One Rodeo Season

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_883959a9-5b24-5e9d-973f-e772052126bf)

“COME ON, COME ON.” Ian Tall Chief bounced on the balls of his feet, adrenaline dumping into his system. The bull rider in the chute apparently couldn’t get his grip and kept resetting. The bull kept trying to rear up and Ian couldn’t blame the animal. This was taking forever. This was the last ride of the long goes, the opening round of the rodeo. “Come on, Randy.”

Ian had met Randy on the Total Championship Bulls Ranger circuit—the minor leagues of the TCB Challenger circuit—last year. He was friends with most of the riders. They were little more than kids, but hell, he wasn’t that much older. Bull riders were a good time on a Saturday night.

If they made it that far. Randy was in no hurry to get on with his eight-second rush. At this rate, they would be in this arena in Hays, Kansas, all night long.

From behind him, he heard his partner, Black Jack Johnson, snort. Later, Ian knew, Black Jack would give Ian crap about his impatience. A good bullfighter waited. A good bullfighter did not rush in early. Bad bullfighters rushed in and spooked a bull. That got a bullfighter or a bull rider or even a bull hurt.

Ian’s job was to stand back and wait until a bull rider dismounted. Or was bucked off. Didn’t matter. All riders had to get off a bull one way or another, and when they did, Ian and Jack were on the ground, ready to make sure no one got gored or crushed to death.

Hadn’t happened yet. That wasn’t to say no one had gotten trampled or tossed on Ian’s watch—they had. Ian and Jack had kept things from getting worse. That was their job. But the fact that things could go bad kept Ian on high alert.

Finally, Randy nodded and the chute gate swung open. About damn time, Ian thought as the bull roared out, its hind legs flailing up and out with incredible speed. It was a monster of an animal—a mottled brown beast that was probably close to two-thousand pounds. Ian danced out of the path he thought the bull would take, barely clearing the back hooves. That bull had one hell of a kick.

A fact Randy was not prepared to deal with. The kid went sailing through the air after only a few seconds, landing in a heap behind Ian—which was a good enough place to fall.

But tell that to the bull. This was one mean—and fast—sucker that kept on coming. Jack jumped at the side of the bull, waving his hands to distract the bull from charging at where Randy was having a little trouble getting up, but all Jack got was knocked over for his troubles.

Oh, crap, Ian thought as he watched his partner literally bite the dust. Ian was on his own. He could get out of the way fast enough, but Randy couldn’t and Ian got the feeling this bull wasn’t going to quit anytime soon.

Ian had two choices. He could try to grab Randy and spin the two of them out of the way and hope like hell that Jack could get back on his feet or...

No time. Ian stood his ground in front of Randy and did the only thing he could.

When the bull got within feet of him—close enough that Ian could smell the rank bull snot coming out of his nose—he stepped to the side and grabbed the bull by the horns.

Bad idea, he thought as he dug in his heels and twisted to the right, trying to get his left arm under the bull’s jaw. Normal steer wrestling meant falling on a five-hundred-pound castrated bull from the back of a horse. This bull was the moving definition of aggressive and weighed maybe three times that much. Plus, Ian didn’t have momentum on his side. The bull was dragging him and bearing down on Randy and Jack was shouting and Ian was losing his grip. Hard. Bad, bad, bad—

Then the bull slowed, shaking his head as if Ian were nothing but a fly he could shoo away. Ian held on, fighting to drag the bull’s head to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, Ian saw Jack grab Randy by the arm and haul him to the side. The bull slowed another half step, trying to decide if he wanted to change course to go after Randy or focus on Ian. That half step gave Ian the chance to get his grip.

He twisted the bull’s head up. His muscles screamed at the awkward angle and for a second he thought the bull was going to throw him instead of the other way around. He put everything he had into getting the bull’s jaw up and lifted. Come on, come on. If this didn’t work...

He felt it the moment he gained control. Instead of being dragged along with the bull’s momentum, Ian was suddenly able to get his heels into the dirt. Then it happened in less than a second. The bull’s feet flipped out from underneath his body and the animal went down on its side with a muffled grunt of surprise.

Ian lay on the bull’s neck and checked the arena. Randy was up and hobbling toward the fence. Jack was off to the side, staring at Ian with his mouth flopped open in shock. The handler on horseback had his lasso ready to rope the bull and drag him out.

The whole place—the arena, the cowboys waiting their ride, the spectators in the stands—was eerily silent. The hair on the back of Ian’s neck stood up. Bull riding was many things, but “quiet” wasn’t one of them.

“O...kay...” Jack mumbled. “You need any help there, Chief?”

“Just gotta get up,” Ian replied as the bull tried to lift its head. The animal made a deep bellowing sound, one of pure bovine anger. Getting up wasn’t a problem. Getting up without getting kicked? That was another story entirely.

Jack came and stood within an arm’s reach, crouched down on his heels and braced himself. “On three?”

Ian nodded. One, two— He let go and rolled to the side as fast as he could. Everyone always worried about getting a bull’s horn up the ass, but any cowboy worth his salt knew that the hooves were what killed a man. And this bull had all four hooves pointed at Ian.

Jack latched onto Ian’s arm and yanked him up so hard it made the world spin. Both men took off for the fencing as fast as they could.

The bull stumbled to his feet, but by the time he got all four on the floor, Ian and Jack were climbing up the fence to safety and the rider had the bull roped.

It was only when the bull had successfully made it down the chute and Ian was straddling the fence that he heard it—the roar that swelled with each passing second until it damn near deafened him.

“Damn, man,” Jack shouted over the noise. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

“Back on the ranch,” Ian yelled back. Which was partially true. He’d done plenty of bulldogging back on the ranch.

But never a bull that size. Never from the ground.

Adrenaline pumped into his system. Had he really done that? Taken down a charging bull in a test of strength and skill?

Hell yeah, he had. Damn, he felt invincible. The number of men who could do that and not get killed could probably be counted on one hand. He turned to the stands and took off his hat, waving it for the crowd. They yelled their approval. A pretty blonde caught his eye and blew him a kiss.

God, he loved this job. Best damned job he’d ever had.

The rodeo clown joined in with the crowd. “That’s our very own Chief, everyone! Using those Indian superpowers to save Randy Sloap from certain death!”

Ian gritted his teeth. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been called Chief. When your last name was Tall Chief, it was unavoidable. But he hated it when people ascribed his hard-won physical skills to some mystical Indian gift.

Ian was a cowboy, a linebacker, a bullfighter. He was not some noble savage who communed with bulls, dammit all.

From somewhere behind the chutes, he heard what sounded distinctly like a war whoop. Ian rolled his eyes at Jack, who shrugged helplessly. Just another day on the job.

He looked back at the chutes, and a cowboy caught his eye. At least, it looked like a cowboy. A little shorter, a little rounder. With a jolt of awareness, Ian realized it was not a cowboy, but a cowgirl, which was unusual enough. Aside from his cousin, June Spotted Elk—who was one of the better bull riders in the world—there weren’t usually a whole lot of women behind the chutes during the rides. Buckle bunnies had no place back there. Ian tried to think. Had there been a cowgirl out in the arena for the preride introductions and prayers—another rider? He didn’t think so.

But what made her more unusual was that the cowgirl was glaring at him as if Ian had personally slapped her on the ass and told her she should be pregnant, barefoot and in a kitchen somewhere. What the hell?

He nodded his head at her, which only made her scowl harder. Everyone else in the arena tonight was his biggest admirer. To hell with what one woman thought.

Randy limped up to him. “Man, I owe you one for that.”