out of the truck. He glanced over at the bulls in a nearby pasture, worry gnawing at his insides, eating away at his confidence.
So far he’d done two things right—buying back a few of his father’s rodeo bulls after the old man’s death and hooking up with Monte Edgewood.
But Boone worried he would screw this up, just like he did everything else. If he hadn’t already.
He heard someone beside the truck and feared for a moment she had come out of the house after him.
With a start, he turned to find Monte Edgewood standing at the side window. Monte had been frowning, but now smiled. “You goin’ to just sit in your pickup all day?”
Boone tried to rid himself of the bitter taste in his mouth as he gave the older man what would pass for a smile and rolled down his window. Better Monte never know why Boone had been avoiding the house in his absence.
“You all right, son?” Monte asked.
Monte Edgewood had called him son since the first time they’d met behind falling-down rodeo stands in some hot, two-bit town in Texas. Boone had been all of twelve at the time. His father was kicking the crap out of him when Monte Edgewood had come along, hauled G. O. Rasmussen off and probably saved Boone’s life.
In that way, Boone supposed he owed him. But what Boone hadn’t been able to stand was the pity he’d seen in Monte’s eyes. He’d scrambled up from the dirt and run at Monte, fists flying, humiliation and anger like rocket fuel in his blood.
A huge man, Monte Edgewood had grabbed him in a bear hug, pinning his skinny flailing arms as Boone struggled furiously to hurt someone the way he’d been hurt. But Monte was having none of it.
Boone fought him, but Monte refused to let go. Finally spent, Boone collapsed in the older man’s arms. Monte released him, reached down and picked up Boone’s straw hat from the dust and handed it to him.
Then, without a word, Monte just turned and walked away. Later Boone heard that someone jumped his old man in an alley after the rodeo and kicked the living hell out of him. Boone had always suspected it had been Monte, the most nonviolent man he’d ever met.
Unfortunately, Boone had never been able to forget the pity he’d seen in Monte’s eyes that day. Nor the sour taste of humiliation. He associated both with the man because of it. Kindness was sometimes the worse cut of all, he thought.
Monte stepped back as Boone opened his door and got out. Middle age hadn’t diminished Monte’s size, nor had it slowed him down. His hair under his western hat was thick and peppered with gray, his face rugged. At fifty, Monte Edgewood was in his prime.
He owned some decent enough roughstock and quite a lot of land. Monte Edgewood seemed to have everything he needed or wanted. Unlike Boone.
But what made Monte unique was that he was without doubt the most trusting man Boone had ever met.
And that, he thought with little remorse, would be Monte’s downfall. And Boone’s good fortune.
“How’s Devil’s Tornado today?” Boone asked as they walked toward the ranch house where Monte had given him a room. He saw the curtain move and caught a glimpse of dyed blond hair.
“Son, you’ve got yourself one hell of a bull there,” Monte said, laying a hand on Boone’s shoulder as they mounted the steps.
Didn’t Boone know it.
Monte opened the screen and they stepped into the cool dimness of the house and the heady scent of perfume.
“Is that you, Monte?” Sierra Edgewood called an instant before she appeared in the kitchen doorway, a sexy silhouette as she leaned lazily against the jamb and smiled at them. “Hey, Boone.”
He nodded in greeting. Sierra wore a cropped top and painted-on jeans, a healthy width of firm sun-bronzed skin exposed between the two. She was pinup-girl pretty and was at least twenty years younger than her husband.
“It will be interesting to see how he does in Bozeman,” Monte continued as he slipped past his wife, planting a kiss on her neck as he headed for the fridge. He didn’t seem to notice that Sierra was still blocking the kitchen doorway as he took out two cold beers and offered one to Boone.
After a moment, Sierra moved to let Boone pass, an amused smile on her face.
“He’s already getting a reputation among the cowboys,” Monte said heading for the kitchen table with the beers as if he hadn’t noticed what Sierra was up to. He never seemed to. “Everyone’s looking for a high-scoring bull and one hell of a ride.”
Boone sat down at the table across from Monte and took the cold beer, trying to ignore Sierra.
“Are you talking about that stupid bull again?” she asked as she opened the fridge and took out a cola. She popped the cap off noisily, pushing out her lower lip and giving Boone the big eyes as she sat down across from him.
A moment later, he felt her bare toes run from the top of his boot up the inside seam of his jeans. He shifted, turning to stretch his legs out far enough away that she couldn’t touch him as he took a deep drink of his beer. He heard Sierra sigh, a chuckle just under the surface.
He knew he didn’t fool her. She seemed only too aware of what she did to him. His blood running hot, he focused on the pasture out the window and Devil’s Tornado, his ticket out, telling himself all the Sierra Edgewoods in the world couldn’t tempt him. There was no greater lure than success. And failure, especially this time, would land him in jail—if not six feet under.
Devil’s Tornado could be the beginning of the life Boone had always dreamed of—as long as he didn’t blow it, he thought, stealing a sidelong glance at Sierra.
“Everyone’s talking about your bull, son,” Monte said with pride in his voice but also a note of sadness.
Boone looked over at him, saw the furrowed thick brows and hoped Monte was worried about Devil’s Tornado—not Boone and his wife.
There was a fine line between a bull a rider could score on and one who killed cowboys. And Devil’s Tornado had stomped all over that line at the Billings rodeo. Boone couldn’t let that happen again.
Sierra tucked a lock of dyed-blond hair behind her ear and slipped her lips over the top of the cola bottle, taking a long cool drink before saying, “So what’s the problem?”
Monte smiled at her the way a father might at his young child. “There’s no problem.”
But that wasn’t what his gaze said when he settled it back on Boone.
“The bull can be too dangerous,” Boone told her, making a point he knew Monte had been trying to make. “It’s one thing to throw cowboys—even hurt a few. But if he can’t be ridden and he starts killing cowboys, then I’d have to take him off the circuit.” He shrugged as if that would be all right. “He’d be worth some in stud fees or an artificial insemination breeding program at this point. But nothing like he would be if, say, he was selected for the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas. It would be too bad to put him out to pasture now, though. We’d never know just how far he might have gone.”
A shot at having a bull in the National Finals in Las Vegas meant fifty thousand easy,
