
He swung awkwardly up onto the horse, giving her a final look, realizing how final it would soon be. He never tired of looking at her and just the thought of how many years he’d pushed her away from him brought tears to his eyes. He’d become a doddering sentimental old fool on top of everything else. He spurred the horse and rode past her and out of the barn, despising himself.
At the gate, something stronger than even his will forced him to turn and look back. She was slumped against the barn wall, shoulders hunched, head down.
He cursed her for coming back after all the years they’d lived apart and spurred his horse. Cursed himself. As he rode up through the foothills of the ranch his father had started from nothing more than a scrawny herd of longhorn cattle over a hundred years ago, he was stricken with a pain far greater than any he had yet endured.
His agony was about to end, but it had only begun for his family. He would have to tell them everything.
He tried not to think about what his sons and daughter would say when he told them that years ago, he’d sold his soul to the devil, and the devil was now at his door, ready to collect in more ways than one.
J.T., his oldest, would be furious; Rourke would be disappointed; Cash would try to help, as always; and Brandon possibly would be relieved to find that his father was human after all. Dusty, his precious daughter, the heart of his heart… Asa closed his eyes at the thought of what it would do to her.
He would have to tell them soon. He might be weak in body and often spirit, but he refused to be a coward. He couldn’t let them find out everything after he was gone. Not when what he’d done would put an end to the Sundown Ranch as they all knew it.
Sheridan, Wyoming, rodeo
IT WAS FULL DARK and the rodeo was almost over by the time Ty Coltrane made his way along the packed grandstands.
He’d timed it so he could catch the bull riding. No one he’d talked to had seen Clayton, nor had there been any word. But Ty knew that if Clayton was anywhere within a hundred-mile radius, he wouldn’t miss tonight’s rodeo.
Glancing around before the event started, though, he didn’t see the old bull rider. He did, however, see Dusty McCall and her friend, Leticia Arnold, sitting close to the arena fence.
Dusty didn’t look the worse for wear after her bucking bronc performance earlier today. He shook his head at the memory, telling himself he was tired of playing nursemaid to her. She wasn’t his responsibility. He couldn’t keep picking her up from the dirt. What if one day he wasn’t around to save her skinny behind?
“Now in chute three, we’ve got a bull that’s been making a stir across the country,” the announcer bellowed over the sound system. “He’s called Devil’s Tornado and for a darned good reason. Only a few cowboys have been able to ride him, and those who have scored big. Tonight, Huck Kramer out of Cheyenne is going to give it a try.”
Ty felt a start. Devil’s Tornado. That was the bull that Clayton had been so worked up over. Ty was sure of it. He angled his way through the crowd so he could see the bull chutes as he tried to recall what exactly Clayton had said about the bull.
Devil’s Tornado banged around inside the chute as Huck lowered himself onto it to the jangle of the cowbell attached to his rosin-coated bull rope. The cowbell acted as a weight, allowing the rope to safely fall off the bull when the ride was over. Riders used rosin, a sticky substance that increased the grip on their ropes, to make sure they were secured to the bull in hopes of hanging on for the eight-second horn.
Huck wrapped the end of the bull rope tightly around his gloved hand, securing himself to the one-ton bull. Around the bull was a bucking rigging, a padded strap that was designed to make the bull buck.
A hush fell over the crowd as the bull snorted and kicked at the chute, growing more agitated. Huck gave a nod of his head and the chute door flew open with a bang and Devil’s Tornado came bursting out in a blur of movement.
Instantly, Ty knew this was not just any bull.
So did the crowd. A breath-stealing silence fell over the rodeo arena as Devil’s Tornado slammed into the fence, then spun in a tight bucking cyclone of dust and hooves.
Devil’s Tornado pounded the earth in bucking lunges, hammering Huck with each jarring slam. Ty watched, his heart in his throat as the two-thousand pound bull’s frantic movements intensified in a blur of rider and bull.
The crowd found its voice as the eight-second horn sounded and bullfighters dressed like clowns rushed out.
With his hand still tethered to the monstrous bull, Huck’s body suddenly began to flop from side to side, as lifeless as a dummy’s, as Devil’s Tornado continued bucking.
The bullfighters ran to the bull and rider, one working frantically to free the bucking rigging from around the bull and the other to free Huck’s arm from the thickly braided rope that bound bull and rider.
Devil’s Tornado whirled, tossing Huck from side to side, charging at the bullfighters who tried desperately to free the rider. One freed the rigging strap designed to make the bull buck. It fell to the dirt, but Huck’s bull rope wouldn’t come loose. The cowbell jangled at the end of the rope as Huck flopped on the bull’s broad back as the bull continued to buck and spin in a nauseating whir of motion.
Other cowboys had jumped into the arena, all fighting to free Huck. It seemed to go on forever, although it had only been a matter of seconds before one of the bullfighters pulled a knife, severing Huck from Devil’s Tornado.
Huck’s lifeless body rose one last time into the air over the bull, suspended like a bag of rags for a heart-stopping moment before it crumpled to the dirt.
The crowd swelled to its feet in a collective gasp of horror as the rider lay motionless.
Devil’s Tornado made a run for the body. A bullfighter leapt in front of the charging bull and was almost gored. He managed to distract the bull away from Huck, but only for a few moments.
The bull started to charge one of the pickup riders on horseback, but stumbled and fell. He staggered to his feet in a clear rage, tongue out, eyes rolling.
Cowboys jumped off the fence to run to where Huck lay crumpled in the dirt. A leg moved. Then an arm. Miraculously, Huck Kramer sat up, signally he was all right.
A roar of applause erupted from the grandstands.
“That was some ride,” the announcer said over the loudspeaker. “Let’s give that cowboy another round of applause.”
Ty sagged a little with relief. He hated to see cowboys get hurt, let alone killed. Huck had been lucky.
Ty’s gaze returned to Devil’s Tornado. The bull ran wild-eyed around the other end of the arena, charging at anything that moved, sending cowboys clambering up the fence. Ty had seen this many times during bull rides at rodeos.
Devil’s Tornado was big and strong, fast out of the chute and one hell of a bucker, but those were attributes, nothing that would have gotten Clayton worked up.
“Whew,” the announcer boomed. “Folks, you aren’t going to believe this. The judges have given Huck a whopping ninety-two!”
The crowd cheered as Huck was helped out of the arena. He seemed to be limping but, other than that, okay.
Had Clayton just been impressed by Devil’s Tornado? No. Ty distinctly remembered that Clayton had been upset, seemingly worried about something he’d seen at the Billings rodeo involving Devil’s Tornado. But what?
The pickup riders finally cornered the bull, one getting a rope around the head and a horn and worked him toward the exit