also paid close attention to Luke and his fellow bullfighters as they darted between the bulls and the downed riders. The three men seemed indestructible, bouncing up like rubber balls after being butted, trampled underfoot and tossed into the air like toys, but a long scrape marked Luke’s cheek after a bull slammed him against the chute gate.
She recognized most of the cowboys’ names from New York City and the arena announcer supplied a few words of introduction for each one: Cody from Tennessee, Sean from Georgia, Harve and J.W. and Mike from Texas, Ben from Australia and Silvano from Brazil, thirty-five in all. According to the day sheet, Tom Cameron would be one of the last to ride.
Thankfully all the cowboys in this round were able to leave the arena on their own feet, although the Sports Medicine medics did have to help a few. Not many stayed on the full eight seconds. “We’ve got a great pen of young bulls tonight, folks,” the announcer said.
At last she saw Tom below her on the walkway. She leaned forward but didn’t call his name, recalling his expression of intense concentration before he rode in New York City. He climbed down into the chute, eased onto the back of a black-and-white bull with a wide spread of horns. He took a quick wrap around his hand with his rope and nodded. The gate swung open.
The bull exploded in a frenzy of bucking, swinging its head from side to side. One horn swept Tom’s hat off before a wild leap ended in a stumble that yanked him forward so that his face collided with the top of the bull’s head. He slumped sideways and landed flat on his back with an audible grunt. The bull regained his feet and capered out the gate.
The Sports Medicine team reached Tom as he climbed to his feet, gulping for breath; one pressed a gauze pad over his bleeding nose. Luke retrieved his hat and brushed the dirt off before setting it on his brother’s head.
Tom waved to the crowd and limped toward the chutes, holding the compress to his face. He paused to peer at a paper in an official’s hand and then nodded.
“Reride option,” the announcer said. “Looks like Tom Cameron will be getting on another bull.”
Jo started from her seat in protest. She’d sought an athlete in a high-risk sport, but this was insanity. She sat back, smoothing the day sheet she had crumpled in sweating hands, trying to recapture her objectivity.
Two more riders left the chutes but neither rode for the full eight seconds.
“One more to go,” the announcer said. “Tom Cameron’s reride on Widow-maker.”
TOM SHIFTED THE ice pack across his eyes and nose. “How much longer am I stuck here?”
“Till I’m satisfied the bleeding has stopped,” Dr. Barnett said, glancing at him over his half glasses. “Unless you don’t plan on riding tomorrow night, in which case you can leave anytime you want. Maybe I should have kept you off your reride bull, but you weren’t concussed, and it’s your nose.”
Tom leaned back and closed his eyes. Doc could be a pain in the butt, but every cowboy on the tour took his advice as gospel. If Doc Barnett said he should sit one out, he might complain but he’d obey; there was no appeal to a firm “No way.”
A whistled chorus of “Friends in Low Places” alerted him to his brother’s presence. “Hey, kid,” Luke said, “maybe you should stop beating up bulls with your face.” He lifted a corner of the compress and whistled. “Cute.”
Tom grunted. “Thanks. Listen, you gotta help me. I promised to meet Jo Dace—”
“All taken care of. I told her you’d be tied up for a while so I’d check on you and then walk her home.”
Tom struggled to a sitting position. “The hell you will.”
“Relax.” Luke pushed him down against the backrest. “I’ll treat her like an old-maid schoolmarm. Besides, she ain’t my type. Keep him here as long as you want, Doc—there’s nowhere he’s gotta be.”
* * *
A COUPLE HOURS LATER, Tom sat in his hotel room, listening to the Weather Channel report on the latest snowstorm barreling down out of the Southern Rockies. This one didn’t sound like it would be as dangerous as the one last spring, but he called home anyway.
“There’s only about six inches predicted for here,” his dad said. “We’ve got the heifers in the lower pasture and hay already out, so we’re all set. Stop worrying and ride your bulls.”
Shelby took the phone. “We’re fine here—everything’s under control, including your father.”
Reassured, Tom hung up and took another bite of the half-eaten ham sandwich from room service. A bottle of Coors gone flat sat on the bedside table.
He had grabbed a quick look into the hotel bar after Doc had finally let him leave Sports Medicine but had seen no sign of Luke or Jo Dace. Now the bedside clock read 11:42 p.m. Where was Luke? He and his brother generally got separate rooms because of Luke’s social life, but half of Oklahoma and part of Texas had hit the town for the bull riding this weekend, so they’d been forced to bunk together.
He took a swig of the beer and swore as the bottle tapped against his teeth. His whole face hurt and he had a headache to match. He wasn’t waiting up any longer—Jo Dace was a big girl, who’d probably fended off guys more determined than Luke. He limped to the bathroom and scrubbed at the bloodstains on his shirt soaking in the basin before peeling out of his sweaty undershirt and jeans. The door clicked open as he turned on the shower.
Luke tossed his hat on the bed. “You still up? I figured you’d take a handful of Advils and turn in early.”
Tom bit back a dozen questions and stepped under the spray, wincing as the hot water hit his face.
“Jo didn’t know to book a room here, so I walked her back to her hotel,” Luke said. “It was just a few blocks.”
“And you stopped for a drink.” Tom kicked himself for commenting.
“Well, sure, the night being young and all. I knew you weren’t up for partying. We talked quite a while. She’s a pretty cool gal, sailing like she did all the way to South Africa on a boat no bigger than a gooseneck trailer.”
“Sounds like you guys hit it off,” Tom said. “Maybe she should write you up instead of me.”
Luke laughed. “That’s what I told her, but she said she profiles athletes, competitors, not poor working stiffs like me. I sweet-talked the desk clerk downstairs into finding her a room here for the rest of the weekend. She wants to write about bull riders, she should be smack in the middle of the action. She wanted to check to see if you were okay. I told her you wouldn’t be fit company tonight but you’d have breakfast with her downstairs around nine. You’ll have time before that truck dealership meet-and-greet tomorrow at eleven.”
“I don’t recall hiring you as my social secretary,” Tom said, “but since you’re being so helpful, rustle me another bucket of ice for my nose.”
“Will do, and I brought your sunglasses up from the truck. Maybe you can go with the celebrity look tomorrow instead of short end in a bar fight.”
Tom
