Montana Gold

He grabbed her up off her feet and bent his head. Found her mouth with his. His hot mouth.

Kissing her; without so much as a “Hi there, Elle.” Burning her up. She wanted to struggle, but he had both her arms pinned to her sides.

And she wanted to stay right where she was forever because the shock was wearing off and she was starting to feel. A lot more than she ever had before.

The lift moved up. But Chase kept on kissing her.

She had to make him stop it. Right now. Who did he think he was, anyway?

Somebody who could send lightning right through her whole body, that’s who he was. Lightning so strong it shook her to her toes.

He had to stop this now. But she couldn’t move any part of her body. Except her lips. And her tongue…

Also available by Genell Dellin

MONTANA BLUE

MONTANA GOLD

GENELL DELLIN

CHAPTER ONE

ELLE TOOK THE FIGHT to the bull. She shot the gap between him and the rider he was going after while the announcer yelled, “Chase Lomax! Yes, there’s the score, folks. Eighty-seven points! How’s that for a thirty-eight-year-old bull rider? Come on, let ’im hear from you, rodeo fans!”

She felt the air moving as the mass of the bull created a wind behind her, and then John McGee’s voice and the crowd’s noise faded away. A surge of adrenaline pumped through her blood in a river of power that held her flying feet off the ground and her mind in the zone.

She could do anything. She could make him do anything. This big, snorty beast was all hers.

He stopped, and she turned in that instant to see the huge head wobbling to focus on her, horns shaking, front hoof pawing the dirt, fixing her with an evil eye. Elle wasn’t going to let him think he could decide what came next, even if he did outweigh her a hundred times over. She was the boss. She’d be the one to say how this little rendezvous ended.

She flew to him, in close, and raced past his nose again, just the way she’d done a thousand times, in and out in less than a heartbeat, using the move she thought of as her “hummingbird.” He came after her, so close she could feel his breath and smell it. She ripped off her hat and slapped him in the face with it at the same time as she reversed directions. Her heart lifted, went lighter than the cloud of fine dust she was running through, and the shaking ground behind her roused her blood to a fever’s heat.

She whirled to face him again. The tip of a horn thrust at her and missed but the keen edge of danger touched her mind. She danced away, running backward now, speeding up to angle sideways. She loved this job. Standing in the arena always felt like being in her own house. Despite her heart beating hard as anything, these were the most calming, peaceful, private times she ever had.

The bull rider was safe because she’d gone into the maelstrom of the whirling bull and jerked his rope loose when he had that little hang-up. That was a thrill in itself. She loved helping the cowboys in danger, loved feeling that she might’ve saved somebody’s life. Now this bull was hers.

It was just her and the bull, mano a mano.

Elle felt a huge smile come over her face as she backed up, took a running jump into the air, soared over the bull’s head, and landed on his back. She took a couple of steps before she leaped over his tail and off to the ground again, still running. One of the safety men rode horseback in between them and drove the bull toward the out gate.

That was when she finally heard the roar of the crowd again.

“Miss Farrell Hawthorne, ladies and gentlemen,” John yelled. “How about them apples? Little bitty girl, great big bull. Y’all won’t see a better protector for these brave cowboys, nowhere, no way, and she sure can entertain a crowd, too. Tell her how you feel about her!”

The roar got even louder. It picked her up on a wave of noise and washed the joy she was feeling into an explosion in her veins. She swept off her hat and threw it into the air the way the cowboys did when they made a great ride.

Then she looked for Rocky, the painted clown who’d been acting silly all night, and Junior, who’d been inside the barrel for the bulls to butt around. She beckoned the crowd to acknowledge them, too. John began announcing their names and talking about their years of experience.

They ran to her and Rocky clowned around, gesturing for more applause from the fans. Elle turned to one side of the grandstand and then to the other, bowing and then holding her arms out as if to embrace the fans while they screamed and yelled and stomped even louder. Smoke ’Em had been the last bull of the evening.

Once again, way too soon, the rodeo was over. People were already pouring into the aisles.

“You done good, kid,” Junior said as they began to gather up their equipment.

Rocky agreed. “Mighty fine bullfightin’, girl.”

“Freestyle American,” she said lightly. “I’m just glad we don’t kill the bull like they do in Mexico. I wanna meet up with him again.”

“That’s the challenge,” Rocky said. “We let the rascals live and that’s how they get so smart.”

“And valuable,” Elle said. “Those stock contractors would kill us if we killed a bull.”

They all laughed at that and joked with each other but the fun was draining out of the evening for Elle. A family walking away along the arena fence, mother, father and three little girls proudly wearing their cowgirl hats—one pink, one red, one purple—caught her eye and she watched them until they turned the corner at the end of the bleachers. In only a moment the arena and the area behind the chutes would be as empty as the grandstands. All gone.

All the life, all the noise, all the excitement and the danger and the people. Gone. It was that quiet, lonesome moment that Elle hated every time. Nobody much around the arena, the animals back in their pens, the big lights shining down on vacant seats, dusty dirt and deserted pieces of trash slapping against the fence to glare white and ugly at the night.

The end of the rodeo always gave her a little chill.

Now, instead of electricity and excited voices and the thud of hooves and snorts of challenge, the clatter of the chute gates and the clang of the bull bells, the only thing filling the air was the wind.

CHASE LOMAX WALKED INTO the swirl of music and laughter that was Larry’s Steak House after a rodeo and grinned because somebody yelled out his name the minute he came through the door. Tater Gibbons, a calf roper he’d known for years, waved him over to shake hands.

“Eighty-seven, huh?” Tater said. “Congratulations, Chaser. Reckon you just might make a bull rider in your old age, after all.”

Chase couldn’t stop smiling. Getting into bull riding, going for the All-Around, had put the excitement back in his life.

“You’re my inspiration, Tate,” he said. “Seeing as how you’re living proof a man can still cowboy when he’s 102.”

Everybody at the table laughed and jeered, joining in.

“Yeah, but I ain’t gettin’ on no roughstock,” Tater said, when he could be heard again. “Gotta hand it to you, man.”

Chase slapped him on the shoulder and moved on among the tables, looking for Robbie. The place was full of people, pulsing red-dirt music and the smells of steaks and onions sizzling over mesquite coals. His mouth watered and his stomach growled. He never ate much before he rode and afterward he was ravenous.

Somebody all the way over by the dance floor stood up. Robbie. Smiling all over his good-looking Brazilian face because they’d both had great rides tonight. Good old Robbie. Without doubt, the best buddy he’d ever had and one heck of a bull rider. They’d had a lot of fun since they’d partnered up for traveling some of the time, hitting the big rodeos and competing on the professional bull-riding circuit, too.

Chase headed that way, stopping here and there to shake hands and hear compliments about his bull ride and his bronc rides, to swap jokes and good-natured insults. He knew, at least by sight, probably half the people in Larry’s tonight and some of the ones he didn’t know were watching his progress, smiling, pointing him out. He’d probably sign some autographs before the night was through.

Robbie was rustling up another chair from somewhere and the dozen or so friends around the long table were moving over to make room for Chase when he reached them. The first thing he spotted was Elle Hawthorne among them.

The welcoming flash of her smile before she turned to say something to her friend Missy Jo gave him a little prickle along his spine. He’d never met her and he wanted to talk to her and here she was, put right in his path.

It’d be interesting to see what she was like out of the arena. A woman who wanted to be a bullfighter—no, who was one—was bound to be a whole lot different from all the other girls, and he wasn’t quite sure how to approach her to get his message across with the least blowback.

He wasn’t prejudiced. He believed that anybody, man or woman, ought to do anything they were big enough to do. But maybe women should do anything they wanted except be bullfighters.

Once they got the chairs arranged, somehow the empty one ended up so that he sat just across from her. She looked right at him, direct and sassy—and young, so young—sizing him up.

“I don’t think you two have ever been introduced,” Robbie said in his soft, lilting accent. “Elle Hawthorne, this dangerous cowboy is Chase Lomax. Chase, this is Elle. Now you can see her beautiful face, my friend, instead of only a blur in the arena.”

She stuck out her hand and Chase stood up to shake it. Beautiful might be a bit of an exaggeration, with that dusting of freckles across her nose.

Or not. Her smile was a hundred watts and her eyes were something else. She sure didn’t look like a bullfighter right now.

Best plan of action might be to try to charm her into seeing things his way, just as he would any other woman.

“Pleased to meet you, Chase,” she said. “Are you truly dangerous?”

“Some say so,” he drawled, returning her smile with a big one of his own. “But then, you look like you can handle a little danger, Elle.”

Robbie favored her with his famous grin.

“Come to me, Elle,” he said, “if you should need any help. I know how tricky he is.”

“Now that right there is a trick,” Chase said to her. “He introduces me, but then he tries to keep you for himself.”

“That’s life, right?” Elle said, grinning. “Always something to watch out for. If it’s not a bull, it’s a cowboy.” She held the floor for a beat and added, “Or as M. J. always says, if it’s full of bull, it’s a cowboy.”

They all laughed and then she turned to her right and started talking to Tim Traywick.

As if he were the interesting one. Nothing against Tim, but any other woman would’ve been all over Chase and Robbie instead. Face it: Tim was no champion, and he looked hardly old enough to be away from home alone.

Then the waiter came by and when Chase had finished ordering, he saw that she was really laughing it up with Tim. Far as Chase knew, the boy wasn’t known for being a wit. Without really trying, he overheard Elle say something about one night when Cooder Graw was playing live at Billy Bob’s. They could be dating, for all he knew. Or cared.

But when he turned to listen to whatever it was that Robbie was trying to tell him, he decided he’d dance with her. That would be the way to talk to her privately. And this definitely had to be private.

In a minute, the band switched to the lively Alan Jackson song “Burnin’ the Honky Tonks Down.” Chase looked back at Elle. She was still busy with Tim, but too bad. Chase didn’t care if they were dating. This was his chance to get rid of the rock stuck in his craw.

“Come on, Elle,” he said, pushing back his chair, “dance with me.”

She glanced up at him, startled, but he held her gaze and she didn’t try to look away. She grinned and stood up, too. “How do I know you can dance?”

Cute grin. But he had enough women on his case already, and she was way too young for him, to boot.

“You saw me gettin’ clear of old Smoke ’Em tonight.”

That made her laugh. He liked her laugh, too.

“I hate to hurt your ego, Lomax, but I didn’t have time to watch your footwork.”

Well, you certainly had time to interfere with my dismount.

He would dance one dance with her and tell her that in the nicest possible way.

He met her at the end of the table, which was at the edge of the dance floor, took her hand, and they went with the music. Really went with it.

She was a dancer who put her heart in it, no holding back, reading his mind like a gypsy woman and adding plenty of flourish during the guitar, the fiddle and finally the mandolin breaks. He had a whole new respect for her.

Elle Hawthorne was one of a kind. She threw herself into play as hard as she did into work.

When the song ended, they just stood there for a minute, grinning at each other, pretty proud of themselves.

“I love a partner who’s not afraid to dance,” he said.

“Me, too.”

So when the band struck up a slow one, she just naturally moved into his arms. He started to say something but then he didn’t. He didn’t want to ruin this yet.

She was warm in his arms, small and just the right height to lay her head on his chest. She didn’t, though. She kept a little distance.

He pulled her to him and brushed his legs against hers as they danced. She threw him a surprised glance, as if to say she wasn’t quite sure if she liked it, but she didn’t pull back. After a while, she even moved a little closer and slid her free hand higher onto his shoulder.

But instead of looking at him, she stared off into space. At first he thought she must be looking for somebody else who was on the dance floor, but then she tilted her chin up, met his eyes and held them like she was thinking him over. Her eyes were so clear and deep they made him think, too.

No matter what, the whole time they were moving in sync. Perfect partners.

“You’ve got the moves,” he said.

That made her grin.

“Yeah,” she said dryly. “I have the moves.”

“In the arena, too. I watched you and Smoke ’Em after I got off.”

“Thanks,” she said. “You made a good ride. What was his score going in? Smoke ’Em thirty, riders two?”

“Sheer luck,” he said. “When he started that really hard whippin’ around with his hind end, he came within a hair of scooting me down off my rope.”

“Yeah,” she said. “He is one strong boy who loves his work with all his big old ugly heart.” She flashed an impish grin. “Nearly as much as you.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Are you saying I’m big and ugly? Or big and strong?”

“Whatever,” she said, with a definitely flirtatious tilt of her head.

Her soft laugh mingled with the music.

“You looked like you were having a pretty good time, yourself,” he said.

She nodded. “I love it. Everything and everybody fades away and it’s just me and el toro.”

Then she bit her bottom lip—a really nice bottom lip—as if she’d said more than she meant to.

“Me, too.” Then he said way more than he’d meant to. “I don’t know what I’ll do when I can’t ride anymore.”

She shot him a look. “I noticed the announcer mentioned that you’re thirty-eight.”

He laughed. “I’m gonna jump him out about that. I’m sick of hearing it.”

And he was. He still had the want-to and he still had the talent.

“To be fair,” she said, “earlier, he also called you a great champion.”

“Fear’s what makes a rider good,” he said lightly, “and I’m scared.”

He took the conversation back to tonight’s ride. Which, after all, was the reason they were dancing together right now.

“I was really glad when Smoke ’Em finally started to spin. I couldn’t believe how high he could kick and how hard he could buck.”

“Yeah, the spin’s what kept you on,” she said. “I sure thought you were hung up bad there at the end, though.”

Good. Great. She’d brought it up herself. Maybe he could get his message across without stirring her up.

“Well, you did come in too soon,” he said. “I was okay.”

She stiffened and gave him a narrow-eyed look.

“You’re the first customer I ever had that complained I tried too hard to keep him alive and healthy. And you looked pretty much hung-up with your hand there in the rope.”

“I wasn’t.” He brought out his most charming smile. “I don’t mean to be critical,” he said. “I like to be in control as long as I can. I was just looking for the best way to get off.”

She was staring at him like he had two heads. “What happens after the buzzer, Chase, doesn’t get you any more points. I could drag you away from the bull by your hair and it wouldn’t change your score.”

The image—and her tone—sent a quick shot of anger through him. Wasn’t it always the cavemen who did the dragging?

“I’m not talking about points. I’m talking about control, and I had it all covered. Winning is all about control.”

“You’re talking about image,” she said, and now she was mad, too. “This is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Ty Murray or Tuff Hedeman or Donnie Gay or Larry Mahan or any of the best bull riders in history never felt any shame at running from a bull, much less being helped to get loose from one.”

“Look,” he said, “I’ll run from a bull just like anybody else. I’m not proud. But I don’t want any help if I don’t need it.”

She studied him, eyes full of fire, but her body still moving flawlessly with his.

“What is the deal here? Tell me, would you be talking to Rocky or Junior like this?”

“Of course.”

“Of course not.” She glared at him. “I’m thinking you just don’t like to be rescued by a woman.”

“I wasn’t,” he snapped. “You didn’t rescue me because I didn’t need to be rescued.”

“You’re criticizing me because I’m a woman in a man’s job. It’s as simple as that. I know it.”

He shook his head and opened his mouth, but she was too quick for him.

“Since when does a cowboy second-guess a bullfighter? At least to his face? If he’s not a woman? I can tell you right now that I intend to be the best. I’m gonna win that new championship contest Bob Moss and those other money men are putting together for this fall. Have you heard about it?”

He spoke without thinking about what he was saying, because what he was thinking about was how good she felt in his arms.

“Yeah, but from what I’ve heard, no way can they call it a world championship. Not compared to what the Wrangler Tour used to be. Rob Smets won that five times and you can’t let somebody who hasn’t fought very many bulls hold the same title as he—”

She interrupted him, snapping each word off like a shot.

“Last I heard, you’re a bull rider and a bronc rider, not king of the world. No matter what the title’s gonna be I am going to win it. Remember that, Lomax. I know what I’m doing whether you think so or not.”

Damn, she was mad. This was exactly what he’d tried to avoid. He didn’t need the bullfighters mad at him for getting into their business and the cowboys mad at him for making their protectors mad.

He tried his charming smile again.

“Look, Elle, all I’m doing is just trying to tell you how to read me when I’m on a bull. Trying to save you until I really need you.”

She gave him a long, mean look, reassessing whatever it was that she’d originally thought of him, no doubt.

But the hell of it was that her body wasn’t reassessing anything. Not one damn thing. It was still dancing on, as close to his, as in sync with his, as if they were longtime lovers.

Insane thought. She was only a kid.

He tried again to make her smile back at him.

“It’s hard to run from a bull and look cool at the same time,” he said, grinning his mischievous grin. “What I need is for you to come in right when I start to run and distract the audience with your guts and skill.”

She kept on giving him that look.

“Since, as Robbie pointed out, you’re such a blur in the arena that they can’t be distracted by your beautiful face.”

“You wouldn’t say that to a man bullfighter, either,” she said. “You may be a control freak, but you can’t control me with flattery.”

He hadn’t defused her one bit.

Lomax, get a grip. This is not worth a big fuss-fight and the resulting gossip. This is stupid. You should’ve kept your mouth shut.

He smiled at her, trying to get back on the easy footing they’d had at the beginning.

“I’m just funny that way,” he said lightly. “I like to hang on a little after the buzzer in case I’ve only imagined that the eight seconds are up. That has happened more than once, you know.”

She scowled at him. Fiercely scowled at him.

“You were in trouble when I pulled you loose, and you know it. Get over it, Lomax. I’ll do my job my way. I’m not going to have it on my conscience that you got hurt or killed when I could’ve saved your life.”

Quick anger hit him. He didn’t even know for sure if he believed it, but he blurted, “All right, it is because you’re a woman. By nature, women are overprotective. Men have sense enough to know that if I get hurt or killed, well, that’s just bull riding.”

Her blazing eyes narrowed to slits.

“I know the danger. And I’m not overprotective.”

“I hate to break it to you, Elle, but you can’t save everybody. Somebody’s gonna get killed and somebody’s gonna get hurt while you’re fighting bulls and it will not be your fault. You won’t have anything to do with it.”

“And I know I’m not God.”

“You don’t talk like it. You talk like a naïve, little-girl greenhorn out to save the world.”

“Don’t ‘little-girl’ me, buddy. I may only be half as old as you are, but I’ve had more than twenty-four years’ worth of trouble to face up to and I know what my job is and how to do it.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid,” he said. “And I am not twice as old as you are.”

They glared at each other as the song ended but even when they stopped moving, their bodies wouldn’t part. They stood just as close together as when they were dancing, breathing hard and looking daggers at each other.

Finally, Chase let go and Elle stepped back out of his arms as if she couldn’t wait to get away. She whirled to leave him but then she turned.

“You can dance,” she said. “Sorry I doubted you, but with an old man, you never know.”

CHAPTER TWO

ELLE HAD FORGOTTEN how much she loved driving at night. It gave her that same feeling—or nearly—of being wrapped up in her own world that always came over her in the arena. But tonight, instead of her and a bull, it was her and Missy Jo, who’d just gone sound asleep in the back seat. They rolled on through the dark down a mostly empty Texas highway with Missy’s mares, Skitter and Shine, standing quiet in the trailer hitched on behind and Aussie, her dog, sprawled all over the passenger seat and half the console, riding shotgun.