A Cowboy's Redemption

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_4ff9198d-f4b4-50cc-99eb-a192cba71f65)

“This rodeo won’t be the same without you, Rivera.”

Cruz Rivera’s gaze skipped over the prison warden, Mitchell Bole, who stopped at his side near the bronc-busting chutes. The first rule Cruz had learned on the inside was that you never made eye contact with the warden.

“Your talent has turned our little rodeo into a money-making machine.”

Before Cruz had arrived at the White Sands New Mexico Correctional Facility, the prison rodeo had been nothing more than a two-hour afternoon show for the best-behaved inmates. After Cruz had proved his talents on the back of a bronc, the prison’s athletic director had convinced the warden to grant special privileges to the most agile convicts. As a reward for good behavior the men were allowed to practice their rodeo skills on a weekly basis.

Cruz stood out among the other convicts—most likely he’d inherited his abilities from his father, who’d been a national champion bull rider back in the day. As word had spread through the local community that the prison had a bona fide rodeo cowboy, citizens had begun showing up to watch the practices. The warden saw an opportunity to make a quick buck and opened the event to the public. Over a thousand people had turned out for the first rodeo. Men, women and children sat on the tailgates of their trucks or the hoods of their cars, watching from behind a chain-link fence decorated with razor wire. Each year the crowd grew larger and eventually the warden commissioned a construction company to build a three-thousand-seat arena. That year, sponsors signed up to support the rodeo and pretty soon the inmates who didn’t compete were enlisted to make crafts—leather products like wallets and belts and original prison artwork—that were sold at the event.

“Monroe is your new star,” Cruz said.

“He’s not half as good-looking as you.” Bole winked.

Cruz wasn’t a vain man, but he’d caught his reflection in the sliver of glass that posed as a window in his cell door. He was no longer a fresh-faced kid. Twelve years at White Sands had hardened him. Time had hollowed out his face, making his cheekbones and jaw more pronounced. And thanks to a fall off a nasty bronc four years ago, his nose was crooked. His chiseled looks combined with his dark hair and eyes had garnered plenty of looks from the female rodeo groupies. Each year his buckle-bunny fan club grew in numbers, the ladies taunting Cruz and the other inmates with their skimpy clothing, big hair and lipstick-painted mouths.

“You never know.” The warden chuckled. “You might get caught breaking a rule and we’ll have to extend your stay...”

Again.

After the warden had realized Cruz’s value to the prison’s bottom line, he hadn’t wanted him leaving. When Cruz came up for parole, Bole had made sure he didn’t go anywhere. The warden had sent Scorpion to deal with Cruz. The rapist cornered Cruz, forcing him to defend himself from a sexual assault. The incident had added eight years to his sentence.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Cruz said.

Bole narrowed his eyes.

“The fans know this is my last rodeo. If I don’t make parole, a reporter might show up at the prison asking why.”

“There are ways to keep reporters from knowing everything that goes on behind these walls.”

“And there are ways to get information to the public without you being aware.” Cruz grinned. “I worked hard to make you the most envied prison warden in New Mexico. I can work just as hard to take you down.”

Bole’s face turned ashen even as the lines bracketing his mouth deepened. “You just make sure you win today. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

After Bole walked off, Cruz closed his eyes and cleared his mind of all the trash that clogged it. Years of garbage had accumulated inside his head, and shoving the bad experiences and memories aside wasn’t easy. With extra effort he envisioned his draw—a bronc named High Wire. If he made it to eight, he’d advance to the second go-round later in the afternoon. If he won that one, he’d make it to the championship round in the evening.

He needed three victories today to become the first inmate to win the saddle-bronc event twelve straight years.

Then he’d retire his spurs for good.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the sixteenth annual White Sands prison rodeo!”

Noise from the crowd echoed through the arena as Cruz put on his spurs and riding glove. In the past he’d never worn one of the Kevlar vests the prison supplied—mostly because he hadn’t given a crap if he’d gotten injured or killed. But his parole hearing was next week and he was having second thoughts about wearing the extra protection. Then he nixed the idea—it was bad karma to change his routine.

“This is the event you’ve all been waiting for—our saddle-bronc competition.” Once the crowd quieted, the announcer—a prison guard named Larry—gave spectators a rundown of the event rules.

Cruz stood by himself next to High Wire’s chute. There wasn’t a whole lot of camaraderie among prison rodeo contenders. It was what it was—a group of sex offenders, murderers, armed robbers and drug lords playing cowboy for the day. As soon as the crowd disappeared and they hauled the roughstock away, the cowboys morphed back into society’s outcasts and returned to their cells.

Except for Cruz. He’d get out of this hell hole in three days.

“We know who you want to see ride,” the announcer said. “Turn your attention to chute number three, where Cruz Rivera is getting ready to battle High Wire!”

Cruz climbed the slats and waved the cowboy hat he’d been given for the day at the crowd. He nodded to the buckle bunnies holding signs with their phone numbers. Twelve years was a long time to go without sex and he looked forward to one day holding a pretty lady in his arms again.

“I know Rivera is a favorite among the ladies. Let’s see if this cowboy can tame High Wire—a bronc famous for his acrobatics.”

Cruz slid his leg over the gelding and found his seat. The horse trembled with anticipation. He checked over his shoulder—Bole stood a few feet away, his eyes always moving. Always watching. Cruz adjusted his grip on the six-foot hack rein and willed his racing heart to slow to a steady beat. On the count of three he nodded to the gateman and the chute opened.

High Wire bolted from the enclosure. His back legs extended and Cruz pitched forward but managed to mark out despite the awkward position. Saddle-bronc busting was akin to ballet and Cruz had been born with balance and rhythm. Unlike the other rodeo events, saddle bronc relied less on strength and more on timing and finesse.

Unbeknownst to High Wire, Cruz took control of the ride. With each buck he leaned forward straight up the bronc’s neck to the rigging, then right back down. No jerky movements. He squared his shoulders and held his free arm high and steady.

When the buzzer sounded, the roar of the crowd threatened to disrupt Cruz’s concentration and he doubled down, putting in extra effort while he waited for the right opening to dismount. The opportunity came and went and Cruz remained on High Wire. A part of him didn’t want the ride to end. If he could have stayed on High Wire the rest of his days he might have found his utopia. But that was not how a convict’s life worked—he didn’t get to make the calls.

High Wire was tiring—the bronc had been through enough for one day and Cruz launched himself off the animal. He hit the ground and rolled, coming to his feet in one fluid motion. He retrieved his hat from the dirt, then waved it at the crowd.

One ride down. Two to go.

Then he could get on with the rest of his life—wherever that took him.

Chapter One (#ulink_b32859e9-a5b0-5d45-bc17-a0a86b670e7f)

On a Monday afternoon in mid-May, Cruz clutched the plastic bag that held his few belongings and waited for the prison guards to buzz the tower. The massive gates yawned open and he walked away from the hellhole that had been his home for far too long.

Ignoring the clanking sound of the iron bars closing behind him, he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with hot, dusty air. Crazy, but he swore the oxygen in the parking lot smelled a whole lot sweeter than it did inside the prison yard behind him.

Let it go, man. You’re thirty-one years old. The best days are yet to come.

From here on out whatever road he traveled would be better than the one he’d been on for over a decade. He shoved his hand inside his pants pocket and clutched the fifty dollars in gate money and the bus ticket to Las Cruces. The Greyhound passed by the prison three times a week. He had fifteen minutes to make the half-mile walk to the highway and catch the bus. But damned if he could get his feet to move. He checked over his shoulder. The guards stood sentry, their faces expressionless. The gray-bar hotel sucked the life out of everyone who worked or lived within its walls.

His cell mate, Orlando, had been in and out of prison most of his adult life and had warned Cruz that he might freeze up on the outside. Cruz had hated prison with every fiber of his being but it had been predictable—even comfortable in a perverse way. He’d been told what to do, how to do it and when to do it for the past 4,326 days. There was no one on this side of the wall instructing him to do anything. From now on every decision was in his hands.

“Need a lift?”

Cruz’s heart jumped inside his chest but not a muscle twitched—years of bracing himself for an unexpected attack had taught him to control his body’s reactions. It took only a few seconds for the familiar voice to register, then Cruz relaxed. Riley Fitzgerald. He grinned at the former world-champion saddle-bronc rider—the only man who’d ever tried to make a difference in Cruz’s life.

“Considering where you just came from, you look good.” Fitzgerald clasped Cruz’s shoulder and gave him a hug. The last hug he’d received had been from Maria Alvarez, Fitzgerald’s wife and Cruz’s former high-school teacher, after he’d passed the tests required to earn his GED. She’d been proud of him that day—too bad he’d let her down. “How’s Maria?” She and Fitzgerald ran the Juan Alvarez Ranch for Boys outside Albuquerque. The ranch had been named after Maria’s deceased younger brother, who’d been killed in a gang shooting when he was a teen.

“Maria’s fine. She’s eager to see you.”

Cruz wasn’t ready to socialize with people. Not yet. Not until he grew acclimated to life outside of prison.

“There’s a job waiting for you at the ranch,” Fitzgerald said.