GAVE FANCY GAL one last thorough inspection before permitting herself to relax. The mare was better, nosing around the corners of her pen for a tidbit of hay rather than exhibiting signs of distress.
True to his word, Ace had stopped by earlier and examined her, noting her progress and advising Flynn to continue walking the mare at intervals for the rest of the afternoon, possibly into the evening. He also brought some warm bran mash to settle Fancy Gal’s stomach, though where he acquired it Flynn had no clue.
“I have my connections,” was all he’d admit before returning to the arena.
She glanced at her watch, straining to hear the announcements coming from the direction of the arena. Ace’s event, bareback bronc riding, would be starting soon. She was just locking up the truck when her father strode over. He hadn’t mentioned seeing her and Ace kissing earlier, but she wouldn’t put it past him.
What a mistake! Why did she continually lose her head with Ace?
Unfortunately, there was no going back now.
“Did I tell you Ace drew True Grit?” her father asked.
“Seriously? No, you didn’t.”
The gelding was one of her father’s best bucking broncs—or worst, if you were the cowboy trying to ride him.
When her father began reciting the other bronc/cowboy matchups, Flynn cut him off.
“Ace hasn’t been in a rodeo since last fall. True Grit’s a lot of horse, even for someone who competes regularly.”
“That’s how rodeo works. It’s the luck of the draw.”
Bad luck, Flynn thought. “What if he gets injured?”
“He’s a big boy.”
“He’s also the father of my child. Your grandchild.”
Her father chuckled.
Flynn took off at a brisk walk.
He chased after her. “Where you going?”
“To tell Ace not to compete.”
“What with the way you’re acting, a person might suspect you have more feelings for him than you’re willing to admit.”
“This has nothing to do with me or my feelings.”
Her father’s persistent chuckling grated on Flynn’s nerves.
She seldom ventured behind the bucking chutes where the participants gathered to assess the horses and their competition and to while away the time while they waited—usually nervously—for their turn.
Ace was there, along with his brother, cousins and Austin Wright. The moment he saw her, he broke away and met her halfway.
“Is Fancy Gal all right?” he asked.
“She’s great.”
“Are you all right?”
“Ace, don’t compete.”
“What?”
“Dad told me you drew True Grit. You know his reputation and his ranking.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“See,” her dad said, catching up with Flynn. “I told you.”
“Please, Ace.”
A twinkle lit his eyes. It also warmed her heart.
She was such a sucker.
“Weren’t you just saying I shouldn’t change because we’re having a baby?”
“Yes, but True Grit is—”
“It’s okay.” He reached out and stroked her cheek.
“Promise me.” She closed her eyes and sighed softly.
“I tend to agree with my daughter,” Earl said. “True Grit probably has more giddyup than you’re used to.”
“Dad!” Flynn’s eyes flew open.
Ace let his hand drop and turned to appraise her father. “I might be a little rusty, but I’m pretty sure I can sit that horse for eight seconds.”
“That boast has all the makings of a wager.”
Now Flynn was really upset. “No betting!”
Ace grinned. “What do you have in mind?”
“Flynn mentioned you’re interested in buying Fancy Gal and maybe a few more of my string. I’ve got another potential buyer lined up. Hoyt Cammeron.”
“Yeah?” Ace visibly perked up.
“You last the full eight seconds on True Grit, and I’ll sell you any of my string you want and throw in Fancy Gal for free. You eat dirt, I sell the string to Hoyt, including Fancy Gal if he wants her.”
“You can’t,” Flynn objected.
“You’re on.” Ace stuck out his hand to her father.
“Ace, get over here,” Colt hollered. “Beau’s up next.”
“See you at the stock pens when I’m done.” Ace squeezed Flynn’s arm, then nodded curtly at her father.
“I’ll be there, too. With Hoyt,” Flynn’s father added.
She waited a mere second after Ace left before whirling on her father. “How could you, Dad? A bet? Really? And what’s this with Hoyt? You told me you’d no more sell that man a broken-down pony than any of your string.”
There was that chuckle again.
She groaned with frustration.
“Come on.” He placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the stands. “We’d better hurry before it’s Ace’s turn.”
At her wit’s end, Flynn went with her father to the crowded bleachers where they found two empty seats. Second to the last row, unfortunately. She couldn’t remain still as one cowboy after the other went. Beau did well, his score landing him in the lead. His position lasted only until Austin Wright’s turn. Austin had also drawn a McKinley horse and was the first competitor that day to successfully ride one.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Ace’s name was called.
Flynn gnawed her lower lip as she watched him straddle the fence and sit True Grit. The horse, raring to go, shifted nervously in the narrow chute, bumping into the side panels and tossing his head.
Ace didn’t hurry.
He was too far away for Flynn to see, but she imagined him testing the rigging
