All she could do was be prepared, mentally and physically. The rest was out of her hands.
Chapter Eleven
Jesse spent half an hour with Major, taking him for a walk around the grounds, then giving him his head in the practice arena. Afterward, he led the gelding back to his pen and made sure he had enough feed and water before giving him a light brush. All the while, he chewed over what had happened at the pancake breakfast.
CJ’s anxiety about being linked to him had been a palpable thing until his family joined them at the table, unwittingly providing a smokescreen for the two of them. He couldn’t blame her for being worried—she’d been right about what Maynard would do and say if he’d spotted them together. If he got wind of the fact that Jesse had spent the night in CJ’s bed, he’d turn it into something dirty and low and use it to shame CJ. He’d claim it was proof CJ’s inclusion in the pro saddle bronc competition would only cause trouble. He’d probably even cite Jesse’s inevitable defense as proof that introducing women into the competition was divisive. He’d ensure that every time CJ walked into a room, she’d be subjected to knowing looks and speculation.
There was no upside to Jesse and CJ’s involvement becoming public, at all. Especially for CJ.
And yet Jesse had wanted to hold her hand across the table at breakfast. He’d wanted to laugh into her eyes and tease her just so he could watch her rise to the challenge. He’d wanted to hear more about her life and tell her more of his own.
Which left him with a problem, because she had made it very clear she didn’t want to get entangled with anyone, let alone a fellow rider.
Major nickered quietly, turning to press his head against Jesse’s side, and Jesse smoothed a gentle hand down his shoulder.
“My timing could definitely be better, huh?”
He walked to his trailer afterward to collect his gear, conscious of the roar of the crowd in the arena. He checked his watch and realized the bareback short round was already underway. He let himself into his trailer and piled his vest and chaps on top of his saddle. Sitting on his bed, he pulled off his regular boots and swapped them out for a much-abused pair that were a full size larger than he usually wore. He shook a generous cloud of talcum powder down the shaft before pulling them on. The powder and the larger boot size made it easier to slip his foot free if he happened to get hung up in the stirrups during his ride. It was an old rodeo trick, and it had saved him a broken leg more than once over the years.
His thoughts kept turning to CJ as he fastened his spurs to his boots and strapped on his chaps. She must be nervous. This was her first final and she was bound to be feeling the pressure. He wished he could stand by her, offer his support, but that would only create talk. Feeling more than a little frustrated, he left his trailer, his saddle under one arm and his protective vest under the other.
The steer-wrestling event was announced over the speakers as he made his way behind the bleachers. Foot traffic was thin, with most folks in their seats taking in the action in the arena. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs was heavy in the air as the various food trucks geared up for lunch.
There was still a good half hour before the saddle bronc short event but a number of his fellow riders were already gathered near the chutes when he arrived. Some sat in their saddles on the ground, practicing marking out, while others stretched or prepped their saddles with rosin. His gaze gravitated to where Dean Maynard was holding court with a bunch of his buddies. Most of them looked worse for wear, and Jesse guessed they’d been up half the night, drinking and partying.
A week ago, he’d have called these men friends—not close friends, true, but he’d hung out with them, shared beers with them, partied with them. Now he was hard pressed not to spit in the dirt at the sight of them. What Maynard had done to CJ was petty, low and pathetic, and the man deserved to have his butt kicked from here to Pasadena.
Jesse was sorely tempted to do just that, rules be damned. The knowledge that it was the last thing CJ wanted was the only thing that stopped him from walking over and feeding Maynard his fist. She was determined to play this her way, to forge her own path, and he had no right to overrule her wishes.
Then Maynard let loose a loud guffaw. Jesse’s hands curled into fists and he took a step forward. Never had he wanted to rearrange another man’s features so badly in all his life.
He was still hovering on the edge of decision when he caught sight of CJ making her way toward the chute, her stride long and confident as she wove her way through the crowd. She was wearing her black Stetson and carrying her chaps, protective vest and saddle, the latter balanced confidently on her hip. He knew from experience it was no small load, but she made it look easy.
He forced himself to look away and loosen his fists. He wasn’t going to get into it with Maynard today. He couldn’t.
Not here and now, anyway.
Hunkering down, he pulled out his bar of rosin and began rubbing it along the swells of his saddle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw CJ dump her gear in a clear spot and begin her own ride prep. The sound of loud male laughter drew his gaze back to Maynard’s posse. They were watching CJ as she went through her warm-up routine, clearly on the lookout for some sign Maynard’s stunt had paid off.
What did they think they’d find? Traces of tears? Some sign she was hurt or cowed or intimidated? CJ was tougher than the lot of them put together. She could take whatever they had to dish out and more—but she shouldn’t have to. She had exactly the same right to be here as any other rider, male or female, and it made Jesse’s gut hurt that she’d had to take so much crap from a bunch of ignorant assholes.
A shadow fell over him and he looked up to find Shane Marvell at his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as he studied Maynard’s group.
“What’s going on with them today?” he asked, clearly unimpressed by the frat house vibe.
“You don’t want to know,” Jesse said darkly.
Shane gave him a sharp look, obviously picking up on Jesse’s barely suppressed rage. “You okay?”
Jesse shrugged, not trusting himself to speak without spitting out a bunch of four-letter words. The truth was, his head was all over the place, his belly full of frustration and anger on CJ’s behalf.
Shane glanced across at Maynard again. “Whatever it is, don’t let it mess up your ride,” he said before moving off to where he’d left his own gear.
It was good advice. Jesse had drawn a great bronc—Making Money had a reputation for giving showy, dangerous, high-scoring rides—and he had a good chance of winning or placing if he could make his eight seconds.
He needed to get into the zone and forget about everything else.
Easy in theory, but harder in reality when he couldn’t turn off his awareness of CJ. She drew his gaze like a magnet, and he couldn’t stop himself from watching as she finished strapping on her chaps, testing the buckles to make sure they were on good and tight around her denim-clad thighs. Satisfied, she reached down to snag her protective vest, shrugging into it and zipping it closed. Finally, she slipped her hat back on, the black brim shading her face.
She looked so tall and strong and composed as she tucked her fingers into the front pockets of her jeans and focused on what was going on over at the chutes. She had to be conscious of Maynard and his gaggle of idiots—how could she not be, the way they were blatantly staring at her, their eyes bright with ugly interest as they looked for some sign of weakness—but she didn’t let on for a second she knew they even existed.
Pride swelled in him, along with a tight, hot surge of emotion that constricted his chest. She was amazing, unlike any other woman he’d ever met. He wanted her to go out into the arena and have the ride of her life so she could wipe the smug, knowing, satisfied grin off Maynard’s face. In fact, he wanted her to win so soundly it set a new rodeo record. He couldn’t think of a better way to prove all the haters wrong and set her on the road to where she wanted to be.
He was moving before he’d consciously made a
decision to do so, driven by the need to right the wrongs done to her. Her gaze met his as he stopped in front of her, her expression carefully blank, not giving anything away.
“I’m withdrawing,” he said, quiet enough for only her to hear. He might not be able to punch Maynard’s lights out in a civilized society, but he could do this for her.
Her eyes widened with shock. “What? Why? Are you okay?” Her gaze raked his body, looking for an injury.
“Because you can win this thing. I want you to win. I want you to wipe the arena with that asshole.”
*
Everything in CJ went still at Jesse’s words. He was waiting for her response, his beautiful green eyes alight with purpose, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say.
Because there were so many things to say, so many feelings clamoring for expression. Hurt, surprise, disappointment, anger…
She’d thought he understood she was here to win or lose on her own merit, but one of them had got it wrong—and apparently it was her.
“So, what? You’re going to bow out and hand me the win like it’s a consolation prize?” she asked.
He frowned, taken aback by her response. Clearly he’d been expecting something else.
Gratitude, probably.
“No. Not a consolation prize.”
“But it wouldn’t be a real win, would it? Because you would have bowed out, and you’re one of the top-ranked riders at this rodeo,” she said, waiting for him to get it, to see how insulting his suggestion was when she’d worked so hard to get here.
He shook his head, and she could see he was both baffled and angry at her response. “I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”
“The right thing is to respect me,” she said fiercely, not taking her eyes from his. “The right thing is for you to go out there and do your best, and I’ll do the same, and we’ll let the damned judges decide who wins.”
He blinked at the banked anger behind her words. “If that’s what you want.” He went to turn away, then decided he had something further to add. “I wanted to help. That’s why I offered. No other reason.”
Maybe when she was calmer, when she had more time to process, she’d be able to appreciate the misguided generosity behind his offer, but right now all she could see was how patronizing it was.
“How would you feel if one of your buddies made you the same offer?” she asked.
He shook his head in angry confusion. “That would never happen.”
“I know, because they know you’d never be interested in a win you didn’t truly earn, don’t they?”
She didn’t wait to see if her point hit home. Turning on her heel, she walked away, even though she could hear the MC announcing the saddle bronc event. She could feel the rest of the riders watching her—watching them—but right at that moment she didn’t give a hoot what any of them thought.
She stalked halfway to the practice arena before she stopped and took a half dozen deep breaths. She didn’t have time for this. She didn’t have time for any of the doubts and worries circling her mind. It didn’t matter that she still hadn’t heard from her parents. It didn’t matter that she’d misjudged Jesse so badly—or, more accurately, projected qualities onto him that he didn’t possess.
Lying in his arms last night, she’d started to think—
No. You can’t do this right now. Get your shit together, woman.
She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, concentrating on the pure, simple warmth of the sun on her face. She took a deep breath, and when she exhaled, she consciously let all the bullshit go along with the air in her lungs. Then she opened her eyes, turned around and walked back to where she’d left her gear.
A few heads turned, Dean Maynard’s among them. CJ ignored them all. She couldn’t see Jesse, and for a moment she thought he’d gone through with his crazy idea of withdrawing from the event. Then she remembered he was riding early in the lineup and moved closer to the arena. There was an open spot between two cowboys, and she stepped up onto the rail and looked toward the chute just as the MC’s voice blared over the speaker.
“Coming up next is Jesse Carmody, another local boy and one of the leading riders on the circuit this year. Jesse’s riding Making Money, a three-year-old stallion with an ornery reputation, so we are sure to see some action here today, folks.”
CJ’s gaze was locked on the chute where Jesse was easing himself into the saddle. The bronc moved restlessly beneath him, but Jesse simply waited him out before gathering up his rein in his right hand and lifting his left hand away from his body. He tucked his chin into his chest, the brim of his hat hiding his expression from her, and she found herself holding her breath as she waited for him to give the nod.
One second, two, three. Her lungs were starting to hurt, and she sucked in air—just as his head ducked in a brief but firm signal to the gate man.
The gate swung wide in a smooth arc and Jesse spurred his bronc out into the ring, marking the horse out with ease on the first jump. The crowd cheered as Jesse slipped into a teeth-jarring rhythm, shifting to counter every violent kick and twist the bronc threw at him.
The horse spun, then kicked viciously, and Jesse teetered on the brink of losing his balance. CJ was counting the seconds off in her mind, but time seemed to stretch impossibly as she willed him to make it. And then the whistle went and CJ released her death grip on the rail as the pickup riders came alongside Jesse to help him off. He levered his body off the still-bucking bronc and steadied himself one handed on the pickup horse’s flank before landing on his feet in the dirt so neatly CJ couldn’t help but grin at his skill.
Her gaze went immediately to the scoreboard and the crowd grew quiet as they all waited. The screen lit with two red numbers—eighty-six. Jesse lifted a hand in a triumphant wave, a smile on his lips as he acknowledged the score and the judges. Then he scooped up his hat and walked off the arena, his chaps flaring with every step.
Eighty-six was a good score, maybe even a great score. In all likelihood, it would be the score to beat today.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about needing to beat Jesse’s score to win. Then she conceded it was something she’d need to get used to pretty damn quickly if she was going to stay on the circuit and try to turn this crazy obsession of hers into a career.
This is why it was a really dumb idea to sleep with him, a little voice whispered in the back of her head. She swatted it away. She had enough crap weighing her down already without generating more of her own.
She was about to drop down off the rail when she glanced across and saw Dean Maynard climbing over the top of the chute. She hadn’t realized he was up next, having deliberately blanked any mention of his name. She hesitated, then decided to stay and watch him ride. With a bit of luck she’d get to see him eat dirt. Maybe he’d even get stomped on—preferably in the groin. That ought to stop him from peeing on anyone else’s belongings for a while.
“Our next rider is Dean Maynard, out of Texas…”
There was an unusual stir in the stands as the MC continued with his spiel, drawing her attention away from the chute. At first CJ didn’t understand what was happening. Lifting her hand to shade her eyes against the bright sunlight, she stared at the bleachers.
People were standing, sometimes two or three at a time, and turning their backs on the arena. Then CJ noticed they were all women, and that their odd behavior was causing a ripple effect across the bleachers, rolling across the crowd in a wave until there was a sea of women standing, two here, three there, a whole row somewhere else, all with their backs turned to the arena.
Refusing to watch Dean Maynard ride.
“What the…?” CJ muttered under her breath.
In the stands, people were talking and looking around, trying to work out what the standing women knew that they didn’t.
Something Sierra said last night came back to CJ then. If people knew what he’d done to you, they wouldn’t want to cheer for him or treat him like a hero. They
wouldn’t even want to spit on his shoes. And she knew suddenly that Sierra had somehow gotten the word out about what Maynard had done to her, and the women of Marietta had chosen to take a stand—literally.
The realization brought hot tears to CJ’s eyes. She’d decided to take the high road after her conversation with Sierra last night, and she’d convinced herself that would be okay, that she could live with her decision. But this…this was so much better than quiet dignity. This was exactly what a coward like Dean Maynard deserved for his foul deed—a public shunning.
“My goodness, not sure what’s going on here,” the MC said. “Someone want to let the rest of us in on the joke? No? Then we’d better let this rider out of the gate.”
CJ blinked and sniffed away tears, turning her focus back to the chute where Dean Maynard still sat, one leg on either side of the top rail as he stared out at the stands. He looked confused—and more than a little angry.
CJ’s mouth curved into the smallest of smiles.
Karma is a bitch, dirtbag.
One of the officials leaned in to say something to Maynard, who shook his head impatiently and gestured the man away. Then he climbed fully into the chute, sliding into the saddle with more haste than finesse.
CJ glanced across at the stands where hundreds of backs were still turned and felt a wash of chest-expanding gratitude. Sierra Carmody didn’t know it, but she was getting the biggest damned hug in the world once this event was over. And maybe some emotional tears, the kind women only shed with each other.
The gate was swinging open when she looked back at the chute.
The bronc spun out into the arena with a wild kick, and Maynard managed to mark it out, although it was a close-run thing, his boots barely clearing the horse’s shoulders. Things went downhill quickly from there, the bronc’s unpredictable spins and kicks throwing Maynard off-center in the saddle. There was barely four seconds on the clock when he got so much air under him there was no way he could recover.
The Cowboy Meets His Match Page 14