Love is one unpredictable ride

Ride straight to the top of the rodeo circuit—that’s June Spotted Elk’s dream. Yes, bull-riding is a man’s world, but she won’t let anyone—not even a sexy, scarred stranger—get in her way.

Seasoned bull rider Travis Younkin knows what it’s like to make it to the top—and then hit the bottom. Back in the arena to resurrect his career, he can’t afford a distraction like June. No matter how far he’ll go to protect her from the danger. No matter how deeply the stubborn and beautiful rider gets to him…

He was still one of the best in the world. He just had to prove it the hard way.

By God, Travis had spent too long rehabbing his broken body and then working his way up from the very bottom of the bull-riding circuits to have his plans blown to hell and back all because some pretty girl wanted to ride with the big boys.

And the fact that June was beautiful? Nothing but an unwelcome distraction. Distractions got a man killed out there. Hell, distractions had already almost gotten him killed once—when he’d caught his girlfriend, Barb, making eyes at Chet Murphy right before he’d gotten on that damn bull, No Man’s Land. He’d paid dearly for wondering what the hell she was doing instead of focusing on the bull.

He couldn’t allow another woman to distract him. Not ever again.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the rodeo, where dreams are made—and broken—in eight seconds in the arena on the back of a two-ton bull.

Men like Travis Younkin have been riding bulls for years—and Travis has the scars to prove it. He’s trying to make his way back to the top of the bull-riding world, but there’s one rider who’s standing in his way—June Spotted Elk.

June was born to ride bulls. The fact that she’s a woman in a man’s world doesn’t slow her down in the least. She’s out to prove she can ride with the big boys—and she’s not about to let something like an old schoolgirl crush on her favorite rider, Travis Younkin, get in her way.

Travis knows how dangerous bull riding can be and he’s determined to keep June safe. But when his concern turns into something more, they’re both risking their rodeo dreams.

Rodeo Dreams is a sensual story about fighting for your dreams and falling in love. I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it! This book will always hold a special place in my life because I sold it almost six years after I wrote it. Rodeo Dreams is a real-life example of the power of perseverance. Be sure to stop by www.sarahmanderson.com and join me as I say long live cowboys!

Sarah M. Anderson

Rodeo Dreams

Sarah M. Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning author Sarah M. Anderson may live east of the Mississippi River, but her heart lies out West on the Great Plains. With a lifelong love of horses and two history teachers for parents, she had plenty of encouragement to learn everything she could about the tribes of the Great Plains. When she started writing, it wasn’t long before her characters found themselves out in South Dakota among the Lakota Sioux. She loves to put people from two different worlds into new situations and to see how their backgrounds and cultures take them someplace they never thought they’d go. One of Sarah’s books, A Man of Privilege, won the RT Book Reviews 2012 Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Awards Series:

Harlequin Desire.

When not helping out at her son’s school or walking her rescue dogs, Sarah spends her days having conversations with imaginary cowboys and American Indians, all of which is surprisingly well tolerated by her wonderful husband. Readers can find out more about Sarah’s love of cowboys and Indians at www.sarahmanderson.com.

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To Mary Dieterich, who loved this book before I’d even finished it, and to Stacy Boyd, who bought this story almost five years after she originally rejected it. You two never gave up on June and Travis—or me—and I wouldn’t be where I am today without either of you. I will be forever grateful.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

EXTRACT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“OKAY, HONEY, IF you can ride Ball and Chain, then you’re in.”

The fat man mopped his brow with a bandanna as he added, “But I’m not responsible for what happens out there, right?”

“Right.” June Spotted Elk fought an eye roll as Chain kicked the metal chute holding him tight.

“I’m just doing Dave a favor,” Mort went on as June reviewed her draw.

Ball and Chain was a small bull, only thirteen hundred pounds. Not the best bull on the Total Championship Bulls Ranger Circuit—the minor leagues of the TCB. Two-thirds of the riders made the eight seconds for a good ride. Tended to break left. No, not a bad bull to start out on.

Not that she was just starting out, but she was sick and tired of riding for a few hundred dollars while the men got checks with extra zeroes for doing the exact same thing.

June knew she was born to ride bulls. She knew she could ride with the big boys—all she had to do was prove that she had what it took, no matter what anyone said about her being a girl, an Indian or poor. Or all three.

She looked out at the sea of unwelcoming faces that crowded the indoor arena. It was Friday night in a small Illinois town she’d never heard of, inside what was normally a convention center. June had grown up riding in outdoor arenas, so the bright lights and the echo off the bleachers were throwing her off. But she couldn’t let a few technicalities undermine her. A professional bull rider rode no matter where they were. And she was a professional bull rider.

Or she would be, if she could just get on the bull.

She sighed in frustration. Proving she could do this was only the first step. But at least she’d gotten her foot in the door, thanks to her uncle Dave, who’d had to cash in a favor with Mort, the Ranger Circuit promoter. She knew good and well that was the only favor she was going to get.

The rest? All up to her, one bull at a time.

She wanted to compete. And competing meant riding against the men.

Not that the men were thrilled about it. Even though no one was within four feet of her, she could feel the palpable irritation in the air. But she was doing her damnedest to ignore them and focus on the bull. If she could just get on the bull...it would all fall into place.

Or she’d get crushed to death. Either way, really.

Mort was babbling again. “Just doing Dave a favor. I’m not responsible.”

“Mort, you’ve got to be kidding, right? Ball and Chain? For her?”

“Shut up, Red.”

So that was Red Willis. Number two on this circuit. And he was getting closer, his heels dragging his spurs across the dirt so loudly that they clanged.

“I’m just saying, if the little girl wants to ride with the big boys, she don’t want to ride Ball and Chain. She wants Hallowed.” An arm unexpectedly draped around her shoulder, pulling her into Red Willis’s chest. At six feet six inches, he was the tallest cowboy here. Even though she was five foot nine, June barely came up to his armpit. And his fingers were dangling dangerously close to her chest. Didn’t matter if she had on the protective vest that all the riders wore. The threat was implicit.

“Don’t you, honey?” Red was saying, smiling down into her face, his tobacco-stained lips pulled over brown teeth in a mean sneer. “Only the best for a girl like you.”

“Get your hands off me,” she said, trying to sound calm. She knew his type. As long as he thought he held all the cards, he’d make the wrong bet. Every single time. “I’m not your honey.”

The smile got meaner. “Come on, babe—”

That’s all it took. June knew if she didn’t nip this in the bud, half these boys would think it was open season and she would be the trophy everyone was trying to bag.

She was not here for a man. This was not some misguided attempt to snare a cowboy for her very own. She was here for herself. There would be no hooking up, no trailer hopping and absolutely no sleeping her way to the top of the rankings. The sooner everyone got that through their thick skulls, the better.

In one smooth movement, she grabbed Red’s hand and ducked down, twisting back until his wrist was near his shoulder blades.

“I said,” she repeated, ratcheting up his arm, “to take your hands off me. I won’t say it again.”

One of the few advantages of her rough childhood—she’d learned to defend herself early. And often.

“What the hell?” he squawked. That was better. Less bravado, more confusion. Keep the opponent off balance. Just like a bull would.

“This was your first and last warning, Willis.” With one final squeeze, she let go and pushed him back toward the other cowboys. Just about every jaw was dropped to the sawdust. Even Red was too shocked to do anything but let a few of the other guys hold him back. “I’m just here to ride. Anyone else got a problem with that?”

“Just doing Dave a favor,” Mort muttered to himself again. “Not responsible.”

“You really don’t belong here.”

One cowboy stepped forward. The overhead light hit the brim of his black cowboy hat, casting a dark shadow onto his face. The shadow, combined with the ten-day-old beard he wore, made it almost impossible to read his expression. His hands hung at his sides, the left shoulder at a slightly lower angle, probably from where he’d hit the ground rolling earlier.

“This is no place for a girl.”

June knew who this cowboy was—she’d know that jaw, those shoulders anywhere. Travis Younkin was the most famous bull rider on this circuit and one of the best bull riders in the last decade. He’d been on the verge of winning the TCB Harley Pro Challenge finals—the major league—in Vegas before that one last ride had taken a few years of his life. She’d followed his career before it got shot to hell and back—well, it was more than that. She’d followed a lot of riders’ careers, studying their rides for what worked and what didn’t. Travis was the one bull rider who’d held her attention in a more personal way, one that went far beyond a good ride. There’d always been something about him...

After his wreck, she’d cried for him.

Now he was trying to claw his way back up to the bigs. Aside from Red and one or two other guys, he was the only one here who could claim to be a real professional.

And he didn’t think she could do this, either.

The old anger flared up as she heard her father’s voice when he caught her watching bull riding on TV. You ain’t getting on those bulls, Junie. She could even hear the smack of his hand hitting the table, the wall, her face—because there was always a smack—as he said it. Unconsciously, she flinched as her body remembered the one time he’d caught her on a bull. And he’d been sober then.

She pushed the memories away. This was about here and now. Bulls didn’t give a crap for awful fathers and neither did she. She was going to ride and that was final. No way in hell would she let an old memory screw up her foot in the door. No one was going to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. Not anymore.

That included Travis Younkin.

Damn, if June didn’t get on a bull soon, all this adrenaline would go to waste and she would have to dig out her running shoes and do laps around town with her dog just to cool down. She turned her attention back to Travis, ignoring the thrill of attraction that had a small part of her wanting his autograph. This was not about meeting one of her idols, a man whose picture she’d taped to the inside of her school notebook. She wasn’t a love-struck girl. She was a woman. A bull rider.

“Listen, I appreciate your point of view, but Mort owes me this tryout. I’m here to ride. Ball and Chain, Hallowed Ground—it doesn’t matter to me what I draw. I’ll ride any bull.”

Well, it mattered a little. Ball and Chain was a good draw, practically a pussycat of a bull. But Hallowed Ground? Only two men had ridden that bull in twenty-seven tries last year.

Red Willis and Travis Younkin.

If that’s what it takes, she reminded herself.

“You can’t ride Hallowed.”

That’s what Travis said. What she heard was, You can’t ride. God knew her father had said that often enough. Well, she was going to show that man. She was going to show Travis—show them all.

She could ride with the best of them. She just had to prove it, one bull at a time.

“Hey, come on, Younkin. If the girl thinks she wants to ride Hallowed, then she should ride Hallowed.” Red was still itching for a fight. It’s not like he could haul off and hit “the girl.” However, June didn’t think he’d mind a whole lot if she got turned into a mud puddle in the ring.

The rest of the cowboys were split between the Travis camp—worried for her safety—and the Red camp—just plain pissed someone like her existed.

The delicate male ego. They’d put their bodies on the line to ride a bull, but one woman made them twitchy.

June settled her hat back onto her head and made sure the eagle feather was in the right place. She checked the tie that held all three feet of her thick black braid to her belt.

Long ago, she’d learned that loosely tying her hair to the back belt loop was the best way to keep it from flying up and smacking her in the face in the middle of a ride. That was how she’d first broken her ankle—it hadn’t been the bronco that bucked her, but the hair hitting her square in the eye that knocked her off. Confident that everything was in its place, she turned to Mort.

“Bring me Hallowed.”

“No.” Not intimidation or a threat. Just an order that Travis expected Mort to follow.

She knew where he could shove his orders.

Without acknowledging that he’d even spoken, June smiled as sweetly as she could at Mort. “I want to ride Hallowed. And Dave said you had to let me ride.”

At the mention of her uncle’s name, Mort’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. June felt her grin grow more real. Uncle Dave didn’t tell her what, exactly, he’d done that left Mort so beholden to him, but whatever it was, it was going to get her on a bull.

Even Hallowed Ground.

Mort turned to the stock contractor. “You don’t want her riding your best bull, do you?” Clearly, Mort was trying to find a way out of this.

The contractor shrugged. “My wife would kill me if I didn’t let her try,” he said, nodding over to the stands.

June followed his eyes. A half-dozen women were sitting together in the front row, watching the negotiations with intense curiosity. June tipped her hat to the group. These were wives and girlfriends—women who lived with men crazy enough to ride bulls. No buckle bunnies here—they were all waiting at the bar for the fun to begin.

If it wouldn’t have sent the wrong message, she would have hugged the stock contractor. Finally, someone who wasn’t going to stand in her way just because she was a woman.

“Mort—” Travis started, but he wasn’t fast enough. Mort let Ball and Chain loose while the stock contractor went to get Hallowed.

After this ride, she was going to find the contractor’s wife and hug that woman.

“You are not going to ride that bull.”

June jolted. Travis stood next to her, arms crossed and jaw set. She hadn’t heard him move, not even his boots stirring up the dirt. Not bad for a white man, especially one with a permanent limp. But she could feel him now, her body fully aware that the Travis Younkin was right there. The pull she felt between them was almost magnetic. In her mind’s eye, she flipped back to the picture inside her high school notebook. Travis Younkin, it’d read. Simply the Best.

She hadn’t been too young to get the double entendre and she sure as heck hadn’t been too young to wonder if he really was the best. At everything.

His eyes narrowed as she looked at him. Right. This was not about him, and she would not get all googly-eyed.

The other thing she’d always thought about when she’d looked at that picture?

What if she could be the best, too?

And now she had the chance to do it—to show everyone she wasn’t some misguided girl with delusions of grandeur and a secret wish to bed a bull rider. Where would she be if she let a stupid crush undermine all her hopes and dreams? She’d be crushed by a bull, that’s where.

Even now, she could see the tape of Travis’s wreck in her mind. Rides were supposed to be eight seconds, but he’d been trapped under that bull for almost three minutes of hell. He shouldn’t have survived, but he had.

If he had any sense about him at all, he would have retired after he had to have his pelvis and jaw reconstructed. That disaster of a ride—on a bull named No Man’s Land—still made ESPN’s All-Time Best Wrecks. At least these days, he had enough sense to wear a helmet. He was the only guy here who had one.

June didn’t have one, either. But then, a shocking lack of common sense was what led them all to sit on the back of a two-ton animal and try to ride the danged thing.

Up close now, she could see the serious brown eyes that cut right through the crap. She didn’t get the same threatening vibe off Travis that she’d gotten off Red. Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt.

“You think I won’t make the buzzer?”

“I think you won’t even get on him,” he replied.

“Mr. Younkin—” He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she felt the air between them thicken. “Travis—I don’t recall asking your permission.”

The corner of his mouth curved up a bit—something that might have been a smile under other circumstances. Even so, a faint dimple tried to divot his cheek, right on the edge of the beard that almost hid the sharp planes of his face.

The girl part of her brain realized that, pissed or not—broken or not—Travis Younkin was still a handsome fellow.

And stubborn. “I’m not letting you on that bull.”

Her fingers tightened around her bull rope. “Don’t worry, Mister Younkin. You aren’t letting me do anything.”

His mouth opened into something just short of a snarl when Hallowed Ground came roaring down the chute. Saved by the bull, June thought with an inward grin.

Hallowed Ground was a bull to be reckoned with. A buck shy of two thousand pounds, his mottled white skin seemed to hang loose on his formidable bones like a boxer wearing an oversized robe into the ring. He might look big, but that only disguised the agility that had would-be riders flying off his back in all directions.

His horns looked like he’d twisted them around the hard way, on some poor sap’s backside. She knew that was just the way horns grew, but it didn’t make him any less frightful looking. One horn was angled down behind his ear, like he wanted it tucked out of the way while he tried to gore anyone who dared to ride him with the other. If history was any indicator, Hallowed would do his damnedest to get her both coming and going.

“Travis, if Girlie wants to ride, let her ride. It’s her neck.” June rolled her eyes in the direction of the speaker. Girlie? “You want me to pull your rope? I’m Mitch.”

June mentally scrolled through the night’s garbled announcements. Mitch Jenner. Currently sixth in the overall standings, placed third tonight. Lasted 5.3 seconds on his last attempt to ride Hallowed Ground.

And apparently the only friend she had right now.

“Sure. Much obliged.”

“This is beyond insane,” Travis mumbled. He was still standing between her and the bull.

“Travis,” Mitch scolded, still smiling at her, “isn’t that the definition of bull riding?” A gangly fellow with glasses perched on a beak of a nose, he grinned at her. “Don’t worry about him, Girlie. He’s just a Poppa Bear in chaps.”

Most of the cowboys here had dark chaps, from black all the way to dark brown, but Travis and his chaps stood apart. A vivid grass-green with three brown diamonds down each side, his chaps reminded her of early spring on the Plains, when the prairie was still lush from April showers. Custom chaps like that weren’t cheap. They said winner. They said confident, a showman comfortable enough to be outside the box.

They also said he had a good Wrangler butt, the kind that got a standing ovation from the ladies in the crowd every night, good ride or not.

“More like just a plain ol’ chicken,” Red called out. The sounds of clucking followed.

Travis’s jaw flexed. Clearly, this was an old battle being fought on new turf—hers.

“You’re making me look bad,” he said, the whisper sounding almost dangerous.

“You seem to be doing a fine job of that all by yourself.”

That was apparently the last straw, because he grabbed her arm and hauled her off to the side, out of earshot of the others. “Please don’t do this.” How nice of someone to use the magic word. His voice was low—and sexy, darn it all. She’d love to hear him say her name in that voice.

“Go on, honey! Try to break his arm, too!”

Travis’s hand dropped like she’d jabbed him with a hatpin.

“Get out of my way, or I’ll get you out of my way.” Somehow, she managed to sound calm, but if she didn’t get on that bull right now, she was going to lose the last of her cool and wind up in the middle of a cowboy riot.

Whatever concern for her she thought she’d seen seconds before evaporated beneath a frustration that bordered on pissed. “Fine. Throw your life away. But at least wear a damn helmet.” Even as he said it, he stepped to the side.

She’d won this round. “Don’t have one,” she replied, hoping she didn’t sound smug as she handed her bull rope over to Mitch and straddled the gate.

“Cluck! Cluuuuuck!”

Two other cowboys had joined Mitch on the platform. She recognized the Brazilian—she was certain he had a name, but even the rodeo announcer just called him by his point of origin. He was a man apart, silent and dark as he watched the drama. June had heard whispers through the crowd that he never spoke and he sure hadn’t weighed in on the whole women-on-bulls controversy. But here he was, holding her by her vest to steady her on Hallowed’s back.

“Thanks,” she said. His head barely dipped in response.

The other cowboy up on the platform was the one who’d given the opening prayer—Luke Lucas, aka the Preacher. Not the best rider here, but it hadn’t been hard to see him behind every rider mounting up, head bowed in prayer for a safe ride. At least in the Lord’s eyes, she deserved the same blessing. And help with the flank strap.

“Hallowed usually breaks right and then comes back hard to the left,” Mitch said as he took up the slack in her bull rope. “Don’t let him get you down in the well, Girlie. His back kick is vicious, so set your spurs and keep your free hand up.”

June tested her grip, nodding for him to give the rope another tug. “I can ride a bull. And my name is June.”

“I know. I’ve seen you do it.” June’s head popped up in surprise, but the only explanation she got was a smarmy wink. “Have a good ride, Girlie.”

The bull twitched beneath her legs, itching to get out of the chute and grind her into the dirt. He blew snot all over the gate as he tried to shake her off.

No fear. Roll with the bull.

“Oooee! That girl looks mighty good up there!” She didn’t recognize that voice.

“I bet she’d look a hell of a lot better riding the Red Bull, if you catch my drift.”

Next time, she’d break Red’s arm.

“Mort, this is insane. No way she should be up there. At least make her wear a damned helmet,” Travis went on.

“What’s the matter, Travis? Afraid the little Indian princess is gonna make you look like a pansy?”

Damn it, these men were going to stand around and take potshots all night until the bull gave up and went to sleep.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, watch over this woman and help her have a safe ride,” Luke intoned, his head bowed so that his low voice barely reached her ears.

“Since when is being smart being a pansy?” Travis shot back.

“Since you started wearing that helmet, pansy.”

That was it. She couldn’t focus, and she couldn’t ride with them chattering like monkeys. “Hey! Shut it!”

At the sound of her voice, Hallowed tried to rear up, but he was too damned big to do much more than get his front hooves about a foot off the ground in the narrow confines of the chute. Out in the open, he’d get a whole lot higher. The Brazilian held her steady as she reset her butt on Hallowed’s still-twitching back. June wasn’t the only one who was ready to get on with it.

Finally, silence. A tense, pissed silence, but still. Only Mitch was snickering, “You tell them, Girlie,” as Luke double-checked the flank strap.

Travis appeared on the platform, glowering at her. “You’re really insane enough to do this?”

“No more insane than you are,” she growled, pulling on the handle. Still not tight enough. Maybe Mitch was afraid he’d hurt her?

Travis leaned over and pulled on the rope, cinching it down the rest of the way. His face was only inches from hers. This close, she could smell the Old Spice and see the faint white line that ran just under the beard, down the whole length of his jaw.

A man with scars—scars he tried to hide.

What did the rest of his scars look like? He had to have them. Everyone here did. Her own ankle bore the evidence of her obsession.

The bull shimmied again, but Travis didn’t even flinch. She tested her handle again. Just right. “Thanks.”

His frown was right in her face as he leaned past the Brazilian, who was still holding her vest to keep her on top of the impatient bull. This close, with no one else to hear him, she half expected Travis to wish her a good ride, good luck, but instead, all she got was “Don’t get killed out there.”

Why was it okay for these guys to risk life and limb to do something their mothers hated, but if one woman wanted in, it was too dangerous? Stupid double standard.

She tested her grip on the bull rope, giving it one final cinch as she let her mind clear. Roll with the bull.

No fear.

She nodded her head, and suddenly the world was spinning off its axis.

One.

Every bone in her body jolted hard right as her arm almost popped out of the socket.

Two.

Hallowed Ground broke left, proving once again that the good bulls never did the expected. She managed to get her weight counterbalanced just in time for the next kick.

Three.

He spun hard to the right, trying to whip her off like a centrifuge, all while kicking his back legs up higher than her head.

Four.

She dug in her spurs as he reared back again. Better points for spurring. Roll.

Five.

Roll, she chanted over and over as her body whiplashed right and right again. He was trying to get her down in the well, but she knew if she leaned too far left, he’d spin back that way and throw her under his feet.

Six.

Roll. The adrenaline dumped into her blood, making her body sing. In a moment of sheer physical clarity, she knew again that this was what she was supposed to do. This was who she was supposed to be.

Seven.

Hallowed bent back hard left, the jolt ripping at her grip. She couldn’t hold on much longer. Her arm was just about to give. One more second. One more—

Eight.

The buzzer sounded just as her fingers slipped the handle.

This was June’s strength—landing not under the feet of a pissed bull, but on her own. “Catlike,” more than one observer had noted. No matter what she was being thrown by—the mustangs she broke back on the Real Pride Ranch, the bulls she couldn’t stay away from, even that one wild buffalo—she managed to land feetfirst. Sure, more often than not, a hand hit the ground, as well, but she’d seen video of her rides. She landed like a runner taking her mark, not a discombobulated rider on the verge of getting trampled. She didn’t know how she did it and didn’t care, as long as she hit the ground in a position to move.

The ground rushed up to smack her, but she managed to get her torso spun around just enough that her feet hit at the same time. And she was running for the safety of the gate. A bull like Hallowed was likely to hold a grudge, and she had no desire to be on the receiving end of those lopsided horns.

It wasn’t until she’d clamored up the side and Hallowed had trotted out of the arena to have his flank strap removed that she heard the silence. The only sounds were her heart pounding and Hallowed snorting as he muscled his way down the chute.

It lasted about five seconds, and then the group of cowboys on the platforms, the bullfighters in the arena and the women in the bleachers exploded.

“Did you see that?”

“Did she just do a somersault in midair?”

“Did she just land on her feet?”

“Did she just ride Hallowed Ground?”

“She did it!”

“She really did!”

Had she? “A good ride?” she hollered, afraid to look. She’d made the time—but had her free hand stayed clear? Women were allowed to use both hands, but men weren’t. Would she get a score? Would she qualify?

Would she get to ride?

“Eighty-nine,” the judge announced over the loudspeaker. “An eighty-nine for June Spotted Elk on Hallowed Ground.”

Relief turned the adrenaline to sheer joy. This rush left her giggly and high with her own power. She whipped off her hat and flung it into the air with a “Hiiieyeee!”

This was the sweetest ride she could remember—not only had it been a good ride, not only had she ridden a monster of a bull like Hallowed Ground, not only had so many of the men here failed to do the same, but if this had been the competition, she would have been in second place after the long go—the first round of rides. Right behind Travis Younkin’s ninety, and right ahead of Red Willis’s eighty-seven.

This was who she was. This was what she was supposed to do.

To hell with what everyone else—her father, Travis, Red—thought. She was tired of living hand to mouth, scraping by on scholarships and her mom’s welfare check, tired of people thinking she couldn’t do anything because she was a poor Indian woman.

She was born to ride bulls. Men got paid good money to do the eight-second dance. Why couldn’t she? She could—the Ranger Circuit was the first step.

And June was on her way.

Amid the shouts and applause from the women in the audience, Mitch jumped into the arena, hat in hand and a grin on his face. “Ma’am, I’m sure I speak for Mort—and us all—when I say that we’re pleased to welcome you with open arms.”

CHAPTER TWO

THIS WAS NOT HAPPENING.

From his perch on the platform, Travis stared in disbelief at the scene unfolding below him. Not only had Mort let that girl on Hallowed Ground without a helmet, not only was he going to let her on the Ranger Circuit, not only were the wives down there treating her like she was rodeo royalty—but now Mitch was also down there, bowing and scraping.

Or flirting. Knowing Mitch, he was laying the groundwork for another conquest. They didn’t call him the Heartbreak Kid for nothing.

That girl should not do this. Travis fumed as he watched her gather up her bull rope, shake Mort’s and then Mitch’s hands, and strut out like she owned the damned place. She moved with a grace he hadn’t seen in the arena before, which had the fringe on her sky-blue chaps billowing out behind her like eddies in a stream. It was a beautiful sight—those chaps cupping that backside, her long braid brushing against both of them—one he wanted to savor. She was something a man didn’t see in a bull-riding arena very often—beautiful.

She’d gotten lucky—Hallowed wasn’t on tonight, that was all. And that landing? A once-in-a-lifetime shot to hit the ground running.

No, there was no doubt in his mind that the next time out, she’d regret the day she set foot in an arena. She should not do this, plain and simple. To try again was certain death. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let her die for riding bulls.

“Travis,” Randy Sloap said as he sidled up beside him, “what are you going to do?”

Randy was one of the younger riders, green and eager. Later, Travis would pound Mitch and his Poppa Bear comments into the ground, but that didn’t change the fact that Travis was the senior rider and a lot of these guys looked up to him. He had never been comfortable as a role model but it was a far sight better than the cult following Red was building over there.

Those men disgusted him. Seven guys talking and laughing and groping the hour-glass figure they were cutting through the air with their hands. The bulls weren’t the only things that were going to do that girl in. This was no place for her kind.

“Travis?” Randy was looking at him expectantly, thumbs stuck in his belt loops.

“I’m on it.” Travis scanned the arena—and spotted Mort headed for the front gate, where he’d set up his office in a broom closet. As fast as he could without limping, Travis climbed off the platform and took off.

Mort tried to shut the door in Travis’s face. Tried, and failed.

“You are not letting her on the circuit.” Travis slammed the door behind him. The piece of crap bounced right back open again, but he was too hot to care. “She does not belong here.”

“Travis, please.” Mort settled his sweaty bulk into the folding chair. “I don’t have a choice. If it were up to me, she’d be out of here—”

“Why isn’t it up to you? Ain’t you the boss around here?”

“She had a clean ride. She’s got her TCB permit—”

“She’s got her what?” How the hell had she gotten that?

Mort shuffled the papers on the folding card table. “Here—see? What can I do?”

“J. Spotted Elk,” the photocopy of the Total Championship Bulls membership card said. “Permit status.”

“J.!” That might work for lady writers, but it wouldn’t work here. It couldn’t. “You’re going to let that girl ride on a technicality?”

“Travis, I don’t know what you expect me to do. She even brought a copy of the application form—nowhere does it say ‘men only.’ She had a clean ride, her membership is in good standing and if I don’t let her ride, her uncle...” He let the sentence trail off as he fished out his bandanna and wiped off his forehead. “I’ve got to let her ride.”

“This is how he calls it in? What the hell did he do to make you let a girl ride on our circuit?”

Mort’s face went scarlet as his mouth opened and shut several times. “I— It— He— Look, Travis, this is just the way it is!”

“So that’s it? She rides next week in Texas because some guy pulled your fat from the fire?” Travis had spent two years clawing his way back to the break-even point, putting his body on the line every single weekend—and some pretty little thing was just going to waltz her way into the show on a wink and a favor? Hell, no. Not on his watch.

This had nothing to do with the “pretty” part, either. That’s what Travis told himself. He’d hate to see that face—or that body—messed up by one bad landing, though. One landing was all it took. Nobody knew that better than he did.

Finally, Mort managed to look like he had a spine. “Listen, Younkin, no one said you had to ride with her. Feel free to hobble off into the sunset like you should’ve done in the first place. You can try to talk her out of it, but I doubt you’ll have much luck—just like normal.”

Maybe it was a good thing Travis had hit his weak shoulder tonight, because the fact that he didn’t think he could get off a solid swing was the only thing holding him back. “You rat bastard—”

Mort threw up his hands to ward off the verbal blow. “Be reasonable, man! Didn’t you see the way those women flocked to her like she was a superstar?”

“So?”

“Think about it from my point of view! Don’t you remember that woman race-car driver? She ain’t even the best one out there, and she’s pulling them in!” Mort waved his arms like he was welcoming the women of the world into his office.

This wasn’t about applications or permits or even bull riding. And Mort just confirmed that fact as he went on. “All of a sudden, there’s a woman who rides with the men, and the wives and mothers and daughters are buying tickets to the show, buying pink girl-power T-shirts with her name on them, buying posters that she’ll autograph—”

“You’re going to let her kill herself for money?” Who was he kidding? Of course Mort would. He’d throw his own mother—walker and all—into the ring if he thought he could make a dime off it.

“Have you met the girl? I’m not gonna let her do anything.” Mort snorted. “Look. Either she’ll break a nail and go home, or she’ll do well. And if she does well, she could add to the gate.”

A percentage of the gate went to the take-home pay for the riders every night. That was why most of the guys here had chosen the TCB circuit as opposed to the rival rodeo outfit where calf roping and bronco busting were part of the competition. Here, a man could just ride a bull, and bigger crowds meant bigger checks.

If Mort explained it in those terms to the guys...well, most of them needed the money. Travis was one of the few who had a steady sponsorship and earned enough most weekends to make a living. As it stood now, he was nearing the money cutoff for the pro circuit. Not so for most of the other guys. They drove all night to get back to their jobs or ranches, worked all week and then did this every weekend. Sort of like playing Russian roulette as a hobby.

Travis wasn’t going to win this battle, not with Mort and probably not with the other guys— especially not with the Preacher and Mitch out there making her feel at home.

He was going to have to take this to the source.

“Fine. You believe she’s going to be your gravy train. But I’m warning you,” he said, grabbing the edges of the card table and shoving it hard enough that it bounced off Mort’s considerable girth, “if anything happens to her, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

The door still wouldn’t slam when Travis stalked out of the broom closet, but he gave it his best effort.

“Well?” Randy seemed to be speaking for the group of guys nervously milling around. “What’d he say?”

Travis tried not to snarl. They’d heard every word, no doubt. “I’m going to go talk to her.”

A few eyebrows went up.

“You guys agree that this isn’t a safe place for a woman, right?”

“Sure,” Randy said as heads halfheartedly nodded. “We don’t want her to get hurt, but...” Standing behind him, Garth, another rider, elbowed him in the ribs. “Is it true, what Mort said about the gate?”

Travis could feel the last of his cool slipping away. “We all know that she’s not going to make us rich, Randy. I don’t want her blood on my hands.”

Randy looked doubtful. “So you’re going to talk her out of it?”

Someone in the back snorted. “Good luck with that!”

“I’ll handle it,” Travis said with more force. “You guys go on and have a good time tonight. Watch out for the buckle bunnies, okay? They can be brutal in this town.” He knew that from personal experience. That had been a long time ago—must be almost seven years now.

Seven years ago, he’d been a green rider with a lot of promise, just like some of these guys. He hadn’t been too crazy his first year, but he’d drunk most of his winnings and woke up in plenty of strange beds with stranger women.

That hadn’t happened in a great while. No one wanted a man who looked like Frankenstein. Especially not pretty women who could ride bulls.

Wait—where the hell had that thought come from? He shook it away. He had a job to do here, one that did not involve female bull riders in a state of undress.

The remaining guys began to place bets on who would go home with which bunny and who could drink who under the table. Just kids, he reminded himself as they headed back toward the collection of secondhand cars and trucks parked in the back. Normally, he’d shadow along, keep an eye out for trouble, make sure whoever got the drunkest got somewhere safe to sleep. But not tonight.

He had to go looking for trouble. And her name was June.

He headed back out to the parking lot. Calm down, he told himself. If he lost his head, he might do something stupid, like grab her again, and this time, without bystanders, she might break his arm.

And if she broke his arm, then he’d never get the chance to finish his big comeback—to prove to the world that he wasn’t a cripple who should have hobbled off into the sunset, broken and forgotten. To prove that he hadn’t lost a thing to that damned bull. Travis was still one of the best in the world. He just had to prove it the hard way.

By God, he’d spent too long rehabbing his broken body and then working his way back up from the very bottom of the bull-riding circuits to have his plans blown to hell and back all because some pretty girl wanted to ride with the big boys.

And the fact that she was beautiful? Nothing but an unwelcome distraction. Distractions got a man killed out there. Hell, distractions had already almost gotten him killed once—when he’d caught his girlfriend, Barb, making eyes at Chet Murphy right before Travis had gotten on that damn bull, No Man’s Land. He’d paid dearly for wondering what the hell she was doing.

He couldn’t allow another woman to distract him. Not ever again.

He stopped, took a deep breath and pushed Barb far from his mind. He sure as hell wasn’t going to get upset about her again, not when he hadn’t even seen her in three years.

Once he was calm, he focused on keeping his gait even. It wasn’t easy. He wished again he had landed on his right side tonight. Every part of his body on the left was screaming in agony, from the wire mesh in his jaw to the rods in his leg. He needed to take an ice bath and a Percocet as soon as possible, because he had to get up at a reasonable hour tomorrow and put in an appearance at True West Western Wear, his sponsor.

Not too many guys actually had sponsors at this level—Red had Red Bull, of course, but Red also wasn’t going to stay in the minor leagues that much longer. Within a year or two—sooner, if Travis couldn’t keep his stuff together—Red would be up in the bigs, riding with the real pros—just like Travis had been doing three years ago.

Before the rods and wires and Percocet.

But that girl had a sponsor—her vest had a huge America’s Real Pride Beef patch sewn right on the back. Not even a winner, and someone was paying her to ride.

Where was she? He scanned the lot before he saw the lone white car, parked on the far side, away from the lights. He didn’t see her, per se, but the dome light in the car was on. Most of the guys had parked back on the other side, closer to the bulls and away from the general crowd. How clueless was she? Didn’t she know that she needed to be in a well-lit area so people didn’t sneak up on her?

Like he was doing now?

He couldn’t make out where she was, but she had to be around. No one wandered off from a car with the door open.

“Listen, uh...” He fumbled around for the right thing to call her. “Miss, we need to talk,” he said, hoping his words gave her enough warning.

As he came up alongside the car, a fury of barking erupted from the backseat, and suddenly a dog’s head lunged out of the partially open window. Okay, maybe she already had some protection. This thing didn’t even look like a dog. It looked more like a wolf had gotten together with a fox and produced some sort of devil’s spawn. Even the faint light from the distant streetlamp was enough to catch the slobber on those killer teeth.

“Jeff!” At the sound of June’s voice, the dog reduced his volume to a steady growl, but its nose followed Travis as he stepped forward. Mental note, he said to himself as he tried to locate June from her voice, do not piss off the hellhound—named Jeff?

Then he found her on the far side of the car, in the field that bordered the parking lot. All he saw was a wide sheet of hair so black that it made the sky look bright at this time of night. It was like she was trying to hide.

“You move quiet for a white man, Travis. And my name is June.”

He caught a glimpse of a white-clad bottom that curved out from one side of that hair curtain. Compared to the darkness of her hair, that backside was a blinking neon light that demanded a guy look at it. And look he did.

She had a fine backside. Even better in a simple pair of panties than when it had been cradled by her chaps....

He shouldn’t be looking. Not why he was here.

He took a step backward—right into range of the now-snapping jaws of Jeff.

Jeans slid over the whiteness, leaving him both relieved and disappointed that he hadn’t gotten a better look.

“Jeff! Cool it!” she ordered, apparently unconcerned with the fact that Travis had chosen the moment she was changing to barge in on her.

The dog acted like it was listening. His trap snapped shut, but apparently nothing would stop the throaty growl. The animal’s reaction was like something out of a movie—the Indian princess at one with the forest creatures.

Before he knew what he was doing, Travis’s mouth opened. “What kind of Indian are you?” The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

“Gee, what gave it away?” He could almost hear the eye roll behind that hair. “Was it the hair? The brown skin? The last name? Most people get it from the last name, you know.”

“No, you just—”

“Just what? Trained my dog to listen? Please.” She snorted in derision. “I do not have a telepathic link with animals. I do not shape-shift into eagles. I do not dance with the wolves.” She sounded irritated, sure, but not like she was going to kill him. He relaxed a bit. “I’m not ‘some’ kind of Indian. I’m a Lakota Sioux, a full-blooded Lakota woman. Can you handle that?”

Was she lecturing him on political correctness? Well, he had that coming. “Sure. I’ll make sure to remember that. Lakota. Sioux.”

She was still hiding behind that sheet of hair, nearly invisible in the darkness. He was afraid to look again—what if she still wasn’t completely dressed? A hit of adrenaline rushed into his blood at the thought.

“Something you needed to get off your chest, Mr. Younkin?”

Oh, she was going to be like that, was she? Her body might get his blood pumping, but her mouth sure did get his hackles up. “I’m not your father’s age.”

“But you’re going to tell me what I can and cannot do?” She snorted, a sound that was echoed by a throaty bark from the backseat. Finally, she flipped that hair out of the way, just in time for Travis to see her fingers buttoning up the last few buttons on her shirt.

This was all messed up. In one short evening, this...this...this female creature had not only managed to complicate his comeback year, but she was making him feel things he hadn’t felt in a long time. Since before the wreck.

“I just don’t want to see a pretty girl like you—”

“You overbearing, egotistical, racist, male-chauvinist pig,” she said, managing to spit the words out while still sounding calm. “I’m going to be twenty-two in four months,” she went on, taking a step out of the field and toward him— pushing him closer to the growling muzzle of Jeff the hellhound. But instead of paying attention to the dog, he couldn’t look away from her eyes. They were a deep liquid-black that barely scratched the surface of the bullheadedness he was witnessing firsthand. “In a month, I’m going to graduate magna cum laude from the University of South Dakota with my bachelor’s degree in history with a secondary-school certification.”

“Really?” She was beautiful and smart? Impressive. He was sure there was another student in the circuit, but he couldn’t think of the guy’s name off the top of his head. Most bull riders weren’t cut from the same cloth as students. He sure as hell hadn’t been—and see where that had gotten him? Struggling to make it back to the pros with no other options.

That was just another reason to keep her off the bulls. She was a woman who had options. She had a real life waiting for her. He couldn’t let her risk her good looks and her education on one bad ride. One bad ride was all it would take.

“I own my car, I’m legal to do anything I want in any state I want and I don’t need a—” Travis almost heard the phrase “has-been” smacking against the back of her teeth. But she reined herself in. “An experienced professional such as yourself to worry your pretty little head over me. I’m just here to ride.”

His pretty little head? Now she was openly mocking him. No one sporting the scars he did could ever be confused with pretty. “If you’re so smart, why are you changing in the parking lot?”

She rolled her eyes at him as she began shoving her stuff into the car. “Like you and every other cowboy here tonight weren’t all changing out of your lucky jeans right behind the chutes without so much as a solid wall in sight—or did you think that those metal bars offered more privacy than the dead of night? You know,” she went on easily, “if you hold on to that double standard any tighter, it’s going to split you right in two.”

“It’s different for me. But you’re a—”

“I swear to all that is holy, Travis, if you say ‘pretty little thing,’ I’ll personally split you in half myself.” Even as she said it, her gaze danced down to his chest and back up. Was she checking him out? No, not possible. She was just looking to see if she could find the best point to start splitting.

He couldn’t help it, not when her eyes rested on his left hip. Even though the scars were well covered by denim and flannel, he still pivoted sideways. “That doesn’t change the fact that this was a stupid thing for you to do, sweetheart. Out here, all alone—you’re just asking for it!”

Her face solidified into a fearsome look—the kind of look he’d seen a hundred times on a bull. Without a doubt, he knew that this girl—this woman—was about to trample him.

And he had it coming.

“Is that what this is? Am I asking for it, Travis?” Underneath the fierce look, there was something else. Disappointment, if he didn’t know better. “And it’s your job to put me in my place, is it?”

“I didn’t say that.” But even as he said it, his gaze moved down and then back up her body. He couldn’t help it. He was a man, after all.

She flipped her hair back, something new in her eyes. “Are you going to kiss me?” she whispered in an inviting tone as her back arched, pushing her breasts out front and center.

Another hit of adrenaline caught him off guard. God, he wanted to. He could pull her into his arms and feel the warmth of her body molding to his. He couldn’t remember wanting to kiss a woman as much as he wanted to kiss her.

A flash of hardness crossed her eyes, and he realized it was a trap. She was trying to distract him. If he got close to her, she’d set him down—of that he had no doubt. He’d seen what she’d done to Red earlier.

So that’s how it was going to be. She would threaten her way onto this circuit and when that failed her, she’d use sex.

Once he’d been misled, back when he was still green around the edges. It wasn’t until after the wreck that he’d seen how Barb was only using him to climb onto bigger, better prospects.

Red or his cohorts might be stupid enough take her up on her “invitation,” but Travis wasn’t. Not anymore.

He wouldn’t get to kiss this woman, no matter how much he wanted to. What a crying shame.

“Not without the right invitation.” He held his hands in front of his chest to show he wasn’t going to grab her. “But some guys would—they’d do a whole lot more than kiss you, no matter what you were offering. It doesn’t matter how tough you are, June. A bull in the arena, a rider outside of it—this circuit is no place for you. I don’t want you to get hurt, sweetheart.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am so not your sweetheart, Travis,” she said, her voice low enough that it was hard to hear over the sound of that dog barking his head off. “It would behoove you not to forget that.”

Why couldn’t he make her see sense? She was being stubborn for stubborn’s sake. “You should be worried about guys like Red or Mitch, or the hicks who hang around after a show, hoping to pick up the bunnies the riders cast off. Those are the guys I’m trying to protect you from. It would behoove you to remember that.” At least, he was pretty sure that’s what behoove meant.

She glared at him, but he stood his ground, even though it hurt like hell. “And you.”

“I told you, I wouldn’t do anything without the right invitation—and I’m a man of my word,” he shot back.

She tilted her head to one side. All that black-silk hair draped over her side. What would it feel like, wrapped around his hands? What would she feel like?

“I just want to ride,” she said, the toughness gone from her voice. “I’m not out here to take you down. I...” She dropped her gaze, staring at the tips of her boots as she scuffed one against the dirt. He couldn’t tell in the dim light but it sure looked like she was blushing. “I just want you to believe I can do it.”

What—she wanted his approval? “And I just want you to be safe. If you won’t do the smart thing and quit, at least get a damned helmet. You got lucky on Hallowed. You have no idea what some of these bulls are capable of.”

A helmet wouldn’t have prevented his wreck, but it would have saved him that shattered jaw and a half-dozen surgeries. If he couldn’t keep her off a bull, the least he could do was try to keep her from getting herself killed.

She shrugged. Standing there with her hands in her pockets and her head cocked to one side, she seemed more like a woman and less like a bull rider. “I don’t know what they’re capable of?” She snorted. Anything soft or tender about her seemed to disappear into the night sky. “I’ll take my chances, Mister Younkin.”

She sounded confident—but didn’t they all? How many times had he said that himself, right before he climbed up on a bull and walked the line between winning and throwing his life away?

She got into the car—now, up close, he could see it was a slightly rusty Crown Victoria, like the cops used to drive. In fact, he thought he could even see the faint markings where 911 used to be.

“It’d matter if you got a bull like No Man’s Land. A bad draw can destroy you.”

If she knew anything about bull riding— anything about him—she’d know he was right. This wasn’t about her being a pretty little thing or him being a has-been. This was a matter of life and death.

She looked up at him from the front seat, the door still open. “It doesn’t matter, Travis. Not even if it’s No Man’s Land.” He gaped at her. How could a woman as smart as she claimed she was be so damned stupid? “I’ll ride what I draw. You’d do the same.” Then she shut the door, as if she’d won the argument.

“But what if you get hurt?” he shouted over the roar of the engine.

She rolled down the window. “This isn’t about you, Travis,” she said softly. “It never has been.”

He wanted to scream that of course it wasn’t about him—this was about her! But before he could get the words out, she gunned the engine, shouting, “See you in Mesquite!” as she took off, gravel flying out from her wheels and that dog barking wildly from the backseat.

She was going to Mesquite.

She was going to ride.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

CHAPTER THREE

MESQUITE WAS NOT a bad town.

June kept telling herself this as she slowly cruised the strip with her laptop propped against her thigh, searching for a network connection. She had two days to finish the paper for her Twentieth Century American Frontier class before she had to muscle her way back onto a bull.

Five days after she’d driven away from Travis Younkin, she was still steamed. He might not be able to keep her out of the arena, but she knew he was going to fight her every single step of the way, the whole time thinking he was being chivalrous and protective.

The argument in the parking lot ran through her head again. What had he meant, warning her to be careful around Mitch? The one guy open to the possibility of a woman bull rider, and she was supposed to keep her distance?

And she wasn’t supposed to be worried about Travis? He was the best rider on the circuit and the one who most wanted her gone. There’d been a moment when she’d been sure he was going to press the issue in a physical way...

Except he hadn’t. He’d stepped back. Yes, he’d called her sweetheart, but he hadn’t kissed her. Because she hadn’t invited him to.

She shivered at the memory of how he’d looked at her when he’d said he was a man of his word. He’d wanted to kiss her, that look had said. Wanted to very much.

And yet he hadn’t.

She’d never been a buckle bunny—she’d get her own damn buckle, thank you very much—but in that moment, she’d felt like she was seventeen again, watching Travis Younkin nail ride after amazing ride and wondering what it would be like to chase just the one buckle—his.

He’d proven himself to be an honorable man. The wreck on No Man’s Land hadn’t changed that. If anything, it had made Travis, the bull rider, more fascinating. He’d survived something that would have killed a lesser man and come back for more. Clearly, he was something more.

He was an honorable man who didn’t want her to ride.

Fine. That was the way it was. He was another man she had to prove wrong. The only difference was, she was attracted to this man. And that was a problem. When Red hit on her, he was trying to put her in her place—let her know she was nothing more than a girl among men. But Travis? He took her need to ride as a personal insult.

All the more reason for her to get on a bull in two days’ time.

Finally, she spotted Apollo Coffee Shop. Coffee shops usually had free Wi-Fi. Free was the important point.

Jackpot! She had a connection. She parked as far away from the building as she could while maintaining the link.

It had taken a lot of planning to get permission to finish her final semester online. She’d taken several courses out of order, and curried serious favor with important professors to make sure the chips would fall in her favor. She’d even invited the Native Studies chair to a tribal wedding and funeral so that he could document indigenous ceremonies firsthand.

If there was one thing June hated, it was being documented.

But it had paid off. She would finish her final eighteen credit hours online. She’d left campus during spring break and driven to the Illinois rodeo to twist Mort’s arm into letting her on the TCB Ranger Circuit.

That had been the deal. Her boss, Joseph Yellow Robe, and the Real Pride Ranch he owned, would kick in the seed money if—and only if—she finished college. He hadn’t been happy about her long-distance learning plan, but she’d convinced him that the sooner she got on a professional bull and earned enough money to live above the poverty line, the sooner she’d be able to get back into the classroom as a teacher.

Right after she finished this paper.

After her quick purchase, with green tea in one hand, iced water for Jeff in the other, she settled back into her seat. The car was a disaster zone, what with Jeff shedding on the sleeping bag in the back and two days of fast-food wrappers all over the place, but it was easier to think about the New American Frontier out here than inside where hipsters and past-their-prime yuppies blew wads of cash she didn’t have on organic, shade-grown, fair-trade coffee.

At least tonight, she could crash at a friend of a friend’s—if they were home. No one had picked up the phone yet.

“Could be another night in the car,” she muttered. Another in a long string of nights in the car. On hot nights, Jeff slept on the floor, legs twitching as he chased prairie dogs and jackrabbits in his sleep. On cold nights, he hefted his bulk onto the backseat with her. “We can handle the car, right, boy?” The only response she got was his wet nose on the center console, and the thump of his tail in the back. At least one male liked her.

She dove into her work.

* * *

FOUR HOURS LATER, June was far more interested in getting a third cup of tea than in the sociopolitical tensions of the New Frontier. All she could do was watch the people and hope her eyeballs uncrossed sometime soon.

Even from the parking lot, the people-watching was good. Mesquite was a hopping place at rush hour. Standard pickups dominated the traffic, but there were also minivans and sedans.

Traffic hadn’t just picked up at the intersection. People were pouring into the Apollo drive-thru. Still, the actual parking lot was fairly empty. Not another car within four spaces.

Until a Bronco that sounded like it had left its muffler by the side of some dirt road pulled in three spaces down from her. The windows were tinted, but the passenger’s was down, and what sounded like old-fashioned country music wafted toward June. She had a clear view of the occupants and darn it, she couldn’t help taking a look.

The passenger removed his cowboy hat. The dark hair, the carved jaw—was that the Brazilian?

June watched in shock as the Brazilian leaned over and apparently kissed the heck out of someone. That someone was kissing him right back. She could only see the back of the Brazilian, but hands were everywhere as the two threw caution to the wind.

What little she knew of the guy said he wasn’t the kind who made out in the front seat of a Bronco in a parking lot. She knew she shouldn’t look, but she couldn’t stop. The kiss went on and on. And on.

She looked away to blot out the hot and heavy next door, and found herself thinking about the glimpses she’d had of Travis Younkin unbuckling his pants behind a see-through gate.

Not that she’d seen much—all the guys wore compression shorts underneath their jeans for support—but still, he’d been a whole lot closer to naked than he had been when the jeans were up. She’d seen the tail end of a wide, raised scar just below the bottom of his shorts. It’d made her hurt for him.

Despite the scar, he’d still had the kind of Wrangler butt cowgirls sang songs about. His legs were muscled, the tight bike shorts highlighting each curve—and bulge. Not that she was the kind of girl who stared at bulges. Not for very long, anyway. Just enough to know that he bulged in all the right places. Combined with the intense way he looked at her and that near-beard he wore? If she wasn’t so mad at his overbearing, Travis-knows-best attitude, she’d be forced to admit that the man was hot. Well, he’d always been hot. But now he carried a certain amount of smolder about him. She wondered if he even realized how attractive he was. Probably not. He hadn’t acted like a man who knew he could turn a woman on with one focused gaze.

Luckily, the chances of someone forcing her to admit that Travis Younkin still had it were slim and none. She couldn’t let her appreciation of the hotter things in life distract her. And she wouldn’t. She needed to ride to earn enough money to get off—and stay off—welfare, but more than that she wanted to prove she was good enough to ride with the big boys.

That she was good at something.

Finally, the action in the Bronco broke up. When the Brazilian turned to put his hat back on, she hoped to hell she was invisible. That didn’t stop her from watching the Brazilian in her rearview mirror as he walked into Apollo, next to—

Next to a tall, gangly cowboy?

Mitch?

Mitch Jenner?

June spun around in her seat, wondering if her eyes had crossed too far, but the image didn’t change. Two cowboys were walking into Apollo. They weren’t touching—they didn’t even look like they were talking, which was much more par for the course.

The Brazilian? And Mitch?

“Jeff, you stay put,” she said as she shoved her laptop back into her bag and crammed it under the front seat. Within seconds, she was out of the car, trying to look casual as she checked out the Bronco. The Brazilian had left the window down, and it was obvious there was no one else in there.

The Brazilian. And Mitch. Making out in the Apollo parking lot. And then acting like they hadn’t.

What the heck was she supposed to do now? If this were common knowledge, it would be common enough that she’d know it. After all, she knew that the Preacher was married, and that wasn’t nearly as scandalous as gay bull riders.

Her mind still reeling, June found herself walking into the coffee shop. She would have that third cup of tea. Heavy on the milk.

“Hey, Girlie!”

“Mitch! The Brazilian! Funny meeting you here.”

The Brazilian was watching her closely. Had he seen her sitting in her car?

“He likes to get here early, scope out the arena, get the lay of the land,” Mitch said, nodding to the Brazilian and answering the wrong unasked question as he ordered two black coffees. “Do the tourist thing. Buy postcards for the folks back home.”

“So, you two are travel buddies?”

“Sure,” Mitch said, still as casual as could be. “I’m trying to teach him English, but he don’t learn so good. I think he’s got a lousy teacher, though. What about you? You’re here early.”

That was a nice redirection. “Finishing my senior year online. I’ve been working on a paper.”

“And Apollo has Wi-Fi? Smart.” He reached over and playfully tapped her forehead, but then his finger trailed down the side of her face. Was he flirting? “You’re one smart cookie, Girlie.”

Girlie? Cookie? Maybe Mitch had a thing for Bogart movies.

The Brazilian tapped Mitch with the tip of his boot. She barely caught the movement. “Oh, yeah. He wants to know where you learned to ride,” Mitch said, dumping four sugars into his coffee. The Brazilian left his black.

Mitch got all of that from the nudge of a boot?

“On this ranch on the edge of the reservation where I grew up. Just some crazy kids with a whole lot of cattle to keep tabs on.”

“Ah, an organic cowgirl. I bet you run some mean barrels, too.”

June blushed. “Well, actually...”

Mitch looked her up and down, his eyes moving so slowly that June felt heat flush her cheeks. “So, if you’re an all-around cowgirl, what are you doing here riding bulls? I understood that there was a lot of money in barrel racing.”

That question. Again. It was always some version of, What’s a nice girl like you doing on a bull like this? She narrowed her eyes. “This is who I am and I don’t have to apologize to anyone for that, you know?”

Neither man moved. She saw the look that passed between the two of them. Then the Brazilian’s gaze darted out to the parking lot.

“So,” Mitch said, as he moved to a table by the window, “where are you parked?”

It was true. Mitch and the Brazilian were a couple. “The Crown Victoria out there. My mutt Jeff’s in the back. He’s my traveling partner.”

“Your mutt Jeff? Mutt and Jeff? Cute, Girlie.” He still sounded normal, but his eyes had an edge that said secret, loud and clear.

She needed to get this train back on track—and fast. Mitch and the Brazilian were the closest thing she had to allies right now. She couldn’t undermine that support. “Hey, just so you know, I really appreciated your help last week. I don’t think Travis would have let me on that bull if you two hadn’t backed me up.” She knew she still would have gotten on Hallowed, but thanks to Mitch and the Brazilian she hadn’t had to force the issue. “You said you’d seen me ride?”

Mitch appraised her for a second, his mouth still smiling and his eyes still not. After a quick glance over at the Brazilian, he followed her lead. “Last summer, I broke my arm in a few new and interesting places. I went home to Wyoming to heal up and spend some time with my momma.”

She’d been in Wyoming in August. “At Cheyenne?” Just some local rodeo, but five other women had shown up, ready to ride. The closest she’d come to a real competition yet.

“Couldn’t stay away, cast or not.” He snickered. “Downright painful to watch all those amateurs out there being bucked off fifth-class bulls in three seconds. I could have won that one, hands down.” He sighed wistfully. “I remember you. You and those other girls—on the same bulls. You made the eight seconds in both the long go and the short go—one other girl made six, right?” June nodded in appreciation. She was flattered he remembered. “You don’t forget a name like Spotted Elk,” he added.

“Can you believe I only got three hundred and fifty dollars and the hotel room for that? The winning guy went home with fifteen hundred dollars, and I had a better score!” Frustration bubbled up again. She was just as good as the men, but was always paid a fraction of the purse.

“I know. That’s why you’re here.”

“Damn straight. If I can get past the egos out there and get on the bulls, I can ride with the best of them.”

“Not gonna be easy,” Mitch said with a snort. “This is Travis’s comeback year—if Red doesn’t knock him out first.” The Brazilian nodded.

“Who’s the bigger problem?”

Mitch made a big show of blowing on his coffee and then testing it carefully. “So, how did you get your TCB permit?”

The flying lead change whipped June’s head back. “What? How do you know about my permit?”

“I know lots,” Mitch said, looking like the cat that had a cage full of canaries to choose from. “I know that you lied on the application, slept with Chet Murphy—”

“The TCB president?” These were the rumors floating about?

“—that Travis begged and pleaded with Mort to kick you out, and when that didn’t work, he beat the tar out of him, or was it that Mort had it coming after calling Travis a has-been?” The Brazilian wasn’t close to smiling, but his eyes were laughing even as June began to sweat. Had this all really happened? Mitch gleefully continued, “Right. Mort had it coming, and then Travis went to find you and finish the job, or sweep you off your feet, or was it to teach you a lesson?”

“What— Who— What—”

“Oh, Girlie, it was all over the bar. Everyone had a slightly different opinion on what, exactly, happened, but the general consensus was that Travis was upset, Mort showed him your permit and he stormed off to find you.”

She stared at him. “And?”

“That’s all anyone knows. No one has seen you until about twenty minutes ago, and Travis wasn’t talking.”

So no one knew about the argument in the parking lot? The best she could do was swallow down another sip of tea.

“Now, it seems to me that you’re suddenly a little too guilty-looking for your own good, Girlie. You’re acting like Travis did, in fact, come looking for you and I’m just dying to know how it went down. The rumors were getting pretty wild there by closing time. Now, he thinks that Travis tried to talk you out of riding, and you told him to shove it,” Mitch said with a tilt of his head to the Brazilian. “But not me. I think it got physical. I’ve got money on you putting him in his place, just like you did Red. I know you didn’t break anything, because he rode the next night, but he didn’t make the time. He lost. And then he left.”

“Holy crap,” she said in a rush. The mountain she had to climb suddenly seemed miles taller. Everything she was afraid of—summed up neatly by a cowboy in a coffee shop. People were already talking about her and Travis. About what had happened between them in the dark.

No one here knew about her violent father or her mother, who’d spent most of the past twenty years blowing their welfare checks on beer. June wanted a fresh start. She had grand dreams of being June Spotted Elk, Professional Bull Rider—to have everyone know she was good at something, good for something.

If people were already talking about her like this, her reputation on the circuit wouldn’t be any different from her reputation at home.

How the hell was she going to do this?

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Mitch prompted, his gaze focused on her face. “I like to get my gossip straight from the source.”

This was all just gossip. She could handle gossip. She took a deep breath and gathered her wits. “How do I know I can trust you? I tell you, you tell Red, and the next thing I know, I’ve got my own personal peanut gallery of ill-wishers.”

The Brazilian snorted in disgust as Mitch rolled his eyes. “Girlie, please. Like I talk to Red.”

“So you tell me who I have to worry about. Red or Travis?”

He didn’t hesitate this time. “Red. I’ve seen you twice now, June, and you are one hell of a rider—as good as anyone else out there, present company included.” The compliment sent her heart thudding. “Travis won’t like losing to a girl, but if you beat him fair and square without getting yourself killed, he’ll respect that.”

It’d sure be nice to have Travis’s respect. To have him look at her with those beautiful brown eyes and know he was on her side.

However, after last week, she didn’t think that would ever happen.

“But Red won’t?” she asked.

Mitch looked at the Brazilian, who rolled his hand as if to say go on. “When Paulo first showed up, his rope just happened to get cut right before his second ride.”

Paulo? So he did have a name. “Red did it?”

“No proof. It’s not like CSI makes arena calls for a busted rope.”

Whoa. Cutting a rider’s rope was lower than low. “The funny thing is, Travis warned me to watch out for both Red and you.”

Mitch snickered and then choked on his coffee. Yeah, the more time she spent with him, the more laughable that idea seemed to her, too. “Did he now? Well, I have a reputation to uphold. I am the Heartbreak Kid.”

“I gathered.” She glanced to Paulo the Brazilian, but he was pointedly watching some blonde in supershort running shorts.

As if he had to live up to his title, Mitch leaned forward and whispered, “Where are you staying tonight, Girlie?”

“I’ve got a friend I’m going to crash with.” She hoped.

“Oh?” His eyes danced.

She felt the blush warm her cheeks. “Actually, a friend of a friend. I’ve never met them before, but they said they had a couch. You?”

“All the finest that the Super 8 has to offer.” Paulo sighed.

“Mitch? Mitch Jenner?”

June looked up to see Running Shorts standing over them, her hands full of coffee. She had a look on her face that walked the line between shock and fury. Then she glanced down to June. By the time the woman had swept her eyes back to Mitch, the shock was gone, and there was nothing left but fury. “You’re back?”

“Bobbi Jean!” Mitch was already out of his chair, trying to spin her away from Paulo and June. “Wow! You look really—”

Bobbi Jean wasn’t having any of that. “You dared to show your face in this town again after—after—after—”

After what? Apparently, this was the Heartbreak Kid in action. And Bobbi Jean in her short shorts was not the sort of woman who took kindly to having her heart broken.

“Baby, let me explain,” Mitch managed to get out just before two cups’ worth of foam and espresso shots hit him full in the face. June waited for the screams of pain, but instead, Mitch said, “Aw, Bobbi Jean, honey—your iced mochas!”

“You—you—you!” Bobbi Jean couldn’t even get out a proper curse word. She hauled off and slapped him with enough force to send Mitch boots-over-butt onto the wet floor.

Bobbi Jean spun to face June. “He’s nothing but a lying, cheating bastard. Save yourself the heartache before he starts talking about taking you home to meet his mother.”

“We’re not—”

But June’s defense of Mitch was wasted on empty space. Bobbi Jean was peeling out of the parking lot as the rest of the patrons looked on in shock.

“Mitch! Are you okay?”

“I knew there was something about that girl I liked,” he said as June and Paulo hefted him up off the floor. “Her right hook!”

“Yeah, you’re fine,” June replied as she looked at his face. She didn’t see a red mark. “Didn’t she hit you?”

“She tried,” Mitch answered as they headed out to the Bronco. “I learned long ago that it’s best to roll with the punches. And the slaps.”

“You fell on purpose?”

“Sure did.” He grinned as Paulo popped the trunk, and Mitch stripped off his sodden shirt. “You don’t get to be the Heartbreak Kid without picking up some tricks.”

From his position in the backseat a few spaces over, Jeff whined. He wanted out. People tended to cower in fear at the sight of him running free in broad daylight, so June dug out his leash.

“That’s your mutt?” Mitch sounded properly impressed as he tucked in and buttoned up. “That’s a dog?”

“I said he was a mutt. I didn’t say what kind,” she replied as Jeff wagged his tail. Sheesh, fifty pounds of dog had Mitch more scared than eighteen hundred pounds of bull. “He’s a coydog. Part coyote, part something.” Maybe a coyote and a German shepherd, because Jeff had that long, thin nose and thick, shaggy fur that both animals sported, but everywhere a German shepherd was dark, Jeff was white and red. He was about thirty pounds lighter than most German shepherds, but close to the size of the coyotes that slipped through the Plains grasses in the dark, like Nagi spirit animals.

“Is he tame?”

Jeff answered the question by planting his paws on Paulo’s chest and licking him to within an inch of his life.

After he regained his footing and the shock passed, the Brazilian actually smiled. He pulled Jeff’s paws off him and set him on the ground, but then crouched down to eye level. “Oi, garoto,” he said as he rubbed Jeff’s ears.

She’d never heard Paulo speak before. His voice was soft and gentle, the mark of a man who knew how to handle animals. “He likes you,” she said, hoping to hear his Portuguese accent again.

“Or he’s just tasting you,” Mitch added from a safe distance.

“Trust me, I know the difference.”

Mitch’s eyes swept over her again with a look that she now recognized. She braced herself.

“But does Travis?” Mitch asked.

Travis did, but she didn’t think that “afraid of coydog” would do the man any favors. She needed Travis to be as much on her side as possible, and keeping the gossips at bay was the best way to do that. If Travis wasn’t going to talk about what had happened the other night, then she wasn’t, either. End of discussion.

“I guess you’d have to ask Travis that, wouldn’t you?”

The Brazilian looked up at Mitch and nodded his head to Jeff.

“Fine,” Mitch snorted, sounding unhappy with June’s answer. “Paulo wants to know where you got a half coyote like that.”

They had to be a couple. They were too much in sync, too easily understood with quick glances and quicker nods.

“Um, he found me—when I was twelve.” On the one-year anniversary of Dad being arrested for murder and the same day June got her first period, actually, but those were the sorts of details that made men green around the gills. “I trained him, and he’s never left me, not even when I went to college.”

“They let you keep that in the dorm?”

“Mitch. Don’t think coyote. Think mutt. A well-trained mutt.” To illustrate her point, she dropped the leash and snapped her fingers. Within seconds, Jeff was seated at her side. Another snap, and he was back in the car, patiently waiting in the front seat. “And they didn’t let me keep him in the dorm. He lived in the bushes around campus for a year until I got my own place.”

The Brazilian grinned, his normal reserve completely gone. Maybe it wasn’t too hard to understand a man who never spoke, because his eyes seemed to be saying, Can I pet your dog again?

June let out a low whistle and Jeff came bounding back out of the car. “Go on,” she said. He didn’t need another invitation. He and the Brazilian hopped up onto the Bronco’s tailgate and began to play-wrestle like they were childhood buds.

“He, uh, he ever bite anyone?” Mitch asked, cautiously moving in to pat Jeff.

“No one who didn’t have it coming.”

She imagined they made quite a sight, the Indian woman, the Brazilian and the Heartbreak Kid, all standing around a dog who looked like a wild animal and acted like a puppy in a coffee shop parking lot. Good people-watching, June noted with a smile.

“We’re getting dinner,” Mitch said as Jeff licked his hand. “You want to come?”

Dinner sounded good, in an expensive kind of way. She needed to keep her cash to get her through the rest of the weekend. “Nah. I’ve got dinner waiting for me.” She hoped. Still no messages on her phone. “You guys go on.”

“You going to be here tomorrow?”

“Probably. But I might swing by the True West store down in Dallas.” Mitch’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I want to get a better shirt for the Real Men Wear Pink thing—every Friday night, right? You want to come?”

Mitch’s mouth flopped open with the “yes” on the tip of his tongue, but the Brazilian shook his head no as he slapped Mitch on the shoulder. At the sudden movement, Jeff let out a low growl.

“That’s all right, Girlie. But if you find anything good, you tell me.”

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay?”

Paulo stuck out one hand, even as the other one was getting in a last rub on Jeff’s ears. They were all still friends.

Which Mitch confirmed when he said, “Super 8, Girlie. If you need anything.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“YOU CAN DO THIS,” Travis said for the fortieth time since he’d dragged his butt out of bed that morning. “Just doing your job.”

A job he despised more every day. Once upon a time, personal appearances at True West Western Wear were ego trips that paid well. Now, showing up at the store nearest to wherever he was riding that weekend and doing his time felt more like a prison sentence.

Travis Youngkin In Person 1-5, the True West sign announced to passers-by.

Youngkin. He’d been doing appearances at this store in Dallas for five years, and they still couldn’t spell his name.

“Tough biscuits,” he scolded himself. A job was a job. And he was lucky enough to have a job that allowed him to follow the circuit. All he had to do was show up at the nearest True West store and press the flesh. And for that, they gave him five thousand dollars a year with the option of a minimum-wage desk job during the off-season. And they put him on the company health plan.

Before the wreck, when he’d been at the top of his game, he’d been pulling down twenty times that in sponsorship deals. But those days were long gone. He was in no position to be picky.

If he could get back up to the bigs, things would be different. Oh, he knew he wouldn’t get the deals—or the women—he’d gotten back in the day. But he wouldn’t be scraping by, basically living in his truck. He’d be comfortable again, and when a man was as shattered as he’d once been, comfort was worth a lot. Almost as much as a health plan.

Travis parked in the back row and put his game face on. The Dallas store was one of the biggest True Wests around. Most were crammed into strip malls, but this one was the size of a big-box store. It had everything the average cowboy could ever need—including bull-riding supplies.

This would be four hours of smiling and signing and posing. He could do this.

The walk in wasn’t too bad. His joints were feeling good today, which was a positive sign for tonight. His shoulder had recovered from the abuses of a week ago, and his hip was quiet.

The store seemed empty. Finally, he located a guy wearing the True West store vest. “Hi, I’m Travis Younkin.”

“And...? Did you need help with a size or something, mister?”

“No, I’m Travis Younkin.” All he got was a blank look from under pierced eyebrows. “I’m the bull rider who’s doing a personal appearance here today.”

“Here? Are you sure?”

Had the guy not seen the billboard outside? It was going to be a long day. “Ask Todd about it. He knows who I am.”

If only it were that simple. First, the clerk asked another clerk, and then those two geniuses asked a third guy, all while shooting suspicious glances over to where Travis stood. He tried to keep the friendly smile on his face, like he enjoyed mistrust and doubt. Finally, the third guy came over. At least he was wearing real cowboy boots.

“Mr. Younkin? Todd’s out today, but we’ll get a table set up for you, okay?”

“Sure,” he said, forcing a smile so big that he felt the wire mesh in his jaw pull. “I’ll be looking at the boots. Let me know when you guys are ready.”

The boot section was like coming home to Travis. Sure, most riders coveted the famous bull-riding buckles—and the bunnies that went with them—but for Travis, a well-made pair of boots in an exotic animal skin were the ultimate sign of success. He could stand here and admire the ostrich-skin boots for hours.

Four hours, if it came to that.

Once, he’d had several nice pairs of ostrich-skin boots, but those had been sold off to help cover his medical bills, along with most everything else he’d owned, including his buckles and what was left of the family farm in Nebraska. All he had left from before the wreck was his truck and his beat-to-hell camper.

They had the Lucchese boots. He picked up the cognac-brown boot, his hands tracing over the stitching on the shaft with appreciation. If only the stitches that held him together had been done with this much care.

“Say, those are nice,” a voice said behind him.

Travis turned to see a Johnny-come-lately cowboy. The stuff on his back was all good—Travis recognized the Stetson hat and the alligator-skin boots—but on this guy, it all seemed a bit off, like an SUV that had never seen a dirt road. “They are. Top-of-the-line. Full quill on the foot here, and that’s lemonwood construction. These are designed to last a lifetime. Well worth the cost.”

Johnny-come-lately whistled in appreciation. “How much do they run a fellow?”

“The Lucchese brand runs four hundred to twelve hundred dollars. These are the high end of that.”

“Boy, I bet not just anyone can afford boots like that,” the guy said.

“That’s the truth,” Travis agreed. But with a little luck, he’d be able to afford them again. He just had to keep his head on—

“Well, if you’ve got them in a thirteen, I’d love to try them on.”

Travis froze. If he had them in a thirteen? Humiliation burned down Travis’s throat. “Well, let me get someone who works here.”

He found the clerks in back, arguing over which crappy card table to haul up front. Handing over the boots, Travis took his chances with the table and hauled the lighter one out himself. No way he would let some pretend cowboy think he was a salesman. He was a bull rider, damn it, and a good one, too.

Even so, he knew he couldn’t do this much longer. There had to be a better life out there for him. Maybe he could get a job at a ranch, go back to being a real cowboy again.

The hours passed with only the Johnny-come-lately cowboy apologizing to break up the monotony. To make up for the mix-up, he asked Travis to sign both of his Lucchese boxes.

The longer Travis sat here, the worse things seemed. Red had won last weekend, and had assumed first in the rankings as a result. If Travis couldn’t make it back into the bigs this year, he was done. His body couldn’t take another season of hitting the ground. The single, nightly Percocet he limited himself to didn’t seem to be taking the edge off the pain anymore.

He was tired. Tired of sitting here, being unknown and invisible. Tired of scraping by at the whim of bulls. Tired of being the father figure to those kids when they never listened to him anyway. Tired of fighting Red over everything.

The boring, comfortable life he’d passed on so many years ago—a nice house, a piece of land to work, a good woman to come home to, and maybe some kids riding the fences with him—seemed better every day.

While the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, there was no line between Travis’s here and now and that fantasy. The house had gone with the farm. And women? Women wanted more than what he had to offer. They wanted someone who stayed home, helped with the kids. They wanted romancing. And Travis? He didn’t have that in him. He followed the rodeo.

His mind flashed back to that Indian girl—rather, that Lakota woman—in her underwear. She was beautiful, strong and determined. He wondered if she was like that in bed, too—but hell, who was he kidding? After their argument, he’d be lucky if she didn’t sic that dog on him. Not exactly the best way to sweet-talk a pretty woman.

But he couldn’t pull his thoughts away from her. Over and over, he replayed the way she had looked at him when she’d asked him to believe in her. It wasn’t possible that she’d been admiring his body. Was it?

No. Gorgeous young women—smart and athletic to boot—did not admire a man like him. It just didn’t happen. If anything, she was probably gauging whether or not sleeping with him could help her get what she wanted.

His fantasy was going to stay just that—a fantasy. He’d made his bed long ago. Now he just had to spend the rest of his life lying in it.

The doors whooshed open for the first time in nearly two hours. He knew the odds that the customer had come to see the formerly famous Travis Younkin were slim, but he still put on his good smile and got ready to talk up tonight’s rodeo.

But nothing got him ready for what walked in.

“Travis?”

He noticed the hair first. Pinned back near her temples, the rest fell long and loose down her back. He could just see the tips of each strand swaying beneath the soft curve of her hips.

Swaying, because she was still walking toward him, every step sending out a soft tap-tap-tap from her rust-red boots. Real boots. On a real cowgirl.

Hell, June Spotted Elk herself had just walked in.

He tried to smile. “Hey, June. You in town?”

Was she blushing? It looked good on her. “Oh, yeah. I got into Mesquite yesterday. Needed to pick up a shirt for tonight and some rosin. I think Jeff ate mine.”

She was lucky that was all that hellhound had eaten. “He do that a lot?”

“Only when I don’t run him enough. He’s out in the car if you want to say hi. He’s really a sweetheart—when he doesn’t think I’m in trouble,” she hurried to explain when she saw the look on his face. “You’d like him. Even Mitch thought he was passable.”

She’d been hanging out with Mitch? How the hell had that happened? Surely if Mitch had picked her up at the bar last weekend, he would have been bragging about his latest true love to the guys. Just like always.

“Really?” was all that came out.

She hesitated, like she wasn’t sure what to do next. Well, that made two of them. “Listen. I know you’re not happy with me riding, but I do have my permit, and I appreciate that you helped with my bull rope. Mitch didn’t get it tight enough.”

“Sure. No problem.” Sounded like Mitch had gotten something tight enough.

She smiled. “Been busy today?”

“Not really.” That smile was real pretty on her. It made him want her to keep talking. Which had to be why he said, “The only other guy who came through thought I was selling boots.”

“Ouch,” she agreed. “How long are you in for?”

“Another forty-five minutes.” A new thought occurred to him. If he asked her to dinner, then he could keep an eye on her. Maybe keep her away from Mitch and clear of Red. Then he could try to talk some more sense into her. “You got dinner plans?”

Okay, now she was definitely blushing. It had been a long time since he’d made a woman blush, and for a brief second, he felt more...real than he had in years.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. You’ll probably spend the entire time trying to convince me my place is somewhere barefoot and pregnant, and I’ll get all hot under the collar and have to try not to lose my temper again.”

He was offended that she thought he was nothing more than a Neanderthal. “I never said that.”

“Oh, I know.” She was still smiling, like maybe she was flirting, but it hit him wrong. “But you thought it.”

“I can’t win with you, can I? I bet if I told you that you had to breathe, you’d stop just to prove me wrong,” he snapped. “I noticed you didn’t come here to get a damned helmet.”

“Lay off, Travis,” she said, bristling before his eyes. And suddenly, they were right back where they’d left off a week ago. “I’ll let you know if it ever becomes your business.”

As if on cue, his shoulder began to throb, probably because he was tensing up. Breathe, he told himself. Stay loose for tonight.

She sure as hell wasn’t staying loose. Even though several feet separated them, he could hear the tension in her voice. “I heard you tried to convince Mort to throw me out, even after he showed you my permit. You might have mentioned that part to me, you know.”

“Well, I didn’t think mentioning that I thought you got it under false pretenses would be the smooth thing to do, J. But now that you bring it up...”

“Save it for the bulls, Travis,” she said, storming out without her rosin.

All he could do was watch her stomp away.

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