A Cowboy of Her Own

The chute opened, and Starry Night catapulted into the arena, his back legs kicking out before his body cleared the gate. Porter held his seat and spurred, ignoring the ache in his shoulder when he raised his right arm high above his head. Starry Night’s hooves hit the dirt hard, then the horse spun right, the move meant to unseat his rider. Not a chance. Porter wasn’t going down that easy. He clenched his thighs against the bronc’s girth and ignored the fire licking his strained muscles. Sweat stung his eyes, and his fingers grew numb from the stranglehold he had on the rope.

Porter braced himself for another spin and was caught off guard when the bronc reared. Only a superhero could have maintained his balance. His backside slid toward the horse’s rump, and he clung to the rope like a man dangling off a cliff. But he was no match for Starry Night’s power and he quit spurring. The bodies in the stands became a blur of color and the roar of the crowd faded to a muted drone. He’d lost this skirmish with the bronc, but the battle wasn’t over until the dismount. He spotted an opening, but before he was able to release the rope the horse planted his front hooves in the dirt and sent Porter sailing into the air.

His injured shoulder hit the ground first, taking the brunt of his weight. For a split second his vision dimmed, then a bright light flashed inside his head, blinding him. He crawled to his hands and knees, the right side of his body numb, which messed up his balance. Halfway to his feet he pitched forward and did a face-plant in the dirt.

The ground reverberated beneath him as Starry Night continued to buck. When the pickup men released the flank strap, the bronc trotted out of the arena as if he was taking an afternoon stroll. Porter got to his feet and stumbled to the rails, where a helping hand yanked him to safety. He bent at the waist and gasped for air, willing the throb in his shoulder to subside.

“What did you do to tick that bronc off?”

Breathing hard enough to generate electricity, Porter wasn’t sure if he imagined the feminine voice next to his ear or not. Dizzy with pain, he glanced to his right and discovered a pair of neatly pressed suit pants hugging slim hips that gave way to slender thighs and black high-heeled pumps. What woman in her right mind dressed in business attire to attend a rodeo?

He straightened, his six feet towering over her. He studied her teal silk blouse, slender, pale neck and smoky almond-shaped eyes. Other than the black eyeliner and pink lip gloss, she wore no makeup on her flawless skin.

She crossed her arms over her chest and arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“You kind of look familiar.” He racked his brain for a name. She wasn’t a buckle bunny who traveled the circuit, but he couldn’t remember where he’d run into her before.

“Wendy Chin.”

He snapped his fingers. Dixie’s friend. “You rode bulls with my sister a few summers ago.”

“Rode a bull.” She held up one finger—the oval-shaped nail as petite and delicate as her body.

“I remember you now. Your parents own the Yuma flower shop on Main Street.”

“You’re a hard man to track down,” she said. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Sure.” He had no idea what Wendy Chin wanted from him, but he wasn’t about to turn down an invitation to chat with a pretty woman. Dixie insisted that her girlfriends were off-limits—not that Johnny had paid any attention to the warning. He’d married Shannon, but Porter and the rest of his brothers had heeded their sister’s demand.

“Be right back.” Porter walked over to the empty chute where he’d left his gear bag and removed his vest, spurs and riding glove, then slipped the duffel over his good shoulder and returned to Wendy’s side. When the announcer’s voice blasted through the sound system, introducing the next cowboy, he motioned for her to follow him to the livestock pens, where it would be easier to hear over bawling cows than loud music.

When they stepped outside, she said, “Let’s get out of the sun.” They crossed the gravel lot to a storage unit with an overhang wide enough for the two of them to fit under. For a woman who’d been born and raised in Arizona, her skin looked like fine porcelain instead of thick leather.

“Why have you been searching for me?” he asked.

“You work for Del Mar Rodeo.”

“I knew my family was excited that I’d finally landed a permanent job, but I didn’t expect Dixie to broadcast the news to her friends.”

“Dixie didn’t tell me.”

Wendy’s sober eyes told him that their chat had a purpose and it wasn’t to catch up on old times. “Why does it matter to you that I work for Del Mar?”

A tinge of pink swept across her cheeks. “I’m your copilot to Grand Junction, Colorado.”

He banged his palm against the side of his head, thinking dust must have clogged his ears. “Copilot?”

“I work for American Livestock Insurance, and Del Mar Rodeo is our biggest client. We do a ride-along once a year with one of the stock haulers.”

“Neither Buddy nor Hank mentioned that I’d have a passenger on this trip.”

“It’s not a big deal. I just need to document the number of hours you drive each day, how many breaks you take and how you care for the animals.”

If it wasn’t a big deal, why hadn’t he been told she’d be going on the trip with him?

Look on the bright side.

There was a bright side?

It’ll be fun to have a companion on the trip. “I’m picking up the trailer at seven Monday morning.”

“I’ll meet you at the pecan farm.” She frowned. “Is it okay to leave my car there until we return?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Wendy wove through the parked cars and hopped in one of those gas-efficient vehicles that looked as though it belonged in a Matchbox car collection. Not until she drove off did his arm begin to throb again. Unless he wanted Wendy to put in her report that his bum shoulder interfered with his ability to drive the rig, he’d better hightail it home and ice the injury.

No way was he losing his job over something a nosy claims adjuster—a pretty one at that—put in her report.

* * *

WENDY WAS STILL blushing after her talk with Porter at the rodeo. Why her friend’s brother made her nervous was anybody’s guess. Sure, he was good-looking—all the Cash brothers were handsome—but Porter wasn’t her type. According to Dixie, he didn’t want to grow up. He was more interested in partying and working only when he needed money to fill the gas tank or treat a buckle bunny to a night on the town. Wendy was Porter’s polar opposite. She was a go-getter and a stay-later at the job.

Even though they were different, Wendy had felt a tingle in her stomach when Porter’s gaze roamed over her body. She preferred serious, career-minded men, but there was something appealing about Porter’s laid-back attitude—not that she would ever do anything unprofessional with him.

As if you’d ever get the chance.

A girl could indulge in a fantasy or two, couldn’t she? Porter gravitated toward the well-endowed buckle bunny cheerleaders who screamed his name at rodeos. Voluptuous was not an adjective anyone would use to describe Wendy. Thanks to her Asian genes, her petite body lacked pronounced curves.

She pulled into the parking lot behind her parents’ flower shop and entered through the back door. “Hi, Mom.” Her mother was hard at work. “Are these the centerpieces for the ladies’ auxiliary banquet?”

“Where have you been? I thought you were helping me today.”

“I had to take care of a few things at the office.” Wendy hadn’t told her parents she’d be riding along with one of Buddy Davidson’s drivers because they’d worry. They agonized over everything—her safety, her diet, her job and her single status. Lately she’d begun wishing she didn’t live next to them. They shared a duplex that her parents had purchased in the ’80s. Although the low rent allowed her to put a substantial amount of money into savings each month, Wendy yearned for her privacy. Whenever she suggested she look for a new apartment, her parents became upset and changed the subject.

Wendy threw on an apron. “How many arrangements do you need to make?”

“Twenty-five.” Her mother pointed to the table against the wall. “I’ve finished ten.”

Wendy selected several sprigs of greenery and copied her mother’s design. When she finished, she held up the vase. “Good enough?”

“Perfect.”

They worked in comfortable silence for a half hour before Wendy spoke. “I’m traveling on business next week.”

“Where to?”