Few people receive a second chance in life. Shane Westcott was one of them—three times over—and he had no intention of squandering his good fortune. He was lucky to be alive, lucky to be gaining shared custody of his four-year-old daughter and lucky to have landed the job as bull manager at the Easy Money Rodeo Arena.
“Keep him moving,” he called to Kenny, the young wrangler in charge of herding Wasabi from the large, open main pen into one of the smaller adjoining holding pens. It was imperative they isolate the bull from the others. “Don’t let him dawdle.”
The solid black Brahma-longhorn cross had other ideas and stepped slowly, almost daintily, through the gate. His actions were so far removed from his normal fiery temper, Shane hardly recognized the bull.
“He don’t want to move,” Kenny complained when Wasabi stopped completely.
“Tickle him on the hocks.”
Kenny gawked at Shane as if he’d suggested hopping onto the bull’s back and taking him for a leisurely spin. “You can’t pay me enough to get in there with that monster.”
The monster in question bellowed pitifully, sounding more like a calf missing his mama than an eighteen-hundred-pound bucking machine capable of launching world champions twelve feet into the air with a mere toss of his head.
“Use the rake over there,” Shane instructed.
Kenny turned and, spotting the rake leaning against the back of a chute, gave a comical double take. “Well, lookie there.”
Shane resisted rolling his eyes. With help like this, it was no wonder the rodeo arena needed someone competent in charge.
Grabbing hold of the rake, Kenny bent and poked the handle through an opening in the fence then tapped Wasabi on his back hocks. The bull promptly grunted with annoyance and banged his huge head into the gate hard enough to rattle the hinges.
“Again,” Shane said, and the teenager complied, grimacing as he did.
Bred for bucking, twisting and spinning, Wasabi had the ability to earn money hand over fist for his new owner, but only if his injury was correctly identified, diagnosed and treated. This was Shane’s chance to prove his new boss had made the right decision in hiring him.
Not a lot of pressure for his first day on the job.
“He’s favoring his left front foot.” Mercer Beckett, co-owner of the arena, stood beside Shane at the fence. Resting his boot on the bottom rung, he chewed a large wad of gum—a habit left over from quitting smoking years ago.
“You’re wrong,” Shane said. “He’s favoring his shoulder.”
Mercer squinted skeptically. “You don’t say?”
“Watch how he hesitates after taking a step, not before.”
Shane climbed the fence for a better view. He knew Wasabi personally. In fact, he’d taken his last competitive ride on the bull. If not for split-second timing and fate stepping in, Shane might have been carried away from that harrowing fall on a stretcher instead of walking away under his own steam. He’d decided then and there to retire a champion and find a new profession. Six months had passed since, and it turned out to be the best decision he could have made.
“Seems Doc Worthington agrees with you,” Mercer said. He’d mentioned the arena’s regular veterinarian before, on their way over to the bull pen.
Shane frowned. “If he’s already figured out what’s wrong with Wasabi, why’d you ask me?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
To see if Shane was worth his salt as a bull manager. Understandable. He’d been at it a mere five months. “What’s his treatment course?”
“Anti-inflammatory injections. Rest.” Mercer shrugged. “Time.”
“Which you don’t have.”
“Our next rodeo is three weeks away. Wasabi’s our main draw. Going to be a lot of disappointed cowboys if I have to pull him from the lineup.”
Not a promising beginning for a rodeo arena with a relatively new bucking bull program.
“Three weeks is cutting it a little close,” Shane said. “Injuries don’t heal overnight.”
“Joe Blackwood mentioned you worked wonders at the Payson Rodeo Arena, and their bull had a ruptured disc.”
The longtime rodeo promoter and friend of the Becketts had recommended Shane for this job. Shane didn’t want to let either man down.
“Have you heard of Guillermo Herrara?” Shane stepped off the fence and onto the ground.
“Vaguely. He’s a rodeo vet out of Dallas.”
“Not just a rodeo vet. He’s a specialist in bovine sports medicine.”
“There’s such a thing?”
“There is. And he’s had a lot of success in treating chronic joint injuries with massage therapy.”
Mercer laughed. “You have got to be kidding.”
Shane shrugged. “How important is it to you Wasabi is sound and ready to go in three weeks?”
“You’re planning on massaging that bull’s shoulder?”
“With a little help from your veterinarian.”
Mercer’s laugh simmered to a low chuckle. “This I have to see.”
They spent another thirty minutes with Wasabi. Unlike Kenny, Shane had no qualms about crawling into the pen. True, the bull was in pain, but Shane didn’t consider the threat to be too great. Mercer’s only response had been to raise his brows and chew his gum faster.
“Okay,” the arena owner hollered when they were done. “You can put him back now.”
Kenny didn’t appear any happier about returning Wasabi to the main pen than he had been about fetching him.
“Let’s head to the office and start on your paperwork.”
