to call him one of the legends of rodeo.
After eighteen years on the circuit, the buckles and trophies tended to add up.
But B.J. wasn’t listening to any of that. His mind was focused entirely on the present and the animal he was about to ride.
“Give me your best,” he said in a low voice to Bucking Machine. “And I’ll give you mine.”
He gripped the rigging in his left hand and gave the signal he was ready. As the chute opened he settled his full weight on the gelding and the ride began.
Bucking Machine started with a wild leap and B.J. focused on making contact with the heels of his boots, marking him out to prevent disqualification.
Then, with his right hand high in the air, he matched his wits, strength and balance with those of the horse. He wasn’t so much thinking at this point as simply doing what came naturally.
The more wicked turns and kicks the horse threw at him, the happier B.J. was. Only 50 percent of his grade was based on his skills—the rest was up to the gelding.
Give me all you’ve got. I can take it.
And he did. But when the eight-second horn sounded, he lost no time in getting off. He jumped, managing to land on his feet in the dirt-packed arena.
From the volume of the crowd’s cheering, he could tell he’d had a good round. He waved his hat, specifically looking for his sister, Cassidy, and her fiancé, Dan Farley, who were also participating in the rodeo. Next he looked for his mother, sitting rigidly in the stands.
Olive did not approve of the rodeo and he didn’t kid himself that she was here to watch him perform. No, she’d driven all this way to cheer on Cassidy and Farley, whose recent engagement had pleased her so much she was willing to put aside her usual distaste for the sport.
The engagement was good news for a family that had had a hell of a rough ride this year. After Brock’s death, it had seemed nothing would ever be right again. The loss always hit B.J. hardest at night—he hadn’t had a straight eight hours of sleep in a long time.
But he was grateful that Corb had recovered from his injuries. He’d even fallen in love and married Laurel Sheridan, Winnie’s red-haired friend from New York City. Now they had a little daughter—life continued.
Winnie, however, still hadn’t returned to Coffee Creek since Brock’s funeral. She was convalescing at her parents’ farm in the Highwood area. The family had been shocked to learn that she’d been two months pregnant at the time of the accident. Now she had a little boy and B.J. wondered when he would meet him.
He’d called Winnie a few times since Brock’s death. Their conversations were always short, since neither of them knew quite what to say. They always ended the same way, with Winnie promising to return with her son to Coffee Creek one day soon.
But in the meantime, her staff and Laurel were running the Cinnamon Stick Café.
As for Jackson, nothing anyone said seemed able to lessen the guilt he felt for being the driver that day. B.J. felt bad for his foster brother and hoped that eventually time would heal his pain.
B.J. himself was no stranger to guilt. He knew that with Brock gone, it was up to him, the eldest son, to step in and help. But the rodeo had become more than a job to him over the years. It was an adrenaline addiction that kept him from thinking of a certain woman he should have forgotten a long time ago.
He gave his head a shake and reminded himself to focus. Lately his thoughts had been scattering far too easily.
“...and we have an eighty-nine for Mr. B. J. Lambert today, ladies and gentlemen. That pretty much guarantees him top standing for the Wild Rogue this year. Give it up, folks, for a gentleman who has dedicated many good years to this sport we all love...”
Tommy, one of the pick-up men, clapped his shoulder. “Well done.” A couple other competitors offered their congratulations, too, stopping him to shake his hand and make admiring comments about his ride.
Once upon a time B.J. would have enjoyed all of this. Winning was the point, right?
But today he felt flat. That moment in the chute with Bucking Machine had meant more to him than any of this.
And later, when he was called to the stage and given his check and trophy, it was all he could do to muster a smile and wave at the spectators.
His sister came running and threw out her arms for a big hug. “Way to go, B.J. We’re all so proud of you.”
Her fiancé, a man who had been his friend since they were mutton-busting age, gave him a firm handshake. “Impressive. Hell, you were the man to beat, but no one even came close.”
B.J. shrugged. “It’s what I do. You novices, though, you really kicked butt. You’re the ones who deserve the big congratulations.”
Cassidy flushed. She’d come in third in barrel racing after a six-year hiatus from the sport, while Farley, a full-time vet who competed only occasionally in the rodeo, had managed to take first place in steer wrestling. B.J. could tell he was still on a high from his great performance. B.J. remembered well the days when winning had made him feel that way, too.
Hard to say when the thrill had started to fade. Maybe when he’d noticed the other cowboys sharing their victories with girlfriends, wives and children, while he always stood on the podium alone?
“We were all pretty awesome,” Cassidy said, linking one arm around Farley, the other around her brother. His sister looked happier than he’d seen her in some time, and he was glad for her. She’d recently decided to leave behind her planned business career to work as a horse trainer and teacher with Straws Monahan. Her recent engagement to Farley was also a big reason for the glow in her smile.
“You two make a great couple,” he said.
And that’s when his mother joined the group. She was decked out in a stylish skirt and trimmed Western shirt, looking spry and fit for a woman in her sixties.
“You did well, Robert James.” The words were right, but the tone held the note of contained disapproval that he was used to hearing from his mother.
“Thanks, Mom. I’m glad you could be here.”
She nodded, then turned to her daughter. “I’m tired. Think I’ll head back to the hotel.”
“Oh.” Cassidy’s face fell. “Would you like us to come with you?”
“No. You go ahead and celebrate.” She sighed. It was the drinking and partying that accompanied rodeo that she most disapproved of. “I suppose you’ve earned the right to a little fun.”
“We’ll have fun,” Cassidy agreed. “But you know we won’t overdo the drinking. We never do.”
B.J. wondered if his sister thought she was speaking for him, too, when she said that. If so, she wasn’t being entirely honest.
“Ready to head over to the Rogue Saloon?” Cassidy asked him, once their mother had departed.
“I’ll meet you there. I promised an interview to a reporter from the Mail Tribune.” His sister didn’t
