One Rodeo Season. Sarah M. Anderson
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That’s what the other bullfighter had called him. The thorn in her side had a ridiculous name like Chief. Of course he did. Lacy didn’t know if that was his real name or another dig at him being an Indian. Because she was pretty sure he was an American Indian. There’d been his faint accent, a different way of clipping his vowels. But beyond that, it was Chief’s dark hair and dark eyes and bronzed skin and eagle nose and strong jaw and muscles moving beneath his shirt.
Not that she’d noticed all those muscles when she’d put her hands on his chest and held him back.
A very small part of her brain replayed the scene again. The whole thing hadn’t taken more than twenty seconds. The bull rider hadn’t made it past five, which was good for Rattler’s statistics. Then there’d been the few agonizingly long seconds where the bullfighter had thought about running. Lacy had seen it in his face. Anyone else would have dodged out of the way. Rattler was no pussy cat—he was a mean son of a bitch who’d broken her father’s arm once and launched Murph, one of her hired hands, fifteen feet into a fence.
But the bullfighter hadn’t run. He hadn’t abandoned the downed rider. He’d stood his ground, absorbed the impact and redirected the bull’s energy into the twist.
If it hadn’t been her bull, her livelihood—she would have been cheering with the rest of them.
But it was her bull, her livelihood. If something happened to Rattler...
She refused to think about that worst-case scenario as she shooed Rattler from one end of his narrow pen to the other, watching his gait the whole time. Rattler seemed okay. No pulling up lame, no favoring one foot.
She needed him to be okay. If that Chief so much as touched her bull again, he wouldn’t have to be worried about getting gored. Lacy would see to that herself.
Reluctantly, she left Rattler. Her other bull, Peachy Keen, was due up soon. Peachy wasn’t half the bull Rattler was, but that didn’t mean Peachy wasn’t a good bull. He was perfectly suited to the Total Championship Bulls Ranger circuit. The riders here were all trying to break into the big league, the Challenger circuit. If they couldn’t get past Peachy, then they didn’t have a hope of making it to the finals in Las Vegas this October, a mere six months away.
Rattler, however, was a different story. He was amassing points every time he was loaded into the chutes. If he had a good summer, he could be bumped up to the bigs. And the bigs paid better.
She needed that. The Straight Arrow was hanging on by what felt like the thinnest of threads. She’d cut every expense she could. If Rattler didn’t have a good year with a strong finish in Vegas, she’d have to start selling off the beef cattle that paid at least half of the ranch’s bills.
And if that happened...
She would do anything to keep the ranch. If she lost the Straight Arrow, she didn’t know what she’d do.
She didn’t know who she’d be, without that ranch.
It wouldn’t come to that. Rattler was going to have a strong summer. Peachy and Chicken Run would earn their keep. Then there was Wreckerator. Some rides, he was every bit as good as Rattler. But other rides were a total disaster. She couldn’t bet the ranch on Wreckerator. Not yet, anyway.
Everything was riding on Rattler.
She made her way to the chutes as Peachy went in. She didn’t recognize the rider’s name, but he tipped his hat and said, “Ma’am,” when she slung her leg over the railing to grab Peachy’s flank strap.
She nodded at him. Well, that was a nice change of pace. At least half of these cowboys treated her like a pariah at a family picnic, as if the mere fact that she had boobs meant she shouldn’t be contaminating the air they breathed. Never mind that she’d been a working rancher since she was old enough to sit in a saddle. Never mind that she did a man’s work all day, every day. It didn’t matter. She was not welcome here.
But every so often, one of the cowboys was a decent human being, as her father had been. Dale Evans never let anyone talk down to her or any other woman. It wasn’t the Straight Arrow Ranch for nothing.
She’d never understood what had started the feud with Slim Smalls. At this point, it didn’t matter. Not even Dale’s and Linda’s deaths were enough for Slim. He wanted more. He wanted Lacy’s ranch.
She pulled the flank strap as another rider pulled the bull rope. Peachy shifted nervously in the chute as the rider got his grip. Lacy realized he was praying under his breath. “Have a good one, Preacher,” the other rider said.
The Preacher? Fitting, she thought as the man nodded his head. The chute swung open.
Normally, Lacy watched the rides, making notes on how her bulls did, where they were stronger, where they were weaker. She and her father had always done that, breaking down each ride together until Lacy understood bulls better than her dad did.
But not this time. This time, she was watching a bullfighter named Chief.
Now that she knew Rattler was okay, she almost felt bad for tearing into the man. Of course he was doing his job. Of course he didn’t know about Rattler or Lacy Evans or the Straight Arrow or even Slim Smalls. He’d only known how to take down a charging bull with his bare hands. It had nothing to do with her.
And he had been trying to help her, hadn’t he? He’d cut Slim off before he could start cursing, and Lacy would be willing to bet that he’d have taken Slim down in much the same way he’d taken Rattler down. For her.
Even if it was all macho posturing—still, he’d been willing to throw down on her behalf. And that was after she’d yelled at him. The first time, anyway. She didn’t know if he’d be so eager to defend her again after she’d told him off a second time.
Okay, she did feel bad. She’d been upset and angry and she hadn’t been able to take all of her anger out on Slim. Somehow, Chief had seemed safer. Maybe it was because she didn’t know him. Or maybe it was something else.
She’d pushed him. She’d put her hands on his chest and shoved to keep him from beating the hell out of a man who richly deserved it. She’d felt Chief’s body tense at her touch, which was bad enough. But what was worse was the way he’d looked down at her, as if he hadn’t expected to find her there but he was glad she was.
Then she had to open her big mouth. Again.
She’d apologize, she decided as the Preacher made the time on Peachy. If she got the chance, she’d thank him for not killing her bull and for putting Slim in his place and for letting her hold him back. Then her conscience would be clear and that would be that.
Peachy obligingly trotted out of the arena. Lacy heard the announcer say the Preacher had gotten a seventy-four—not a great score for either the rider or the bull, but it was enough. She was done here. There were only a few riders left, and then the rodeo would be over except for the belt buckles. She could load up her bulls and begin the long trip home to the Straight Arrow in Wyoming.
She couldn’t say the prospect excited her. If she went home to the empty house, there’d be no distractions, good or bad. She’d be utterly alone, except for when the hired hands did their work and even then, there wasn’t a whole lot of interaction. It’d be just her and the truth she kept trying to avoid.
A little distraction could be good. Hell, it might even be great. As she thought it, she looked back at Chief. She might see him again, she might not. Bullfighters didn’t always follow the same schedule as the bulls and the riders. This could be a one-off, for all she knew.
At that moment, Chief looked up and caught her eye. She tensed. She couldn’t exactly apologize or thank him across an arena but what if she didn’t get another chance?
He was staring at her. She only knew this because she was staring back. His head dipped forward in a polite nod. Wow, she thought. Polite and tough and hot? He was the kind of guy who could be very distracting.
Then he winked at her, his mouth curving up