One Rodeo Season. Sarah M. Anderson
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still handle this—all of this. Slim, the bulls, the fighters and the riders—she could even handle Ian Tall Chief.
“Any woman who can load two bulls by herself is not silly.” Ian met her gaze and held it with his own. At least, she thought she could handle him. It’d be easier if he were wearing a dry shirt, though. Or if he stopped looking at her like that, with some mix of protectiveness and—dare she say it—respect in his eyes.
He crossed his arms over his chest. Unfortunately, that put a whole lot of biceps right at eye level. Good lord, was any part of this man not muscled and ripped? He had some interesting tattoos on his right side—not the standard stuff, but something that looked like a circle in red and black and yellow.
“There’s no shame in asking for help,” he said. His voice was surprisingly soft—gentle, even. “Or accepting it.”
Warning bells went off in her head—loud, clanging bells that beat a fast rhythm. For some ridiculous reason, she felt exposed, even though he was the one standing around in a practically see-through T-shirt. She wanted to look away—she desperately needed to—but she couldn’t break his gaze.
“I don’t need any help.” It came out as a whisper. It was a lie and she knew it. And, given the way he looked at her, he knew it, too. But she couldn’t accept what he was offering, whatever it was. She couldn’t be in anyone’s debt. Not his, not Slim’s—no one’s.
So she tried again. “I don’t need any help.”
There. That was better. She just had to keep saying it.
After what felt like a long time of staring into his eyes—deep, dark pools with things hidden in their depths she could only wonder at—Ian nodded and took a step back. “All right, then. Have a safe trip home.”
She blinked. What? Was that it? After that long, lingering look? She hadn’t even told him her name yet. Was that the end of the conversation?
Was he going to take her at her word?
He was. How freaking weird.
“You, too,” she said, because it was the most polite thing she could come up with.
She drove off. In her side mirror, she saw Ian Tall Chief stand there and watch her go.
She might not ever see him again. Bullfighters operated under a different schedule than the riders or the bulls. Her next contracted rodeo was next weekend, in Colorado Springs. Ian Tall Chief might be in Amarillo or even Baton Rouge, for all she knew. She certainly didn’t want to see him again—not to risk having him hurt one of her animals or piss off Slim Smalls even more.
Before I got there to back you up, he’d said. That and, You shouldn’t have to handle it. She could almost hear the word alone after that second statement.
Because she was alone.
Or at least, she had been. Until Ian Tall Chief had backed her up.
Maybe he’d be in Colorado Springs next week, after all.
LACY ROLLED INTO Colorado Springs Thursday afternoon. She was feeling good. Okay, good might be a bit strong, but she was feeling better. She’d been able to sleep the past few nights without too many nightmares about car wrecks, so that counted for something.
The night before a rodeo was her favorite time. The arena grounds were quiet, with only a few stock contractors and the promoter around to unload the bulls. The riders wouldn’t show up until tomorrow, and then tomorrow night, the crowds would come pouring in.
This time was about the bulls. Had it been less than a year since she’d done this with her dad? They’d get in around dark on Thursday nights and unload. Dale would shoot the breeze with the other stock contractors and check in with the promoter.
She didn’t want to run into Slim again. If she could get through this weekend without feeling as if she was losing her grip on—well, everything, that’d be great.
Lacy checked in with Mort and got the details on where she was to unload her bulls. She had three with her today—Rattler, Chicken Run and Wreckerator.
You can do this, she thought as she backed the truck up to the pens. Sure, unloading and loading two bulls by herself had been a challenge. Three would be downright hard, especially because Wreckerator was in one of his moods. She’d had Murph to help her at the Straight Arrow, and Wreckerator had almost charged the trailer. Which meant he’d have a good bunch of rides this weekend, but it didn’t help Lacy right now.
She got out of the cab and looked around. The good news was, she didn’t see Slim. But the bad news was, she didn’t see anyone else, either. For some ridiculous reason, she was disappointed not to see Ian Tall Chief. Not that she wanted to. She didn’t. She didn’t need his help or his excessively large muscles, and that was that. Besides, he would have no reason to be here tonight. He’d probably roll in tomorrow afternoon with everyone. She was being ridiculous to even look for him.
Except Rattler was refusing to back out of the trailer and Lacy didn’t want to push her luck going in to lead him out, not with Wreckerator behind him, pawing at the metal floor and bellowing with nervous energy. She needed to get the bulls out so they could stretch and get water. She could go get Mort, but she didn’t want to tell the promoter of the rodeo that she couldn’t handle her animals on her own. That was the sort of thing that could be used against her in future contract negotiations, and the last thing she could afford was to weaken her bargaining position.
Nope, she was on her own here. She knew it; the bulls knew it. “Come on, Rattler—get up,” she hissed, poking at his haunch through the slats. She didn’t want to use the cattle prod, but if Rattler didn’t get a move on, she would have to. Which would upset Wreckerator, which meant he would be practically unmanageable.
“You look like you need help,” a man said from behind her—too close.
Lacy startled, banging her elbow against the trailer. She pulled her arm out and spun to see a cowboy standing less than three feet from her. Not Ian.
Oh, this was a good-looking cowboy, all right. He was maybe six inches taller than she was, on the lean side of things, wearing jeans and a black Western shirt with silver piping on the sleeves and white mother-of-pearl buttons. He had stubble that looked intentional on his chin and a leather cord with a silver cross on it around his neck. He was pretty and polished and he did nothing for her.
And he was talking to her chest. “Let me get that for you.”
“I’m fine.” The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she’d said the wrong thing.
The cowboy’s mouth curved up into a predatory smile as he looked her up and down. After what felt like an hour of inspection, he finally looked in the vicinity of her face and said, “You sure are, sugar. What’s a stunner like you doing unloading bulls?” He took a step toward her, effectively pinning her against the trailer.
Her heart began to pound as panic dumped adrenaline into her system. She didn’t want to do this. This never would have happened if her dad were still here. And even that realization was depressing because he wasn’t here and she was completely on her own.
She had two choices. Start swinging now or... She went with option two. She forced a smile to her face and said, “What was your name, sugar?”
“Jerome.” The pretty cowboy smirked, bracing an arm against the trailer right next to her head. “I’m one of the riders. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”
She hadn’t. If his ego got any bigger, it’d suffocate her. Dimly, she thought he might have been one of the cowboys standing around Slim last week, but she wasn’t sure.
She made an effort to bat her eyelashes. She wasn’t any good at it—hell, she couldn’t pull off flirting even when she wanted to—but option two was