One

      Travis Jacobs could do anything for eight seconds. At least, that’s what he told himself every time he climbed up the side of a bull chute. Tonight’s Vegas crowd was loud and enthusiastic, their attention centered on the current rider being bucked around the arena by Devil’s Draw.

      Putting the other cowboys in the competition from his mind, he looked at Esquire below him, checking for any sign of agitation. Then he rolled his cuffs up a couple of turns, pulled his brown Stetson low and tugged a worn, leather glove onto his right hand.

      The crowd groaned in sympathy a mere second before the horn sounded, telling Travis that Buckwheat Dawson had come off the bull. Up next, Travis swung his leg over the chute rail and drew a bracing breath. While Karl Schmitty held the rope, he adjusted the rigging and wrapped his hand. Wasting no time, he slid up square on the bull and gave a sharp nod to the gate operator.

      The chute opened, and all four of Esquire’s feet instantly left the ground. The Brahma shot out into the arena then straight up in the air under the bright lights. The crowd roared its pleasure as the black bull twisted left, hind feet reaching high, while Travis leaned back, spurred, his arm up, muscles pumped, fighting for all he was worth to keep himself square on the animal’s back.

      Esquire turned right, twisting beneath Travis, shaking him as if he was a bothersome gnat. Three seconds turned to four. Travis’s hand burned against the rope, and his wrist felt like it was about to dislocate. The strain sent a branching iron along his spine, but he also felt completely and totally alive. For a brief space of time, life was reduced to its essence. Nothing mattered but the battle between Travis and the bull.

      Esquire made an abrupt left turn, nearly unseating Travis, but he kept his form. His hat flew off into the dust. The blaring music and the roar of the crowd disappeared, obliterated by the pulse of blood pumping past his ears.

      The horn sounded just before Esquire made one final leap, unseating Travis, sending him catapulting through the air. Travis summersaulted, grazing the bull’s left horn, quickly twisting his body to avoid hitting the ground head-on. His shoulder came down first, with his back taking the brunt of the impact. As the air whooshed out of his lungs, a face in the crowd danced before his eyes.

      Danielle? What the heck was Danielle doing in Vegas?

      Then Esquire’s menacing form filled his vision, and he leaped to his feet. Corey Samson, one of the bullfighters, jumped between them, distracting the animal while Travis sprinted to the fence.

      Glancing back, he realized Danielle had to be a figment of his imagination. The crowd was nowhere near close enough for him to recognize a particular face. He heaved himself over the top of the fence and jumped to the ground on the other side.

      “Nice one.” Buckwheat clapped him good-naturedly on the back.

      “Hey, Travis,” Corey yelled from inside the arena.

      Travis turned to see Corey toss him his hat. He caught the Stetson in midair, and Corey gave him a thumbs-up.

      “Ninety-one point three,” the announcer cried into the sound system.

      The crowd roared louder, while lasers and colored spotlights circled the arena, the music coming up once more. Travis was the night’s last rider, meaning he’d just won ten thousand dollars.

      He stuffed his hat on his head and vaulted back over the fence onto the thick dirt, waving to the crowd and accepting the congratulations of the clowns and cowboys.

      “You have got to go pro,” Corey shouted