Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
“Ninety-two and a half for Buster McKnight. Give the cowboy from Oklahoma a hand!” Applause roared as McKnight scrambled to his feet, ripped off his hat and flung it into the center of the arena.
Rachel Hill reduced the volume of the music flowing through her headset from the waist-belt MP3 player. With a resigned sigh, she flicked off the power and cheered with the rest of the crowd. Silly of her to think she could ignore the event. This Rapid City crowd sure loved their rodeo.
So did she. Even at twenty-eight years old, rodeo events still sent her blood racing.
The surrounding fans settled back into their seats. Rachel glanced at the program and noticed only one rider left. About time. Normally, she steered clear of the bull riding events. Steer wrestling and barrel racing offered enough excitement. Even the roping action was okay, but when they called in the rough-stock, she’d head for the concession stands. Bull riding was the anchor event and usually reclaimed the crowds long enough for her to grab a hot dog, a cola and be done by the time her uncle called it a day.
“They saved the best for last, girl. You ain’t seen nuthin’ till you’ve seen Nick Davidson ride.” Uncle Mitch nudged her with his thick arm as he pointed at the arena. “Nick pulled one of our bulls, too. Ain’t no one stayed on Flapjack this season.”
“Your bulls have beat them all today, Uncle Mitch.” She glanced across the arena toward the chutes, skimming over the ads attached to the walls of the arena along the way. “Pretty much all weekend long.”
“‘Course they have.” He slapped his meaty hand across his thigh. “That’s what they’re supposed to do. I ain’t raisin’ no sissy stock.”
Rachel couldn’t help but chuckle. “The ranker the better, I always say.” Her voice lowered to an unnatural gruff. “Rough-stock don’t mean any little girlie can ride ‘um.”
“Dog straight, little girlie.” He turned and winked at her. “An’ don’t you go sassin’ your elders.”
“You mean don’t go sassing the boss or he’ll boot me out on my pointed backside, right?”
“Only doing it out of love, girl.” His grin faded as he sat back in his seat, his program crumpled in his fist. “Thanks for coming to watch the bull ridin’, Rachel. I know how hard this is on you.”
Rachel kept her practiced grin in place, a small defense, but it helped when things got tough. “Not so hard anymore. Besides, look at all the great riding they had today. Even tangle-footed Buster McKnight walked away without a scratch.”
Uncle Mitch, familiar with her diversions, wasn’t buying into the act. “Wrecks happen, Rach. The cowboys train for them.”
“I know.” The muscles in her face strained beneath the effort to smile. They both knew better. Nothing protected a cowboy from all injuries. “It’s all part of the sport.”
“Rachel, your dad--”
“I’m okay with all this.” She shifted in her seat, her gaze darting everywhere except at her uncle. “Mom’s okay with it, Dad’s okay with it, and so am I.”
“Honey.” Uncle Mitch reached over and covered her fisted hand with his warm palm. “The good Lord has reasons for all that goes on in our lives. Sometimes we have good things happen, and sometimes they’re not so good. Maybe your dad needed a change in his life. Jesus decided Bud Hill had won enough buckles, and it was high time these younger fellas had a chance at the Finals.”
Sorry philosophy. Rachel raised a brow and offered half a smile, just to make him aware his theory lacked conviction.
“Well, maybe.” Uncle Mitch shrugged. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. Look at you here. Who’d ever thought a pretty little thing like you would want to spend her vacation on the road with a buncha bulls and an old man like me?”
“It isn’t a vacation, Uncle Mitch. It’s called a leave-of-absence. Besides, I’ve always loved traveling the road with you.”
Her most precious childhood memories included driving stock with Uncle Mitch. Not only were the rodeos exciting, but her uncle loved kids and it showed. Hours on the road trailering bulls across the Western Region left lots of time for her, Uncle Mitch, cousin Polly, and on occasion, Aunt Doreen to talk, laugh and share secrets. They worked as a team. The familiar lump formed in her throat. Too bad all families didn’t work together.
Shaking away the unbidden past, Rachel bent her head and watched across the arena as the rider, Nick Davidson, threw his leg over the top rail and eased onto the waiting bull. Uncle Mitch thought a lot of Nick Davidson and talked about Nick and his ranch, and all the success he’d had breeding a hardier head of Hereford. He accompanied Mitch to the auctions, looking for bigger and better stock. Her uncle loved to ramble on the subject of cowboys.
Rachel narrowed her gaze out of habit until she focused on man and beast. If Nick was that good with bloodlines, and his ranch needed him, why was he chalking up miles on the circuit? Sadly enough, she could answer her own question. Nick Davidson was a rodeo cowboy, even worse, a rodeo bull rider. An extreme sport junkie. No one topped these guys for ego. She should know. Her dad was one of the best.
The crowd mumbled with impatience around her at the delay of the ride. Even from a distance, Rachel saw the corded muscles of Nick’s arm bunch with effort. Flapjack slammed against the gate. The cowboys surrounded the chute and shoved the bull over as Nick wrapped the bull rope around his hand.
The musical magic of Garth Brooks reverberated through the air. Around her, the crowd hooted and whistled, revving anticipation for the final ride of the day. Rachel blinked out of her concentration and corralled her thoughts back to her uncle.
“Okay, not a vacation,” Uncle Mitch was saying as he rubbed his whiskered jaw. “What with you haulin’ trailers and muckin’ out pens. You’ve got color back in your cheeks, girl. You sure you want to go back to all those numbers and dollars and stuff? You’ve been the best mucker I’ve had in ages.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She grinned and wrinkled her nose. “Bull market takes on a different meaning when you’re cleaning up after the working end of the livestock.”
Brushing away thoughts of bull riders and their quirky ways, she propped her booted foot on the railing ahead of her. Front row seats. Since Uncle Mitch provided stock for the rodeo, he always had great seats at the arenas. She turned her palm into his and squeezed. “I’m ready to go back to work now. It’s time to go if I want to keep any part of my career. Two weeks off approved by Human Resources, with this extra week ‘just to make sure,’ has been heaven.” She leaned over and rubbed her cheek against her uncle’s cotton shirt, loving the smell of cattle, hay and leather. “Thanks for caring about me, Uncle Mitch, but my clients won’t wait forever for their stockbroker to get over a little bit of stress.”
A little bit of stress. Her mouth went dry at the thought of her de
nial over her mental condition. When the CEO had recommended a leave-of-absence due to exhaustion, she knew she had no choice but to face her problems. Managing percentages and points had commanded all her rational thought. She’d grown irritable, difficult and uncooperative over the last year, a far cry from the eager, enthusiastic intern she’d once been. Her earnestness had founded her career; her insufferable behavior now threatened her future.
No use dwelling on the past. She’d regained perspective. She’d rediscovered Christ and straightened her priorities. She itched to return to Denver and prove her new-found strength.
Uncle Mitch released her hand and ruffled her hair as he’d done when she was a little girl. A lump formed in her throat.
“You remember what’s important, Rachel. Keep the Lord Jesus Christ first in your life and all else will fall in place. Remember all the work you’ve done with Cowboy Church over the past few weeks.” He shook his finger at her. “Spreading the word of the Lord, that’s what’s important.”
After a brave smile, Rachel turned back toward the arena. Remember what’s important, she repeated to herself as she looked across the expanse of dirt to the wall of chute gates and the next rider. Flapjack rattled the metal railing as he head-butted the gate. Nick Davidson remained focused as he unwound the bull rope from his hand. After a tug to tighten the rope in place, he began the process again, each wrap a study in precision. Their eight second ride depended on it; if not their lives. If it didn’t feel right, don’t go.
Wise sentiment, she’d always thought. Just like these focused cowboys, she’d become immersed in her fast and furious lifestyle. If it felt right, she went.
Rachel blinked back the burning sensation of tears. She’d made a mess of her life. Uncle Mitch offered open arms and an open heart to any stray who needed a leg up and an earful of hope--even if that stray was his own niece.
Over the past three weeks, she’d spent long hours in prayer and Bible study until her heart and soul cried for her to surrender to Christ. She’d always had faith, but the Lord wanted more. Give up control. Spooky thought until she read through Philippians. I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me. Rachel held tight to these words of promise.
“Here we go.” Uncle Mitch nudged her and pointed toward the gates. “The last ride of the rodeo. Go get’em, boy.”
Across the arena, Flapjack wrestled around in the chute as the announcer chattered. The age-old knot tightened in her stomach. Rachel watched the men standing on the rails while Nick Davidson tugged on his rope, his motions chillingly familiar. Her dad had gone through the same routine each time he sat a bull, checking and re-checking until things were just right. You can never be too prepared. . ..
Apparently satisfied Nick gave his black hat a final tug, grabbed the top rail and issued a curt nod. The gate sprang open.
The bull leapt out of the gate and twisted to the right as the rider sat tight. The massive bovine body kicked and jumped, and still the cowboy held his left arm high and continued to urge the animal on in true rodeo fashion.
“Hoo-whee! Look at Nick ride!” Uncle Mitch yelled as the pair spun a tight circle right in the middle of the arena.
Two, three, four. . .. Rachel counted out the seconds as she’d done since childhood.
“Ol’ Flapjack’s not gonna--” Uncle Mitch’s cheer ceased as the bull bucked high and then twisted up, crashing heads with the rider just as the eight second buzzer sounded. The cowboy rolled off, his arm still looped in the rope.
“Oh, Lord,” Rachel choked out a frantic prayer as her heart pounded in her chest. “Not again, Lord. . .please.”
The limp body bounced alongside the furious animal. A bull fighter deterred the animal long enough for another one to release the rope, dropping the injured man in a heap. Tension buzzed across the arena. One bull fighter knelt beside the fallen cowboy while the other two worked the angry bull into the exit pen. With the arena cleared of danger, the medical crew rushed to aid.
CHAPTER TWO
Having lost his patience hours earlier, Nick Davidson stared out the wall of glass and drummed his fingers against the vinyl arm of the wheelchair. Patients filled all eighteen seats in the hospital lobby, the high pitched screams of an infant bouncing off the hard surface walls like a superball shot into a silo. Where was Mitch? Despite his scrambled brains, Nick distinctly remembered saying he’d be released at one o’clock. Mitch said he’d be here.
The clock on the wall read three.
Pain knotted the muscles across his shoulders as he cringed at the infant’s renewed shriek. If he endured the baby’s squalling much longer, the effects of the concussion might become permanent. Plastic slats sliced the afternoon sunlight into narrow strips across the tiled flooring. The lids of his swollen left eye remained sealed against the glare, the flesh tender from where he’d butted heads Saturday night with Flapjack. Nick hadn’t done hospital time in months, but he remembered the routine: check under his hat, measure his water and oil, tape up his loose connections, then slam him back into his boots and pronounce him road worthy. Lucky for him the tests had shown no swelling in his brain, otherwise he’d have been stuck here for who knew how long.
He expelled his next breath with a groan as his bruised ribs protested. The concussion and torso bashing would heal, but each time he bore a beating like the ride he’d had Saturday night, his muscles and joints reminded him he wasn’t a kid anymore. Shoot, he wasn’t a kid when he’d rejoined the circuit four years ago. A kid rode for competition.
He rode for retribution.
The familiar swoosh of the glass doors snagged his attention. A woman entered the lobby, her gait a study of pure presence. Tan plaid flannel molded from collar to cuff and tucked into faded jeans that ran a mile down to her worn, leather boots. She looked familiar. As he watched her cross the room he determined her demeanor reminded him of a commercial spot on television promoting a woman’s feminine side.
Feminine women and their artful ways. He chuckled without humor and turned away. His wife had them all beat.
A deep weariness replaced his derision as he shoved thoughts of Stephanie, and his conscience, aside. Life all melted together when you were on the road as long as he’d been. He checked billboards and storefronts to remind himself of the town and sometimes even the state. In his last ESPN interview, they called him a sex symbol, his occupation glamourous. He glanced around the all too familiar hospital lobby. His eight seconds of glory in the arena fooled them all. Someday, he’d grab the microphone and tell every misguided fan the truth about the grind of being on the road three hundred and fifty days a year. And as for being a sex symbol? Impressing women was the least of his worries anymore.
“Mr. Davidson?”
At the sound of his name drifting on a soft, feminine voice, every male fiber in his body hummed as tightly as new strings on an old guitar.
“Excuse me, Nick Davidson?”
The enticing blend of cowgirl and cover model he’d watched cross the lobby a moment earlier now struck a casual pose at his side. An unexpected warmth reached out to him, beckoning him to relax. Her walk earlier across the lobby might have exuded sophisticated confidence, but he could read women, and this one oozed cowgirl through and through. Just his luck, she had him cornered and helpless. The muscles in his bruised face protested his painful attempt at a grin.
“Sorry, sweetheart, no autographs today,” he drawled in the voice he saved for fans and interviews. Twitching his right shoulder, Nick ignored the pain that shot down his arm. “That ride Saturday night got the better of me.”
Her delicate features contorted into a frown. “I know, I was there.” She cocked her head, her gaze darting over his face as if assessing the damage herself, then offered a low whistle. “That shiner’s a beaut. Better to get beat up than killed, I guess.”
Nick swallowed the standard compliment he reserved for the female faction. On rare occasion did fans comment on the extreme nature of the sport. They either cooed over hi
s great ride and asked for an autograph, or called him a jerk and told him to grow up. He’d grown accustomed to both, but having a stranger throw mortality in his face was something new. Through shards of pain, the swollen lids of his left eye parted as he met her bland gaze head-on.
“Shiner?” he parried, choosing to ignore the abstract and concentrate on the concrete. “Think that’s a bruise? I’ve got others to match. Wanna check ‘em out?” Riding the circuit had made him coarse; sassy women brought it out in spades.
She stared at him as if he’d spoken a foreign language, then pure pleasure lit her face. “In your dreams, cowboy. Save your lines for your fans. I’m only the help.”
Her green eyes sparkled and a faint dimple remained creased in her smooth cheek after her laughter died. That unexplained warmth from moments earlier re-ignited in his belly at her easy humor, even if it was at his expense. “What exactly are you here to help me with?”
Her smile faded and a crease formed between her brows. Gone was the dimple; gone was the sparkle. “Finding your way to Wyoming.”
Though her tone remained soft, Nick recognized resentment a mile away. He’d seen it, lived with it, and had enough flung at him years back to last a lifetime. He didn’t need any more, thank you. What did she want from a roughed up cowboy just trying to get on down the road anyway?
“Wyoming?” he repeated. “I know where Wyoming is.”
“I’m sure you do,” she replied. “But you need a driver, and I’m it.”
Her words sunk in, but for the life of him, he couldn’t make sense of them. Mitch would be here soon, he’d straighten everything out. But in the meantime, Nick decided he’d play it cool. He’d read about deranged fans abducting celebrities. Though he hardly qualified as one, he didn’t relish becoming a statistic.
“You must have the wrong cowboy, ma’am. My ride will be here anytime.” Fighting to keep his tone civil, Nick noted the headset draped about her neck. Maybe she needed a diversion while he signaled for help. “Why don’t you have a seat and just. . .plug in?”
Rough Road Home (The Circle D series) Page 1