Weston's Trouble (Saddles & Second Chances Book 3)

by Rhonda Lee Carver

  While the barrels were being rolled through an open gate, bulls were being loaded into the holding pen. Jessa scanned the row of bulls and tightened her hold on the top rail of the fence. Some were already snorting and pawing the dirt. Anticipation shimmied down her spine at what was to come. They were massive, muscular, unpredictable creatures, and she respected anyone brave enough to climb onto the back of a beast. Not everyone was courageous enough to take the eight-second ride.

  The crowd grew thicker around her, blocking her in and pressing her against the fence. Good thing her claustrophobia wasn’t as bad outdoors or she’d be having a panic attack about now. She squirmed and the cowboy to her left flashed a smooth smile as if he didn’t mind one bit that she was cuddled close. Yeah, he was handsome, but she wasn’t looking and he didn’t have ice-blue eyes. She was too busy in her career, keeping her head above water.

  Turning her gaze back to the pen, she noticed more cowboys were gathering at the holding pens, preparing to ride. Her gaze automatically stopped at one who was leaning on his elbow against the fence. It was him! The blue-eyed cowboy!

  She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her lungs stung. Inhaling sharply, she stared intently at the stranger who’d gotten more response from her than her ex-boyfriend had when he was naked. Sweat beaded between her breasts and a familiar feeling settled between her legs as she stared.

  Blue-eyes wasn’t shooting the shit like the other cowboys. He seemed focused and intense. There was something about the tall man that set him apart from the rest, beside the fact that she knew what his lips tasted like. Maybe it was because he was at least three inches taller than most of them. Or was it his long, lanky physique? Or the determination she saw in his prominent jaw?

  His black Stetson was pulled low shadowing his face so she couldn’t make out his facial features, but she didn’t need to see to know they were as attention-getting as the rest of him. Clad in ass-hugging denim and leather chaps, blue plaid button down, with his rope hung over his broad shoulder, he was the perfect vision of a cowboy. Her mouth watered. She remembered how good his lips felt and the scent of leather lingered on her skin from his touch.

  Someone waved him over to climb atop his bull.

  He pushed off the fence and scrubbed his jaw, readjusting his hat. No sign of uneasiness or worry was in his expression. His shoulders were back and his chin was slightly tilted. She watched him swagger toward the pen as the first bull darted out of the chute. It ended before Jessa even knew what happened because her gaze was locked on Blue-eyes who climbed the holding chute. He moved confidently, showing off his skills. He lightly stepped on the bull’s back as if to test for reaction. The bull snorted loudly, shook his head back and forth, and pawed at the dirt. The cowboy’s jaw tightened. Was he questioning why he’d decided to do this? Would he change his mind? No, she could tell he was a man who never backed down from a challenge.

  Once he climbed atop the bull’s back, he secured his fist in the rope, scooted closer on the beast’s neck and pushed his hat higher on his forehead. Her heart lurched into her throat. From her standpoint, she could see the glint in his amazing eyes, the set of his chiseled cheeks…and she swore he looked familiar, like she’d met him before the incident at the barn.

  The cowboy standing next to her spat a large wad of chew into the dirt and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “He’s been out of the scene too long. Pretty boy won’t make the cut, I tell you. That bull’s gonna send him for a dirt bath and a trip to hell. Just like the last.”

  She wasn’t sure who the man was talking to, but she leaned closer. “Who is that exactly?”

  The man gave her a side-glance. “That’s Jace Jackson. Back in his twenties he was the best damn rider I’d seen until he was dumped and suffered an injury to his leg and back. Then he disappeared. They talked him into coming back for charity. Pfft. Ain’t worth it, I say. Looks like he drew the rankest bull. No way in hell he has a chance staying saddled.”

  Jace Jackson. Jace Jackson? She rolled the name around in her head. How did she know him? Ignoring the vulgar exchange between the men surrounding her, she concentrated on the one cowboy who had her undivided attention. She suddenly felt sympathetic for him, didn’t want to see him wounded. The mad bull seemed angry, and had gotten a reputation for rearranging a good amount of cowboy faces. It’d be a shame if anything happened to any part of Blue-eyes.

  *****

  Straddling the bull, Suicide, Jace stayed focused on his routine, not allowing the act of the bull banging his head against the rail to detour his thoughts.

  Although he hadn’t been on the back of a bull in years, it was like riding a bike. It was second nature to him. He held the bull’s rope tightly, easing himself deeper into position and leaning over its massive shoulders to gain more control. The beast snorted loudly and pawed the dirt, sending up a dust cloud. A shiver of anticipation raced through Jace as he prepared to hold on for dear life or be dumped onto his ass. A thought of his last ride shot through his head. He’d been at the top of his career when he’d been knocked to the ground, his bones broken by a bull much like Suicide. Jace blew the memory away, gritting his teeth. Either way, the charity would still get its money, yet he wasn’t sure how he’d allowed Chase to convince him into this shit.

  Jace wasn’t sure he was ready to face the fire of the hooves after ten years of retirement.

  Really, he knew why he’d agreed. This was his second chance—his last chance—to prove that he could stay on for eight seconds. He wanted to walk away proudly, not on a stretcher incapable of moving, something he didn’t get years ago.

  “Got that, Suicide? I’m walking away after I take my win,” he whispered.

  The bull snorted.

  Nothing could prepare a rider entirely for climbing on the back of a three-quarter ton beast that was about as predictable as a rattlesnake. Bull-riding compared to nothing else. It ranked up there with the highest of high—the ultimate height of senses. His nerves were on edge and his spine tingled. His toes curled in his worn boots. His ass clenched. It was good to feel…really feel, again.

  Before he left the rodeo, he was like any other bull rider, searching for a bigger and better eight-second adrenaline rush. Just being here, legs straddling Suicide’s back, made Jace sweat. A rider couldn’t have an ego in this position, and yet he couldn’t allow his fear to give the bull bigger balls.

  He closed off his senses to every sound around him as he concentrated on his even breathing and the feel of the bull’s heavy breaths on the back of his thighs. Jace could hear his own heartbeat thumping, the sound of his blood pumping through his veins. The smell of dirt, sweat, and manure swirled around his nostrils making his stomach twist, threatening to send up the lunch he’d eaten.

  Looking up into the bright blue sky, he said a silent prayer, then raised his right arm. The click of the gate unlocking triggered every muscle to tighten. He gave his nod to the chute man.

  Suicide shot out of the chute like a reckless hurricane, bucking madly and coming down hard onto his front hooves and arching. Jace leaned into the bull’s wide shoulders as he held on for the wild, unpredictable ride. Suicide took off for center of the pen, pounding the dirt, kicking up a tornado. Each thrashing and recoiling of the bull’s large body whipped Jace around, testing his strength and endurance. The animal jerked to the left, then quickly to the right, and Jace followed each frenzied lurching motion and spin, and rough dive forward. The fear of hitting the dirt and being gorded was the inspiration that kept him steady on Suicide’s back. He squeezed his thighs and relaxed his shoulders some, making his flinging body more flexible against the demanding attempts of the bull to send him flying.

  Not this time.

  The bull snorted as he continued his battering acrobats. He was a trained animal coming up with every bold effort to buck his rider off. Concentrating on Suicide’s head helped Jace get an idea what the bull would do next and which direction he’d take. He sunk his fist
deep into the beefy, tight shoulders as they continued the rodeo dance, human and bull both stubborn and refusing to give up and give in. Suicide stomped and bucked his back legs up high, thrashing the air, coming down hard, only to take a fast lunge forward sending Jace slipping sideways, but he caught himself.

  Good try, but still not happening.

  The buzzer finally sounded just as the bull bounced again, refusing to give the cowboy the win. Suicide lowered his horns and rolled his head before jerking up to the right sending Jace to the left. He felt his grip loosen as his body bounced up and came down hard. The bull proved why he was named Suicide.

  As man and bull whirled around the pen, there were blurred glimpses of a bullfighter struggling to gain the attention of Suicide who, when finally noticed they weren’t alone, stopped, snorted loudly, pawed the ground, and started for the bullfighter who raced for the fence. The bull whizzed on by with Jace still holding on tightly. The jumping, beating, and charging continued, the bull keeping him hostage.

  Several more bullfighters joined the first, waving their arms and dodging the pissed off bull. Jace understood the longer he was on the bull’s back, the more chance he wouldn’t get off without injury. His bones were jarred and his ribs ached, but he knew it could get worse. He was lucky to be alive.

  Repositioning his fist on the rope, Jace waited for the first opportunity to abandon his perch. Suicide was growing tired too and his thrashing slowed some, or maybe he was luring Jace to make an impulsive decision.

  They rounded the arena. Cheers from the crowd made it through Jace’s tunnel hearing.

  Loosening his hold, he took a long draw of breath and went for broke, slamming hard on his side into the dirt. He could hear one of the bullfighter’s yelling, “Watch out! He’s coming!” as Jace scrambled to his feet. Suicide’s heavy snorts and pounding hooves vibrated the ground like a pack of wild horses. The fence was close. Ten feet. Five feet. Then two feet until Jace grabbed hold of the rail, swinging himself up, barely missing the sharp horns of Suicide as he sprinted by.

  A bullfighter grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him to safety. “Shit, Jackson. That was close.”

  Blinding, burning pain clutched his ribcage. Ah, shit! He’d broken a rib.

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