“It’s so pretty from up here,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” Knox said. Took a breath. “It’s always good to get a different perspective. It changes your vision of things.”
She glanced at him. He smelled good, the faintest hint of aftershave on his skin.
In fact, the man was dangerously attractive.
He met her eyes, smiled.
She swallowed, and then, because they were in the sky, in the vault of darkness, above the pull of the earth, far enough away for even her demons to be quieted, she leaned over and kissed his cheek.
He froze.
When she leaned away, he looked at her, his eyes wide. He blinked, and it seemed he held his breath.
“Thank you for…” She took a breath. “For being safe.”
He frowned but nodded.
The Ferris wheel brought them to the bottom, and she hopped off. Knox followed her, and they walked out to the edge of the carnival grounds, toward the path that led to the RVs and her tour bus. The lights shone out from her rig, evidence that at least one of the girls had returned.
She turned to Knox.
He smiled down at her.
Her hand twitched, and she longed to press it to his chest, wanting suddenly to feel the timbre of his heart.
“I don’t suppose…” he started.
She shook her head.
His mouth formed a tight line, and he drew in a breath. “It was nice to meet you Kelsey Jones.” It looked like he wanted to say something more. Even reach out to her. Instead he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Stay safe.”
“I promise,” she said.
He smiled, and she didn’t move as he left her there, disappearing into the chaos of the carnival crowd.
At least that’s what she was trying to do.
2
Pretty Kelsey thought he was old. And safe.
Knox couldn’t pry those two bullets from his brain as he stood in the private box overlooking the dusty arena where, in a few moments, Hot Pete would seal his deal with Rafe Noble and NBR-X.
Those days are gone. I’m too…
Old?
Thirty wasn’t exactly old, but sometimes he felt ancient, so much of his life undone. The conversation with Kelsey had kept him awake all night, and he’d finally got up and stood at the ninth-floor window of his Hyatt hotel room, staring down at the carnival lights in the distance. The RV park was dark, but she was tucked away in some trailer.
He couldn’t seem to shake her voice, or her smile, from his brain. The way the wind toyed with tendrils of her sable brown hair falling in tousles around her face. He’d wanted to reach out and run his fingers through it but made a point of keeping his hands to himself.
Especially after seeing the fear in her eyes when she’d stared him down in the stock barn. Jaw tight, ready, it seemed, to fight him.
It had unnerved him. That and her soft, almost apologetic, I sometimes panic about…I have issues—
He’d just had to save her, then. Maybe he didn’t want to know, but whatever had happened to cause her to run—no, flee—from the beer tent had tightened his gut.
He’d thought about that far too long last night.
He knew about fear. And running.
Thank you for being safe.
As he stood at the window, his hand had gone to his cheek, where she’d kissed it. Safe. He was safe, and maybe he didn’t mind that label so much.
But a small part of him wanted to add young and just a little dangerous.
Like Tate.
Except he didn’t have Tate’s charisma or Wyatt’s superstar grin, Ford’s die-hard warrior drive, not even Reuben’s sheer courage.
He’d been gifted with the Marshall family brains. The wisdom to recognize a bull with the right genes to breed buckers. The steel-spine grit to negotiate a contract.
Shoot, he’d turned into his father. No, worse. At least his father had once been a hotshot, fighting wildfires in Montana.
Every one of you were put here for a reason. Find it. Live it.
His dad, in his head again, but this time alongside his own thoughts.
Old. Safe.
Please, let this not be his legacy.
“Good ride,” said a voice, and he turned as Rafe Noble came up next to him.
Tall, rangy, and handsome, the former GetRowdy Bull Riding champion had once graced Times Square’s glittering billboards with his whiskered face, when the bull-riding event landed at Madison Square Garden. Rafe then married a hotel heiress, moved to Texas, and started his own cattle ranch, following in the family business. He’d spent the past few years announcing for the PBR. He’d joined NBR-X on the board of directors, one of the founding organizers.
When Rafe reached out to Knox through his brother Reuben to contract Hot Pete, Knox hadn’t wanted to mention the fact that once upon a time he’d wanted to be like Rafe. In fact, Rafe was only a few years older than Knox, and in his youth, Knox had dreamed of competing against the champion.
Rafe was referring to the young buck who’d just lasted 4.3 seconds on Windwhipper, a Brahma bull with a wicked body roll. The cowboy landed in the dirt and skedaddled to the rail while the cowboy clowns released the bull rope and directed the animal into the exit chute.
“Reminds me of PeeWee, the bull that killed my best friend,” Rafe said quietly. He took a sip of his coffee. “They get a thirst for hurt and go after a cowboy.”
“Hot Pete isn’t that kind of bull. He isn’t a killer. He just knows how to buck,” Knox said.
“This is a family event, but we do want the best,” Rafe said. “It’s a fine line—thrilling the crowd but keeping our cowboys safe.”
“Bull riding is hardly safe,” Knox said. “But Hot Pete won’t run a rider down.”
Hopefully. Gordo had been that perfect mix of bull—feisty in the ring but amiable when the strap came off. “Hot Pete has a 4.52 average buckoff time and so far is unridden. That gives the audience enough of a thrill but keeps the stakes high. He’s a hard bucker, often spins to the inside, but has a wicked back kick and will even twist. And he scores points for the riders—he’s got an average of 41.5. The cowboys like him. But even more than that, he’s smart. He can almost read a rider, know how to throw him.”
Rafe was nodding, his gaze on the red 1,750-pound Braford bull as he lined up in the chute.
Massive, with a white stripe down his face and black eyes, the bull knew how to inspire terror.
Give a show.
Knox had raised him from a bottle. Trained him with a bucker and even once ridden him, back in the early days.
When he was younger, of course.
He was a good animal, and right now he might earn Knox enough cash to invest in a breeder cow named Calamity Jane that he had his eye on. He needed more champions if he wanted to…what? Grow the ranch?
Maybe.
Yes.
Because he’d been bequeathed the family legacy, and he had a responsibility.
The cowboy climbed into the chute. Next to Knox, Rafe drew in his breath.
Perhaps, like Knox, he was lost in history. Remembering winding the rope, sticky with resin, around the beast, of winding the rope around his wrist, knocking his fist tight, then wedging himself up against his bull rope. Knox had always slammed his free fist into his protective vest, just a couple times before breathing in and out hard, three successive breaths.
His lucky routine. Even now he blew out the breaths.
The cowboy yanked up his fringed chaps, then settled his full weight on the bull, his spurs ahead of the ropes.
Gripped the railing with his free gloved hand.
The crowd went deathly quiet.
He raised his hand, and the chute opened.
Hot Pete spun out of the enclosure, into the dirt, yanking the cowboy hard to the outside. The rider hung on like he might be on a carnival ride.
Then Pete jerked forward, his high quarters bucking up. The cowboy jerked forward, cracked his nose on the bull’s h
ead, and instinctively, Knox’s hand went to his nose.
Broken a couple times on a bull’s wide head before he’d been smart enough to ditch his cowboy hat for a helmet.
Blood spurted down the rider’s face, but he had the grit to hang on despite what must be blinding pain.
Pete bucked again and this time twisted in midair.
The rider didn’t have a chance. He flew off in the opposite direction, his grip breaking free of the bull rope. He landed hard, dazed, into the dirt as the clowns chased down Pete, herding him into the exit chute.
A medic had run into the arena, bending beside the young buck. But he came up on his knees, grabbed a proffered gauze pad, and waved to the crowd.
The audience exploded, cheering.
Rafe glanced over at Knox, grinned.
Deal.
“We’ll email you the signed contract,” Rafe said. “Although, are you sure I can’t talk you into bringing Gordo out of retirement? For one epic ride?”
“What, are you going to ride him?”
He recognized the spark in Rafe’s eyes as he grinned. Shrugged.
Knox shook his head. “You have a death wish, Noble.”
Rafe laughed. “You sticking around for the show afterward?”
“The country music concert?”
“My wife’s favorite band is playing. The Yankee Belles. They’re auditioning for a permanent spot on the tour.” Rafe glanced over to where his daughter, seven-year-old Victoria, sat with her mother, the beautiful Katherine—Kitty, as Rafe referred to her—Breckenridge Noble. New York socialite turned rancher’s wife. But more than that, Katherine Noble had added her golden touch to the NBR-X, extricating the hard-rock edge the PBR thrived on and turning it family friendly and even into a charitable event, with their last-night donations at the door for wounded warriors. She wore her dark, sable-brown hair in a ponytail, a pair of jeans, and a pink NBR-X T-shirt that matched her daughter’s.
“I can get you tickets if you and Tate want to go.”
“I think Tate is working tonight. Security.”
“Then come with us. Kitty has backstage passes—you can meet the Belles.”
Oh, that was the last thing he wanted to do—meet the Spice Girls. What he really wanted to do was track down Kelsey, somewhere in this crowd, and show her that he wasn’t quite as old as she made him out to be. For some reason, the cowboy in the ring had ignited something inside him.
The once-upon-a-times and might-have-beens. Maybe he’d go back to the beer tent and get on that mechanical bull, show those yahoos how it’s done.
Or better yet—
You want to ride him, don’t you?
His gaze turned to the final rider, watching as he fought to stay on the animal. He got flipped off after five point three seconds, landing and rolling in the dirt.
Knox’s own gold championship buckle hung in his office back at the ranch.
“Ouch,” Rafe said, making a face as he watched the rider limp off the dirt.
A group of riders on horses came out, riding bareback, doing tricks.
“Can I do that, Daddy?”
Knox looked down to where Victoria, her dark hair a mess of curls, pressed her hands on the glass.
Rafe crouched next to her, drew her into his embrace, between his knees. “Someday, Tori. But wouldn’t you rather run barrels?”
She looked up at Rafe. “I want to ride bulls, like you, Daddy.”
Knox laughed as Rafe made a face, glancing over his shoulder at his wife.
“That’s what you get for being a champion,” Knox said, the closest he could come to admitting hero worship. But what he wouldn’t give for a son or daughter to look at him like that. A wife to grin at him, a twinkle in her pretty eyes.
He was so tired of standing on the sidelines of his life, feeling as if all his chances had passed him by. Tired of being the responsible one who did things right while others reached for their dreams.
Rafe got up as Kitty came up to him and slid her arm around his broad shoulders. “You sure you don’t want to stick around for the concert? It’s right here—in the back of the coliseum. The Yankee Belles are up-and-coming. And all very pretty.” She winked.
Knox gave her a polite smile.
“And in the meantime, I’ll talk you into joining the NBR-X as our Director of Livestock,” Rafe said.
Knox looked at him. “What?”
“You have an eye for good breeding, Knox. You’re developing a reputation in the business for your ability to find the right sires, for pairing them with the right cows. Five of your ranch’s issues have gone on to the PBR finals, and if your new bulls are anything like Hot Pete, then I think they’ll sell for top dollar. I’d like to see you bring that talent to NBR-X’s selection of bulls.”
Really?
The announcer listed off the winners, and the riders came out, waving their hats, collecting their applause. Knox was turning away when the ad for the upcoming concert flashed across the jumbotron.
He stilled, staring at it. Three girls standing, two blondes flanking the center brunette, who drew her straw cowboy hat down with one finger, staring into the screen. Her lips curved in a half smile, a twinkle in those pale blue eyes, and his heart stuttered.
Kelsey?
Except his Kelsey hadn’t been the curvy, show-stopping country star with long black lashes and a look on her face that made his mouth a little dry. She’d been a girl from the Midwest who liked cheese curds and kissed him on the cheek and made him feel like her protector.
I’m just here with a couple girlfriends for the weekend.
The woman on the screen could have a lineup of cowboys offering up their hearts, not to mention their muscles, to keep her safe.
He didn’t know what to think, what to say. But he couldn’t unglue his gaze from the jumbo screen.
“That’s the Yankee Belles,” Katherine said quietly.
He looked at her, and she smiled, something glinting in her eyes. “You sure you don’t want those backstage passes?”
Kelsey liked this version of herself. Too much, maybe, but the woman who looked back at her from the glimmering lights of the makeup mirror was not only beautiful, sexy, and strong, but she possessed a charisma and poise that Kelsey wanted to cling to.
Onstage, Kelsey became the person she wanted to be offstage.
And tonight, she would rock it.
“Feathers?” The question, or rather, criticism came from Dixie Erikson, their fiddle player, who leaned over her shoulder and tugged on the duo of feathers fastened to Kelsey’s long brown hair.
“You should talk—is that a tiara?” She turned, got a closer look at the glittery headband in the blonde’s hair. Willowy and beautiful, Dixie usually turned heads first when she walked into a room, her Viking heritage in her blue eyes and long, braided hair. It was her family whom Kelsey had lived with back in high school, her family of country singers who had stirred Kelsey’s love of music. She wore a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and black cowboy boots.
Although, in truth, Dixie wasn’t her real name. But no country singer was named Donna, and Dixie had changed her moniker back in the days when they had a standing Saturday night gig at Rusty’s Roadhouse in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin.
Now, eight years later, Kelsey couldn’t think of her as anyone but Dixie.
“Clearly, we all want this badly.” This from Glo, who was sitting on a nearby sofa, plucking on her banjo, working on the chords of a song she was writing. She wore a strapless, one-piece body suit of leather, with red flowers painted up her shoulder and around her décolletage. Also blonde—although her hair was nearly white—and at five foot two, Glo was the shortest of the girl trio, but she had a soprano voice that could lift the rafters. With hazel-green eyes and curves, she was the sassy one, knew how to flirt with the crowd, and had managed to shuck off her highbrow Southern belle upbringing and embrace the country singer lifestyle. If it weren’t for her living her high school years with her father in the small co
llege town on the border of Minnesota and Wisconsin, the three would have never met.
Gloria Jackson was the harmonizer, the banjo, dobro, and guitar hero of their trio, the brassy one who made most of their decisions, thanks to her legal background. And frankly, downright unflappable, probably from all her years of training to be in the political limelight.
First Daughter.
Her mother’s goal, not Glo’s. If it was up to her mother, senator for the great state of Tennessee, she would come to her senses and start doing something respectable.
A knock at the door, then Carter stuck his head in. In his mid-fifties with graying dark hair, Carter had always reminded Kelsey of George Clooney with his cocky smile that could charm every radio station across the country.
The one time God had shown up, been on her side was the night Carter walked into the Double Buck in Nowheresville, Wisconsin, sat down at a table, and listened to their entire set. She always thought that maybe Dixie’s dad might be to blame. God usually showed up when Uncle Dennis asked.
“Five minutes,” Carter said, then smiled. “Knock ’em dead.” He winked and shut the door, and for the first time, Kelsey felt her stomach clench.
Breathe.
But this wasn’t the panic that had threaded through her and taken possession last night.
No, onstage, she owned the world. The crowd, cheering, singing along. She roused them to heights, brought them low with ballads, made them feel the soul woven into the music written by Glo and Dixie.
She was the entertainer of the group. The performer.
The lead singer.
And probably, the one person who should rightly be in hiding.
But she became a different person onstage, and it was this person who got up, high-fived Dixie and Glo, and headed out to the wings of the stage.
The arena smelled of dirt, horseflesh, and sweat, but props had laid down a floor over the dirt, and the crowd stirred, waiting in the semidarkness.
She loved their show. How they came onstage in the pitch black, their enchanting a cappella voices lifting together in perfect harmony, then the sudden crescendo as their drummer, Elijah Blue, brought the song to life. How the lights sparked and as one they dove into the song, a full video screen behind them. In that moment, she was part of something bigger than herself. Swept up in the lyrics, the music, the fervor of the performance. She knew it, relished it, and hungered for it.
Knox Page 3