Rockin' Rodeo Series Collection Books 1-3

by Vicki Tharp

  “I don’t need a ring, cowboy. All I need is you.”

  He scooped her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he spun her. When he finally put her down, she glanced at her watch, and a saucy smile lifted her lips. He loved that smile. Amazing things happened when she got that smile. Earth shattering, life-changing things. She brushed against his erection. “We still have fifty-three minutes to kill.”

  He stepped her back until her legs hit the bed and she plopped down onto it. He fell on top of her, brushing the empty box and the wrapping paper onto the floor.

  With so little time, he refused to waste any. He stripped them of their clothes in Guinness Book of Records time, his hand coming to rest on the flat of her stomach. He kissed his way from her neck, down between her breasts. Down, down, down to the thatch of hair between her legs. Her breath hitched, and her fingers caught in his hair.

  “If my dad catches us—”

  He flicked his tongue, and she swallowed her words. The rash of goosebumps that broke out over her body brought a devilish grin to his face. “Don’t worry, baby. He hasn’t caught us, yet.”

  Photo Chute

  1

  Ian Murphy stood rigid in front of the tattered oak desk, the one with the stack of old phone books propping up one corner, waiting for his father to stop laughing at him.

  The scent of sweat, grease and old gas sat heavy in his father’s office of Murphy’s Auto Repair, but not as heavy as the must and mold. Ian dug his grease-stained hands deep into the pockets of his work coveralls. “I don’t see what’s so bleeding funny.”

  His father swiped the moisture away from his eyes and took a deep breath but couldn’t hold back one more disparaging chuckle. “You. A cowboy.”

  Patrick Murphy spat the word ‘cowboy’, the way the old biddies at church said the word ‘whore’—a job prospect he might have to revisit if Ian didn’t get that overseas assignment he had his eye on. One more oppressive day at the shop wasn’t an option.

  “Do ye even know which end of the bull has the horns?”

  “I’m not trying to be a cowboy, Da. I’m just going to follow the winter rodeo circuit and photograph them.”

  “Why the bloody hell would ye want to do that?” His father’s Irish brogue was still thick even though his parents had immigrated to New York way before Ian had been brought into the world.

  “To prove to GlobeTrotter Magazine that I can fit in where I don’t belong. That I can become a fly on the stall, so to speak, and get the behind-the-scenes shots the magazine is known for. The people. Their hearts. Their stories. Their humanity.”

  The smile slipped from his father’s face, replaced by that look of derision that usually marred his face whenever he looked at Ian. “For fucks sake, lad, what makes ye think ye can fit in there when ye can’t even fit in here?”

  Can’t argue the truth. All Ian knew was that if he won this contest, he could possibly win one of the magazine’s few coveted international slots.

  A heart murmur had kept him from shipping out to Vietnam, but maybe he could serve his country with his camera. His photographs, his stories, splashed across the center of a magazine seen by millions of people every month.

  If everyone knew his name, he couldn’t be an outcast.

  “I’m a grown man. I’m—”

  “Yer nothin’ but a pup—”

  “I’m twenty-four, Da, and I’m not asking for permission, or even your blessing. All I want to know is if you’ll sell me the old camper. It hasn’t been used since—” Ian cut himself off before his throat got too tight to speak. It had been almost fifteen years since his mother’s death, and he still got choked up.

  Unlike his father and older brothers who seemed to have moved on with their lives as if they’d lost their wallet, not their mother or their wife.

  “It hasn’t been used in a long time,” Ian said. “It’s sitting in the repair yard taking up space.”

  The office door opened and Sean, one of Ian’s older brothers, stuck his head in. Sean’s neck was thick like the rest of him. His ginger hair cut short above his ears.

  If his family were suitcases, and you stacked his grandfather, his father, and his two brothers’ side by side, they would be a matched set. Hefty. Rugged. Well made.

  Then there was Ian.

  A scruffier, lighter weight piece thrown in as an afterthought to carry the dirty shoes.

  “Get ye arse back in the bay,” Sean said. “That carburetor won’t change itself, no?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ian said, “Keep your knickers on.”

  Sean flipped him off but closed the door. Ian pulled his wallet out of his pocket and peeled off four, one-hundred-dollar bills from his dwindling stack of cash. “I called around. Four hundred is more than a fair price for that camper.”

  He tossed the bills on top of the grease smudged file folders and repair receipts. Patrick Murphy rarely turned down a fistful of cash.

  His father eyed him but picked up the money and slipped it into the breast pocket of his work shirt, studying him as he buttoned the flap. “You want out of this family that bad?”

  “It’s hard to be out of something you never felt like you were in.” There. He’d said it. Ian waited for his father’s denial.

  It didn’t come.

  “Your mother spoiled you.”

  Spoiled him?

  Heat spit and sparked in Ian’s veins until his heart kicked at his ribs and the blood vessel at his temple ticked. “You call it spoiling when Ma protected me from a father who was quick with his temper and even quicker with a belt? You call it spoiling when Ma pulled me from the bottom of a human dogpile when my brothers—my much older, much bigger brothers—thought it was fun to use me as their personal punching bag?”

  If that was the case, then yeah, he was spoiled.

  “Twas for ye own good, it was. Ye learned how ta fight like a proper lad. Blokes don’t push ye around. No matter what happened, my responsibility ye were. You’d rather I let ye grow up to be a right pussy like yer—”

  Ian’s father cut himself off, his mouth screwing up, his face turning red, as if the unsaid words on his tongue tasted like shite.

  Leaning across the desk, Ian slapped a hand on the wood so hard it reverberated up his arm and into his shoulder. “Like my what?”

  His father stood, his hands on the desk like Ian’s own, his face inches away. Ian smelled the salami on his father’s breath from the deli down the street. “Like your real da.”

  His real father.

  The truth.

  Ian’s breath rushed out in an audible whoosh, the center of his chest stung, and he couldn’t breathe like all those times when his brothers would take him to the ground with a sucker punch to the solar plexus.

  Sweat pricked along Ian’s hairline and his knees went to liquid. He needed to sit before he fell, but he couldn’t let his Da see that he’d landed a stunning blow. Ian straightened, widening his stance, and locking his knees.

  At least that explained why the man in front of him had always treated Ian like a pariah. Or worse.

  It also explained why Ian had never felt like he fit in. Why he wasn’t built like his father and brothers. Why his hair was dark while his father and brothers were fair.

  His mother had cheated.

  Even as the thought came to his head, he couldn’t be mad at his mother. She’d deserved so much better than his father...make that his step-father. “How do you know I’m not yours?”

  “Your mother always wanted a big family, but two screaming babies was enough for me. I had me-self snipped, me did. She thought the problem was her.” His father shrugged. “She said ye were a right miracle, you was.”

  “You didn’t tell her you had a vasectomy?”

  “Had the big blue balls ta prove it.”

  Ian scrunched up his face but couldn’t erase the disturbing mental image. “Who was he?”

  “Never asked.”

  “But all those years, you let Ma believe you thoug
ht I was yours.”

  His father sat, and only shrugged one shoulder as if he couldn’t be arsed to shrug with two. “Acht, she knew, but neither of us let on. I raised ye as my own.”

  “No.” Ian couldn’t keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. “You may have raised me, but I wasn’t treated like one of your own.”

  His father looked back at him, more bored than upset by the accusation.

  “When I was twelve and you caught me looking for my birth certificate because I thought I had been adopted, why didn’t you tell me then?” Why hadn’t he been told he was another man’s bastard?

  Ian didn’t wait for an answer. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t get away from his father, from the garage, from the Bronx, from a life that was never really his, fast enough.

  He strode to the door. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been told. The past was the past. Halfway through the door, he turned back to his father—no, not his father. Ian didn’t even know what to call him now, but he turned back and asked, “If you never knew my real father, how do you know he was a pussy?”

  Patrick Murphy met Ian’s eyes. One corner of his mouth curved into a sneer. “He never claimed ye, did he, lad?”

  * * *

  Two barrels.

  Cora Hayes hadn’t dropped two barrels in a single barrel race since she was ten years old. Now she’d done it twice in a row. She’d lost her groove, and she’d lose the winter circuit buckle if she didn’t find a way to get her groove back.

  “You okay?” Josephine Cox asked, as she sat down beside Cora in the grass on the outskirts of the rodeo parking lot in El Paso, Texas.

  The wind blew fast and hard in that part of Texas where there was nothing around them higher than the curb to block the biting wind. But Cora didn’t even bother to button up her jacket all the way. She’d already lost feeling in the fingers she’d folded around Panache’s lead rope. Her quarter horse gelding, and partner in crime, chomped away at the skinny strands of winter rye fighting through the red Texas clay.

  Cora hadn’t been this far from okay since she’d missed her period a couple months ago. “Not really.”

  Josephine was the only friend Cora trusted enough tell the truth. If anyone else would have asked, she would have screwed on a sickeningly-sweet smile, all teeth and feigned confidence, and said ‘never better’.

  But this was Josephine. Travel partner, bunk mate, best friend.

  “It’s early in the season,” Josephine said. “Don’t let it get to you. We all have bad runs.”

  “Not like this.” Cora gave Panache’s lead rope a light tug, so he wouldn’t be pulling on her arm. He moved a couple steps closer and chomped away at the sweet grass, his blanket buckled tight around his belly, his eyelids heavy as he grazed, half asleep. “I’ve got a call in to the vet to come out and make sure Panache isn’t sore in his shoulders, or if he has a lameness I can’t see. Maybe that new saddle isn’t fitting right.”

  Cora had her knees curled up to her chest for warmth. Josephine snaked her arm through Cora’s. “Honey, save yourself some money. It isn’t the horse, or the saddle. It’s you.”

  Crap. She was afraid of that. Cora closed her eyes. Was it that obvious? “I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried giving him his head. I tried collecting him more. I tried lifting his shoulder in the turn. I tried adding pressure with my inside leg as I go into the first barrel. Nothing is working, and that buck he threw at the second barrel? What the hell was that all about? Panache never bucks.”

  “You’ve got to get back to the basics. Back to what works for you.”

  “No way. We’re not going back to trotting the pattern. Panache would buck me off for sure.” As if he understood her, Panache shook his head and blew out a nose full of dirt.

  “Ewh.” Josephine wiped the horsey snot from the sleeve of her jacket onto her jeans. “That’s not what I meant, either.”

  “Then what?” Cora’s voice rose, unable to squash the exasperation. At this rate she might as well cut her losses and get a job back home at the diner. At least then she’d be ahead in the money.

  “Work with me here,” Josephine said. “What were you doing last season when you were winning all the races that you aren’t doing now?”

  Josephine gave her a little nudge as if that would help Cora jog her memory.

  Newsflash. It didn’t. “For the love of God, woman. Please tell me.”

  “You need to get laid.”

  Cora laughed, letting the derision fly. “No thanks. Been there, done that, had the pregnancy scare to prove it.”

  “I get it. I do. But ever since you gave up men, your runs have looked more amateurish than the kiddie classes on 4–H night.”

  “Have not.”

  Josephine scoffed. “Have too.”

  The wind whipped up. Cora would turn into a human Popsicle if she stayed out much longer. She struggled to her feet and gave Josephine a hand up. With a soft cluck to Panache, the three of them headed back toward the barn. “What do you expect me to do? Go to the bar, pick up the first cowboy I see that strikes my fancy, and take him back to the trailer for the night?”

  “Yes!” The ear-to-ear grin on Josephine’s face reminded Cora of her old geometry teacher’s when she’d answer a question right in front of the class. Cora remembered because it hadn’t happened that often.

  “Silas is driving in tonight,” Josephine continued. “We’re getting a motel.” The way Josephine said ‘motel’, with her eyes all dreamy, you would have thought she’d said ‘palace’, and not meant the short strip of rooms with threadbare carpet and missing shingles on the roof. At least there was no rain in the forecast.

  “I’m not bringing a guy to the trailer.”

  “Why not? You’ll have it all to yourself.” Josephine wasn’t going to let it drop.

  Their boots scuffed across the asphalt parking lot, the barn lights a beacon of warmth up ahead. They kept their arms linked, their bodies hunched together for warmth as they walked beside Panache and used his big muscular body as a walking windbreak.

  “Having the trailer to myself isn’t as much of an enticement as it used to be.”

  For most people on the circuit, motels were reserved for special occasions, like tonight, when the rodeo swung close enough for Josephine’s fiancé, Silas Foss, to drive in for the weekend.

  For the rest of the time, Josephine and Cora lived out of the front tack room of Josephine’s bumper pull horse trailer that she’d outfitted as a mini camper. Emphasis on the ‘mini’.

  “Besides, because of ‘the scare,’” Cora used finger quotes around the word ‘scare,’ “I wouldn’t be able to get a guy to sleep with me even if I wanted to. You’d a thought I was going around poking holes in all my condoms. Trust me, I was way more freaked out than Levi.”

  “No one thinks that.”

  “Sure they don’t.”

  At Panache’s stall, Cora checked hay and water, and sent her horse into the stall. Panache gave Josephine’s palomino a soft nicker in the adjoining stall, touching noses through the bars.

  After removing the halter, her gelding dove nose first into his hay. Cora stepped out as one of the heelers Cora had dated a few times left his stall and walked toward them. The cowboy had always been very good with a rope both on ...and off...a horse. Plus, there was the whole thing about him never being able to turn down a good time. Here was Cora’s chance to prove Josephine wrong.

  Cora leaned in and whispered in Josephine’s ear. “Watch this.”

  Caddo O’Shea was still three stalls away when Cora tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, turned up the wattage on her smile, and forced enthusiasm into her voice. “Hey, Caddo, you up for a beer tonight?”

  Caddo drew up short. All six foot, two hundred and ten pounds of muscle and man. His eyes went wide as if he’d seen a Sasquatch lumbering down the aisle and not a pretty, petite, twenty-three-year-old barrel racer. “Um...hey.” Then he tipped his hat toward Josephine. “Josie.”


  Josephine gave him a little wave. “Hey, Caddo.”

  Cora cocked a hip. “We’re thinking of hitting The Wagon Wheel tonight. Wanna come?”

  “Um... yeah...I gotta,” Caddo glanced back at his horse as if his mare would help him out of a jamb. He hitched a finger over his shoulder towards his stall. “I gotta keep an eye on Flash, she’s been off her feed.”

  Flash lifted her head, a huge hunk of alfalfa sticking out either side of her mouth, her eyes bright, her jaws crunching and munching away.

  Cora’s stomach took a dive. It wasn’t that something was wrong with his horse, it was that something was wrong with her. She knew it, but it still hurt.

  There came a loud whistle behind them, she turned to find Smokey Dunn, Caddo’s team roping partner, standing at the end of the aisle. He made a ‘come on’ motion with his arm. “Get your ass moving, O’Shea, we’re gonna miss our ride to The Wheel.”

  Caddo ducked his head, an apologetic tilt to his lying lips. “I-I better go. Good seeing you girls.” After tipping his hat to them, he jogged down the aisle to catch up with his friend.

  Cora slid her hand through the bars and plucked a piece of hay out of Panache’s forelock. Before they left, Cora double checked the stall latch to make sure it was secure. “See? What did I tell you? I’m tainted. Like a beautiful flower everyone just discovered is poisonous.”

  “There are plenty more where he came from.” Josephine tugged Cora’s arm, walking backward, as she dragged her toward the parking lot. “Come with us. It’s time to get you back in the saddle. What do you have to lose?”

  Cora allowed herself to be hauled back to their trailer, the same way she was going to allow Josephine to haul her to The Wheel. At this point, she was willing to try just about anything to get back to the top of the leader boards.

  They passed a series of indoor chutes as some men from No Bull, one of a couple of roughstock suppliers who brought in all the bulls, the saddle broncs, and the roping steers for the rodeos, offloaded a truckload of calves. The animals bawled and moo’ed, as they pushed and shoved through the chutes, their hot breaths turning to vapor in the cold night air.