couldn’t think about Lacy right now. Distractions could be deadly. He had to focus on the bulls and the riders. He let the music push him until his adrenaline was flowing and his head was in the game.
Lacy would have to wait.
It was time to go to work.
WRECKERATOR WAS NOT in the mood to be ridden. He came flying out of the gate awkwardly, slamming into the chute hard enough that Lacy had to grab onto the top of the gate to keep her balance. The rider had no such luxury—he lost his grip and went down.
The crowd gasped as the rider bounced off the ground. Then Ian and his partner were there. They threw themselves in front of Wreck, arms waving as they shouted at him.
Wreck’s flank strap didn’t fall off, which meant it was still irritating him. He was not the sharpest knife in the drawer and, in his pissed state, he got confused by the noise. Still bucking, he lowered his head and charged at Ian. Lacy held her breath. He wouldn’t try to wrestle Wreck, would he? She wanted to shout at him, but her voice got stuck in the back of her throat and all she could do was watch in horror as Wreck bore down on Ian.
Ian made a stutter step to the right, and then spun left as Wreck blew past him. Lacy leaned forward, trying to see around her bull to where Ian was—had he gotten clipped?
But no. Ian was standing in the middle of the arena, hands on his hips, shaking his head as if Wreckerator—a fourteen-hundred-pound bull—was a naughty child. Lacy felt herself breathe again in relief as the crowd cheered.
Wreck’s flank strap loosened and fell to the ground. Ian’s partner, Jack, danced in front of Wreck, moving toward the open chute that would funnel the bull back to the pens. Wreck charged, but it didn’t have the same murderous intent. When Black Jack dodged, Wreck saw the opening and kept right on going, still kicking up his back heels as he was shunted down the chutes.
“That’ll earn Garth Whitley a reride, folks,” the announcer proclaimed. “And let’s hear it for our dedicated bullfighters Ian Tall Chief and Jack Johnson, ladies and gents! They’re working hard for our riders tonight!”
Both men tipped their hats to the crowd. Lacy couldn’t help but note that the sounds of female voices seemed to drown out male cheers. She realized she was scowling at the crowd and forced herself to stop.
Gah, she was being ridiculous. Ian was a good-looking man—well, they both were. Of course the ladies were going to cheer for them. Bull riders tended to be lightweights and the bullfighters were anything but. Ian and Jack were both well over six feet and even their dorky matching shirts couldn’t disguise their muscles.
Muscles she’d touched. Muscles she’d seen in detail when Ian’s wet T-shirt had clung to his chest.
She shook the image out of her head and wondered how many of the people here had heard about Ian wrestling Rattler to the ground. She’d meant to see if anyone had posted a video, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to walk into her father’s office and turn on the computer, not when the box was still sitting on the desk, exactly where she’d left it. The Straight Arrow was far enough out in the middle of nowhere that Wi-Fi and broadband were still pipe dreams. Dad had sprung for a satellite connection when Lacy had gone to college so she and Mom could email, but Lacy couldn’t get her laptop hooked into the system. Well, she probably could, if she could bring herself to go into the damn office. But she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. She would. Soon.
Besides, she hadn’t had time to do any online digging into Ian Tall Chief in the first place. Murph, her hired hand, had come down with the flu and Lacy had been doing most of the ranch work herself. The vet had come to preg-check the cows and had looked at Rattler while he was there. After loading a couple of hundred cows into a holding chute, she’d barely been able to do anything other than stumble into the shower and collapse into bed. At least she’d slept. She had that going for her.
Lacy climbed down off the chutes and threaded her way back to the pens to check on Wreck. No one messed with her, not during the rodeo. Bull riders were a superstitious lot. No one wanted to risk her jinxing them before a ride.
She took a deep breath and let the smell of dirt and manure and bulls fill her nose. For a moment, she could be. It was as close to free as Lacy felt these days.
Wreck was safely in his pen, blowing snot on everything and bellowing his dissatisfaction with not getting to crush anyone to death.
“It was a good effort,” she told the bull. “You have to get out of the chute, though. A no-ride doesn’t do either of us any good.”
If only Wreck could get it together—he could be such a good bull. But he was still too green to be reliable.
She headed back up to the front. Chicken was due up soon, and she liked to be near him. Where Wreck was all impatient, Chicken Run had gotten to the point where he’d seen this, done that. After this year, she’d retire him out to the ranch and he’d live out the rest of his bull days among the fawning herds of cows, hopefully making mean little bulls that would grow up to be as rank as their daddy.
That was the plan, anyway. The six months of the season felt like a long time to go.
She watched a few of the other rides from the side of one of the chutes, well away from the rest of the riders. She located Jerome Salzberg on the other side of the chutes. He was in the middle of a crowd and didn’t seem to notice her. That was how she liked it.
But even looking at him caused her to tense up as she remembered the feeling of his breath on her cheek and the trailer biting into her back. She had to be smarter. She knew that. She couldn’t let someone like Jerome or Slim surprise her again and she absolutely couldn’t let anyone get close enough to touch her.
She didn’t have a belt holster for her pistol and she wasn’t sure how she’d feel open-carrying it around. Her father had never needed to pack heat when he traveled. The gun was there in case an animal got injured and had to be put out of its misery. She’d seen it happen a couple of times and it was a hard thing to watch.
Cowgirls didn’t cry. Not in public, anyway.
Ian was in the middle of the arena, bouncing on the balls of his feet. All of his attention was focused on the chutes. She thought it was the same guy who’d nearly gotten crushed by Rattler—until Ian had saved his hide.
Ian really was good—there was a fearlessness about him that she admired. She wished she could be that certain, that confident. Instead, she was going through the motions, hoping everyone else didn’t see how close to the edge of total collapse she really was.
Chicken had a good ride, bucking his rider off at the 6.8 second mark. A better rider would have made the time, but this one committed to the right when he should have gone left.
The moment he’d dumped his rider, Chicken trotted toward the gate. Ian hadn’t even moved during the ride. She hadn’t realized she was staring at him until he looked up and caught her gaze. She could feel heat build on her cheeks, especially when his mouth quirked into a smile. For her.
She didn’t smile back. Yes, Ian had said they were friends. But because he’d said so didn’t make it true. She would not do anything he might take the wrong way. She was smarter than that.
Still...
