The Cowboy Meets His Match

by Sarah Mayberry

  He offered the woman his hand.

  “CJ Cooper,” she said.

  “CJ. That short for something?” Dean asked.

  “Cassidy Jane.”

  “Cassidy Jane. That’s real pretty.” Dean waved a hand at Jesse and the other riders. “This dumb lug here is Jesse Carmody, and these two are Billy and Bobby Miller.”

  CJ smiled politely. “Nice to meet you all.”

  “So, CJ. You a local girl?” Dean asked, his big, easy grin inviting CJ to confess her sins so he could reward her for them.

  Jesse had seen Dean turn on the charm like this in too many cities to count, but his gut told him the other man was about to crash and burn, big-time. Jesse had only known CJ Cooper for two minutes, but there was a determined set to her jaw and a challenging glint in her eye he was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining. Crossing his arms over his chest, Jesse leaned back against the rail.

  This was going to be good.

  “I’m not a local. I’m a contestant,” CJ said.

  “Yeah? You joining the tour with us, huh?” Dean said, clearly pleased by the prospect. He hooked his thumbs into the front belt loops on his jeans, playing the cowboy to the hilt. “Lot of competition in the barrel racing this year. Hope you’re a good rider, sweetheart.”

  Billy and Bobby both smirked at the clumsy double entendre.

  “I’m not competing in the barrel racing,” CJ said. “I’m riding saddle bronc.”

  Dean cocked his head, a frown pleating his forehead. “They doing some kind of exhibition program for the ladies this time around?”

  “Nope. I’ll be competing with the men. Against you guys, actually. You all ride saddle bronc, don’t you? I recognize your names.” Her gaze took them all in, direct and quietly confident, and Jesse wondered if his surprise showed on his face.

  “You can’t ride in the men’s comp,” Dean said, letting out an incredulous crack of laughter. “That ain’t gonna work, sweetheart.”

  “It’s worked okay so far, well enough for me to qualify for my pro ticket,” CJ said with a modest shrug.

  Jesse swept a gaze down her body again, seeing her athletic build in a new light. Strength-to-weight ratio was important in saddle bronc, but flexibility and having a low center of gravity played a part, too.

  Theoretically there was no reason a woman wouldn’t be as good as a man. In fact, she might even have an advantage when it came to flexibility—if she had the guts to get on the back of a wild, bucking animal who was determined to throw her off.

  “This is a men’s competition,” Dean said. “Always has been, always will be.”

  “I’m not the only female saddle bronc rider. Kaila Mussell’s been riding broncs for years now,” CJ pointed out.

  Dean’s face flushed an ugly red and he took a step closer to CJ, anger in every line of his wiry body. Jesse pushed away from the rail, surprised by the heat of the other man’s reaction and how quickly things had escalated.

  “You listen here, sweetheart,” Dean said, turning the endearment into an insult. “You women might think you own the world now, but some things are sacred. Some kind of mistake has been made, and I’m gonna go sort it out right now.”

  He swiveled on his heel, stalking off in the direction of the office, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. It took a moment for Jesse’s brain to catch up with events. One second Dean had been laughing, turning on the charm, hoping to get lucky, the next he’d been snarling like a cornered dog.

  Jesse had never seen the other man so riled before.

  “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure,” CJ said, her dry tone at odds with her words. Then she headed around the back of the bleachers, head high, shoulders back.

  “Je-sus,” Bobby Miller said the moment she was out of earshot. “Thought Dean was gonna burst a vessel for a moment there.”

  “He’s right, though. This ain’t no women’s sport. They got no business letting one into the comp without running it past the rest of us,” Billy said.

  Jesse threw the other man a look. “Come on, Billy. You really want to get into a situation where competitors can blackball new blood?”

  “But she’s not just new blood. She’s a woman,” Billy said, as if that fact alone was enough to make his point for him.

  Jesse shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, if she qualified like the rest of us, then she should be able to compete. Unless you guys are scared of going up against a woman?”

  “Fuck off, Carmody,” Bobby said, half annoyed, half amused. “I bet she doesn’t even make it out of the chute. I bet this is just some bullshit PR stunt they’re pulling to try to get some media attention.”

  “She must have placed or won plenty of times to get the prize money to qualify,” Jesse pointed out. “Pretty sure they didn’t bend the rules for her.”

  “Want to bet?” Billy said darkly.

  Jesse shook his head again. “Don’t go starting any stupid conspiracy theories, for God’s sake.”

  Billy frowned at him. “You telling me you’re really cool with this?” His tone said he thought Jesse was mad, as well as some kind of traitor to his gender.

  “I don’t care what a rider’s got between his or her legs—if they can last eight seconds, I’ll compete against ’em,” Jesse said. “It’s as simple as that.”

  “You got rocks in your head, man,” Bobby said, looking genuinely bewildered by Jesse’s take.

  Jesse made a rude noise. If this conversation lasted much longer, he was going to say something he’d regret. Like it or not, he spent a lot of time with these men. “I’ve got to get out to the ranch, see my family. I’ll catch you boys later.”

  He didn’t hang around to wait for their response.

  Chapter Two

  CJ made a point of continuing her self-guided tour of the grounds after her encounter with the cowboys. She’d anticipated some resistance to her inclusion in the saddle bronc event, but those cowboys were just going to have to suck it up. There was nothing in the rules that said she couldn’t compete, and she’d qualified for her pro ticket the same as any other contestant. Nothing was going to stop her from getting out there and taking her best shot at the prize money, least of all a loudmouth cowboy with a ridiculously fragile sense of his place in the world.

  She kept telling herself as much as she inspected the practice ring and checked out the catering facilities. At the moment there was just a single shuttered kiosk, but she knew from past experience that there would likely be a bunch of food trucks and other outdoor eateries set up to cater to tomorrow’s crowds, so no one would be at risk of going hungry. Lastly, she climbed into the stands and stood in the front row. Staring out across the dusty arena, she took a couple of deep breaths, letting the quiet and emptiness work on her.

  Tomorrow, these bleachers would be full of people—cowboys, families, young and old. The smell of popcorn and chili and nachos would be floating in the air, along with the occasional whiff of more earthy odors from the stockyard. The sun would be high overhead, and the PA system would be blaring music in between filling the audience in on contestant stats and standings.

  It would be chaotic and festive and electric, and she couldn’t wait to feel the solid muscle of a bronc between her thighs, couldn’t wait to give the nod to release the gate. The thought alone was enough to send a wave of anticipatory adrenaline surging through her, and she couldn’t hold back a big, dumb grin.

  It didn’t matter what anyone else thought or wanted. She was a good bronc rider, and she loved it, loved the way it made her feel so alive, loved the primal battle between woman and beast, loved the pageantry and showy clothes and earthy smells of leather and dirt and manure.

  Turning away from the arena, she made her way down the concrete steps and found the exit to the parking lot. She noticed a bronze and copper statue near the entrance on the way out—for some reason she’d missed it the first time around—a life-sized cowboy riding a bronco, mounted on a granite plinth. She studied the cowboy’s face for a f
ew seconds, admiring the detail in the work, before reading the plaque commemorating the opening of the new stadium. The rodeo was obviously a big deal to the people of Marietta.

  She headed for her truck, but the sound of a door slamming made her glance over her shoulder toward the ticket office. Her stomach dipped when she saw Dean Maynard powering away from the building, a deep scowl creasing his forehead, frustration and anger evident in every long, jerky step he took. That he’d gotten nowhere with his dumbass complaint about her was plain—he looked like he wanted to hurt someone or something. She felt a thump of unease as he looked up and met her gaze. For a second he hesitated, then he changed direction, heading straight for her. She shot a glance toward her pickup, which was still some twenty or thirty feet away. She could make it, if she hustled, but she wasn’t going to run from this man.

  Not in a million years.

  She turned to face him, schooling her expression into a calm, neutral mask that belied the hard thud-thud of her heart against her rib cage.

  She spent a couple of hours a week in the boxing ring at the local gym as part of her workout routine, practicing a combination of traditional boxing and kickboxing moves, but she’d never had to call on those skills to defend herself in a real fight.

  If she had to, she would, though.

  “You might have pulled some bullshit with the organizers, but no one wants you here, lady,” Maynard said, the tendons standing out in his neck as he stopped in front of her. When he wasn’t red-faced and angry, some women would probably find his blond pretty boy looks attractive, but all CJ saw was ignorance and petty defensiveness. “You think the crowd is going to cheer you on when you’re stealing a spot from a man doing his best to support his family?”

  “What makes you think I don’t have a family to support?” she asked.

  What century was this guy living in, anyway?

  “Got a wife and kids back home, have you?” he asked, raking her with a contemptuous head-to-toe that told her how he felt about same-sex-attracted people.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Maynard’s eyes got flinty and he jabbed an angry finger at her chest, stopping just short of touching her. “You’re stealing a man’s dreams, all for nothing. There’s no way you’re going to be able to hold your own out there.”

  “Women have dreams, too, believe it or not,” she said.

  There was nothing more to say, so she turned and walked to her truck. The door handle was solid and warm beneath her hand as she opened it, and she slid quickly behind the wheel. Maynard stood where she’d left him, tension evident in every line of his body. Putting her car in gear, she drove out of the parking spot and turned toward the exit, a route that necessarily took her past Maynard. For a second she contemplated reversing back into the spot and making a longer loop to avoid him, but again she pressed forward. The moment she took a step backward, she was beaten. The only way to get through this weekend with her integrity and pride intact was to put her head down and keep moving forward.

  She could feel him watching her as she drew closer, and she wasn’t entirely surprised when he stepped into her path. She braked to a halt, eyeing him steadily through the windshield. He spat on the ground, not taking his gaze off hers.

  The anger and scorn in his eyes triggered the stubbornness in her. She’d grown up working her parents’ ranch with her brothers and father. She’d fallen off her first horse when she was four years old, stared down a deadly massasauga rattlesnake when she was seven, and wrestled with more ornery cattle than she’d had hot dinners. This man didn’t know her, and he wasn’t going to intimidate her.

  She eased her foot onto the gas, edging the car slowly but inexorably forward. He had a choice—step out of the way, or get nudged out of the way by her beaten-up Ford F-150. She saw the shock in his too-handsome face when he understood she was serious. He broke eye contact with her to assess the height and width of her truck. Then, at almost the last possible moment, he stepped to one side.

  She drove past him, eyes straight ahead. A loud bang made her start and she realized he’d slapped his hand against the side of her truck. The jerk.

  She put her foot down and seconds later was pulling onto the road back to the motel. Her breath came out in a shudder as the rodeo grounds shrunk to a dot in her rearview mirror. Which was about when she registered her hands were shaking, too.

  She reached for the radio, punching it on, needing the company and the distraction. The familiar sounds of the Dixie Chicks’s “Wide Open Spaces” filled the truck and she sent up a prayer of thanks to the universe. She sang the lyrics at the top of her lungs for the duration of the short drive back to the motel, but she was still feeling rattled when she parked and let herself into her room. There was no solace to be found in the neutral, no-nonsense decor of her accommodation, and she slipped her hand into her back pocket and palmed her phone.

  It was so tempting to call home, but it would only worry her mother unnecessarily, and her father was more likely to say “What did you expect?” than sympathize with her. From the moment she’d signaled her intention to achieve pro status, he’d shaken his head and prophesied she’d regret her decision. Why do you need to rock the boat? he’d asked on more than one occasion. He’d been worried there’d be talk locally, that she’d ruffle feathers, trying to muscle in on traditional male territory. It had hurt that he’d been more worried about what other people in their small, conservative community thought than her hopes and ambitions, but she’d never been brave enough to ask him the question in her heart: why teach her she could do or be anything and then not encourage her to fly as high as she could?

  She shoved the phone back into her pocket. As much as she wanted to hear the voice of someone who loved her right now, she’d always known she’d be doing this on her own. And that was okay. Not ideal, but okay.

  She checked the time. The program she’d perused while doing her self-guided tour of the rodeo grounds had mentioned some kind of street party in town this afternoon and evening, complete with a sidewalk sale, food, live bands and dancing. Apparently everything kicked off at four, and it was past that now.

  Perfect.

  She’d go check it out, see if she couldn’t find something cute and unique for her mother’s birthday, which was coming up next month. And if the noise and color of other people having fun helped drown out the echo of Maynard’s ugly words in her head, all the better.

  *

  Jesse’s truck bounced out of a rut as he rounded the final corner in the drive to the family ranch, making him rock in his seat. Up ahead was the modest, single-level brick and timber house that had been home to the Carmodys for thirty-five years. To the right was the red-painted barn, and beyond that the home paddock, host at present to a handful of grazing horses.

  Everything looked the same as it always had, down to the roses marching in a row along the front of the porch and the huge yellow pine that cast its shadow over the rear of the house. He pulled up near the barn and was just switching off the ignition when the front door of the house opened and his older brother, Jed, stepped out onto the porch. Their gazes met across twenty-five feet of dusty yard, and for a long beat his brother simply looked at him. Then Jed nodded, a small, quiet smile pulling at his mouth, and Jesse felt a twin kick of relief and resentment.

  He freaking hated that he still felt nervous coming home. He really hated that his brother’s approval—or, more accurately, disapproval—still had the power to affect him. It had been eleven years since his brother had issued the ultimatum that had led to Jesse leaving this place. He’d been home a handful of times since, but it was always the same—the wariness between him and Jed, Jesse’s continuing resentment of the way things had played out, Jed’s closed-mouthed, measured impenetrability.

  Was it any wonder he never stayed for long, even though he loved his family and missed them when he let himself think about it too much?

  Aware he’d lingered too long in the truck, Jesse pushed the d
oor open and stood just as a blur erupted from the darkness of the barn. He had an impression of long, denim-clad legs and streaming dark hair before his sister was throwing herself at him, strong tanned arms pulling him close.

  “You made it. I’ve been listening for your truck all afternoon and you still managed to sneak up on me,” Sierra said, pulling back to laugh up into his face.

  She was ridiculously cute, his sister, with a small, turned-up nose she’d inherited from their mom, a heart-shaped face and the Carmody green eyes. She was the baby of the family, cursed with being the only girl in a houseful of boys, and master of the art of strategizing to get her way.

  “Had a stealth system installed so I could sneak past my nosy relatives,” Jesse said.

  She laughed and punched him on the pec, hard enough to make him wince. “You bet I’m nosy. I want to hear everything about everything. I haven’t seen you for nearly a year and a half.”

  He was ready to dispute her claim, then did the math quickly in his head. She was right—the last Copper Mountain Rodeo had been canceled because of the fire, and he’d come up with an excuse not to travel home for Christmas. It had easily been eighteen months.

  “Don’t get too excited, not much to tell,” he said.

  Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of his brother approaching.

  “Dropped Major off at the grounds already?” Jed asked, offering Jesse his hand in greeting.

  The formality of the gesture—the arm’s-length symbolism of it—wasn’t lost on Jesse. He forced himself to smile easily as he shook his brother’s work-callused hand.

  “Wanted to give him as much time as possible to settle in and find his legs,” Jesse said.

  Like Jesse, Jed’s hair was dark, almost black, and he kept it short and neat. His face was tanned a deep nut brown by the Montana sun, but he’d lost weight since Jesse had seen him last and there were new creases at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth. Perhaps it was the new age in his face or something else, but more than ever Jed looked like their father. The realization brought an unaccustomed lump to Jesse’s throat and he focused on Sierra again.