Rodeo Dreams

by Sarah M. Anderson

  Why couldn’t he make her see sense? She was being stubborn for stubborn’s sake. “You should be worried about guys like Red or Mitch, or the hicks who hang around after a show, hoping to pick up the bunnies the riders cast off. Those are the guys I’m trying to protect you from. It would behoove you to remember that.” At least, he was pretty sure that’s what behoove meant.

  She glared at him, but he stood his ground, even though it hurt like hell. “And you.”

  “I told you, I wouldn’t do anything without the right invitation—and I’m a man of my word,” he shot back.

  She tilted her head to one side. All that black-silk hair draped over her side. What would it feel like, wrapped around his hands? What would she feel like?

  “I just want to ride,” she said, the toughness gone from her voice. “I’m not out here to take you down. I...” She dropped her gaze, staring at the tips of her boots as she scuffed one against the dirt. He couldn’t tell in the dim light but it sure looked like she was blushing. “I just want you to believe I can do it.”

  What—she wanted his approval? “And I just want you to be safe. If you won’t do the smart thing and quit, at least get a damned helmet. You got lucky on Hallowed. You have no idea what some of these bulls are capable of.”

  A helmet wouldn’t have prevented his wreck, but it would have saved him that shattered jaw and a half-dozen surgeries. If he couldn’t keep her off a bull, the least he could do was try to keep her from getting herself killed.

  She shrugged. Standing there with her hands in her pockets and her head cocked to one side, she seemed more like a woman and less like a bull rider. “I don’t know what they’re capable of?” She snorted. Anything soft or tender about her seemed to disappear into the night sky. “I’ll take my chances, Mister Younkin.”

  She sounded confident—but didn’t they all? How many times had he said that himself, right before he climbed up on a bull and walked the line between winning and throwing his life away?

  She got into the car—now, up close, he could see it was a slightly rusty Crown Victoria, like the cops used to drive. In fact, he thought he could even see the faint markings where 911 used to be.

  “It’d matter if you got a bull like No Man’s Land. A bad draw can destroy you.”

  If she knew anything about bull riding— anything about him—she’d know he was right. This wasn’t about her being a pretty little thing or him being a has-been. This was a matter of life and death.

  She looked up at him from the front seat, the door still open. “It doesn’t matter, Travis. Not even if it’s No Man’s Land.” He gaped at her. How could a woman as smart as she claimed she was be so damned stupid? “I’ll ride what I draw. You’d do the same.” Then she shut the door, as if she’d won the argument.

  “But what if you get hurt?” he shouted over the roar of the engine.

  She rolled down the window. “This isn’t about you, Travis,” she said softly. “It never has been.”

  He wanted to scream that of course it wasn’t about him—this was about her! But before he could get the words out, she gunned the engine, shouting, “See you in Mesquite!” as she took off, gravel flying out from her wheels and that dog barking wildly from the backseat.

  She was going to Mesquite.

  She was going to ride.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MESQUITE WAS NOT a bad town.

  June kept telling herself this as she slowly cruised the strip with her laptop propped against her thigh, searching for a network connection. She had two days to finish the paper for her Twentieth Century American Frontier class before she had to muscle her way back onto a bull.

  Five days after she’d driven away from Travis Younkin, she was still steamed. He might not be able to keep her out of the arena, but she knew he was going to fight her every single step of the way, the whole time thinking he was being chivalrous and protective.

  The argument in the parking lot ran through her head again. What had he meant, warning her to be careful around Mitch? The one guy open to the possibility of a woman bull rider, and she was supposed to keep her distance?

  And she wasn’t supposed to be worried about Travis? He was the best rider on the circuit and the one who most wanted her gone. There’d been a moment when she’d been sure he was going to press the issue in a physical way...

  Except he hadn’t. He’d stepped back. Yes, he’d called her sweetheart, but he hadn’t kissed her. Because she hadn’t invited him to.

  She shivered at the memory of how he’d looked at her when he’d said he was a man of his word. He’d wanted to kiss her, that look had said. Wanted to very much.

  And yet he hadn’t.

  She’d never been a buckle bunny—she’d get her own damn buckle, thank you very much—but in that moment, she’d felt like she was seventeen again, watching Travis Younkin nail ride after amazing ride and wondering what it would be like to chase just the one buckle—his.

  He’d proven himself to be an honorable man. The wreck on No Man’s Land hadn’t changed that. If anything, it had made Travis, the bull rider, more fascinating. He’d survived something that would have killed a lesser man and come back for more. Clearly, he was something more.

  He was an honorable man who didn’t want her to ride.

  Fine. That was the way it was. He was another man she had to prove wrong. The only difference was, she was attracted to this man. And that was a problem. When Red hit on her, he was trying to put her in her place—let her know she was nothing more than a girl among men. But Travis? He took her need to ride as a personal insult.

  All the more reason for her to get on a bull in two days’ time.

  Finally, she spotted Apollo Coffee Shop. Coffee shops usually had free Wi-Fi. Free was the important point.

  Jackpot! She had a connection. She parked as far away from the building as she could while maintaining the link.

  It had taken a lot of planning to get permission to finish her final semester online. She’d taken several courses out of order, and curried serious favor with important professors to make sure the chips would fall in her favor. She’d even invited the Native Studies chair to a tribal wedding and funeral so that he could document indigenous ceremonies firsthand.

  If there was one thing June hated, it was being documented.

  But it had paid off. She would finish her final eighteen credit hours online. She’d left campus during spring break and driven to the Illinois rodeo to twist Mort’s arm into letting her on the TCB Ranger Circuit.

  That had been the deal. Her boss, Joseph Yellow Robe, and the Real Pride Ranch he owned, would kick in the seed money if—and only if—she finished college. He hadn’t been happy about her long-distance learning plan, but she’d convinced him that the sooner she got on a professional bull and earned enough money to live above the poverty line, the sooner she’d be able to get back into the classroom as a teacher.

  Right after she finished this paper.

  After her quick purchase, with green tea in one hand, iced water for Jeff in the other, she settled back into her seat. The car was a disaster zone, what with Jeff shedding on the sleeping bag in the back and two days of fast-food wrappers all over the place, but it was easier to think about the New American Frontier out here than inside where hipsters and past-their-prime yuppies blew wads of cash she didn’t have on organic, shade-grown, fair-trade coffee.

  At least tonight, she could crash at a friend of a friend’s—if they were home. No one had picked up the phone yet.

  “Could be another night in the car,” she muttered. Another in a long string of nights in the car. On hot nights, Jeff slept on the floor, legs twitching as he chased prairie dogs and jackrabbits in his sleep. On cold nights, he hefted his bulk onto the backseat with her. “We c
an handle the car, right, boy?” The only response she got was his wet nose on the center console, and the thump of his tail in the back. At least one male liked her.

  She dove into her work.

  * * *

  FOUR HOURS LATER, June was far more interested in getting a third cup of tea than in the sociopolitical tensions of the New Frontier. All she could do was watch the people and hope her eyeballs uncrossed sometime soon.

  Even from the parking lot, the people-watching was good. Mesquite was a hopping place at rush hour. Standard pickups dominated the traffic, but there were also minivans and sedans.

  Traffic hadn’t just picked up at the intersection. People were pouring into the Apollo drive-thru. Still, the actual parking lot was fairly empty. Not another car within four spaces.

  Until a Bronco that sounded like it had left its muffler by the side of some dirt road pulled in three spaces down from her. The windows were tinted, but the passenger’s was down, and what sounded like old-fashioned country music wafted toward June. She had a clear view of the occupants and darn it, she couldn’t help taking a look.

  The passenger removed his cowboy hat. The dark hair, the carved jaw—was that the Brazilian?

  June watched in shock as the Brazilian leaned over and apparently kissed the heck out of someone. That someone was kissing him right back. She could only see the back of the Brazilian, but hands were everywhere as the two threw caution to the wind.

  What little she knew of the guy said he wasn’t the kind who made out in the front seat of a Bronco in a parking lot. She knew she shouldn’t look, but she couldn’t stop. The kiss went on and on. And on.

  She looked away to blot out the hot and heavy next door, and found herself thinking about the glimpses she’d had of Travis Younkin unbuckling his pants behind a see-through gate.

  Not that she’d seen much—all the guys wore compression shorts underneath their jeans for support—but still, he’d been a whole lot closer to naked than he had been when the jeans were up. She’d seen the tail end of a wide, raised scar just below the bottom of his shorts. It’d made her hurt for him.

  Despite the scar, he’d still had the kind of Wrangler butt cowgirls sang songs about. His legs were muscled, the tight bike shorts highlighting each curve—and bulge. Not that she was the kind of girl who stared at bulges. Not for very long, anyway. Just enough to know that he bulged in all the right places. Combined with the intense way he looked at her and that near-beard he wore? If she wasn’t so mad at his overbearing, Travis-knows-best attitude, she’d be forced to admit that the man was hot. Well, he’d always been hot. But now he carried a certain amount of smolder about him. She wondered if he even realized how attractive he was. Probably not. He hadn’t acted like a man who knew he could turn a woman on with one focused gaze.

  Luckily, the chances of someone forcing her to admit that Travis Younkin still had it were slim and none. She couldn’t let her appreciation of the hotter things in life distract her. And she wouldn’t. She needed to ride to earn enough money to get off—and stay off—welfare, but more than that she wanted to prove she was good enough to ride with the big boys.

  That she was good at something.

  Finally, the action in the Bronco broke up. When the Brazilian turned to put his hat back on, she hoped to hell she was invisible. That didn’t stop her from watching the Brazilian in her rearview mirror as he walked into Apollo, next to—

  Next to a tall, gangly cowboy?

  Mitch?

  Mitch Jenner?

  June spun around in her seat, wondering if her eyes had crossed too far, but the image didn’t change. Two cowboys were walking into Apollo. They weren’t touching—they didn’t even look like they were talking, which was much more par for the course.

  The Brazilian? And Mitch?

  “Jeff, you stay put,” she said as she shoved her laptop back into her bag and crammed it under the front seat. Within seconds, she was out of the car, trying to look casual as she checked out the Bronco. The Brazilian had left the window down, and it was obvious there was no one else in there.

  The Brazilian. And Mitch. Making out in the Apollo parking lot. And then acting like they hadn’t.

  What the heck was she supposed to do now? If this were common knowledge, it would be common enough that she’d know it. After all, she knew that the Preacher was married, and that wasn’t nearly as scandalous as gay bull riders.

  Her mind still reeling, June found herself walking into the coffee shop. She would have that third cup of tea. Heavy on the milk.

  “Hey, Girlie!”

  “Mitch! The Brazilian! Funny meeting you here.”

  The Brazilian was watching her closely. Had he seen her sitting in her car?

  “He likes to get here early, scope out the arena, get the lay of the land,” Mitch said, nodding to the Brazilian and answering the wrong unasked question as he ordered two black coffees. “Do the tourist thing. Buy postcards for the folks back home.”

  “So, you two are travel buddies?”

  “Sure,” Mitch said, still as casual as could be. “I’m trying to teach him English, but he don’t learn so good. I think he’s got a lousy teacher, though. What about you? You’re here early.”

  That was a nice redirection. “Finishing my senior year online. I’ve been working on a paper.”

  “And Apollo has Wi-Fi? Smart.” He reached over and playfully tapped her forehead, but then his finger trailed down the side of her face. Was he flirting? “You’re one smart cookie, Girlie.”

  Girlie? Cookie? Maybe Mitch had a thing for Bogart movies.

  The Brazilian tapped Mitch with the tip of his boot. She barely caught the movement. “Oh, yeah. He wants to know where you learned to ride,” Mitch said, dumping four sugars into his coffee. The Brazilian left his black.

  Mitch got all of that from the nudge of a boot?

  “On this ranch on the edge of the reservation where I grew up. Just some crazy kids with a whole lot of cattle to keep tabs on.”

  “Ah, an organic cowgirl. I bet you run some mean barrels, too.”

  June blushed. “Well, actually...”

  Mitch looked her up and down, his eyes moving so slowly that June felt heat flush her cheeks. “So, if you’re an all-around cowgirl, what are you doing here riding bulls? I understood that there was a lot of money in barrel racing.”

  That question. Again. It was always some version of, What’s a nice girl like you doing on a bull like this? She narrowed her eyes. “This is who I am and I don’t have to apologize to anyone for that, you know?”

  Neither man moved. She saw the look that passed between the two of them. Then the Brazilian’s gaze darted out to the parking lot.

  “So,” Mitch said, as he moved to a table by the window, “where are you parked?”

  It was true. Mitch and the Brazilian were a couple. “The Crown Victoria out there. My mutt Jeff’s in the back. He’s my traveling partner.”

  “Your mutt Jeff? Mutt and Jeff? Cute, Girlie.” He still sounded normal, but his eyes had an edge that said secret, loud and clear.

  She needed to get this train back on track—and fast. Mitch and the Brazilian were the closest thing she had to allies right now. She couldn’t undermine that support. “Hey, just so you know, I really appreciated your help last week. I don’t think Travis would have let me on that bull if you two hadn’t backed me up.” She knew she still would have gotten on Hallowed, but thanks to Mitch and the Brazilian she hadn’t had to force the issue. “You said you’d seen me ride?”

  Mitch appraised her for a second, his mouth still smiling and his eyes still not. After a quick glance over at the Brazilian, he followed her lead. “Last summer, I broke my arm in a few new and interesting places. I went home to Wyoming to heal up and spend some time with my momma.”

  She’d been
in Wyoming in August. “At Cheyenne?” Just some local rodeo, but five other women had shown up, ready to ride. The closest she’d come to a real competition yet.

  “Couldn’t stay away, cast or not.” He snickered. “Downright painful to watch all those amateurs out there being bucked off fifth-class bulls in three seconds. I could have won that one, hands down.” He sighed wistfully. “I remember you. You and those other girls—on the same bulls. You made the eight seconds in both the long go and the short go—one other girl made six, right?” June nodded in appreciation. She was flattered he remembered. “You don’t forget a name like Spotted Elk,” he added.

  “Can you believe I only got three hundred and fifty dollars and the hotel room for that? The winning guy went home with fifteen hundred dollars, and I had a better score!” Frustration bubbled up again. She was just as good as the men, but was always paid a fraction of the purse.

  “I know. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Damn straight. If I can get past the egos out there and get on the bulls, I can ride with the best of them.”

  “Not gonna be easy,” Mitch said with a snort. “This is Travis’s comeback year—if Red doesn’t knock him out first.” The Brazilian nodded.

  “Who’s the bigger problem?”

  Mitch made a big show of blowing on his coffee and then testing it carefully. “So, how did you get your TCB permit?”

  The flying lead change whipped June’s head back. “What? How do you know about my permit?”

  “I know lots,” Mitch said, looking like the cat that had a cage full of canaries to choose from. “I know that you lied on the application, slept with Chet Murphy—”

  “The TCB president?” These were the rumors floating about?

  “—that Travis begged and pleaded with Mort to kick you out, and when that didn’t work, he beat the tar out of him, or was it that Mort had it coming after calling Travis a has-been?” The Brazilian wasn’t close to smiling, but his eyes were laughing even as June began to sweat. Had this all really happened? Mitch gleefully continued, “Right. Mort had it coming, and then Travis went to find you and finish the job, or sweep you off your feet, or was it to teach you a lesson?”