breadth of him. The gorgeous golden-brown color of his eyes. Those eyes gave her such an odd sense of déjà vu that she took a step back, almost falling over the top of the chute.
“Whoa.” His hands caught her shoulders. “Careful there.”
“Sorry.” She forced herself to smile. “I’m a little light-headed.”
Because you almost tossed your cookies.
Nope. Not because of that. She was long past the age of swooning over handsome men, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t acknowledge when one took her breath away. This one did. And he seemed so familiar somehow. As if she’d known him all her life. She’d had the same sensation when Kyle had been born and she’d stared into his eyes for the first time.
“Mom! Are you proud of me?”
It was as if fate had turned on the stereo of her inner musings and called up the voice of her son. Kyle had crawled back over the chute, cowbell clanging, bull rope dangling, a grin she’d seen only on Christmas morning plastered across his face.
“I stayed on for at least a minute.”
She almost laughed. She was too aware of the man standing next to her. Kyle suddenly became aware of him, too, drawing himself up. She’d seen that reaction before. She rarely brought men home, but when she did, it was as if Kyle bristled invisible hair.
“You did great,” Sheriff Connelly said, tapping the top of her son’s helmet.
Kyle jerked the plastic cap off his head, hazel eyes never wavering from Sheriff Connelly. The crowd of men who’d helped had since moved on. They bustled around the next rider as the announcer droned on about something she couldn’t quite catch. Her son’s hair stuck straight up, but instead of the scowl she expected to see, all she spotted was something close to stunned surprise.
“You’re Brennan Connelly.”
Whoa. Wait. What? She knew the name. Her big brother had told her all about the man who’d walked away from the sport of rodeo to join the military. The world champion turned lawman.
“I am,” he said with an easy smile.
“Your poster is hanging on my wall.”
That’s why he looked so familiar. That’s why she’d been taken aback by the eerie sensation that she’d met him before. She had met him before. In her son’s bedroom. Every night she saw this man’s face when she kissed her son good-night, a much younger version, more lean, less...friendly looking, but still devastatingly handsome. If she were honest, she’d gone back to her own bedroom and...
No, no, no. Don’t go down that road. Not now. Not with the real thing standing here in front of you.
“My poster?” Bren asked, including her in his grin. “How the heck did you find one of those?
“I ordered it online. My uncle Jax told me about you. About how you lived close by and about how you won the world championship, but that you walked away from it all right after and became a Green Beret. I looked you up, watched your ride on the internet. It was awesome.”
Green Beret? No wonder the man oozed testosterone.
“These days he coaches our high school rodeo team,” said the same old man who’d greeted him earlier. He patted Bren on the back. “Taken them all the way to the national finals four years in a row. Almost won the whole shebang this year. We would have, too, if Will’s hand hadn’t slipped out of his wrap.”
“You teach kids how to ride?”
It was Kyle who’d spoken and she recognized the tone in his voice. She knew what was coming next, moved to intercept the words. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff Connelly. Thanks for helping settle my nerves.”
“You were nervous?” her son asked before turning back to Brennan. “Can you teach me?”
“Of course he can,” said the gray-haired man Lauren suddenly wanted to kill. He had skin as worn as his blue jeans, but the blue eyes were still sharp as a tack. “Been teaching kids for years.”
“Now, Samson,” Bren said, patting his friend on the shoulder. “This nice young woman doesn’t want my help.”
“I want your help,” said her son. “I really need to learn how to ride, but my mom won’t let me practice because she thinks all bull riders are dumb. Actually, she thinks everything to do with the rodeo is dumb. I’ve been trying to tell her that isn’t true, and that I could get a scholarship or something for college if I’m good enough and that I could make lots of money. Ouch.” Her son jerked away from her. “Mom.”
She hadn’t even realized she’d dug her hands into her son’s shirt.
Earth, just swallow me whole.
When she spotted the amused twitch in Bren’s eyes, she felt her face flame with color, too.
Dumb, huh? his grin seemed to ask.
“Kid’s right,” Samson interrupted with a firm nod. “There’s intercollegiate teams that compete for titles. Sure, it’s not as glamorous as, say, football or basketball, but it’s a good, clean sport.” The man all but wagged a finger at her. “You don’t hear about no bull riders beating up their girlfriends or making money on fighting dogs. Rodeo’s an honorable sport that’s known for turning boys into men. Just look at Brennan here. Rodeo team in college. Went pro for a couple years, then went off to serve his country.”
Oh, dear Lord.
“I know.” She glared at Kyle, silently telling her son they’d have words later. Kyle had the grace to look slightly abashed. “But he’s never ridden anything in his life. We just moved to my brother’s ranch outside of town and now Kyle thinks he’s a cowboy, and I told him it takes more than petting a horse to make you a cowboy. Now he’s got it in his head that he can be a bull rider, and my brother encourages it all. The man all but blackmailed me into entering him today, something I didn’t want to do, because I think he needs to learn how to ride a horse before he can ride a steer, and clearly I was right about that because he didn’t stick on for more than a second today.”
“It was longer than a second,” Kyle protested.
She was rambling, feeling stupid and out of place and, yes, guilty thanks to the look of recrimination on the old man’s face.
“Who’s your brother?” Bren asked.
The question threw her for a moment. “Jax,” she said. “Jax Stone. He owns Dark Horse Ranch.”
She should have known the name would be recognized. If she knew anything about Via Del Caballo, it was that it was a small town and everyone seemed to know everybody.
“That’s that newfangled therapy ranch at the old Reynolds place, isn’t it?” Samson asked. “For army vets.”
“Actually, it’s for veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder, and he only bought a portion of the Reynoldses’ place. He didn’t buy it all.”
But he could have. Her brother could afford to buy pretty much whatever he wanted, like her son’s new bull-riding vest and the helmet, which had
