sun-streaked hair and all that luscious tanned flesh. Bet you don’t get that in cold country.”
“They’ve got hot buckle bunnies every place they’ve got rodeo competitions,” Dakota assured him. “The names change. The flirting and seduction games remain the same.”
At least that had been true for him until he’d run into a certain dark-haired beauty with class and brains after a bull got the best of him last year at Rodeo Houston. The attraction between them had struck like lightning, shooting sparks without warning. They’d had six days together before he’d had to move on to the next competition. Six torrid, exciting, fantastic days.
End of story. He hadn’t been the one to write the finale. The rejection had stung a lot more than expected. His performance level had taken a drastic drop for several months after that. He could thank Viviana—along with a couple of injuries—that he didn’t even make it to the championship finals last year.
Dakota turned back to the circle of dirt where he’d face tonight’s battle. Letting anything interfere with your concentration was suicide for a bull rider.
Which was why he should have never come back to Texas. Even before he’d met Viviana, the odds here were stacked against him. The Ledger name was infamous in the Lone Star State and that had nothing to do with his reputation with the bulls.
Nineteen years after the fact, the brutal murder of Dakota’s mother was still being written and talked about in this area of Texas. She’d been shot at home, in a ranch house less than a hundred miles from where he stood right now.
His father, Troy, had been convicted of the crime. Dakota had been six years old at the time.
Luckily, questions about his past hadn’t come up today in his interviews with the local media. All they’d focused on was taking pictures and asking him about his success. He suspected that was because the competition’s organizers had told them any mention of Troy Ledger was off-limits.
Cockroach got the signal to head toward the chute. He looked over to the female cheering squad and tipped his hat before swaggering toward the bucking, snorting beast that was already fighting to clear the chute.
“Remember, it’s just you and the bull,” Dakota shouted after him. Six seconds into the ride, the bull bucked and veered to the left. Cockroach was thrown off. Fortunately, it was his hat and not his head that got entangled with the bull’s hooves. True to his nickname, the cowboy got out of the way while Jim Angle distracted the indignant animal.
Jim was one of the rodeo clown greats. It had been Jim Angle who’d saved Dakota from getting seriously injured back in Houston the night he’d met Viviana. The past attacked again, this time so strong Dakota couldn’t shut the memories down.
Images of Viviana filled his head. Dark, curly hair that fell to her slender shoulders. Full, sensual lips. Eyes a man could drown in. A touch that had set him on fire.
Damn. If he didn’t clear his mind, he’d never hang on for the full eight seconds, and he needed a good showing tonight to make it to the final round in this event tomorrow. A rider couldn’t rest on past laurels and the competition got tougher every year.
He’d drawn the meanest of the rough stock tonight. That was half the battle to getting a high score. The other half was up to Dakota.
He was the last rider of the evening and he worked to psyche himself up as the other contenders got their shot at racking up points. As his turn drew near, he fit the leather glove on his riding hand and one of the other riders helped him tape it in place. The resin came next, just enough to improve his grip. Then he climbed onto the chute. It was time for action.
A rush of adrenaline shot through him as he gripped his worn and trusty bull rope and felt the 1700-pound bull buck beneath him. It would be a hell of a ride. The crowd was with him. Their cheers pounded in his head, their voices an indistinguishable roar.
“Hey, Ledger. We don’t like murderers around here.”
Unlike the cheers, the taunt was distinct. Cutting. Jagged.
The gate clanked open and Devil’s Deed charged from the chute.
In what seemed like a heartbeat, the bull went into a belly roll and Dakota went sailing through the air. His right shoulder ground into the hard earth. A kicking hoof collided with his ribs as he tried to scramble to safety.
Pain shot through him like a bullet.
Yep. He was home.
Chapter Two
“STAT. Ambulance en route.”
Dr. Mancini looked up at the male E.R. nurse delivering the news.
“And I so needed this cup of coffee.”
“I know. It’s been murder in here tonight. Must be the full moon.”
“More likely that I volunteered to pull Dr. Cairn’s shift for her.” She took a large gulp of the much-needed caffeine. “Nature of the emergency?” she asked, shifting her brain to work mode.
“Gunshot wound to the head. Critical blood loss. Vitals at life-threatening levels. “
There went her last chance of getting home on time and relieving the nanny tonight. “Any other details?”
“Caucasian male, likely early twenties, picked up in the back parking lot of a bar in the downtown area. Expected arrival …” He glanced at his watch. “Any minute.”
“Alert the nurse assigned to the shock trauma center and also Dr. Evans.”
“I’m on it.”
She was glad Dan Evans was on duty tonight. He was one of the top neurosurgeons in Texas. “Also alert the O.R.,” she called to the departing nurse.
Fatigue was forgotten as she hurried down the halls to the trauma unit. They’d already lost one patient tonight. Hopefully, they’d save this one.
“Dr. Mancini.”
She recognized the voice. Police Detective Harry Cortez, or Dirty Harry, as she’d come to think of him. Not because of his toughness—though she expected he was plenty tough—but because the front of his shirt always bore testimony to his latest meal.
“If you’re here about the patient with the gunshot wound, you’ll have to wait. I haven’t seen him as yet.”
His eyes narrowed. “You have a patient with a gunshot wound?”
“Arriving as we speak, but don’t even think about questioning him until I give you clearance. This is a hospital, not the police station.”
“I’m only doing my job, just like you, Doctor. Besides, I’m here to talk to you about Hank Bateman.”
Mention of the name filled her with disgust. “We’ll have to talk later.”
The squeak of a gurney’s wheels came from near the E.R. entrance. She raced toward the trauma center. The slap of the detective’s street shoes on the tiled floor signaled he was right behind her.
She
