to her like she was a superstar?”
“So?”
“Think about it from my point of view! Don’t you remember that woman race-car driver? She ain’t even the best one out there, and she’s pulling them in!” Mort waved his arms like he was welcoming the women of the world into his office.
This wasn’t about applications or permits or even bull riding. And Mort just confirmed that fact as he went on. “All of a sudden, there’s a woman who rides with the men, and the wives and mothers and daughters are buying tickets to the show, buying pink girl-power T-shirts with her name on them, buying posters that she’ll autograph—”
“You’re going to let her kill herself for money?” Who was he kidding? Of course Mort would. He’d throw his own mother—walker and all—into the ring if he thought he could make a dime off it.
“Have you met the girl? I’m not gonna let her do anything.” Mort snorted. “Look. Either she’ll break a nail and go home, or she’ll do well. And if she does well, she could add to the gate.”
A percentage of the gate went to the take-home pay for the riders every night. That was why most of the guys here had chosen the TCB circuit as opposed to the rival rodeo outfit where calf roping and bronco busting were part of the competition. Here, a man could just ride a bull, and bigger crowds meant bigger checks.
If Mort explained it in those terms to the guys...well, most of them needed the money. Travis was one of the few who had a steady sponsorship and earned enough most weekends to make a living. As it stood now, he was nearing the money cutoff for the pro circuit. Not so for most of the other guys. They drove all night to get back to their jobs or ranches, worked all week and then did this every weekend. Sort of like playing Russian roulette as a hobby.
Travis wasn’t going to win this battle, not with Mort and probably not with the other guys— especially not with the Preacher and Mitch out there making her feel at home.
He was going to have to take this to the source.
“Fine. You believe she’s going to be your gravy train. But I’m warning you,” he said, grabbing the edges of the card table and shoving it hard enough that it bounced off Mort’s considerable girth, “if anything happens to her, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
The door still wouldn’t slam when Travis stalked out of the broom closet, but he gave it his best effort.
“Well?” Randy seemed to be speaking for the group of guys nervously milling around. “What’d he say?”
Travis tried not to snarl. They’d heard every word, no doubt. “I’m going to go talk to her.”
A few eyebrows went up.
“You guys agree that this isn’t a safe place for a woman, right?”
“Sure,” Randy said as heads halfheartedly nodded. “We don’t want her to get hurt, but...” Standing behind him, Garth, another rider, elbowed him in the ribs. “Is it true, what Mort said about the gate?”
Travis could feel the last of his cool slipping away. “We all know that she’s not going to make us rich, Randy. I don’t want her blood on my hands.”
Randy looked doubtful. “So you’re going to talk her out of it?”
Someone in the back snorted. “Good luck with that!”
“I’ll handle it,” Travis said with more force. “You guys go on and have a good time tonight. Watch out for the buckle bunnies, okay? They can be brutal in this town.” He knew that from personal experience. That had been a long time ago—must be almost seven years now.
Seven years ago, he’d been a green rider with a lot of promise, just like some of these guys. He hadn’t been too crazy his first year, but he’d drunk most of his winnings and woke up in plenty of strange beds with stranger women.
That hadn’t happened in a great while. No one wanted a man who looked like Frankenstein. Especially not pretty women who could ride bulls.
Wait—where the hell had that thought come from? He shook it away. He had a job to do here, one that did not involve female bull riders in a state of undress.
The remaining guys began to place bets on who would go home with which bunny and who could drink who under the table. Just kids, he reminded himself as they headed back toward the collection of secondhand cars and trucks parked in the back. Normally, he’d shadow along, keep an eye out for trouble, make sure whoever got the drunkest got somewhere safe to sleep. But not tonight.
He had to go looking for trouble. And her name was June.
He headed back out to the parking lot. Calm down, he told himself. If he lost his head, he might do something stupid, like grab her again, and this time, without bystanders, she might break his arm.
And if she broke his arm, then he’d never get the chance to finish his big comeback—to prove to the world that he wasn’t a cripple who should have hobbled off into the sunset, broken and forgotten. To prove that he hadn’t lost a thing to that damned bull. Travis was still one of the best in the world. He just had to prove it the hard way.
By God, he’d spent too long rehabbing his broken body and then working his way back up from the very bottom of the bull-riding circuits to have his plans blown to hell and back all because some pretty girl wanted to ride with the big boys.
And the fact that she was beautiful? Nothing but an unwelcome distraction. Distractions got a man killed out there. Hell, distractions had already almost gotten him killed once—when he’d caught his girlfriend, Barb, making eyes at Chet Murphy right before Travis had gotten on that damn bull, No Man’s Land. He’d paid dearly for wondering what the hell she was doing.
He couldn’t allow another woman to distract him. Not ever again.
He stopped, took a deep breath and pushed Barb far from his mind. He sure as hell wasn’t going to get upset about her again, not when he hadn’t even seen her in three years.
Once he was calm, he focused on keeping his gait even. It wasn’t easy. He wished again he had landed on his right side tonight. Every part of his body on the left was screaming in agony, from the wire mesh in his jaw to the rods in his leg. He needed to take an ice bath and a Percocet as soon as possible, because he had to get up at a reasonable hour tomorrow and put in an appearance at True West Western Wear, his sponsor.
Not too many guys actually had sponsors at this level—Red had Red Bull, of course, but Red also wasn’t going to stay in the minor leagues that much longer. Within a year or two—sooner, if Travis couldn’t keep his stuff together—Red would be up in the bigs, riding with the real pros—just like Travis had been doing three years ago.
Before the rods and wires and Percocet.
But that girl had a sponsor—her vest had a huge America’s Real Pride Beef patch sewn right on the back. Not even a winner, and someone was paying her to ride.
Where was she? He scanned the lot before he saw the lone white car, parked on the far side, away from the lights. He didn’t see her, per se, but the dome light in the car was on. Most of the guys had parked back on the other side, closer to the bulls and away from the general crowd. How clueless was she? Didn’t she know that she needed
