One Rodeo Season

CHAPTER FIVE

WRECKERATOR WAS NOT in the mood to be ridden. He came flying out of the gate awkwardly, slamming into the chute hard enough that Lacy had to grab onto the top of the gate to keep her balance. The rider had no such luxury—he lost his grip and went down.

The crowd gasped as the rider bounced off the ground. Then Ian and his partner were there. They threw themselves in front of Wreck, arms waving as they shouted at him.

Wreck’s flank strap didn’t fall off, which meant it was still irritating him. He was not the sharpest knife in the drawer and, in his pissed state, he got confused by the noise. Still bucking, he lowered his head and charged at Ian. Lacy held her breath. He wouldn’t try to wrestle Wreck, would he? She wanted to shout at him, but her voice got stuck in the back of her throat and all she could do was watch in horror as Wreck bore down on Ian.

Ian made a stutter step to the right, and then spun left as Wreck blew past him. Lacy leaned forward, trying to see around her bull to where Ian was—had he gotten clipped?

But no. Ian was standing in the middle of the arena, hands on his hips, shaking his head as if Wreckerator—a fourteen-hundred-pound bull—was a naughty child. Lacy felt herself breathe again in relief as the crowd cheered.

Wreck’s flank strap loosened and fell to the ground. Ian’s partner, Jack, danced in front of Wreck, moving toward the open chute that would funnel the bull back to the pens. Wreck charged, but it didn’t have the same murderous intent. When Black Jack dodged, Wreck saw the opening and kept right on going, still kicking up his back heels as he was shunted down the chutes.

“That’ll earn Garth Whitley a reride, folks,” the announcer proclaimed. “And let’s hear it for our dedicated bullfighters Ian Tall Chief and Jack Johnson, ladies and gents! They’re working hard for our riders tonight!”

Both men tipped their hats to the crowd. Lacy couldn’t help but note that the sounds of female voices seemed to drown out male cheers. She realized she was scowling at the crowd and forced herself to stop.

Gah, she was being ridiculous. Ian was a good-looking man—well, they both were. Of course the ladies were going to cheer for them. Bull riders tended to be lightweights and the bullfighters were anything but. Ian and Jack were both well over six feet and even their dorky matching shirts couldn’t disguise their muscles.

Muscles she’d touched. Muscles she’d seen in detail when Ian’s wet T-shirt had clung to his chest.

She shook the image out of her head and wondered how many of the people here had heard about Ian wrestling Rattler to the ground. She’d meant to see if anyone had posted a video, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to walk into her father’s office and turn on the computer, not when the box was still sitting on the desk, exactly where she’d left it. The Straight Arrow was far enough out in the middle of nowhere that Wi-Fi and broadband were still pipe dreams. Dad had sprung for a satellite connection when Lacy had gone to college so she and Mom could email, but Lacy couldn’t get her laptop hooked into the system. Well, she probably could, if she could bring herself to go into the damn office. But she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. She would. Soon.

Besides, she hadn’t had time to do any online digging into Ian Tall Chief in the first place. Murph, her hired hand, had come down with the flu and Lacy had been doing most of the ranch work herself. The vet had come to preg-check the cows and had looked at Rattler while he was there. After loading a couple of hundred cows into a holding chute, she’d barely been able to do anything other than stumble into the shower and collapse into bed. At least she’d slept. She had that going for her.

Lacy climbed down off the chutes and threaded her way back to the pens to check on Wreck. No one messed with her, not during the rodeo. Bull riders were a superstitious lot. No one wanted to risk her jinxing them before a ride.

She took a deep breath and let the smell of dirt and manure and bulls fill her nose. For a moment, she could be. It was as close to free as Lacy felt these days.

Wreck was safely in his pen, blowing snot on everything and bellowing his dissatisfaction with not getting to crush anyone to death.

“It was a good effort,” she told the bull. “You have to get out of the chute, though. A no-ride doesn’t do either of us any good.”

If only Wreck could get it together—he could be such a good bull. But he was still too green to be reliable.

She headed back up to the front. Chicken was due up soon, and she liked to be near him. Where Wreck was all impatient, Chicken Run had gotten to the point where he’d seen this, done that. After this year, she’d retire him out to the ranch and he’d live out the rest of his bull days among the fawning herds of cows, hopefully making mean little bulls that would grow up to be as rank as their daddy.

That was the plan, anyway. The six months of the season felt like a long time to go.

She watched a few of the other rides from the side of one of the chutes, well away from the rest of the riders. She located Jerome Salzberg on the other side of the chutes. He was in the middle of a crowd and didn’t seem to notice her. That was how she liked it.

But even looking at him caused her to tense up as she remembered the feeling of his breath on her cheek and the trailer biting into her back. She had to be smarter. She knew that. She couldn’t let someone like Jerome or Slim surprise her again and she absolutely couldn’t let anyone get close enough to touch her.

She didn’t have a belt holster for her pistol and she wasn’t sure how she’d feel open-carrying it around. Her father had never needed to pack heat when he traveled. The gun was there in case an animal got injured and had to be put out of its misery. She’d seen it happen a couple of times and it was a hard thing to watch.

Cowgirls didn’t cry. Not in public, anyway.

Ian was in the middle of the arena, bouncing on the balls of his feet. All of his attention was focused on the chutes. She thought it was the same guy who’d nearly gotten crushed by Rattler—until Ian had saved his hide.

Ian really was good—there was a fearlessness about him that she admired. She wished she could be that certain, that confident. Instead, she was going through the motions, hoping everyone else didn’t see how close to the edge of total collapse she really was.

Chicken had a good ride, bucking his rider off at the 6.8 second mark. A better rider would have made the time, but this one committed to the right when he should have gone left.

The moment he’d dumped his rider, Chicken trotted toward the gate. Ian hadn’t even moved during the ride. She hadn’t realized she was staring at him until he looked up and caught her gaze. She could feel heat build on her cheeks, especially when his mouth quirked into a smile. For her.

She didn’t smile back. Yes, Ian had said they were friends. But because he’d said so didn’t make it true. She would not do anything he might take the wrong way. She was smarter than that.

Still...

She touched the brim of her hat in acknowledgment. It was more than a nod, less than a smile. It was the best she could do.

He did the same back.

Not that it mattered. She wasn’t here for Ian. She was here for the bulls. She followed Chicken back to make sure he made it into the pens without a problem, but she didn’t have to worry. The old bull wanted some water and hay.

Part of her thought she should watch the rest of the rides, but part of her wanted to stay back here with the bulls. When she was with the bulls, she didn’t have to worry about sending the “wrong” signals or defending herself or any of that crap. She had to make sure they didn’t step on her. It was easy in its simplicity. Don’t make a mistake. Don’t get crushed.

Rattler was going tomorrow. She hoped like hell he had a good ride. They needed another three-hundred-and-some-odd points before she could start negotiating with the promoters for appearances at the Challenger level.

She climbed into her truck. She had a good view of her trailer and the pen where her bulls were held. She should probably eat dinner. She knew she’d eaten breakfast—the hotel had served doughnuts and coffee, that sort of thing. But she wasn’t sure she’d eaten lunch.

She had the feeling that, if her mom were still alive, she’d give Lacy that look and say, “Honey, I know you can do better than this.” It was Mom’s favorite phrase, one she deployed equally for underwhelming grades or a messy room. And then Dad would say, “Linda, go easy on the girl. She’ll get it next time—won’t you, honey?” And Lacy would nod and promise that next time, she’d do better.

As an only child, Lacy had often thought it was unfair that her mom expected her to be so perfect all the time. But now that Lacy knew the truth...

How much of that prodding had been Mom hedging against Lacy’s true nature?

What was Lacy’s true nature?

The answers were in the box. The box that Lacy couldn’t bring herself to look into again.

She couldn’t ignore that box for the rest of her life. At the very least, she needed to get back into Dad’s office, sort through the bills that were way past due, pull the stock contracts out—that sort of thing. She couldn’t let the box loom over her.

She wouldn’t. Tomorrow, the bulls would buck and she’d load them up and drive home. And this week, she promised herself, she’d go into the office and face the box again.

She would do better. She knew she could.

* * *

TAP, TAP, TAP.

“Lacy?”

She started awake—wait—when had she fallen asleep? She blinked groggily as she tried to remember where she was.

Knocking, again. “Lacy?” the voice repeated, more concerned this time.

She swung her head to the left and saw him. He stood there like some sort of dream—although this time, he wasn’t in a T-shirt, wet or otherwise. He was in a bright blue button-up shirt with white buttons. The sleeves were cuffed, revealing his massive forearms. He had a brown leather strap around one wrist and a brown felt cowboy hat on his head. He looked good, she thought dimly. He’d look better naked, though.

Wait—had that been real?

She rolled down the window and, to her horror, heard herself say, “I liked the wet T-shirt better.” Which was shortly followed by, “Oh, hell—did I say that out loud?”

Ian blinked. “If you did,” he said, giving her an easy out, “I didn’t hear it. You’re not sleeping in this truck alone, are you?”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she lied. “And I have a gun.”

He gave her a look that was probably supposed to be stern, but didn’t quite make it. “Is it still in the glove box?”

“Maybe.” The cobwebs started to clear out of her head.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” he asked. She didn’t much care for his tone. It was too much like the way she’d always imagined big brothers talking to their irritating little sisters.

At least he hadn’t made it sound as if she should be sleeping with him. Even if she might have been dreaming about doing just that. Even though it hadn’t been real, none of it, an image of his mouth closing around her nipple flashed back through her mind. She shuddered. “I have a hotel room.”

He nodded. “Have you eaten today?”

“Yes.” She wasn’t quite sure when. “I know I had breakfast. Doughnuts.”

That got her another irritated big-brother look. “I’ll buy you dinner.”

“No,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to.” Dinner after the rodeo was something she’d always done with her dad. They’d make sure the bulls were secure for the night, and then hit a local diner or something. Lacy had always spent so much time with her mom, going to and from school, that those times with her dad had been special.

As nice as it was of Ian to offer, she didn’t want to replace Dad in that ritual.

Not that Ian knew that. “I know I don’t. But I want to.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “Another time?” she said, because that seemed like something her dad would say.

Ian gave her a long look then, one she couldn’t hide from. Most people looked past her. She wasn’t a pretty woman—never had been, never would be. And she didn’t fit into anyone’s neat little box about how a woman should think or act. As a result, most people ignored her, which suited her fine.

But Ian? He did not ignore her. He didn’t look through her.

He saw her. God, it was unnerving.

Finally, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“That’d be good.” She realized she meant it. She wanted to see him tomorrow. To see what he’d do in the arena, to see if he’d tip his hat in respect to her.

It had nothing to do with the dream.

“I’ll help you load the bulls up after the rodeo. That’s our deal,” he added before she could protest. “I keep my word.”

“You know that’s not normal?” The words were out before she could think better of them. She must not be as awake as she’d thought she was. “Most people don’t.”

Up until that moment, he’d kept a reasonable distance between him and the truck. He was fond of leaning against the driver’s-side mirror, she noted.

But when she said that, he leaned forward, his hands on her door, his face where the window would have been if it’d been rolled up.

For the first time, he entered her space. Not because he wanted to shake her hand and seal the deal, and not because she was in between him and a man who had it coming.

This wasn’t incidental. This was intentional. They were close enough to touch.

Close enough to kiss.

Her body tightened with awareness, taking the vague frustration leftover from the dream and making it painful. She heard herself gasp, but she felt as if she was holding her breath. His eyes were a deep, dark brown—maybe black. She couldn’t tell in this light. But they were intense—and focused on her.

Kiss me. Don’t. The two thoughts hit at exactly the same moment, swamping her in confusion. She couldn’t lean in and she couldn’t lean away. She couldn’t do anything but stare into those eyes and wonder what he saw when he looked at her.

When he spoke, his words were a quiet whisper that she somehow felt deep down in the very center of her body. “I’m not most people, Lacy.”

Then he was gone, leaning back and tapping his hand against the hood of the truck. “Get some dinner and some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He started to walk away, and Lacy blurted out, “Ian?”

He paused and turned back. “Yeah?”

“It was a good rodeo tonight.” No, no—that’s not what she’d wanted to say. Of course, she didn’t know what she wanted to say. Something that wasn’t bitchy or dazed, something that said that they were friends.

“I mean, you were good tonight. In the rodeo.” Ugh, that was not any better. “I mean...”

He saved her from death by embarrassment. “Thanks.” Then he was gone, walking off into the night.

Lacy fired up the truck. Dinner. She’d go get some dinner.

For the first time in a long time, she was hungry.

CHAPTER SIX

THE RODEO DIDN’T start until seven that night. Ian rolled into the arena grounds at four thirty.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Lacy had actually slept in that truck. And then, when he’d asked about dinner, she’d gotten a fuzzy look on her face and had admitted that she couldn’t remember if she’d eaten lunch. He’d put the odds on her actually eating something after he left her last night at maybe fifty-fifty.

He had almost two hours before he needed to start his prerodeo warm-up. If she wouldn’t let him take her to dinner, then he’d go get some food and bring it back to her. She was too thin, the circles under her eyes too dark.

She was entirely too stubborn. He got the feeling that if he tried to tell her to breathe, she might hold her breath to show him that he wasn’t the boss of her.

The way she’d held her breath last night, when he’d leaned into the cab of her truck. He hadn’t intended it to be an erotic thing. He hadn’t even touched her.

But she’d sucked in that little gasp and hadn’t let it back out. Instead, her eyes had gone wide and her pupils had dilated as a sweet blush heated her cheeks—and his blood. The spark that he felt when he was around her had threatened to catch and ignite a hell of a fire.

He’d almost kissed her. It would have been easy. He’d only had to lean forward another few inches and take her mouth.

And he hadn’t. He hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t touched her. Instead—and he still didn’t quite believe this—he’d gone back to the cheap hotel room he shared with Black Jack and ordered a pizza and watched some cheesy movie from the ’80s.

It didn’t make a damn bit of sense to him. Lacy wasn’t his type. She was as tough as nails and twice as sharp. But underneath that—there was a vulnerability that had him at the arena hours early to make sure she ate dinner.

He parked and headed toward her truck. Something told him that, even if she had gone back to her hotel, she’d be here early.

He was not disappointed. She was sitting exactly where he’d left her. The only difference was she had on a different shirt, a pale green shot through with pink.

She still had her hat on. He was more disappointed than he cared to admit.

“Hey,” she said when she saw him.

“Hiya,” he replied. Her brows furrowed. Now what had he done wrong? “What?”

She tilted her head to the side as she looked at him. There was something about her face today that was softer. He took back everything he’d ever thought about her being not traditionally beautiful. She was gorgeous.

“Your accent.”

“What about it?”

“Now it’s gone. It was stronger.” She shrugged.

He allowed himself a small smile. “Yeah, it comes and it goes, depending on who I’m talking to.” It was always strongest when he went home and everyone spoke the same way. But sometimes, when he was hanging out with someone he was sure wouldn’t hold his accent against him, it slipped out.

“It was pretty,” she said without looking at him. Then her face scrunched up as it had last night when she’d sleepily told him she liked the wet T-shirt. It was a look that said pretty loud and clear I can’t believe I said that.

“You eaten today? Something more than doughnuts?”

“I remembered to have lunch.”

There was something about the way she said it that struck him as weird. “You remembered? Is that something you usually forget?”

“I eat when I’m hungry.” But she didn’t meet his eyes when she said it.

He tapped the hood again. “Come on. Let’s go grab something before the show.”

She shook her head. “I’ll stay here, thanks. I want to keep an eye on my bulls.”

“Did you sleep in the truck last night?”

The color on her cheeks deepened. “No.”

That admission made him want to smile. She’d done as he’d asked. He got the feeling that didn’t happen too often. “And yet, the bulls were fine?”

That got him a sharp look. Her whole face was transformed from one of surprisingly feminine beauty to a tough, tomboy scowl. “Yes.”

“Then they’ll be fine for another hour.” Again, he wondered who Dale was to her. He couldn’t tell how old she was—he’d guess Lacy was in her twenties, although whether that was twenty-two or twenty-nine was up for debate.

She could have been married. Or not, he thought, checking out her ring finger. No tan lines. But she was certainly old enough that she could have been in a long-term relationship. Of course, it was also possible that Dale had been someone else entirely—not a lover, but a friend, a brother...family.

She opened her mouth, to argue no doubt. Ian shot her a hard look. “I’m betting you’re going to load up those bulls and head straight for home, wherever home is. I’m betting you won’t stop until you get there. I’m betting that you’ll ‘forget’ to eat then. So dinner now.”

Her eyes narrowed, but then, unexpectedly, she gave in. “Fine,” she said, cranking on the engine. “But I’m driving.”

He snorted. “Yeah, I’m not surprised.” He crossed around the front of the truck and climbed in. “You know where you want to go?”

* * *

THEY WOUND UP at Denny’s. If Ian had any reservations about her choice, he didn’t voice them.

For some reason, her dad had loved Denny’s. And every single time they ate at one—which was frequently—he cracked the same “Moons Over My Hammy” joke. And Lacy laughed. Always.

Part of her felt as though bringing Ian to Denny’s was wrong, somehow. She hadn’t been able to face eating here alone. Somehow, with Ian, it felt as if...

As if she could do this.

“What are you going to get?” he asked when they slid into a booth that looked out onto the street.

“I’m not that hungry,” she said. When he looked up at her sharply, she said, “I ate today. Really.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to scold her like a child—much as he’d all but scolded her bull last night. But then his mouth twisted off to one side and he said, “Easy, Evans. We’re just friends here.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t sound like you believe me,” he said from behind his menu.

“I’m not very good at having friends,” she admitted. It’d always felt like such a failure, that she wasn’t any good at maintaining friendships. Her mother had once said that Lacy was an out-of-sight, out-of-mind kind of person, and it was true.

He tried not to laugh but didn’t quite make it. “You don’t say.”

She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’re friends with everyone?”

“Most everyone. I’m either friends with them or they deserve to be flattened by a bull.”

“Or by you?”

“If need be,” he told her. “Did you have a history with Jerome before this rodeo?”

She physically flinched at the mention of that jerk. “No. Didn’t even know his name. I don’t normally pal around with the riders.”

He let that set for a moment. The waitress came over, poured the coffee and took their orders. Lacy ordered a salad but Ian ordered three appetizers and a steak dinner with sides. The waitress gave his physique a once-over before she left the table.