“He may be young, but he’s got a world of experience behind him,” Ace chimed in, his easy tenor a nice counterpoint to Tyrell’s bass. “A lot of our fans may remember his uncle, Sterling, who dominated this circuit back in the late eighties, and made two trips to the National Finals Rodeo.”
In the nearby seats, Shawnee saw some of the older audience members nodding and sitting a little straighter, paying attention to a cowboy they might otherwise have overlooked. Deep in her chest, a tiny, warm bubble swelled. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it pride. More like not-embarrassment. For once Ace was making a contribution to something other than her stress levels.
As the cowboy lowered himself into the chute, Hank gestured to Cruz to move farther left, where he would be in position to help if the rider got into trouble but wouldn’t catch the bull’s eye and distract him out of his standard right-handed spin. Amazing. When Hank stepped into the arena, he was a different person. The goofy knucklehead disappeared and he was all business. Last year he’d ditched the soccer shorts and gone retro—baggy Wrangler cutoffs and suspenders with yellow and red bandanas tied like flags to the belt loops—worn today over a flowered fuchsia pearl-snap shirt.
The bulls couldn’t miss Hank, which was the point. His goal was to be a more attractive target than the cowboys. He stood now, hands on thighs, and shouted “Give ’im the gas!”
The rookie nodded his head. Master Assassin took one jump, then cranked it back to the right only feet from the chutes, just as advertised. The cowboy sat square in the middle of a storm of spinning, head-slinging beef, hips solid, chest out, feet hustling to keep him there. Six seconds. Seven. With each lunge the bull got him strung out a little farther, his chin coming up and his free arm whipping back over his head. Shawnee held her breath, willing the kid to hang on just a little longer…
Right when the eight-second whistle blew, his hand popped out of the rope. His feet flipped up and he flew backward, heels over head, just as Assassin kicked high and hard. His hips slammed into the kid’s shoulders and flung him into the front of a steel chute gate. He flopped to the ground, limp.
When the bull swung around, Cruz was there, stepping between the cowboy and the irate animal. Assassin caught him in the chest and tossed him against the chutes, too. Cruz bounced off and sprawled, belly down, shielding the cowboy with his body.
Shawnee spurred her horse into motion, a stride behind Cole, as Hank jumped at the bull, yelling and slapping its head. Assassin took the bait, charging after him. Hank sprinted along the front of the chutes and dove under the turn-back fence a whisker ahead of the pounding hooves.
“Lead him off!” Cole yelled at Shawnee. “I’ll get in behind and rope him.”
She and Salty sideswiped the enraged bull to get his attention and make themselves his next target. He wheeled around and charged after them. She hustled Salty to stay ahead while Cole reined in behind, rope swinging. Before he could release his loop, Assassin rammed his head into Salty’s butt, blocking the shot.
“Look out!” Cole shouted.
Shawnee glanced ahead. Fuck! They were already at the fence. Salty skidded, then whirled, but the instant’s hesitation was enough. The bull drove his head under the horse’s flank, lifted him off his feet, and threw him onto his side, so fast Shawnee barely had time to think oh shit before she slammed into the dirt. She tried to kick free of the tangle of bull and horse, but her heavy chaps were pinned under the saddle. For an instant, she saw nothing but the bull’s murderous eyes.
Then a flash of fuchsia cut through her field of vision. Hank leapt over Salty’s thrashing legs and threw himself at the bull’s face. Startled, Assassin jumped back and flung up his head, sending Hank hurtling through the air to crash into the turn-back fence. The distraction was just enough to allow Cole to whip a loop around the bull’s neck. He dallied up and Hammer dug in. Master Assassin bellowed with rage as they dragged him away. Committeemen yanked down a section of the flimsy turn-back fence, allowing Cole and the bull out into the bigger arena, clear of the wreckage Assassin had left behind.
Salty scrambled to his feet and shook off the dirt. Since she couldn’t feel any real damage, Shawnee did the same. Cowboys and committeemen came running from every direction, grabbing at her arms and trying to prop her up.
“I’m fine!” she snapped, swatting them off so she could get a look at her horse.
She grabbed the dangling bridle reins and led him a few steps. He showed no sign of a limp. She ran a hand along his ribs and over his flank, probing with her fingers. He didn’t flinch. There were no scrapes or signs of swelling. Shawnee dragged in a huge breath and let it out in a relieved gust.
Back at the chutes, the medical team was huddled around the cowboy. In response to their questions, he gestured with one dirt-streaked hand. At least conscious, then, and not seriously injured, judging by the body language of the medics. A few feet away, Hank paced circles, rubbing the back of his head and shaking out one leg.
“Anything broken?” she asked.
“The fence, maybe. It’s no match for my head. You?”
“We’re good.”
She shooed away the horde of rescuers and climbed on Salty. The crowd roared when Hank gave them an A-OK wave. Salty showed no sign of ill effects as they trotted through the gap in the fence, over to the far corner of the big arena where Cole and Hammer held Master Assassin, thrashing around on the end of the rope. Cole lifted his chin in question. Everybody all right? She nodded and circled around to help herd the bull toward the exit.
She didn’t start shaking until the gate swung shut behind him.
Cole’s hand closed over hers on the reins before she could turn away. “Are you both okay to finish out these last three rides?”
“We’re fine.” She met his gaze and saw, behind the stoic mask, eyes dark with the dregs of fear. “Thanks to you and Hank.”
And no thanks to Shawnee. Her mistake could’ve seriously injured or killed Salty.
“All in a day’s work, right?” She forced her shoulders to square and her chin to come up, and pushed a mulish look onto her face. She could do it. She had to, for the sake of pride if nothing else.
Cole studied her, long and hard, before giving a clipped nod and letting her go.
By the time the final whistle blew, Shawnee had breathed through the worst of the aftershocks. Lord knew, it wasn’t the first time she’d bit the dirt. It wouldn’t be the last. She’d just never stared mutilation in the face while she was lying there, helpless. As Tyrell bid the crowd a good night and safe travels, she dismounted and followed Cole out of the arena, only to be mobbed by people. Cowboys, crew, committeemen, even a few spectators slapped her on the shoulder and patted Salty on the rump.
One drunk tried to do the opposite.
He was shoved aside, and Shawnee found herself face-to-face with her father. He stared at her for a beat, then pushed his hat to the back of his head to swipe at his damp forehead with his shirtsleeve. “I swear, girl, it took ten years off my life, seeing that bull standing over you.”
Shawnee blinked. Had she ever seen Ace express an honest emotion? “Uh…well, it wasn’t real pretty from my angle, either.”
“I don’t imagine.” His arms came up, hesitated, and for a bizarre moment she thought he was going to hug her.
Then she was blindsided by a black-haired whirlwind. “Oh…my…GOD!” Mariah squealed. “I thought you were dead. Or at least maimed.”
“Not until now. If you’ll just let me—”
She started to peel the girl off, but Mariah abruptly let go to fling herself at Hank. “Are you okay? When you hit that fence—”
Oh good Lord. Shawnee allowed herself a small eye roll as she turned back to Ace.
He had disappeared…along with the fleeting connection between them.
Chapter 26
Cole forced himself to keep walking, his need
to get clear of the crowd warring with his instinct to scoop Shawnee up and haul her off to his trailer. He needed to know that she was all right. Run his hands over every inch of her. Every inch of Salty. Hands that wanted to shake as he pulled the bridle off of Hammer and replaced it with a halter. Cole loosened the cinches, tied them up, then pulled the saddle and blanket off and stowed them in the trailer, every movement tightly controlled.
Then he turned around, walked over to the nearest stock truck, and slammed his palm into the side of the aluminum trailer.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
“I’m sorry,” a voice said quietly behind him.
He whirled around to find Shawnee standing there, Salty at her side, watching him with her mouth pressed into a tight line. She stepped forward to tie Salty beside Hammer. The two horses touched noses, a silent you okay?
Shawnee stripped off her chaps and flung them over the tailgate of the pickup. “I screwed up. Lost my bearings. I’m just glad—” She braced both hands against the pickup and hissed a curse between gritted teeth. “Salty could’ve been seriously hurt because of my mistake.”
“Your mistake? You followed orders.” He was used to the tight quarters of the turn-back arena. And in his place, without a clear shot at the bull’s head…“If I’d led him off and let you do the roping, you would’ve heeled him before he got to me.”
She thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Most likely. But that’s not the way you’re used to working with Violet.”
“You’re not Violet.”
“Thank God for that. Leave me in charge of Beni for more than five minutes and your ranch would be a pile of smoking ruins.” She drew in a long breath and let it hiss out, the tension easing from the line of her jaw. She angled him a look he couldn’t quite read, but it made things go loop-de-loop in his stomach. “So I forgot where I was. You forgot who I was. But we all still lived happily ever after. How ’bout we don’t do that again?”
Cole shocked them both by laughing, a single, choked hah! “Sounds like a plan.”
“Excellent.” She slapped the tailgate and turned back to her horse. “Let’s get these guys put away. They earned their oats tonight, and I’m sure you want to inspect Salty from nose to tail.”
Cole took a swift step forward to block her path. “What about you?”
“My nose and tail are fine, thanks.”
“Are you sure? I’d be happy to look them over.”
She made a shocked face. “Whoa! Are you actually flirting, Cole Jacobs?”
“I…might be.” He had to stop and think about it. Yes. By God, he thought he was. He eased a little closer. “Is it working?”
His breath hitched as she pressed her palm to his stomach, just above his belt buckle, and slid it slowly, slowly up until she reached the top button of his shirt. She dipped a finger inside and outlined the V of exposed skin at his throat. His heart jumped up to meet her touch.
“I dunno,” she said, low and husky. “How’s it working for you?”
He was paralyzed, a raccoon frozen in the spotlight by that brush of her fingertip. If he so much as breathed, she might stop.
Don’t stop. Oh God, don’t stop…
A throat cleared, loud and exaggerated, somewhere in the near vicinity. Cole paid no attention. Whoever it was could just go screw themselves. He almost whimpered when Shawnee’s hand fell away.
“Don’t mind me,” Hank said. “Just grabbing some ice out of the cooler for my poor, aching knee.”
Cole thought about offering to strangle the punk so he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore, but Shawnee went to take a look.
“Ouch.” She examined the rapidly purpling bruise under the floodlight on the side of Cole’s trailer. “You’re sure it’s just a bruise? No ligament damage?”
“Nah.” Hank scooped ice into a plastic bag, twisting and knotting the top with a swiftness born of long practice. “But you definitely owe me a beer.”
Shawnee’s expression went somber. “More than that.”
“Yeah?” Hank shot Cole a sly glance, then grinned at her. “Sorry, but I don’t think the boss man would be cool with me taking it out in trade.”
The growl was out before Cole could stop it. Hank laughed gleefully and sauntered off, no doubt to spread the news far and wide that he’d seen Cole and Shawnee doing…something?
Shawnee stared after him, hands on hips. “How can he be so awesome one minute, and such a complete dipshit the next?”
Cole just shook his head.
Shawnee pulled a Gatorade out of the cooler, unscrewed the top, and took several long gulps. Then she strolled over and offered it to him, deliberately turning the bottle so his mouth would touch the same spot as hers. The tip of her tongue toyed with the corner of her top lip as she watched him drink. Heat shot through him, so white-hot he was surprised the Gatorade didn’t turn to steam and shoot out his ears.
She smiled and reached up to flick a knuckle along his jaw. “Later for that, cowboy. We’ve got stock to feed.”
And she sauntered off to unsaddle her horse.
If Cole had owned a bullwhip, he would’ve been cracking it that night, trying to hustle everyone through the chores. Geezus, could they move any slower? Then the president of the rodeo committee showed up because of course he’d told the local newspaper reporter that of course Salty would be examined by the official rodeo veterinarian. As if Cole couldn’t be trusted to look after his own horse.
“I can’t believe he went right back after that bull,” the committee man said. “I thought he’d be traumatized for life.”
Cole shook his head. “These are war horses. A bull hits one of ’em, it just pisses ’em off.”
Once the vet was satisfied, they wanted to dissect the whole incident, quizzing Cole about how they could minimize the danger of a reoccurrence. When they finally cleared out, Cole practically ran for his trailer and dove into the shower. He took the time to shave and slap on something that smelled a whole lot better than horse sweat and manure. Then he considered his clothing options and was stymied all over again.
What exactly did you wear to a…whatever this was? Good underwear was a given. No saggy butts or fraying elastic. He hoped she liked boxer briefs because that’s all he had. And jeans. Was clean good enough, or should he wear the new ones? And what kind of shirt? He didn’t want to look like a slob, but it seemed silly to put on something he’d ironed when, with any luck, it’d get tossed on the floor two minutes after he stepped into Shawnee’s trailer.
Katie rolled her eyes at him, heaved a massive, disgusted sigh, and flopped down on the rug by the table. Finally, Cole settled on a pair of almost new jeans and his Jacobs Livestock polo shirt. Not fancy, but respectable. He pulled on clean socks and boots and stood.
Katie stood, too, eyes bright and expectant.
“Not this time,” he said. “You stay.”
Her eyebrows lowered. She spun around and plunked down again, pointedly showing him her back.
He bailed out the door with only a twinge of guilt, then stopped dead in the middle of the road, stunned. He’d expected to see a light in Shawnee’s window. Instead, her trailer was pitch dark and appeared to be buttoned down for the night. He eased closer, ears straining for the sound of the television or a radio. Nothing. Even when he stood outside her door, he couldn’t detect any hint of movement.
If she was waiting for him, she’d see him standing there, right? Unless she’d given up and gone to bed because he’d dawdled too long. He waited. A minute. Then another. The trailer remained dark and silent. His heart sank, then crawled off into a corner to sulk. After another couple of minutes, Cole joined it, slinking back to his own trailer, flinging his clean clothes into a pile on the floor and crawling into bed to toss and turn and curse until, at two o’clock, he kicked off the single sheet.
Katie smirked at him while he y
anked on his rattiest old T-shirt and jeans to make his nightly rounds. Being a Wednesday, the beer garden had closed at ten, so any partiers were long gone. The bulls and horses were all dozing contentedly—damn their smug hides—and he didn’t hear a single voice as he made his tour of the arena and contestant parking areas.
He appeared to be the only living creature awake on the entire rodeo grounds, other than Katie. He stomped along, head down, kicking at pieces of gravel until he rounded the last corner of the grandstand. When he looked up, his pulse leapt into overdrive. It looked like he wasn’t the only one awake after all.
The light in Shawnee’s trailer was on.
Chapter 27
Shawnee’s heart jolted when she saw the beam of Cole’s flashlight appear around the end of the grandstand. She flopped onto her back and pressed her palms into the mattress, barely able to hear his footsteps over the pounding in her ears. Crunch, crunch, crunch…closing in fast. Damn, the man could cover ground in a hurry when he put his mind to it. Every step was like the twist of a key, winding up a spring inside her.
Thud!
She shot off the bed at the single, deep knock. Her palms were damp as she smoothed one hand down her green nightshirt and the other over her hair. Geezus. You’d think she’d never done this before. She took a deep breath and forced herself to walk slowly to the door.
It was like kicking open the hatch of an airliner, midflight. The sight of him—a mountain of hard, rumpled male—sucked the air out of the trailer. Shawnee had to grab the door frame to keep from being dragged with it by his sheer gravity. A squiggle of unexpected apprehension tickled her chest.
Damn. That was a lot of man.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
She nodded, any cool, teasing words wiped from her mind as she stared at his chest. His T-shirt was ragged around the collar and worn so thin she could see the outline of his nipples. Suddenly, she absolutely got why men loved wet T-shirt contests. She dragged her gaze up to meet his and lost another chunk of her vocabulary. His eyes were doing that hot, smoking thing, and his hair looked like she’d already been running her fingers through it. Stiff, starched Cole was nowhere in sight, and she wasn’t quite sure how to handle what had shown up in his place.
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