Nine
Brock McNeal breathed deeply, moving his body in time with the jumping, twisting animal beneath him, and counted the seconds. Six...seven...eight.
The whistle sounded and he jumped off the bucking bull as bullfighters surrounded them, rolling to his feet and away from the large animal.
Brock soaked in the roar of the crowd. It hadn’t been a great ride, he knew, but he’d hung on to Big Tex, one of the wildest bulls he had ever faced, and the audience was showing their appreciation. He tipped his hat to them and slid a wink over to a group of buckle bunnies holding signs, their skintight clothing leaving little to the imagination.
He almost didn’t hear the shouts behind him as he basked in the glow of the crowd, but eventually he registered that something was wrong in the ring. Before he could turn around, two thousand pounds of animal flesh and muscle slammed into Brock, pushing him to the ground.
A hoof slammed into the ground inches from his face, kicking dirt into his eyes. Brock lay still, waiting for the next hoof, the one that would break his arm, puncture a lung or crack his skull.
After another few seconds, he opened his eyes to see the sky above him. The bullfighters had pulled the stomping, twisting bull away and out of the ring. The audience was silent, waiting to see how injured he was.
Brock jumped to his feet, tossed another smile to the people noisily showing their approval and walked out of the ring to join the other riders, enjoying the feeling of adrenaline pounding through his veins.
After receiving congratulations from the pack of men, Brock set off toward his truck.
“You trying to get yourself killed?” a gruff voice demanded the moment Brock was alone.
He turned to find his uncle standing behind him, hands on his hips. He looked angrier than Brock had seen him in a long while.
Brock gave him what he hoped was a calming smile. “I’m fine, Uncle Joe. Not a scratch,” he said, raising his hands for inspection, or possibly in surrender to his uncle’s fury.
“That was dangerous, and stupid, Brock. You know not to hang around in the ring like that, especially not with a bull like Big Tex in there with you,” Joe said, shaking his head. “Jeannie must be rolling in her grave right now. And what would Sarah say if she knew you were putting yourself at risk like that? My sisters would never forgive me if something happened to you. I’d be hounded in this world and the next.”
Brock winced at the verbal assault. His mother had been dead for twenty years, since he was just a little boy, but it still bothered him to hear his uncle talk about her like that. And Brock knew that if his uncle said anything to Sarah, his ma, the woman who had raised him since his parents died, she would worry herself sick.
Uncle Joe seemed to realize he’d been harsh, and his expression softened. “You’re lucky you survived today, you know.”
Brock nodded, not saying anything. His uncle had been one of the best bull riders in his day, and it was only through his coaching that Brock had managed to turn it into a career.
“I don’t know why I put up with you and your recklessness,” Uncle Joe groused.
Brock stayed silent. His uncle always said things like that when he was angry, and Brock had learned it was best not to respond. Joe would keep coaching Brock as long as Brock wanted to ride, so there was no point fighting with the old man.
Joe seemed to have grumbled himself out on the matter, and he changed topics, to Brock’s relief. “You’re headin’ home tonight, right? Sarah’s been on my case about you going for a visit.”
Brock nodded. “Ma’s been especially persistent lately, so I’ll be there for two weeks, until the next rodeo. Amy, Jose and Diego will be coming into town in the next couple of days, too.”
It had been a long while since Brock had seen his adopted brothers and sister, and he was sure Ma was in a tizzy waiting for her kids to come home. Sarah and her husband, Howard, had treated Brock like their own child since he was eight years old, and his adopted siblings even longer. Even though they were technically his aunt and uncle, he never thought of them as anything but his parents.
Joe nodded. “Keep your nose clean and I’ll see you at the rodeo.”
Brock couldn’t help but smile. He was pretty sure it would be impossible to get into any trouble in a one-stoplight town like Spring Valley, Texas.
His uncle seemed to know what he was thinking, because he pointed his finger at Brock’s chest. “Don’t give me any guff, boy. I don’t know how you manage to get yourself in the scrapes you do, smart as you are.”
Brock considered saying that what Uncle Joe considered “scrapes” usually involved other men from the rodeo, whom he’d met through Joe himself, but he kept his mouth shut. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be there all night listening to a lecture.
Brock tipped his hat in silent promise to keep his nose clean, then he turned back to the parking lot. “I better get on the road. I’ll tell Ma you said hi.”
The older man nodded. “Take care of yourself and don’t do anything foolish,” he said before heading back toward the large arena, from which sound erupted as another cowboy tried for his chance at the purse.
Brock turned toward his truck, the silver behemoth glinting in the afternoon sun, just one of many in the parking lot, waves of heat floating above the sea of metal. It was still early enough that most of the audience and competitors wouldn’t be leaving for another hour or more.
Normally he would have stayed to talk to the other cowboys, watch the last few rides, the closing ceremonies and possibly even the musical performance scheduled after the rodeo ended—and maybe get to know a few buckle bunnies while he was at it—then top the whole thing off with late-night drinks and planning the next big adventure with his friends. But he had a long drive ahead of him and he wanted to get to his parents’ house before it was too late for a good meal, so he took one last look at the stadium behind him and opened the door to his truck, allowing the wave of pent-up heat to pass over him.
He wished he had his motorcycle
