One
Only a fool would venture near eighteen hundred pounds of bucking bull crammed into a metal chute the size of a closet. Jacob Burke Baron not only went near the bull, he intended to ride the son of a gun. All the way to a win.
Eight seconds and a score better than eighty-three were all that stood between him and a gold buckle—first prize at the Louisiana State Fair Rodeo. He could do it and come one step closer to earning a championship title at the National Finals Rodeo in mid-December.
Also at stake today, beating his younger brother Daniel. After three rounds of bull riding over a long, tiring weekend, Daniel currently held the number one spot. Stealing that from him would be icing on a very tasty cake.
“Steady,” Daniel said in a low, calming voice that might have been meant for the bull or Jacob. Hard to tell.
His brother straddled the side of the chute, acting as spotter for Jacob, who levered himself above the bull’s back, waiting for the exact right moment. When Daniel had taken his run earlier, Jacob spotted him. They might be fierce competitors, but they were also brothers. Close ones. The good and bad circumstances of their lives had created a bond nothing and no one could sever.
Gripping the sides of the chute, Jacob lowered himself one slow inch at a time. The bull, a heavily muscled brute named Gumption, sensed what was coming and kicked the chute wall with a hind leg. The loud bang reverberated in Jacob’s ears.
He ignored it. Once in the zone, nothing short of an earthquake would distract him.
Glancing down, he studied the bull and made mental notes. Which way was Gumption looking? Did he paw the ground with his right or left foot? How fast was his breathing?
Jacob had watched the bull perform with other riders during the first two days of the rodeo. Because of his diligence, he knew Gumption charged straight ahead when released. Jacob would incorporate that important detail into his strategy.
Bull riding, rodeoing in general, was a physical sport. No question of that. But there was also a mental aspect, and it could make the difference between a competitor’s leaving with a win or nothing more than a round of sympathetic applause from the audience.
With painstaking care, Jacob settled himself in position on Gumption’s back and grabbed the flat braided rope with his right hand. Only a rope. With a cowbell attached for weight. There were no saddles or bridles in bull riding. Letting the rope drop on the off side, he waited for Daniel to reach down and grab it. In addition to spotting, Daniel would “pull the rope” for Jacob, enabling his grip to be as tight as possible. It was a job for only the most trusted.
Gumption’s hide twitched as he grew accustomed to this new and unpleasant arrangement. Jacob maneuvered his hand inside the glove until he was satisfied. With his free hand, he pressed his cowboy hat more firmly onto his head.
“Watch him,” Daniel warned. “He’ll jump once before he starts bucking.
Jacob knew that, too. He didn’t answer his brother, however. He rarely spoke while in the zone.
Other faces appeared in his peripheral view. Cowboys hanging on to the railing. They’d pull Jacob off Gumption’s back in a heartbeat if the bull suddenly went berserk. It had been known to happen. Bulls were easily riled and unpredictable. That was what made the sport challenging and exciting.
Like the cowboys’ faces, the audience in the stands, the bullfighters in the arena, the wranglers manning the gates and the livestock handlers were all a blur. Jacob saw only one thing: the top of Gumption’s head.
He waited until the sixth sense that was ingrained in every good bull rider told him the time was right. Then, winging a silent prayer heavenward, he nodded his head, and the chute door flew open.
Gumption charged forward and jumped, as predicted. Because Jacob was ready, he compensated by shifting his weight. The bull came close to unseating him, but Jacob managed to hold on and regain his balance.
Then, the bucking started. The bull’s hind legs reached incredible heights. It was like being trapped inside a cement mixer rotating at top speed. There was a reason Gumption had earned a reputation for being one of the circuit’s top bulls. He gave a cowboy the ride of his life, and today was no exception.
Jacob didn’t think about the passing seconds. He concentrated on not being thrown and giving the judges a show worth watching. Part of his score depended on how well the bull bucked and how well Jacob rode him.
Gumption abruptly swerved left. Jacob leaned right, his grip on the rope tightening. Every bone in his body felt like it was being ripped loose from its joints. Another change in direction, and Jacob’s hat flew off as his head snapped back and forth. He dug his spurs into Gumption’s shoulders, urging the bull to buck even higher and earn them the best possible score. Gumption obliged.
Riding bulls never ceased to thrill Jacob. Controlling this kind of power for even a few seconds, facing his fears, was a kick like none other. Hard to believe he’d almost quit rodeoing last year.
Another head-snapping, gut-spinning twist, and the buzzer sounded. Jacob barely heard it. He was more aware of the bullfighters, in their clownlike costumes, diving in, waving their arms and shouting in order to distract the bull. This last part of a cowboy’s run could be more dangerous than the ride itself. Bulls sometimes turned on the rider or another bystander without warning.
Drawing a breath, he angled his body sideways and let go of the rope, executing a dismount that more resembled a somersault. By some minor miracle, he landed mostly on his feet and scrambled out from beneath Gumption’s thrashing hooves.
The bull gave a few more bucks and twists for good measure before settling down and trotting in circles. He knew his job and that it was over. Soon enough, he was herded to the far end of the arena where the waiting wranglers opened the exit gate for him.
The crowd cheered as one of the bullfighters came over to check on Jacob.
“Good ride, cowboy,” he said before performing an antic for the crowd intended to relieve the tension.
Jacob’s boots sank into the arena floor as he trudged over to where his hat had fallen. Slapping it against his thigh to dislodge the dirt, he straightened, his gaze automatically going to the scoreboard and the video replay screen. Damn, that was a good ride.
The numbers appeared in big red letters, along with his ranking: 84.5. Not his best score ever, but good enough to land him in first place. As the last rider to compete, the win was officially his.
A wide smile spread across his face. He was going to do it. Earn himself a national title in December. And when he did, Brock would finally give him the promotion at Baron Energies that Jacob deserved.
A hand gripped his shoulder as he exited the arena gate and squeezed.
“Congrats!” Jet Baron greeted him with an enthusiastic grin. “You did it, bro!”
Bro? Try as he might, Jacob couldn’t think of himself as Jet’s brother. He and Daniel were adopted. Members of the Baron family for nineteen years, yet not members. Their adoptive father, Brock, openly favored his biological children, Jet in particular. As such, Jacob had never really gotten close to Jet and his—their, he reminded himself—three sisters.
Rodeoing hadn’t helped. Like Daniel, Jacob was in competition
