this is insane. No way she should be up there. At least make her wear a damned helmet,” Travis went on.
“What’s the matter, Travis? Afraid the little Indian princess is gonna make you look like a pansy?”
Damn it, these men were going to stand around and take potshots all night until the bull gave up and went to sleep.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, watch over this woman and help her have a safe ride,” Luke intoned, his head bowed so that his low voice barely reached her ears.
“Since when is being smart being a pansy?” Travis shot back.
“Since you started wearing that helmet, pansy.”
That was it. She couldn’t focus, and she couldn’t ride with them chattering like monkeys. “Hey! Shut it!”
At the sound of her voice, Hallowed tried to rear up, but he was too damned big to do much more than get his front hooves about a foot off the ground in the narrow confines of the chute. Out in the open, he’d get a whole lot higher. The Brazilian held her steady as she reset her butt on Hallowed’s still-twitching back. June wasn’t the only one who was ready to get on with it.
Finally, silence. A tense, pissed silence, but still. Only Mitch was snickering, “You tell them, Girlie,” as Luke double-checked the flank strap.
Travis appeared on the platform, glowering at her. “You’re really insane enough to do this?”
“No more insane than you are,” she growled, pulling on the handle. Still not tight enough. Maybe Mitch was afraid he’d hurt her?
Travis leaned over and pulled on the rope, cinching it down the rest of the way. His face was only inches from hers. This close, she could smell the Old Spice and see the faint white line that ran just under the beard, down the whole length of his jaw.
A man with scars—scars he tried to hide.
What did the rest of his scars look like? He had to have them. Everyone here did. Her own ankle bore the evidence of her obsession.
The bull shimmied again, but Travis didn’t even flinch. She tested her handle again. Just right. “Thanks.”
His frown was right in her face as he leaned past the Brazilian, who was still holding her vest to keep her on top of the impatient bull. This close, with no one else to hear him, she half expected Travis to wish her a good ride, good luck, but instead, all she got was “Don’t get killed out there.”
Why was it okay for these guys to risk life and limb to do something their mothers hated, but if one woman wanted in, it was too dangerous? Stupid double standard.
She tested her grip on the bull rope, giving it one final cinch as she let her mind clear. Roll with the bull.
No fear.
She nodded her head, and suddenly the world was spinning off its axis.
One.
Every bone in her body jolted hard right as her arm almost popped out of the socket.
Two.
Hallowed Ground broke left, proving once again that the good bulls never did the expected. She managed to get her weight counterbalanced just in time for the next kick.
Three.
He spun hard to the right, trying to whip her off like a centrifuge, all while kicking his back legs up higher than her head.
Four.
She dug in her spurs as he reared back again. Better points for spurring. Roll.
Five.
Roll, she chanted over and over as her body whiplashed right and right again. He was trying to get her down in the well, but she knew if she leaned too far left, he’d spin back that way and throw her under his feet.
Six.
Roll. The adrenaline dumped into her blood, making her body sing. In a moment of sheer physical clarity, she knew again that this was what she was supposed to do. This was who she was supposed to be.
Seven.
Hallowed bent back hard left, the jolt ripping at her grip. She couldn’t hold on much longer. Her arm was just about to give. One more second. One more—
Eight.
The buzzer sounded just as her fingers slipped the handle.
This was June’s strength—landing not under the feet of a pissed bull, but on her own. “Catlike,” more than one observer had noted. No matter what she was being thrown by—the mustangs she broke back on the Real Pride Ranch, the bulls she couldn’t stay away from, even that one wild buffalo—she managed to land feetfirst. Sure, more often than not, a hand hit the ground, as well, but she’d seen video of her rides. She landed like a runner taking her mark, not a discombobulated rider on the verge of getting trampled. She didn’t know how she did it and didn’t care, as long as she hit the ground in a position to move.
The ground rushed up to smack her, but she managed to get her torso spun around just enough that her feet hit at the same time. And she was running for the safety of the gate. A bull like Hallowed was likely to hold a grudge, and she had no desire to be on the receiving end of those lopsided horns.
It wasn’t until she’d clamored up the side and Hallowed had trotted out of the arena to have his flank strap removed that she heard the silence. The only sounds were her heart pounding and Hallowed snorting as he muscled his way down the chute.
It lasted about five seconds, and then the group of cowboys on the platforms, the bullfighters in the arena and the women in the bleachers exploded.
“Did you see that?”
“Did she just do a somersault in midair?”
“Did she just land on her feet?”
“Did she just ride Hallowed Ground?”
“She did it!”
“She really did!”
Had she? “A good ride?” she hollered, afraid to look. She’d made the time—but had her free hand stayed clear? Women were allowed to use both hands, but men weren’t. Would she get a score? Would she qualify?
Would she get to ride?
“Eighty-nine,” the judge announced over the loudspeaker. “An eighty-nine for June Spotted Elk on Hallowed Ground.”
Relief turned the adrenaline to sheer joy. This rush left her giggly and high with her own power. She whipped off her hat and flung it into the air with a “Hiiieyeee!”
This was the sweetest ride she could remember—not only had it been a good ride, not only had she ridden a monster of a bull like Hallowed Ground, not only had so many of the men here failed to do the same, but if this had been the competition, she would have been in second place after the long go—the first round of rides. Right behind Travis Younkin’s ninety, and right
