between the saddle horn and the calf. He held his breath as the calf squirmed and bucked, and then the judge dropped his flag.
Ryan bent to loosen the rope on the calf’s neck before releasing the animal’s feet from the wraps of the pigging string. The calf jumped up and loped to the far end of the arena as Ryan remounted the gelding, coiling his muddy rope.
He was vaguely aware of the announcer giving his time—the best that day so far—and cheers from the crowd as he exited the arena; he nodded at some of his acquaintances. Smiled even though he didn’t feel like smiling, despite a decent run.
Somewhere in the warm-up crowd was his half brother, Matt Montoya, who had every intention of stealing this purse away from him.
Have at it, Ryan thought as he rode through the crowd and then headed for his trailer. His run had been pretty damned close to perfect, especially in a muddy arena.
Once at the trailer, he tied PJ and pulled the saddle off. The horse was done for the day, but Ryan wasn’t. He had a mission ahead of him that he was not looking forward to, but one that couldn’t be avoided. He needed to talk to his father.
It was a good-size rodeo, but Charles Montoya tended to show up in the competitor’s area to congratulate his legitimate son after a good run. Ryan had purposely parked his trailer within sight of his brother’s, although under normal circumstances, they avoided any proximity with one another. In fact, they’d never actually spoken since the fistfight in the rodeo grounds’ bathroom just after he’d turned fifteen.
After PJ was taken care of, Ryan sat on the trailer fender where he had a decent view of Montoya’s trailer, and began his vigil. Matt would make his run within the hour and then, hopefully—
Score.
Charles Montoya was a tall man with a full head of silver hair. Hard to miss in a crowd, and even harder to miss as he headed for Matt’s trailer. Ryan, vaguely aware of his heart rate bumping up, just as it did when he was about to rope, pushed off the trailer and started toward the man who, after finding Matt’s trailer deserted, reversed course toward the stands. Ryan knew he probably wasn’t going to have another semiprivate opportunity such as this anytime in the near future, so he started to jog after him.
“Excuse me,” he called, when he really wanted to say, “Hold up, asshole.”
Charles Montoya stopped walking and glanced over his shoulder, a stunned expression forming on his face when he recognized just who had hailed him.
Yeah. It’s me. Surprised?
Ryan’s mouth clamped into a hard straight line as he slowed to a walk, and damned if Charles didn’t take on a polite, distant expression.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“Yes, you can. Stay away from my mother,” Ryan said as he came to a stop.
“Excuse me?”
And this was when the bluff came in, because although he knew from Cindy, his mother’s best friend, that Charles had been in contact with his mom—and that she’d been in a deep funk for days afterward—he didn’t know the nuts and bolts of the situation. As always, Lydia Madison was protecting people. Ryan. Charles. Everyone but herself.
Ryan took a step forward, putting himself close enough to his father that the guy knew he meant business. “Leave my mother alone. No contact. Understand?”
A fierce frown formed between Charles’s heavy white eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You called her, you threatened her, and if you do it again, the era of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ is over. Forever.”
Charles drew himself up in a way that told Ryan he wasn’t used to being challenged. Tough shit.
“Don’t threaten me,” he rumbled.
“Or?” Ryan asked calmly. “You’ll tell the world the truth?”
The older man’s face went brilliantly red and then, apparently unable to find a reply, he turned on his heel and stalked toward the stands. He’d made it only a few steps before he stopped dead in his tracks.
Ryan’s first thought was, What the hell? But he quickly saw exactly what had brought his father to a screeching halt. The golden son, Matt, stood about fifteen yards away, blocking Charles’s escape between two trailers.
Cool. A twisted family reunion.
Ryan started walking before he had a chance to think things through. He had a few words for his brother, too. Matt also moved forward, while Charles stayed planted, one son approaching from the front, one from the rear. Trapped.
Matt’s face was a blank mask when he stopped in front of his father, his gaze raking quickly over the old man’s face before moving on to Ryan.
“I was just explaining to your father how much his recent phone call to my mom had upset her,” Ryan said.
If he’d had any question as to whether or not Matt would automatically back his father, it was answered when his brother shot Charles a fiercely angry look.
“If it happens again,” Ryan continued, “I’ll make a call of my own.” If his mother was being harassed, then Montoya’s mother could join the fray.
“Do that,” Matt growled, “and I’ll beat the shit out of you.”
“Or try?” Ryan asked flatly before he turned his attention back to Charles, who appeared to be on the verge of a stroke, he was so red. “No more calls, you son of a bitch. Leave her alone.”
Then, having had all the family reunion he could handle for one day, he turned and stalked back toward his trailer. Neither Montoya followed him. Good thing.
He loaded PJ, locked the tack compartment, pocketed his keys. Now that his mission was accomplished, he had to stop by the rodeo office and then grab a hamburger for the road before he put a couple hundred miles between himself and his old man. If he could choke a burger down. Talk about a bad taste.
“Great run, Ryan!” a young voice called as he approached the rodeo office.
Ryan smiled and nodded at the boy dressed in chaps and carrying a red, white and blue rope. “Thanks, bud.”
He conducted his business in the rodeo office, which took about fifteen minutes longer than it should have, and got into the concession line.
People stopped and said hello as he waited, congratulating him on his run—still the winning time—and Ryan chatted with a few of them even though he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. He’d just made it to the counter and was about to give his order when a collective gasp went up from the crowd, followed by silence. The nasty kind of silence that indicated something bad had just happened. Ryan’s gut tightened as he waited for the hubbub that would erupt when the injured cowboy got back to his feet. The crowd remained stubbornly silent.
“Oh, no,” the elderly lady in the booth gasped, craning her neck to see, but the solid gate panels blocked the view.
“Our medical team is on the scene, taking a look at this cowboy,” the announcer
