Sin City Cowboy

by Victoria Vane

  Ty had said the event didn’t begin until six. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She checked her watch. It was barely three, which still gave her a couple of hours. She phoned Frankie. “Hey, Frankie. It’s Monica. Can you pick me up? I need to do some shopping.”

  “Sure thing, Ms. Brandt. You want to hit Prada?”

  “Not this time. I need to buy some Western clothes?”

  “Western? You mean like rodeo?” Frankie asked.

  “Something like that. I’m going to the bull-riding championships. I’m afraid I’d look a little out of place in my Roberto Cavalli skinny jeans and stilettos.”

  “You might be surprised,” he chuckled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a lot of high-class city girls who chase after those guys. I don’t understand the appeal, but lots of them have picked up cowboys in these limos. We drivers see it all.”

  “TMI, Frankie.” Although she and Ty had christened it not once but twice, Monica didn’t want to think about what else had gone on in the back of her hired limo.

  “So you’re needing what? A hat? Some boots?” Frankie asked.

  “The whole ensemble, I think.”

  “I know just the place that can fix you up. The rodeo queens all go to The Pinto Ranch when they’re in town for the big pageant. It’s right between Macy’s and Neiman Marcus in the Fashion Show Mall.”

  An hour later, Monica stepped out of the dressing room in ass-boosting, rhinestone-studded jeans, complete with a blingy belt. She then added a colorful, snug-fitting Western blouse and a pair of hand-crafted Lucchese boots. Letting her hair down from her customary chignon, she finger-combed the loose waves and then donned a Resistol straw hat. Tilting the hat this way and that, she grinned into the mirror, hardly recognizing herself. Whoever would have known cowgirl chic would suit her so well? She couldn’t help wondering what Ty would think.

  ***

  Once he’d settled Monica in the owner’s suite, Ty checked his messages and then made the rounds at the hotel, before finally heading down to the Last Chance Saloon. He was glad to see the place was busier than usual, but that was to be expected, given the bull-riding finals. Although Tom’s death had put a serious damper on everyone’s spirits, the show had to go on. It’s what Tom would have expected. What he would have wanted.

  Spotting a vacant stool at the bar, Ty claimed it.

  “Ty! You’re back already?” Gabby greeted him as she filled an order from the tap. “I didn’t expect you back for at least a week.”

  “Neither did I,” he replied. “But circumstances have changed.”

  Gabby filled another frosty mug with foaming beer and slid it across the bar to Ty. “Changed how?”

  “Tom left me controlling interest in the hotel,” he answered.

  Gabby’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Surprised the hell out of me, too.”

  “Gotta fill some orders,” she said, “but I want to hear all about this.”

  Ty sipped his drink and scanned the bar, tipping his hat to several familiar faces. He searched the crowd for Zac McDaniel, but didn’t see any sign of the broody bull rider. He wondered how Zac had fared in the past few days of competition. Had he made the shortlist? They’d been through a lot over the years. He’d hated that they’d drifted so far apart. So much time wasted. Just another regret compounding so many others. He was glad they were finally back on speaking terms again.

  “What about the boss lady?” Gabby asked when she returned. “How does Ms. Brandt feel about all this?”

  “I’m trying to convince her that this place is worth the gamble.”

  “Really? And how’s that working out?” she asked dubiously.

  He shrugged. “Dunno yet, but at least I got her to come back.”

  “You did?” Gabby asked with surprise. “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs in the owner’s suite.”

  “You aren’t taking her with you tonight?” Gabby asked.

  “Nope. I asked her, but she declined. You know she’s not into any of this.” He tilted his head in a gesture meant to encompass the whole saloon. “She’s a New Yorker, a city girl through and through.”

  “Yet you still think you can convince her to be your partner?”

  “Dunno,” he said. “But I’m gonna try. I need someone who’s better with the financial side of things than I am. I might have control now, but as Tom’s daughter, Monica is still a partner in this place, whether she likes it or not. I just need to convince her that she likes it.”

  “Well, speak of the devil.” Gabby nodded toward the swinging doors.

  The moment Ty spun around, he experienced a dizzying rush of air leaving his lungs. Holy shit! Was that Monica? Catching sight of Ty, she flashed a smile that made every man in the place stare. Ty eyed her slowly up and down again as she sashayed up to the bar.

  “Buy me a drink, cowboy?” she asked with a look that gave him an instant semi.

  “Right about now, I think I’d buy you anything your little heart desires. You are rocking that look, sugar.”

  “Glad you approve,” she said. “I changed my mind about going tonight.”

  “Did you now?”

  “Yup. When in Rome . . .”

  “Martini, Ms. Brandt?” Gabby asked.

  “Not tonight, Gabby. I’m feeling a bit more adventurous,” Monica said, never taking her gaze from Ty’s.

  “That so”? Ty asked.

  “Yeah. I think maybe I’ll try a shooter instead. What’s the special, Gabby?”

  Gabby grimaced. “You might be sorry you asked. It’s Buckle Bunnies and Cowboy Cocksuckers.”

  “Maybe not that adventurous,” Monica laughed. “Could they make the drink names any filthier? How about you surprise me?” she said to Gabby.

  “Sure thing, boss lady,” Gabby turned away to mix a drink.

  “Maybe you’d like to try a Cowgirl Clit Licker instead?” Ty murmured low in Monica’s ear.

  “That offer’s hard to refuse,” she replied. “But I thought you had important business tonight.”

  “I can only think of one kind of business right now,” Ty replied, sliding his hands up to grip her waist. “And I’m half ready to throw you over my shoulder and go take care of it. I can’t get enough of you in that outfit, sugar. All you need now is a pair of fanny fringe chaps to complete my fantasy. I gotta ask, what brought this all about?”

  “Curiosity mostly,” she replied. “I did a little research today. It seems the bull-riding championship generates close to fifteen million in non-gaming revenue in Las Vegas. I’m a numbers girl, and figures like that are hard to ignore. So I decided to see for myself what all the hype is about.”

  “So this is just about business?” Ty asked.

  “Only in part,” she confessed. “I also hoped to see that priceless look on your face.” She added with a quirk of her lips, “I admit it was worth every penny I spent.”

  “It’ll be worth every penny when I get you upstairs,” he promised darkly.

  “I’m counting on that, Ty. So tonight is the big finale?”

  “Yeah. There were thirty-five cowboys initially,” Ty explained, “but they got narrowed down to fifteen for the final round.”

  “How much is this championship worth?” Monica asked.

  “Two hundred fifty thousand, cash money,” Ty replied.

  “Wow. No wonder it’s so competitive.”

  “It’s the fastest-growing sport in the US,” Gabby interjected.

  “I met a young cowboy the first week I was here,” Monica said. “His name was Kade Mc-something. He reminded me a little bit of Brad Pitt. He said he knew you. He told me his brother is one of the riders.”

  “Yeah,” Ty said. “His name’s Kade McDaniel. I heard the snot-nosed little shit tried to pick you up.”

  “He never stood a chance, Ty.”

  “Good thing,” Ty said. “I’d hate to have to beat the bejeesus out of my best friend’s brother. W
hat’s the news about Zac?” Ty asked Gabby as she set a glass in front of Monica. “Did he make the cut?”

  “Only by the skin of his teeth,” Gabby replied. “He’s number fifteen.”

  “Who’s first?” Ty asked.

  “Guilherme Alvaro,” Gabby replied. “Plenty of cowboys had hoped to take him down a few notches, but he’s in the lead by almost five hundred points.”

  “Damn.” Ty blew out a breath and shook his head. “With that kinda lead, Alvaro doesn’t even have to show up to win. Zac doesn’t have a snowball’s chance. He’s a good rider, but he’s been at this too long. There’s lots of younger cowboys eager to win that purse, not to mention the Brazilians, who have kicked our American asses for far too long. I just hope Zac makes the whistle. Going home with empty pockets would only be salt in the wound.”

  Monica took a sip of her drink. Gabby had poured her usual.

  “What is it?” Ty asked with a sniff. “That applejack stuff?”

  “It’s Calvados, Ty,” she corrected. “Imported from Normandy.”

  “Imported only means expensive, sugar. It doesn’t mean better. There’s nothing we don’t do bigger and better right here in the good ol’ USA.”

  “That’s an arrogant statement,” Monica said. “And exactly why Americans are generally disliked abroad.”

  Ty shrugged. “The truth can be painful.”

  “Are you for real?” she asked.

  “Just a true-blue American cowboy.” He raised his mug in a mock salute and took a long drink.

  “If you want us to be partners, you’re going to have to be more open to new ideas, Ty. Haven’t you ever traveled?” she asked.

  “More than I even care to remember. I spent half a dozen years on the road,” Ty replied.

  “I meant outside of this country,” she said.

  “Went to Mexico once to watch their bull riding,” he said. “Wasn’t impressed. And their bullfighting is nothing short of animal brutality. The bull doesn’t have a chance. He’s dead the minute he enters the ring. It’s nothing like American bullfighting. In our version, the bull has the advantage.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he has horns and outweighs his adversary by at least fifteen hundred pounds. If things play out like they should, both contenders walk out of the arena when it’s done. Like I said, we do things better here. It’s easier to experience it than to have it explained,” Ty replied. “I think you’d best just come tonight and see for yourself.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Monica arrived with Ty at the Thomas & Mack Center filled with childlike anticipation. She also felt almost as if she were on the arm of a celebrity. They were among thousands of people, but everyone seemed to recognize Ty Morgan. “I had no idea you were so well-connected, Ty.”

  He shrugged. “It’s partly my father’s reputation that follows me. He was kind of a legend in his time. The other part is probably my connection to Tom. Everyone knew and loved Tom Brandt.”

  “I know Tom was as generous as he was gregarious, but that doesn’t explain how everyone seems to know you,” Monica insisted.

  Although he no longer competed, it was obvious that Ty still dominated in this world. Monica had already known that he was as generous and loyal as Tom, but now she realized that Ty was as highly respected in his circle of acquaintances as Evan was in his. But Ty had an endearing humility that Evan lacked.

  “Your father was a legend?” she said. “You never told me that.”

  “Yeah,” Ty laughed. “My ol’ man did some crazy shit in his time. He’d do anything for a laugh, especially when he hit the bottle. That’s what eventually killed him.”

  “Then I’m doubly surprised you decided to follow in his shoes,” she remarked.

  “Do you mean the bulls or the bottle?”

  “Both, I guess,” Monica said.

  “I fought it for a while,” he said. “But in the end it wasn’t a choice. I am who I am—just a plain ol’ Okie cowboy.” Ty tipped his hat to several more people as they made their way down the crowded aisle to their VIP chute seats.

  “Wow. I had no idea how close we’d be to the bulls.” Monica wrinkled her nose. “Close enough even to smell them.”

  Ty laughed. “This is the stock contractor section. I always sit where the action is.”

  “Seats this close must be pretty hard to come by.”

  “They are,” he admitted, “but I still know a few people from the old days. I s’pose they tend to remember the man who puts himself between a fallen cowboy and a charging bull.”

  “I would sure hope so,” Monica said. This was Ty’s world. There was no doubt he was in his element. He’d had no trouble getting an extra ticket at the sold-out event, further testimony of the clout Ty kept understating.

  “We’ve got a few minutes yet before the preshow,” Ty said. “Do you mind if I run on down to the chutes? I’d like a quick word with Zac.”

  “I don’t mind,” she replied. “Please wish him luck for me.”

  “Will do. Can I get you a drink on the way back?” he asked.

  “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  Monica was hyperaware of the countless feminine stares that followed Ty down to the chutes; her own eyes lingered indecently long on his perfectly sculpted ass. The interest in Ty filled her with pride. Was he really hers, this incredibly sexy, swaggering cowboy? It would seem so. The idea of them together should seem ludicrous, but somehow it wasn’t. Deep down they seemed to suit each other so much better than she and Evan ever had.

  He was talking with two other cowboys now, one smaller and leaner and dressed in athletic clothes. When he turned to face in her direction, she recognized him as Kade McDaniel. The other, bigger and beefier cowboy had to be his brother, Zac. He and Ty shook hands and then exchanged a few words. Ty looked grim. Zac shrugged, and then they both turned their backs. She couldn’t tell what he was doing, but it looked like Ty was helping Zac with his preparations.

  She watched below as the bulls—huge, snorting, slobbering beasts were loaded into their chutes. One rammed itself against the panels. Her breath stuck in her throat as another one leaped into the air and tried to climb over the metal rails. The sheer brute strength they demonstrated brought home the danger Ty spoke of. As a spectator, she now understood the fascination, but she was still far from comprehending why these men would risk their lives by taking on such a potentially deadly animal.

  Ty returned a few minutes later with a beer in a red Solo cup.

  “What were you doing down there?” Monica asked.

  “Zac broke his wrist on his last ride. He asked me to help him tape it up.”

  “He’s going to ride with a broken wrist?”

  “Sure. Could be a lot worse. He’s ridden with a broken leg before. Zac is iron to the core.”

  “Cowboys.” Monica shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  “Bull riders,” he clarified. “They are a breed apart, Monica.”

  “Are they stupid too?” she asked. “How can he hold onto the bull if his wrist is broken?”

  “He’s gonna swap riding hands. It’ll be awkward as hell, but he can’t afford to forfeit. He only gets a paycheck if he rides.”

  The lights dimmed for the preshow, an elaborate pyrotechnic extravaganza with shooting flames and a pounding, hard-rock beat. The crowd went wild when the riders appeared, entering the arena through circles of flames like some kind of superheroes. The pageantry of it all brought to mind once more the vision of the Roman Coliseum. In the fans’ eyes these cowboys were surely modern-day gladiators.

  “Enjoying the show?” Ty asked with a grin.

  “It’s quite a spectacle,” she laughed.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright with anticipation. His excitement was both palpable and contagious. “Look down there.” Ty pointed. “See that little guy in the black hat? That’s Guilherme Alvaro. He’s the high point leader. Has been for three
years running. Damned good bull rider. He drew X-Treme Vortex, one of the rankest bulls of the tour.”

  “Drew?” she asked. “The riders don’t get to choose?”

  “Nope.” Ty shook his head. “It’s the luck of the draw, and the rankest bulls make for the best rides—if you can make the whistle.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought the goal was just to stay on the bull for eight seconds.”

  “It’s more than that,” Ty explained. “Every rider gets scored on his ride, and every bull gets scored on his bucking. The judges combine those scores for the total ride score.”

  “So you’re saying that making eight seconds doesn’t count for much if the bull’s a dud? Where’s their equipment?” Monica asked. “Isn’t there some kind of special saddle or something?”

  Ty laughed. “The only equipment a bull rider uses is a rope, a glove, and his spurs.”

  “What’s that bell for?” she asked, pointing to the first rider’s bull rope.

  “It gives the rope some weight so that it falls off as soon as the rider comes off the bull’s back.”

  “Is it true they tie it around the bull’s genitals to make him buck?”

  “No, Monica. What you’re thinking of is called the flank strap. It goes around the bull at the level of his flanks and never touches his testicles. That’s a total fallacy propagated by ignorant animal activists,” Ty scoffed. “The flank strap acts as a minor irritant to encourage bucking, but it doesn’t hurt ’em a lick. These bulls love to buck. It’s what they live for. They’re bred purely for athletic performance and are treated as well as any high-dollar thoroughbred racehorse.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Well, now you do,” he said with a curt nod.

  The announcer’s voice interrupted to introduce the first bull and rider. “Keep your eyes on the middle chute down there.” Ty nodded to where a cowboy was poised above the animal’s back. “When that gate flies open you’re going to see bovine hell breaking loose.”