This could be her toughest assignment yet

Having witnessed her father’s death in a race-car crash, Joanna Dace can’t imagine getting close to anyone who risks his life for sport. But she can write about them. Keeping her professional distance lets her get inside anyone’s head without letting that person into her heart. Until she meets her latest subject—professional bull rider Tom Cameron. Tom has a quiet cowboy charm and a darkness beneath his rugged surface. It’s difficult to remember all the reasons she should keep her distance, but Jo has to try...unless it’s already too late.

Finally it was Tom Cameron’s turn.

He eased down into one of the chutes near Jo’s seat, this time facing her. She could see his intense concentration as he wrapped the rope around his hand and settled his mouthpiece. The bull stood still as a statue except for its mule ears waving like antennae.

A slight nod and the gate swung wide. Gunslinger erupted into the arena with all four feet off the ground, changing direction in midair. Cameron still clung to the bull’s back, but off center so that the next spin shot him off like a rock out of a slingshot. He struck the metal panel directly below Jo’s section with a crash and lay still. The eight-second buzzer sounded.

Madison Square Garden went dead quiet. Someone’s cell phone brayed, harsh in the silence. Two men from the sports medicine team and one of the bullfighters ran to the spot where Cameron lay. Jo heard someone say, “Hey, Tom—can you hear me?” An indistinct response. “You want to walk out?” A grunt of assent and Cameron climbed to his feet. The crowd cheered as he left the arena supported by two of the medics.

Jo sank back in her seat.

Dear Reader,

Thanks for joining me for the second book in the Cameron’s Pride series. I hope you’ll enjoy reading about Tom Cameron and his trials and triumphs both in and out of the professional bull-riding arena. I’ve done my best to take you into the heart of the competition along with journalist Jo Dace as she profiles an athlete involved in the most dangerous eight seconds in sports.

I’d love to hear from you if you enjoy The Bull Rider or if the story piques your curiosity about professional bull riding. Feel free to contact me at helen@helendeprima.com. Enjoy the ride!

Helen DePrima

The Bull Rider
Helen DePrima

www.millsandboon.co.uk

HELEN DePRIMA grew up on horseback on her grandfather’s farm near Louisville, Kentucky. After spending a week on a dude ranch in Colorado when she was twelve, Helen fell in love with all things Western.

She spent wonderful weeks on the same ranch during her high school summers. After graduation she headed for the University of Colorado to meet the cowboy of her dreams and live happily ever after in a home on the range. Instead she fell in love with a Jersey boy bound for vet school. She earned her degree in nursing and spent four years as a visiting nurse in northern Colorado while her husband attended Colorado State University.

After her husband graduated, they settled in New Hampshire, where Helen worked first in nursing and then rehabilitating injured and orphaned wildlife. After retirement, she turned again to earlier passions: writing and the West, particularly professional bull riding.

MILLS & BOON

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To my husband for keeping my eye on the prize.

Acknowledgments

To my agent, Stephany Evans, for her encouragement and hand-holding.

To Dana Grimaldi for her deft editorial touch.

To my First Reader, Melissa Maupin, for her enthusiastic involvement and feedback.

To Earlene Fowler for her prayers and sanity.

To Will Georgantas for his interest and timely gift.

To Carrie Weir of Tennessee Children’s Services for the valuable information she provided regarding adoption procedures in her state.

And especially to everyone involved with the Professional Bull Riders who make this series a labor of love.

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

Acknowledgments

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

MADISON SQUARE GARDEN had gone cowboy crazy this Sunday in January, with wall-to-wall boots and jeans, denim jackets and wide-brimmed hats. Joanna Dace reflected with wry amusement that her black turtleneck, leggings and ankle boots marked her as a newcomer to the sport of professional bull riding.

A plump blonde wriggled into the third-row seat next to Jo’s and smoothed the fringes on her red satin shirt. “Aren’t these great seats? My husband says get the best you can buy—that’s your Christmas present.” She patted the knee of the burly man seated next to her.

“Whatever makes you happy, babe,” he said with a grin.

“So who’s your favorite rider?” she asked Jo.

“Well, I...”

“Me too—I love ’em all. I hope you don’t mind if I jump around and yell—I wait all year for this. Just kick me if I get too noisy.”

A raucous horn sounded while Warning flashed on the advertising banner boards.

Her new friend tapped her arm. “You’d better cover your ears now if you don’t like it loud.”

Jo obeyed as the lights went down. Men with fuel cans traced a pattern in front of the bucking chutes and then darted away. Jets of fire shot up accompanied by ear-splitting explosions as flames spelled out letters in the dirt. More pyrotechnics and then the announcer’s shout: “Hello, New York City! This is the one and only PBR!”

* * *

“HEY, TOM—A GAL grabbed me up on the concourse. She wants to meet you.” Deke Harkens fished in his shirt pocket. “She gave me her card.”

Tom Cameron buckled on his plain blue chaps without looking at the card. Women often sent bull riders phone numbers and hotel keys, sometimes underwear. He wasn’t interested—not now, not like that, never again.

“Wrong Cameron,” he said. “Luke’s the bunny wrangler.”

“Nope, she said Tom Cameron. And this one’s no buckle bunny—at least she’s not dressed like one.”

“She say what she wants?”

Deke shook his head. “Just she’d like to meet you. You want to grab a look? Brown hair, late twenties, I guess—third row, right next to the chutes.”

Not the cheap seats. Tom adjusted his belt and stuck the card in his pocket. “Maybe after the event.” Bad luck to plan beyond his next ride.

A claxon sounded in the arena. He settled a black Stetson over his brows. “Showtime.”

He followed the other cowboys through the echoing corridors under the Garden and mounted metal stairs in darkness to the center pedestal above the bucking chutes. When the spotlight blinded him, he raised his hat to the sold-out arena as the announcer intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, the current number-one bull rider in the world—Tom Cameron!”

He stood in place during the introduction of the bullfighters, including his brother, Luke; the invocation imploring protection for the riders and the bulls; and then the national anthem sung by an army sergeant with a powerful baritone. When the lights came up, he climbed down and headed toward the locker room, stopping when a woman’s voice called his name.

“You’re leading in the event, Tom.” The color commentator thrust a microphone in his face. “Will you pick Gunslinger again in the championship round?”

“I guess I’ll decide when the time comes,” he said. Lisa was a good sort, but he wasn’t big on being interviewed—he’d rather let his riding speak for him. She understood he wasn’t much of a talker and let him go with good wishes for his next ride.

He continued to the locker room while the first bulls were run into the chutes; shed his hat and chaps; and switched from boots to sneakers before making his way to a deserted space behind the bulls’ pens. He closed his eyes for a moment and then began to stretch and strike almost in slow motion, the movements becoming faster and stronger until sweat soaked his collar. He finished the kata and dropped back to cool-down mode until his pulse steadied. At every venue, he managed to find a hidden corner like this, not because he minded the ribbing from the other riders but because it interfered with his concentration. The exercises improved his balance during the ride, and he was able to land on his feet more often than not.

As they always did, the exercises left him feeling loose and peaceful. He’d keep moving until it was his turn to ride, wandering through the maze of pens and chutes holding the bulls for the afternoon’s competition. They were undemanding company, some moving restlessly in their pens, others relaxing in the sawdust bedding. A massive cream-colored Brahman sidled over to the fence and poked his wet muzzle between the metal rails.

Tom scratched behind one floppy ear. “Gunslinger, you’re a phony,” he said. “Some tough guy.” The fence creaked as the bull leaned into the caress. Tom had straddled this bull three times already, always coming up short. No shame in that—no one had made the eight seconds on Gunslinger.

“How about it, buddy?” He tugged on the bull’s ear. “You want to dance again today?”

Tom returned to the locker room and was pulling on his boots when Arlie Johnson’s bull rope with its bell attached crashed against the metal lockers. The tall blond Arkansas cowboy followed and kicked the trashcan twice before dropping to a bench with his head in his hands.

“Son-of-a-gun blew up when he was supposed to spin,” he said. “That’s the last time I ask an owner how his bull bucks.”

Tom listened with halfhearted sympathy. Arlie was new to the big time. He’d learn a lot of hard lessons before he got much further, like not trying to second-guess more than half a ton of muscle and meanness.

“You’ve got two good scores for the weekend,” he said. “That’ll probably get you into the championship round.”

“Yeah, and get stuck with a bull nobody else wants, like Gunslinger.” Arlie’s glower smoothed out. “Say, these New York gals sure like cowboys. I was swatting them off like flies in Times Square last night.”

“You just keep swatting ’em, sonny,” Nick Ducharme said; his soft drawl bespoke Cajun country. He’d made the eight seconds on his bull. “Or you’ll go home with a souvenir you can’t show your mama. Besides, the girls you were hanging with in Times Square are a bunch of tourists just like you.”

Tom tightened the thong around the wrist of his riding glove and shrugged into his safety vest. “Don’t worry about picking Gunslinger,” he said. “He’s mine.”

* * *

BY THE TIME she heard Tom Cameron’s name announced, Jo Dace was half-deafened by the racket in the Garden and stupefied by the raw violence of the sport.

Her new friend elbowed her. “Don’t you just love Tom Cameron? He makes riding bulls look so easy. And you watch his brother during the ride—he hovers like a mother hen.”

Jo could see only Cameron’s back as he climbed down into the bucking chute, but the giant overhead screen showed him wrapping the rope over and around his hand and then sliding forward to a seat directly over his fist. A shiver of apprehension trickled down her spine. One cowboy had already been carried from the arena on a stretcher. What if—

The gate flew open and the big brindled bull shot forward, covering at least a dozen feet in one jump and snapping Cameron’s head back so that his hat brim almost touched the animal’s rump. Next a vertical leap followed by a feint to the left slung his rider far to the outside of the spin. Jo closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to watch Cameron slammed to the dirt. The buzzer sounded, almost drowned out by cheers, and she opened her eyes in time to see Cameron sail through the air to land on his feet. The bullfighters wove between the rider and the bull that scampered through the exit gate with a final flourish of its heels.

The announcer’s voice boomed. “How about that ride, folks? Tom Cameron’s gonna be pretty happy with his score—89 points! That should give him first pick for the championship round.”

Cameron raised his hat to the crowd. As he passed her seat, she saw a thin scar running from his right cheekbone to the point of his chin.

The next three riders bucked off; two more made the buzzer but with scores lower than Cameron’s, ending the round.

“What’s happening now?” Jo asked Cindy—by now Jo and Satin Shirt were on a first-name basis—as men set up ramps to the circular steel structure in the middle of the arena. The shark cage, Cindy had called it earlier.

“The fifteen riders with the most points for the weekend get to pick their bulls for the championship round. Now you’ll see some real bucking.”

Tom Cameron climbed the ramp first. He said “Gunslinger” into the microphone, and the crowd roared with approval. The next thirteen riders chose from the diminishing list, leaving a bull named Booger-Butt for the luckless fifteenth.

When the action resumed, Jo understood what Cindy meant by real bucking. These bulls appeared to have studied at some elite school for mayhem—some kicked so high their backs went almost vertical, others spun so fast her own head swam. Most put their riders in the dirt in only a few seconds. Finally one cowboy hung on for eight seconds, but the announcer commented, “That won’t be much of a score, folks—Whirligig had an off day.”

And finally it was Tom Cameron’s turn. Again he eased down into one of the chutes near Jo’s seat, this time facing her. She could see his expression of intense concentration as he wrapped the rope around his hand and settled his mouthpiece. The bull stood still as a statue except for its mule-like ears waving like antennae.

“I knew he’d pick Gunslinger,” Cindy said, leaning forward. She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Ride him, Tom!” Her husband chuckled.

A slight nod from Cameron and the gate swung wide. Gunslinger erupted into the arena with all four feet off the ground, changing direction in midair. Cameron still clung to the bull’s back, but off center so that the next spin shot him off like a rock out of a slingshot. He struck the metal panel directly below Jo’s section with a crash and lay still. The eight-second buzzer sounded.

Madison Square Garden went dead quiet. Someone’s cell phone brayed, harsh in the silence. Two men from the Sports Medicine team and one of the bullfighters ran to the spot where Cameron lay. Jo heard someone say, “Hey, Tom—can you hear me?” An indistinct response. “You want to walk out?” A grunt of assent and Cameron climbed to his feet. The crowd cheered as he left the arena supported by two of the medics.

The announcer said, “Folks, Tom’s gonna be just fine. Doc Barnett will check him out, but you can see he’s up and walking. That makes the score 4–0 in Gunslinger’s favor.” Jo sank back in her seat. She’d gotten more than her money’s worth for today’s ticket, and she’d seen enough to believe that bull riding was indeed the Toughest Sport on Earth. Other rodeo competitions like riding broncos and roping made sense—they were cowboy skills carried to a professional level, but this... What use was riding a bull? Still, the magnificent foolishness fascinated her. Too bad Tom Cameron had been injured. She would have to revise her plan.

She was exchanging social media information with her new friend (“Maybe we’ll see you at another event—there’s one in Allentown this fall”) when she heard someone call her name. The cowboy to whom she’d given her card hailed her from the arena floor.

“Miss Dace? Joanna Dace? Tom said he’ll be out in a few minutes if you want to wait.”

He had to be joking. “Won’t he be going to the emergency room?” she asked. “He could barely walk.”

The cowboy hooted. “Naw, he’s okay. If you’ll follow me...” He showed her where to climb down at the end of the aisle and led her through the clanging confusion of the pens and chutes being dismantled. The last bulls were disappearing toward the stock trucks waiting outside the Garden when her guide stopped outside the locker room.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” he said before he disappeared inside.

She backed against the wall to make way for men dragging heavy electrical cables and pushing massive sound equipment crates. Several other women waited nearby, some with small children who ran forward yelling “Daddy!” as their fathers emerged. The hallway gradually emptied and she waited alone, shivering in an icy draft from some unseen door left open.

A slight man in khakis and a distressed leather bomber jacket hesitated at the locker room door. The light caught his face and she recognized Tom Cameron from the scar on his cheek. He saw her at the same moment and said “Miss Dace?” just as she spoke his name. They both laughed.

“I have to ask,” he said. “Are you Joe Dace’s daughter?”

The pain and anger brought on by hearing her father’s name hadn’t died over the years, but it rarely ambushed her as it did now. “Yes,” she said. “I’m named for him. You must be an auto racing fan.”

“Not so much now, but I got to meet him when I was eleven or so—the biggest thrill of my young life. My brother and I sneaked under the fence at the speedway when my mom took us to visit her grandmother in Talladega. He autographed my cap—I still have it. I wonder if I saw you there.”

“You might have—Mom and I traveled with him whenever I wasn’t in school.”

“When I heard about the crash, I felt like I’d lost kin. Kids take things like that hard.” He flushed. “Stupid thing to say, like you wouldn’t know.”

“It’s okay—ancient history,” she said, keeping the anger out of voice. “Should you be standing around like this? You took an awful hit.”

“Not so bad—just knocked the wind out of me and scattered my chickens some. My dad will have me out hauling feed and riding the fence line when I get home tomorrow. Which reminds me.” He took his phone from his pocket. “Excuse me—I need to do this right away.” He tapped in a quick text and stuck the phone back in his jacket. “Sorry—today’s event won’t be broadcast until this evening so I always let my folks know Luke and I are okay.” He grinned. “But I don’t give him the results.”

“Where did you finish in the event?”

“Second in the event, but I’m still leading in the overall standings. I haven’t got Gunslinger’s number yet—maybe next time.” He looked at his watch. “I have to be at the airport in a couple hours, but I always treat myself to a piece of real New York cheesecake after the last go-round. Want to join me?”

She agreed, and he led her out a back exit just as the last cattle truck pulled away. A few fans had lingered; one teenage girl squealed and pointed. “Tom! Can we get a picture?”

He shrugged an apology to Jo and put his arms around the shoulders of the two girls while a third took their photo.

Jo tapped her arm. “Want to be in the picture?” She captured a shot of Cameron with all three and handed the phone back as a young couple with two boys asked for a photo, as well.

Ten minutes later Cameron waved goodbye to the fans and rejoined Jo. “Sorry,” he said, “but I can’t just walk on by when folks wait out in the cold.”

A few minutes later he ushered her into a booth at the Tick Tock Diner two blocks from the Garden. “Okay,” he said after they had ordered cheesecake and coffee. “What can I do for you?”

Now that she had Tom Cameron seated across from her, she hesitated. He seemed so self-contained that her usual pitch to vanity seemed superficial. Because her father linked them in even a small way, she honored him with the truth, or most of the truth.

“I’m a freelance journalist,” she said. “I grew up on the stock-car racing circuit, and I’m still trying to figure out what motivates competitors like my dad. He saw friends get killed—he knew it could happen to him. I’ve interviewed athletes in other high-risk sports and followed them around and written about what I learned. I’d been planning to do a profile on a mountaineer who climbs ice cliffs, but he broke his leg...” She grinned in spite of herself. “He fell off a ladder stringing Christmas lights on the roof.”

“Ain’t that just the way,” he said. He touched the scar on his cheek. “Nothing to do with bull riding. I was mending fence a year back when a rock turned under my boot and the barbwire whipped me across the face.”

He laid down his fork. “So your mountain climber got shot out from under you and now you want to dissect a bull rider instead.”

She winced at his turn of phrase. “To explore bull riding from one cowboy’s perspective. A guided tour, so to speak. After watching today, there’s no question in my mind it’s the most dangerous competitive sport going. This was my first event, but if today was typical—”

He laughed. “Actually, today was pretty tame. Cory Brennan—he’s the rider who got carried out—he’ll be good to ride next weekend. But why did you pick me?”

“Two reasons.” She ticked off points on her fingers. “You’re leading in the current season after coming in second for the championship twice before—I figure that makes you hungry. Plus your brother’s being one of the bullfighters is a great angle. I saw him up close when you got bucked off. Are you twins?”

“We get asked that a lot,” he said. “Luke’s just eleven months older than me.” He scraped up the last fragments of cheesecake. “Okay, send me a list of questions—”

She shook her head. “I do in-depth research, more than just asking questions.” She took a manila envelope from her purse. “I’ve printed a couple of my features to give you an idea of how I work.” She leaned forward and gave him her best smile. “I promise I’m not planning a hatchet job on bull riding.”

He frowned. “This doesn’t really sound like my kind of thing—”

“Just think about it, okay?” She took a fresh card from her wallet and wrote on the back. “Here’s my personal email address and phone number. Please read what I’ve given you and then decide.”

CHAPTER TWO

TOM STUFFED HIS carry-on into the overhead bin and eased into his aisle seat. He’d downplayed his wreck to Jo Dace, but the bruised back muscles would probably seize up during the long flight from New York to Albuquerque. With luck, he’d be able to loosen them up in the hotel’s hot tub before he and Luke drove north to Colorado the next morning.

Luke stuck the in-flight magazine into the seat pocket. “Deke told me you left the Garden with a woman—you gotta be careful with these big-city girls.”

Tom snorted. “You’re warning me? I saw the blonde with you in the elevator last night.”

Luke grinned. “You got a dirty mind, little brother. She was a physical therapist kind enough to work on my sore shoulder after that bull ran all over me. So tell me about the bunny you took off with.”

“You’re not going to believe this—she’s Joe Dace’s daughter.”

“Our Joe Dace? Be-damn! What’s she want?”

Some instinct kept Tom from repeating Jo’s proposal; he wanted time to turn it over in his mind before letting Luke track all over it. “She had some questions about bull riding. This was her first event.”

After takeoff, once Luke had reclined his seat and tipped his hat over his eyes, Tom pulled out the pages Jo Dace had given him. He began with the feature on Chris Baker, the winningest jockey currently riding. The compelling writing plus his own insider knowledge of Thoroughbred racing immediately sucked him into the article. His uncle was a track vet in California. He and Luke had visited a few times, following Uncle Tony on his rounds at the track. Jo’s account brought back the sounds and smells of the stable area as if he were handing his uncle instruments from his mobile clinic or eating his lunch with the grooms and hot walkers seated outside the horses’ stalls.

He put the first article down and began reading about the sailor who raced solo around the world. The ocean was a foreign element to Tom aside from a few trips to the beach with his aunt. Jo’s writing dropped him squarely onto the tilting deck of the sleek racing yacht; he could almost hear sea birds’ cries and wind whistling in the rigging.

Tom laid the pages on his lap. The lady could write, but the strength of her work depended on digging deep into her subjects’ lives. She wouldn’t settle for a few interviews and seats above the chutes at a couple of events.

Luke levered his seat upright. “What are you reading?” He grabbed the horse racing article and read silently for a few minutes. “Say, wouldn’t Shelby like this! I’ll bet she knows some of these people.”

“She left the Thoroughbred scene a long while back, but yeah, she probably would enjoy it.” His stepmother had spent most of her childhood at Acadia Downs in Louisiana, following at her grandfather’s heels while he cared for the horses and working as an exercise rider when she was a teenager. “I’ll have her take a look when we get home.”

“So now Joe Dace’s daughter is interested in bull riding?”

“I guess.” Her reasons for asking him made good sense, but he could think of a dozen riders with stories just as compelling and with more colorful personalities.

He reclined his seat with a soft groan, trying to ease his back, and closed his eyes.

* * *

ROLLING NORTH THROUGH New Mexico the next morning in Luke’s Explorer lifted Tom’s spirits; turning homeward always cleared his mind. He enjoyed New York City, a world removed from his natural habitat, but the gray winter skies and slushy sidewalks always made him homesick for the clean vistas of the Southwest. He sang “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” under his breath.

Luke glanced at him from the driver’s seat. “What are you so happy about?”

“Just glad to be heading home. Did your physical therapist get all the kinks out of your shoulder Saturday night?”

Luke laughed. “Oh yeah—I was real loosey-goosey by the time she left.” He sobered. “I read that other article Jo Dace wrote, the one about the sailor. If that’s her formula, she’s not looking to write about bull riding. She wants to profile a cowboy—you, right?”

Tom shrugged. He still wasn’t ready to talk about it; Luke would try to buffalo him into agreeing before he’d thought it through.

Luke punched his arm. “I reckon she could pick worse.”

Tom laughed. “Don’t try to turn my head with compliments. I’ll run it by Dad and Shelby before I make up my mind. We could all get sucked into the project.”

* * *

THEY DROVE INTO Durango close to noon. Luke turned onto the main street. “Let’s grab lunch at the Queen,” he said. “Dad’s going to put us to work the minute we get home—we might as well fuel up first.”

Tom had no objection; breakfast at the hotel buffet was a distant memory, and the ranch lay an hour’s drive farther west. Luke parked near the Victorian storefront of the Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium. Most of the tables were occupied, but they found seats in the booth nearest the kitchen. Tom lowered himself into his seat a little stiffly; his back had cramped up again on the long ride from Albuquerque.

“Well, look what the cat drug in.” Marge Bowman stood at Luke’s elbow and pulled a pencil from her white topknot. “What’s your pleasure, boys?”

Luke circled her stout waist with one arm. “Sweetheart, you’re my pleasure. What’s today’s special?”

“Anything you want, lover.” She lifted his hat and planted a smacking kiss on top of his head.

“See why I can’t find a girl to suit me?” Luke said to Tom. “Marge has me spoiled for ordinary women.”

“My heart about stopped when you hit that fence yesterday,” she said to Tom. “Would you please get that bull rode so you can stop picking him?”

“I’m working on it,” Tom said. “Next time for sure.”

“Chicken-fried steak for both of you? And I just took a peach pie out of the oven. It’ll be cool enough to cut by the time you finish your meal.”

Luke clapped a hand over his heart. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. Bring it on, darlin’.”

Maybe Tom should be scornful of Luke’s glib tongue, but he secretly envied his brother’s gift of gab. If he agreed to Joanna Dace’s proposal, he’d likely end up playing a supporting role to Luke’s grandstanding. He’d always been the boring middle kid. No teacher had ever phoned his folks about his grades; the sheriff had never given him a warning for underage drinking. Luke had supplied enough drama for the two of them, and now his younger sister, Lucy, with her dreams of stardom, had picked up where Luke left off.

His phone rang and he limped to the men’s room before answering. He checked the caller ID. “Hey, Shelby.”

“Hey, yourself. You okay after yesterday?”

“My back’s pretty sore, but nothing’s broken.” Shelby understood bumps and bruises, what was and wasn’t serious. She’d been thrown more than a few times by skittish Thoroughbreds and still took an occasional hit while green-breaking horses.

“You want ice or heat when you get home?” she asked.

“Heat first, I think,” he said.

“Have you reached Durango yet?”

“We’re having lunch at the Queen,” he said. “You need something from town?”

“As long as you’re there, see if you can talk Marge out of a peach pie for your dad.”

“Do my best,” he said, and then he keyed off. He stuck his phone in his pocket, thankful anew that Shelby had drifted into their lives a couple years after his mother’s death. She was as different from his mom as a prairie falcon is from a happy barnyard hen, but her arrival had glued them back together as a family.

He returned to the table just as their food arrived, and they left after their meal with the remaining three-quarters of the pie Marge had cut for them.

An hour later Luke steered below the ranch sign with Cameron’s Pride burned into a weathered plank. Luke braked in the least muddy spot near the back door of the rambling log house. A dog as tall as a weanling calf rose from a sunny spot by the barn and approached with a stiff gait.

Tom climbed out of the car and rubbed the dog’s ears.

“Looks like we’re both moving a little slow today, old buddy,” he said. Stranger was starting to show his age. The big dog had arrived a few years ago with Shelby as her protector and sole companion. The welcoming grin on his grizzled face would be sorely missed when he was gone.

Luke grabbed his bag and Tom’s from the backseat as Shelby Cameron opened the kitchen door. Tom handed her the peach pie, struck as always by his dad’s rare good luck in his second marriage. Shelby’s long hair shone like a blackbird’s wing while her skin seemed to gather the winter sunlight.

“I know Marge just fed you up,” she said, “but I made beignets this morning. Luke, come have a few before you ride out. Your dad found a section of fence down when he and Lucy checked the heifers this morning. I know they would appreciate your help.”

She turned to Tom. “I’ve got the chair heated up. Sit—I’ll bring you coffee.”

Luke rolled his eyes in mock disdain; although next time he might occupy the big recliner with its heat and massage after taking a beating from the bulls. He left the kitchen and returned a few minutes later dressed in faded jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt that had seen better days. “Here’s that article for Shelby,” he said and handed Tom the pages from Joanna Dace.

“Take the rest of the beignets along,” Shelby said, handing him a paper bag. “And make sure a few get to your dad and your sister.”

Luke grinned. “You’re a mean one, Stepmama.” He grabbed a flannel-lined Carhartt jacket and a billed cap with earflaps from a hook by the door on his way out.

Tom relaxed and closed his eyes. He’d be pulling his weight by morning and ready to straddle another set of bulls next weekend, but just now he never wanted to move from the chair with its comforting heat penetrating his sore muscles.

Shelby began chopping onions and green peppers for dirty rice, a favorite of both Tom and Luke’s. An hour passed and Tom levered the chair upright and stood, twisting his shoulders and back experimentally—still sore, but good enough for now.

“I’ll get some of the barn work done before the others get back,” he said. “Is Dad behaving himself?”

“As long as I’m watching him,” Shelby said. “I know he does more than he should as soon as he’s out of my sight, but Lucy helps me keep after him when she’s home.”

“You mind if I ride Ghost this week? His gaits will be easiest on my back.”

“I wish you would,” Shelby said. “I don’t work him as much as I should. I spent all day Saturday doing a 4-H workshop in Grand Junction, and I’ll have even less time when Lucy goes back to Boulder day after tomorrow.” She reached into a jar above the sink and handed Tom a few licorice drops. “Apologize to him for me.”

Tom changed into rubber paddock boots and headed for the barn. Shelby’s gray stallion must have heard him coming or maybe smelled the licorice, his special treat. Ghost stuck his nose over the top rail of his corral and blew a loud breath. Even furred like a teddy bear in his winter coat, his fine legs and delicately shaped face hinted at his Barb ancestry. He’d already sired a nice string of foals that Shelby trained and sold for ranch work.

Tom fed him the candy and scratched along the curve of his jaw. “You feel like working, buddy? We’ll check the south fence line tomorrow, maybe stop in for lunch at the Bucks’s.” He grinned in anticipation. Auntie Rose, a distant cousin, made the best fry bread in La Plata County.

The sun was already sliding toward the western horizon—no sense for him to saddle up now to help the fence crew. He worked his way through the barn, mucking out Ghost’s stall and freshening his water bucket, finishing the repair on a partially mended cinch strap in the tack room and forking down fresh hay for the half dozen horses in the corral next to Ghost’s. A tall chestnut mare ambled over for special attention. Sadie had some age on her, but she was still everyone’s first choice for hunting; he’d shot over her head ever since he was old enough to handle a long gun.

He leaned on the gate, gazing out along tracks left in the snow by his dad’s and sister’s horses, followed by the hoofprints of Luke’s mount. A narrow path branched off to the knoll where the Camerons had laid their dead for more than a hundred years. He and Luke and Lucy had learned to read from the grave markers while their mom tended the flowers planted there, tracing the letters and numbers on the stones: Husband and Father, Beloved Wife, Infant Son; 1888, 1914, 1985... Memorials to Cameron men buried in France in 1918 and lost at Guadalcanal. His mother’s grave was the most recent one.

Ghost let out a brassy neigh; Lucy’s mare Goosie answered. Three horses emerged from the willows along the creek and crunched through the snow toward the barn. Tom swung the corral gate wide for them and took the horses’ reins as the riders dismounted.

“Nice to see you’re done goofing off,” Luke said. “Now that we’ve done all the work.”

“Timing is everything,” Tom said. “I plan to check the south fence line tomorrow.”

Lucy Cameron pulled off her knit cap, allowing red-gold curls to frame her face. “I really thought you were going to make the eight on Gunslinger this time.”

Tom pulled on one curl. “Next time, Red—I promise.”

“Don’t call me Red.” She slapped his hand away. “I’ll be so glad to get back to my dorm.”

“Heads up, Boulder,” Luke said. “Hurricane Lucy on the horizon!”

Jake Cameron pulled the saddle off Butch, his dun gelding. “Good event, son. I see you’re still leading in the national standings.”

Tom shrugged and tapped on the corral rail for luck. “Doesn’t mean much this early in the season.”

They finished unsaddling and turned the horses loose for their hay as the sun dipped below the horizon to the southwest. The aroma of Cajun spices greeted them from the kitchen when they entered the back door and kicked off their boots in the mudroom.

Shelby turned from the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand. “Supper in ten minutes,” she said.

“Yes, boss.” Jake swept her hair aside and dropped a kiss on the back of her neck; her hand curved around his cheek.

Lucy put together a salad while Tom set out plates and Luke carried roast chicken and a bowl with the dirty rice to the table. They ate mostly in silence until Shelby served bowls of bread pudding with bourbon sauce for dessert.

Tom handed around Joanna Dace’s features. “I’d like you guys to read these.”

Jake looked up after he’d finished both articles. “What’s this about, Tom?”

“She wants to write about a bull rider next.”

“Our Tom, to be exact,” Luke said.

Lucy clapped her hands like a five-year-old. “You’ll be famous!”

“Your brother’s already pretty well-known where he needs to be, Luce,” Jake said, “although I expect his sponsors would be pleased.” He turned to Tom. “Could you stay focused on your riding with this lady practically living in your back pocket?”

Tom spooned the last drops of sauce out of his dish before answering. “I don’t know. She’s a helluva writer—I’d kind of like to see how she puts her work together.” Plus he still felt bad for his dumb comment about her father’s death. He wondered if she’d seen the crash. “But like you say, Dad...”

“Never back away from an opportunity out of fear,” Shelby said. She laid her hand on her husband’s arm.

Jake covered her hand with his. “Shelby’s right, Tom. Find out what she has in mind and then decide.”

CHAPTER THREE

JO’S PHONE RANG as she unlocked her apartment door while juggling two bags of groceries. She shoved her way inside and checked the caller ID: area code 970, wherever that might be.

“Miss Dace? You said to call after I read your articles.”

The connection was poor, probably a weak cell phone signal, but she recognized Tom Cameron’s voice. She’d only half expected to hear from him.

“I’ve thought about what you asked,” he said. “If you want to show up Friday night in Oklahoma City, we’ll give it a try. Come a couple hours early.” He gave her a cell number. “Call Paula when you get to the arena. I won’t be able to meet you before the event, but she’ll take care of you.”

They chatted a few minutes longer about the weather in New York and Colorado and then he rang off.

Jo stood holding her phone, amazed he might agree to her proposal. Angus, her Maine Coon cat, leaped to her shoulder, waving his plumy tail. She smoothed his fur. “Looks like you’ll be spending the weekend with your grandma, pal,” she said. More than one weekend if things worked out.

* * *

“A BULL RIDER? Who’s crazy enough to ride a bull?” Anna Dace stirred honey, a shade lighter than her short curls, into her tea and pushed up the sleeves of her NYC sweatshirt. “How useless.”

“So true,” Jo said, “and the cowboys take terrible risks every ride, but there’s a crazy magnificence about it.”

“Please don’t try to ride a bull, like you did that race horse.”

“A retired Thoroughbred, Mom, and we weren’t racing. Chris Baker just wanted to give me the feeling of hitting the head of the stretch with that much horse under me.”

“I blame your grandfather for turning you and your cousins loose with his horses.” Her mother sighed. “At least you won’t be hundreds of miles out on the ocean in a tiny boat.”

Jo grimaced. “You wouldn’t believe how seasick I was the first few days.” But she hadn’t backed out, not even when Kevin McCloud had offered to set her back ashore.

“So how will you tackle bull riding?”

“Same as always—soak it all up until a pattern starts to form.” She gave Angus a goodbye smooch. “Behave yourself—no eating plants. And don’t let him talk you into too many treats,” she told her mother.

* * *

JO STOOD OUTSIDE the arena entrance in Oklahoma City and punched the number Tom Cameron had provided into her cell phone. A tall black woman in fancy stitched boots and a red pearl-snap shirt waved to her from inside and motioned for her to enter through a side door.

“Jo Dace? I’m Paula,” she said. “Tom asked me to show you around.” She handed Jo a badge to hang around her neck. “We’re starting a VIP tour in a few minutes. You’ll get a good idea of the backstage operation, and Tom reserved a seat for you above the chutes to watch the event.”

No more than the tourist package, but if Tom had read her articles, he knew she’d need more depth. She wouldn’t rush him—let him set the pace. She followed Paula to join a group of a dozen or so fans: a couple with two preteen sons, several wannabe cowgirls in tight jeans and fancy shirts and two gray-haired couples who spoke with familiarity about past events and retired riders.

For the next hour they wound through a maze of pens and chutes, up and down stairs more like ladders, listening to and asking questions of riders and judges and bulls’ owners. Jo didn’t try to remember most of what she heard, simply storing sensory impressions—the clatter of metal platforms underfoot, the smells of cattle and fresh sawdust bedding, the surprisingly silky skin of one bull that invited petting. The details would fall into place if Tom Cameron agreed to invite her into his world.

Paula took Jo aside when the tour ended. “You’ll be sitting right beside the TV broadcast booth,” she said. “We don’t usually put fans where they might interfere with the live feed, but Tom said you’d be okay there.” She led Jo to a high canvas director’s chair overlooking the bucking chutes. “Enjoy the show.”

The arena filled as Jo watched, a sold-out performance, as New York City had been. The spectators here were a different breed though, men who wore boots and wide-brimmed hats with a natural authority, women whose Western finery said this wasn’t their first rodeo and many more children, including babies in arms.

Twenty minutes until showtime. Jo started snapping ranging shots with her iPhone, gathering images to prompt her recollections when she started making notes after the event.

A voice broke her concentration. “Hey there, writer lady—glad you could make it.”

A man stood beside her seat. He had Tom Cameron’s same dark hair and brown eyes but no scar on his cheek.

“You must be Luke,” she said. “I saw you in New York.”

“Yes, ma’am, number-one son,” he said with a grin. “I had to meet the gal who could lure my brother into the spotlight. Shy as a deer, our Tom.” He looked over the railing. “You got the best seat in the house—any closer and you’d be straddling a bull.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for me to get suited up.” He threw his chest out. “Keep your eyes on me—bravest of the brave.”

The event opened with pyrotechnics as it had at Madison Square Garden; again Tom was introduced as the rider ranked first in points. A willowy blonde in a sparkly shirt sang the national anthem, drawing wild cheers when her voice soared a full octave above the high note.

Paula had given Jo a sheet listing the order in which the cowboys would ride, matched against bulls with names like Sidewinder and Top Gun. Tom had drawn Texas Twister tonight. Jo hoped the bull wouldn’t live up to his name, or rather that he would. She’d done her homework since last weekend. A rider wanted a bull that could almost but not quite buck him off; an easy ride wouldn’t yield a high score. Jo wasn’t planning to write a detailed treatise on bull riding, but she needed more than casual knowledge of the sport to do Tom Cameron’s career justice.

Her vantage point above the chutes gave her a bird’s-eye view of the action. Riders wearing colorful fringed chaps and heavy leather vests plastered with company logos clattered along the walkway below her and climbed down onto the bulls’ backs. She had only a limited understanding of their elaborate preride rituals and jotted questions in a pocket notebook. Why did some wear helmets while others wore cowboy hats? What was the purpose of the second rope around the bull’s belly? What was the man hunched above the chute watching for?

She also paid close attention to Luke and his fellow bullfighters as they darted between the bulls and the downed riders. The three men seemed indestructible, bouncing up like rubber balls after being butted, trampled underfoot and tossed into the air like toys, but a long scrape marked Luke’s cheek after a bull slammed him against the chute gate.

She recognized most of the cowboys’ names from New York City and the arena announcer supplied a few words of introduction for each one: Cody from Tennessee, Sean from Georgia, Harve and J.W. and Mike from Texas, Ben from Australia and Silvano from Brazil, thirty-five in all. According to the day sheet, Tom Cameron would be one of the last to ride.

Thankfully all the cowboys in this round were able to leave the arena on their own feet, although the Sports Medicine medics did have to help a few. Not many stayed on the full eight seconds. “We’ve got a great pen of young bulls tonight, folks,” the announcer said.

At last she saw Tom below her on the walkway. She leaned forward but didn’t call his name, recalling his expression of intense concentration before he rode in New York City. He climbed down into the chute, eased onto the back of a black-and-white bull with a wide spread of horns. He took a quick wrap around his hand with his rope and nodded. The gate swung open.

The bull exploded in a frenzy of bucking, swinging its head from side to side. One horn swept Tom’s hat off before a wild leap ended in a stumble that yanked him forward so that his face collided with the top of the bull’s head. He slumped sideways and landed flat on his back with an audible grunt. The bull regained his feet and capered out the gate.

The Sports Medicine team reached Tom as he climbed to his feet, gulping for breath; one pressed a gauze pad over his bleeding nose. Luke retrieved his hat and brushed the dirt off before setting it on his brother’s head.

Tom waved to the crowd and limped toward the chutes, holding the compress to his face. He paused to peer at a paper in an official’s hand and then nodded.

“Reride option,” the announcer said. “Looks like Tom Cameron will be getting on another bull.”

Jo started from her seat in protest. She’d sought an athlete in a high-risk sport, but this was insanity. She sat back, smoothing the day sheet she had crumpled in sweating hands, trying to recapture her objectivity.

Two more riders left the chutes but neither rode for the full eight seconds.

“One more to go,” the announcer said. “Tom Cameron’s reride on Widow-maker.”

CHAPTER FOUR

TOM SHIFTED THE ice pack across his eyes and nose. “How much longer am I stuck here?”

“Till I’m satisfied the bleeding has stopped,” Dr. Barnett said, glancing at him over his half glasses. “Unless you don’t plan on riding tomorrow night, in which case you can leave anytime you want. Maybe I should have kept you off your reride bull, but you weren’t concussed, and it’s your nose.”

Tom leaned back and closed his eyes. Doc could be a pain in the butt, but every cowboy on the tour took his advice as gospel. If Doc Barnett said he should sit one out, he might complain but he’d obey; there was no appeal to a firm “No way.”

A whistled chorus of “Friends in Low Places” alerted him to his brother’s presence. “Hey, kid,” Luke said, “maybe you should stop beating up bulls with your face.” He lifted a corner of the compress and whistled. “Cute.”

Tom grunted. “Thanks. Listen, you gotta help me. I promised to meet Jo Dace—”

“All taken care of. I told her you’d be tied up for a while so I’d check on you and then walk her home.”

Tom struggled to a sitting position. “The hell you will.”

“Relax.” Luke pushed him down against the backrest. “I’ll treat her like an old-maid schoolmarm. Besides, she ain’t my type. Keep him here as long as you want, Doc—there’s nowhere he’s gotta be.”

* * *

A COUPLE HOURS LATER, Tom sat in his hotel room, listening to the Weather Channel report on the latest snowstorm barreling down out of the Southern Rockies. This one didn’t sound like it would be as dangerous as the one last spring, but he called home anyway.

“There’s only about six inches predicted for here,” his dad said. “We’ve got the heifers in the lower pasture and hay already out, so we’re all set. Stop worrying and ride your bulls.”

Shelby took the phone. “We’re fine here—everything’s under control, including your father.”

Reassured, Tom hung up and took another bite of the half-eaten ham sandwich from room service. A bottle of Coors gone flat sat on the bedside table.

He had grabbed a quick look into the hotel bar after Doc had finally let him leave Sports Medicine but had seen no sign of Luke or Jo Dace. Now the bedside clock read 11:42 p.m. Where was Luke? He and his brother generally got separate rooms because of Luke’s social life, but half of Oklahoma and part of Texas had hit the town for the bull riding this weekend, so they’d been forced to bunk together.

He took a swig of the beer and swore as the bottle tapped against his teeth. His whole face hurt and he had a headache to match. He wasn’t waiting up any longer—Jo Dace was a big girl, who’d probably fended off guys more determined than Luke. He limped to the bathroom and scrubbed at the bloodstains on his shirt soaking in the basin before peeling out of his sweaty undershirt and jeans. The door clicked open as he turned on the shower.

Luke tossed his hat on the bed. “You still up? I figured you’d take a handful of Advils and turn in early.”

Tom bit back a dozen questions and stepped under the spray, wincing as the hot water hit his face.

“Jo didn’t know to book a room here, so I walked her back to her hotel,” Luke said. “It was just a few blocks.”

“And you stopped for a drink.” Tom kicked himself for commenting.

“Well, sure, the night being young and all. I knew you weren’t up for partying. We talked quite a while. She’s a pretty cool gal, sailing like she did all the way to South Africa on a boat no bigger than a gooseneck trailer.”

“Sounds like you guys hit it off,” Tom said. “Maybe she should write you up instead of me.”

Luke laughed. “That’s what I told her, but she said she profiles athletes, competitors, not poor working stiffs like me. I sweet-talked the desk clerk downstairs into finding her a room here for the rest of the weekend. She wants to write about bull riders, she should be smack in the middle of the action. She wanted to check to see if you were okay. I told her you wouldn’t be fit company tonight but you’d have breakfast with her downstairs around nine. You’ll have time before that truck dealership meet-and-greet tomorrow at eleven.”

“I don’t recall hiring you as my social secretary,” Tom said, “but since you’re being so helpful, rustle me another bucket of ice for my nose.”

“Will do, and I brought your sunglasses up from the truck. Maybe you can go with the celebrity look tomorrow instead of short end in a bar fight.”

Tom grinned and then grimaced—even smiling hurt. Luke could wear on him sometimes, but they always counted on each other, in or out of the arena.

* * *

TOM LOOKED INTO the mirror the next morning and swore—two black eyes with major swelling across the bridge of his nose; his upper lip had puffed up overnight like a sausage.

He sighed and dug in his weekend bag for a tube of Dermablend. Getting banged up was part of the job, but he’d try his best not to scare the little kids who were bound to show up at this morning’s meet-and-greet. He shaved and then smoothed the concealer over the bruises, wincing when he touched his nose. Broken again—one of these days he’d get it fixed, after he quit riding for good. Of course, it might get busted again if his horse went squirrely on him chasing a calf, but that was the risk of cowboying, like the barbwire catching his cheek.

The phone rang; Luke answered. “Hey, Jo,” he said. “Yeah, he’s almost ready—just putting on his makeup.” He yelped and dropped the phone as Tom whacked him with a towel.

CHAPTER FIVE

“I THOUGHT LUKE was joking,” Jo said, trying to keep dismay out of her voice. Bruises around Tom’s eyes extended beyond the edges of his Ray-Bans and showed like muddy stains through the concealer. “You really were putting on makeup.”

He gave her a wry grin and pulled his hat brim lower. “Too bad my sister isn’t here—she’d have done a better job on my face. She’s studying acting in college. I mean theater arts.”

Jo dragged her eyes away from the damage. “Congratulations—I know you won the round last night, but what happened with your reride? I didn’t have a good view from my seat, just the medics going out again.”

“Heck, they run out like that every time somebody stubs a toe,” he said. “Widow-maker likes to sling his head. He gave me a little tap with one of those big horns on my way down—just bad luck it started my nose bleeding again.”

She bought time by sipping the coffee the waitress had already poured. Her job was observing and reporting on athletes’ careers, not passing judgment on the wisdom of their decisions. She framed her next question with care. “Would a helmet have helped?”

“It might have, but one of the worst wrecks I ever saw, the rider was wearing a helmet and he came close to dying from a concussion that would have killed most people. I rode with one for a while, but it messed with my peripheral vision and screwed up my balance on the get-off. The younger riders have to wear them, but old-timers like me still get to choose.”

He picked up the menu. “You ready for breakfast?”

“Is Luke joining us?”

“Naw, he’s out running—keeps him one jump ahead of the bulls, he says. Then he’s doing a workshop for high school kids who think they want to be bullfighters.”

They both chose the breakfast buffet. Jo picked up fruit and a biscuit with honey, trying not to stare at Tom’s heaping plate: scrambled eggs, bacon, home-fried potatoes, biscuits with sausage gravy...

He caught her glance and grinned. “I’m catching up. I don’t eat much before I ride, and I didn’t want much by the time Doc cut me loose last night.”

“So you saw a doctor?”

He laughed. “Not just any doctor, our doctor. Doc Barnett travels with the tour. He’s a trauma specialist and orthopedic surgeon. He wouldn’t let me leave Sports Medicine last night till my nose stopped bleeding, and I’ll have to take a concussion test before he clears me for the next go-round.”

“Do you really have to ride tonight? Couldn’t you—”

He laid down his fork and took off his sunglasses. “Look at me,” he said. “Welcome to professional bull riding. Now that you’re staying at this hotel, you’re going to see guys younger than me hobbling around like old men.”

She looked away from his battered face, hot with shame at her rookie blunder. “I’m sorry I questioned your decision. It just seems foolish—”

He frowned. “I appreciate your concern, but this arrangement isn’t going to work if I have to debate you every time I get beat up a little. You wanted to dig into this sport—this is what it looks like. We’re all freelance competitors. We don’t have team contracts with guaranteed salaries. If we don’t ride, we don’t earn any money. We’ll sit out a round or an event if Doc Barnett tells us to—he has veto power if he thinks riding is too big a risk. Otherwise we suck up the pain and get on our bulls.”

He replaced his glasses and sopped up the last smear of gravy with a fragment of biscuit. “I have a meet-and-greet for a sponsor in about an hour.” He grimaced. “If they’re not afraid I’ll scare the little kids.”

She laid her napkin on the table. “I can improve on your makeup if you like.”

“Lady, I’ll take all the help I can get.” Tom scribbled his room number on the check and led the way through the lobby, stopping several times to pose with fans and sign cowboy hats and T-shirts. If being waylaid irritated him, he hid it well, asking where they hailed from and if the kids planned to be bull riders. “See you all this evening,” he said with a final wave as he and Jo stepped into the elevator.

He fished for his room key outside his door. “Let me make sure Luke’s not in the shower.”

No Luke—the room stood empty and disordered. “Go clean that stuff off your face,” Jo said. She opened the drapes and pulled a chair close to the window. “Then sit here.”

Tom emerged from the bathroom carrying the tube of Dermablend and sat. Jo flinched on seeing the full extent of the damage but this time made no comment. She tipped his head back.

“Close your eyes,” she said and tapped dots of the concealer over the bruises, blending them together with a tiny sponge she took from her purse.

She stood back and surveyed her work. “Go look in the mirror.” She followed him into the bathroom.

“Whoa! Not near so scary,” he said, peering at his image. He touched his swollen upper lip. “Nothing you can do with this, I guess.”

“I don’t think so. Besides, it gives you kind of an Elvis vibe.”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he said in a credible imitation of the King.

She giggled, surprised by his whimsy.

Luke appeared behind them, wiping sweat from his face with a red headband. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Just consulting with my...” Tom looked to Jo. “What’s that fancy word?”

“Esthetician?” She turned to Luke. “How does he look?”

“Pretty close to human. You better hustle,” he said to Tom. “The van’s here. Take Jo with you. It’ll be part of her education—she’ll get a good look at the fan base.”

* * *

THREE HOURS LATER Jo wished she’d eaten a breakfast like Tom’s. He and two other cowboys sponsored by Bass Pro Shops sat at a table signing shirts, hats and programs, and other memorabilia. Many fans also wanted a photo with their favorite rider, which frequently involved hunkering down with small cowboys and cowgirls. Jo made herself useful by fetching fresh Sharpies as they ran dry and keeping bottles of water at the riders’ elbows.

In between, she chatted with the fans lined up to the door, hearing about how Grandpa rode bulls in his youth and how four-year-old Jason, wearing miniature chaps and vest, watched every televised event seated on his toy rocking bull.

When the store manager finally announced it was time for the riders to leave, Tom and the other cowboys made their way along the line of fans still waiting, giving everyone a chance for a quick photo or autograph.

Tom sank into his seat in the van and turned toward Jo. “How’s my war paint holding up?”

“Still looking good,” she said.

“How’d you rate your own makeup artist?” Len Haley asked.

Tom had introduced her to the other riders, but apparently they assumed she was part of the support team.

“Jo’s not staff,” Tom said. “She got interested in bull riding at the Madison Square Garden event so I invited her for this weekend. She took pity on me when she got a look my face this morning.”

Okay, he wasn’t advertising their exact arrangement; she would play it his way.

The van dropped them back at the hotel and the other riders excused themselves with a touch to their hat brims. Jo stood in the lobby with Tom, trying not to drool at the aromas of food wafting from the dining room. Her stomach grumbled.

Tom laughed. “Sounds like I need to feed you. Now you see why I stocked up earlier—a cowboy never knows when he’ll have time for his next meal.”

“I’ll remember that,” Jo said. She followed him to the hotel dining room and halted in dismay. Although it was nearly two o’clock, every table was filled.

“We should be able to seat you in a few minutes,” the hostess said. “If you care to wait—”

“Tom!” Len Haley waved from a booth near the buffet. “Come sit with us. I called ahead for Sophie to get us a table.”

“Thanks, don’t mind if we do.” Tom ushered Jo into the booth and slid in beside her.

The young woman with Orphan Annie curls reached a slender hand across the table to Jo; her thumbnail sported a dramatic bruise. “Hi, I’m Sophie, Len’s top hand when he’s on crutches.”

Jo pegged Sophie’s accent as one of New York’s outlying boroughs, or maybe North Jersey. She introduced herself. “Sounds like you’re a long way from home,” she said.

Sophie laughed. “You’ve got that right—I’m a Hackensack cowgirl. I visit my folks when the tour hits the East Coast and then hightail it back to Texas where I should have been born in the first place.”

Len grabbed her hand. “See this? She can stick this little paw into a mama cow and turn a stuck calf like a real pro.” He kissed the blackened thumbnail. “But the squeeze chute still bites her sometimes.”

Sophie punched his arm. “You’re so romantic.”

Jo was already learning that the world of professional bull riding held many stories beyond a single athlete’s profile. “How did you come to marry a bull rider?” she asked.

Sophie giggled. “What do you think? I was a buckle bunny. We met three years ago in New York at an after-party.”

“First time I saw her twitch that cute little bunny tail, I was a goner,” Len said. “It took us a few more stops on the tour to make it official, but I knew right off I caught me a good ’un.”

A waitress appeared to take their orders; they all stuck to the buffet. Sophie and Jo made their selections and returned to their seats while the men were still loading their plates.

“So how did you meet Tom?” Sophie asked. “He doesn’t party much.”

Jo opted for a nonspecific version of the truth. “Tom was kind enough to answer some questions about bull riding after the Madison Square Garden event. He said I was welcome to come this weekend if I wanted to learn more.”

Len set his heaping plate on the table. “Okay, you gals can stop gossiping about us now.” He forked an extra shrimp onto his wife’s plate. “What’s on your schedule for this afternoon?”

“Betsy Wolf is babysitting all the kids so a bunch of us can go shopping. Sheplers is having a big sale.”

He groaned. “Sheplers is always having a sale.”

“Speaking of sales, is there somewhere nearby I could buy a pair of boots?” Jo asked. She stuck a foot out to display her plain russet ankle boots. “These are fine for New York, but they don’t fit in here very well.”

“Come with us,” Sophie said. “Unless you have other plans.”

“You should go,” Len said. “The gals can tell you a lot about bull riding. Some of it might even be true.”

“Oh, you!” Sophie slapped his arm. “Save it for the bulls tonight.”

They finished lunch and Sophie told Jo to meet her and the other wives in the lobby. “We’ll pile into Lou-Ann’s SUV and hit Sheplers like a swarm of locusts.”

“Guess I better make a money ride this evening to pay for your loot,” Len said. “At least I’ll enjoy a nice quiet afternoon without your yammering.” He countered his statement by planting a loud kiss on her cheek before they headed to their room for Sophie to grab her coat.

“What about you?” Jo asked Tom as they waited in the lobby.

“I didn’t sleep real well last night—it was kind of hard to breathe through my nose—so I’m going to laze around this afternoon.”

“Will I see you for dinner?”

He hesitated. “I don’t eat a full meal before I ride, just some protein snacks. You could graze your way around the concourse before the event—soak up the atmosphere, watch the fans. Paula will take you to your seat again.”

“So, tell me,” she said. “Do you enjoy the fan stuff?”

“Mostly I do. Sure, there’s times when I just want to sneak past and crawl up to my room without being bothered, but except for the fans, we’d be home chasing cows or maybe wildcatting on an oil rig. Once you get west of the Mississippi, a trip to a bull riding event is a real big deal for kids and their folks too. They might live out in the middle of nowhere, so a chance to meet their favorite rider means a lot to them.” He hesitated. “Like I’ll never forget how nice your dad was to Luke and me.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened before Jo could respond and Sophie swept into the lobby trailed by two blondes, a brunette and another redhead. She grabbed Jo’s arm and towed her along. “All right, let’s shop! Don’t worry,” she said over her shoulder to Tom. “We’ll bring her back safe.”

Sophie introduced Jo as “Tom’s friend from New York” as they rode another elevator down to the parking garage. The blondes were Susie and Barbara, Mara was the brunette, and auburn-haired Lou-Ann owned the Dodge Caravan with Oklahoma plates. Last names had come at Jo too fast to remember.

The women chattered about babies’ teething, 4-H projects and weather conditions on the northern Great Plains. “Snow up to your you-know-what,” Susie (or Barbara) said. “Being in OKC for the weekend is like a summer vacation.”

“Unless a blue norther blows in from the Panhandle,” Lou-Ann said as she whipped around an EMBARK bus. “Then you’ll wish you were back in Montana.” She pulled up with a flourish in front of the sprawling building whose sign proclaimed Sheplers—Western Stores since 1899. “Everybody out,” she said, “and shop till you drop.”

“Stick with me,” Sophie said to Jo. “I need to buy boots too.”

Having Sophie as a guide, someone intimately involved with the world of bull riding but with an outsider’s view like her own, suited Jo. She led the conversation by being a good listener as they browsed the racks of boots ranging from plain workaday footwear to styles embellished with fancy stitching and metallic finishes.

Sophie pulled out a pair with brown lowers and intricately embroidered ruby-red uppers. “These look like me. I’ve beat up my old ones till they’re not fit for polite company.” She stuck out a battered boot for Jo to inspect. “I’ll retire these for work around the ranch and get a new pair for dress. Have you seen any you like?”

“I don’t know where to start—too many choices.”

“What will you be using them for?”

Jo hesitated. Some of the less ornate styles would work in Manhattan, but she wanted a pair more like Sophie’s, for future bull riding events if Tom decided to keep her around. “Mainly walking around arenas at bull riding events,” she said. She picked up a sister pair to Sophie’s but with turquoise uppers. “How about these?”

“Perfect—Justins are good Texas-made boots but not too high-end. Once those get too disgusting, you can buy a fancier pair for dress. Believe me, once you start wearing cowboy boots you’ll throw away all your other shoes.” She looked sideways at Jo. “So you plan to be around awhile?”

Jo ducked the question. “We’ll see how it goes.”

Sophie nodded. “Best way to play it. As long as you’re buying boots, maybe you should get some real jeans.” She looked with pity at Jo’s skinny leggings. “You’ve got the figure for those, but they’re so buckle bunny.” She grinned. “I should know.”

Sophie left Jo trying on jeans while she bought shirts for her husband. Forty-five minutes later Jo carried her purchases into the ladies’ restroom to change, excited as a child about her new look, almost a new identity. Besides the boots and jeans, she had bought a tooled leather belt with a modest silver buckle and a pearl-snap plaid shirt in soft autumn shades of rust and smoke-blue. She was zipping her new Wranglers when she heard the restroom door open and two women enter.

“So what do you think of Tom’s new girlfriend?” Jo recognized Sophie’s voice. “Quite a change from the last one—Traci something.”

“That must have been before Bobby came up to the tour—I’ve never seen Tom with a girl.” Lou-Ann, Jo thought.

“Maybe two years ago, I guess—not long after Len and I got married,” Sophie said. “She hung all over Tom, and she treated the rest of us like a bunch of dumb hicks. What a joke—I know what big-city looks like, and she wasn’t it. I felt bad for Tom when she left, but I can’t say we were sorry to see her go.”

“They had a big fight?”

“Not a clue,” Sophie said. “One day she was flashing a diamond and the next—poof, she was gone. Even Luke didn’t know what happened—I asked him.”

“Are you sure Jo is Tom’s girlfriend?”

“I’m not real sure—she said she wanted to learn more about bull riding. Maybe she’s working on some kind of research. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Jo waited until she heard two stall doors close and then made her escape. She would have to come to some understanding with Tom about her status. She hadn’t faced this problem while researching her earlier features when everyone had known about her goal and focus. Bull riding was more like an extended family, close and gossipy.

Still, she had gained some insight into Tom’s personal history by her inadvertent eavesdropping. She filed the information under “interesting but probably not relevant.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Sophie said when Jo joined the others still waiting to pay for their purchases. “The colors in that shirt are perfect for you. Are your eyes blue or gray?”

“Yes,” Jo said, and the others laughed.

“You need some turquoise to dress it up,” Mara said. “You can pick up some nice pieces in Albuquerque. If you think you’ll be at that event.”

“She hasn’t planned that far ahead,” Sophie said, taking Jo’s arm. “Bull riding takes getting used to, right?”

They piled back into Lou-Ann’s vehicle with their shopping bags. Jo’s cell phone rang just as they reached the hotel; she recognized Tom’s area code but a different number.

“You about done with the hen party, Jo?” Luke asked when she answered. “Meet me by the desk and we’ll go fetch your gear from the other hotel.”

Luke did a comic double take when Jo walked into the lobby. “Excuse me, sugar,” he said, tipping his hat. “I’m supposed to meet a gal from the big city.” He peeked into her Sheplers bag. “You got her hid in there?”

Jo did a runway turn for him. “Did I get it right? I had lots of advice from a panel of experts.”

“Well, I guess! I might just take you home and teach you to mend fence and pull calves. Judging from your article on horse racing, you’re already a heck of a rider.”

Luke drove Jo to the hotel where she retrieved her bag from the luggage room. She checked in at the Marriott while Luke signed autographs in the lobby. Apparently the bullfighters had their own contingent of fans; Luke’s were mostly young, female and wearing tight jeans, the buckle-bunny look Sophie had scorned.

“Want to grab an early supper with me before the show starts?” Luke asked as he carried her bag to her room. “Tom means to meet you for the after-party—as much as he plans anything before he rides—but he’ll be getting into game mode right now.”

Jo ran a comb through her hair and collected her purse. “How does he prep for his rides?”

“He does this kung fu routine—hides out behind the bulls’ pens and kicks the air for maybe half an hour. Some of the guys were calling him Mr. Miyagi, but they stopped laughing when he started riding rings around them. A bull fell with him a few years ago and busted him up pretty bad—the hardware in his left hip drives airport security nuts. A physical therapist taught him tai chi to get his balance back, and he went on from there into martial arts.”

A great detail for her profile if Tom didn’t mind her using it. “Is he self-conscious about it?” she asked.

“If he is, you’ll never know it—he never lets on about anything. He could be dying and wouldn’t give a hint till he keeled over. Me, now, I take all the sympathy I can get.” He grinned. “Girls love a wounded hero—a few scrapes and bruises attract chicks better than a cute puppy on a string.”

Jo had to laugh. She doubted any woman would hold Luke’s interest long, but he’d show her a great time while it lasted. She wondered if Tom viewed women with the same cheerful hedonism. Somehow she doubted he did, guessing his emotions ran deeper and with a stronger current.

“Tom suggested I cruise the concourse for supper and check out the fan action at the same time.”

“I’ll get you back in time to see the sights, but I’ll feed you better than that. You like a good steak?”

“What’s not to like?” she said, following him to the elevators.

* * *

AFTER A TEN-MINUTE DRIVE, Luke parked his Explorer in front of a nondescript building with a red neon sign identifying it as the Cattlemen’s Steakhouse. A blonde hostess in tight black slacks and a ruffled tuxedo shirt led them to a booth under an Old West mural.

“I saved your favorite table, Luke,” she said, leaning close to position his napkin and water glass more precisely.

“I figured you would, Debbie.” He circled her waist in a brief hug. “This is Jo Dace from New York City, here to learn about bull riding.”

“This cowboy knows the sport inside and out, honey,” Debbie said. She turned back to Luke. “Will you be at the after-party? I can get off early.”

“I’ll be there—come along and take a number,” Luke said with a grin.

“Oh, you!” She smacked him lightly with the big leather-bound menu. “Enjoy your steaks.”

A waitress set salads on the table; Luke smothered his with blue-cheese dressing and speared a tomato with his fork. “You must get paid pretty fancy for your writing if you can afford to live in New York City,” he said.

“I couldn’t swing it on my features alone,” she said. “I also write copy for an ad agency in Manhattan, and I edit other writers’ manuscripts to prep them for publication. Plus I work part-time for my mom. She’s a stager for real-estate agents. She pretties up homes before they go on the market so they’ll sell faster.” She flexed her arm to make a muscle. “Painting and scrubbing and lugging furniture around keeps me lean and mean.”

“Got a roommate? Boyfriend?”

Jo laughed. Maybe she should find Luke’s questions invasive, but he was so open with his nosiness she couldn’t take offense.

“I live with my mom, sort of. She sold the family farm to my uncle after my grandfather died and bought a hundred-year-old fixer-upper in Brooklyn. I helped her rehab it—we’re both pretty handy. She has an apartment plus an office on the ground floor and I have my own living quarters upstairs.”

“Sounds like a good deal—I still live with my folks. I guess I could build somewhere else on the ranch if I ever get married, but that won’t happen till I can find somebody who cooks as good as my stepmom.” He smacked his lips. “Cajun-style—Shelby’s from Louisiana.”

“The arrangement with my mom has worked so far,” Jo said. “I don’t throw loud parties and she doesn’t go through my underwear drawer. Plus she takes care of my cat when I’m on the road.”

They dug into their steaks; Jo sat back at last with a groan. “I won’t eat for a week,” she said.

Luke chuckled. “I thought you were going lick the plate after you finished your pie.”

“Please! I won’t be able to zip my new jeans if I keep eating like this. But everything was delicious. The best steak I ever tasted.”

“We keep the good stuff for ourselves west of the Mississippi—you should taste the beef my dad slaughters and ages himself.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, that’s a great idea. Come visit the ranch. You can see what a first-class grazing operation looks like.”

Luke’s enthusiasm was contagious, but Jo held up a hand. “I’m not sure if Tom would be thrilled about my following him home. I don’t know yet if this project is even a go.”

His face fell. “Well, dang! Seems like you’d fit right in—I just figured...”

Jo looked at her watch. “You probably need to get back, and I want to get some writing done before I go over to the arena.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” The grin resurfaced. “I’ll blow you a kiss from the dirt.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“WHERE IS SHE?” Tom stuck his phone back in his gear bag. Paula, the staffer, had already called twice wondering if Jo planned to sit above the chutes again tonight.

“Can’t tell you,” Luke said. “I dropped her off at the hotel maybe two hours ago. She said she needed to work on her writing.” He strapped on his protective vest and covered it with his electric-blue jersey. “She knows how to tell time—she’ll turn up before the show.”

Tom’s phone rang.

“All’s well,” Paula said. “She was up on the concourse talking to fans and lost track of the time. Good luck tonight.”

Tom muttered a curse and keyed off. His dad had warned him taking on this project might be a distraction, but he hadn’t known he’d have to keep track of Jo like a strayed calf. Be-damn if he’d let her break his concentration. As winner of last night’s round, he would ride late in this evening’s competition—he still had plenty of time to loosen up after the opening ceremonies.

He put Jo Dace out of his mind, almost, but he couldn’t help flicking a glance up toward her seat next to the broadcast booth when it was his turn to ride. She hadn’t seen him climb up to the walkway, so he took a moment to study her as she leaned over the railing, her face alive with interest. From her articles and in the short time he’d known her, he had come to admire her intensity; she approached her work the same way he went at bull riding—flat out, with nothing held back.

She turned toward him as if she felt his gaze and gave him a thumbs-up for luck.

He saluted her with a touch to his hat brim and climbed down to straddle Bovinator, a bull with the ugly trick of flinging his head up as soon as his front feet hit the ground. Tom had ridden him a couple of years ago when he’d still been using a helmet with its face mask, but his hat wouldn’t be much protection if the bull decided to pull that stunt tonight. He put the thought away from him; fear led to disaster.

He nodded for the gate just as he heard Luke say, “Be ready to move in, guys.”

The next seconds were a blur, a balancing act between staying centered on the bull’s back and avoiding the massive head that slammed toward his face like a wrecking ball. He didn’t even hear the buzzer and loosened his hand only when Luke yelled at him to let go. Bovinator flung his head up one last time, actually brushing his cheek with a long ear as Tom dove to one side. The dirt came up hard; Luke leaped over Tom’s body and smacked the bull on the nose to lure it in the other direction.

The crowd’s roar almost drowned out the announcer’s voice as Tom climbed to his feet, dragging air into his lungs.

“How’s that for a 90-point ride, folks?”

* * *

LUKE CUFFED TOM’S shoulder as they passed in the locker room shower. “Good ride, little bro—you got something to celebrate at the after-party. You do remember you promised to meet Jo there, right?”

“I guess.” Tom skipped the noisy bar scene more often than not. “I don’t suppose you—”

“Not me, buddy—I stood in for you last night, and I’m already triple booked if Debbie from Cattlemen’s Steakhouse shows up.”

Tom knew Luke’s refusal was only fair—his project, his responsibility. His mom had been raised in Georgia and had drummed gentlemanly behavior into him and Luke. He sighed and pulled on a fresh blue-and-red plaid shirt and jeans not decorated with bull slobber and arena dirt.

He didn’t immediately spot Jo seated just outside the hotel’s cocktail lounge; in her new boots and jeans and pearl-snapped shirt, she could have been a ranch girl from back home. She looked up with a quick smile and slipped her phone into her shoulder bag.

“Still a fan of bull riding?” he asked as she rose to meet him.

“Oh yes! I was just texting my mom about it. But I have so many questions. Why do some of the bulls have horns and others don’t? What breeds are they? How many countries do the riders come from? Why do you wear spurs? How many—”

“Whoa, that’s way more than we can cover right here. Let’s hit the party. I’ll sign a few autographs and then we’ll find someplace quiet where we can talk.”

Tom escorted Jo into the lounge and spotted a dozen or so other riders inside, all surrounded by fans. Luke stood by the bar with a beer in one hand and his arm around a curvy brunette. A woman in jeans and a fringed vest scurried forward, her smartphone at the ready, and Jo stepped aside while Tom signed her program and then posed with her for a photo.

He hung in for nearly an hour until the crowding and chatter and loud country music became unbearable. To escape, he pulled out his phone like he’d received a call, holding it to his ear as he headed for the elevators. He crowded in with his hat brim tipped down and punched the button for the eighth floor. When he reached his room he dropped his hat on the bed and rubbed his face with both hands.

“God, I’m tired,” he said.

“Should I leave?”

He spun on his heel, nearly stumbling as his boot heel caught the bedspread.

Jo stood just inside the door. “You mentioned finding someplace quiet, but if this isn’t a good time...”

“Dang, I’m sorry!” Intent on his getaway, he’d completely forgotten about her. “I sure didn’t mean to run out on you. These three-day events get kind of intense—sometimes I just head for the high country. We can talk now. We’ll raid the minibar and you can ask your questions.”

They took two Bud Lights from the little fridge and settled at the round table by the window.

“You’ve got a great view of the city,” she said.

He glanced at the lights below and shrugged. “I guess, but the sun setting over Mesa Verde would look a lot better to me. I like seeing different places, but my favorite view of bright lights is in my rearview mirror.”

“I’m just the opposite. I love the city—the energy, the variety... I could live there the rest of my life and never be bored.”

“Bored isn’t a word you’ll ever hear on a ranch—there’s always more work than time.” He took a swig of his beer. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Stuff I can probably Google for myself. Tell me about your ranch.”

He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. He never minded talking about Cameron’s Pride. “Our family has held the land since 1867 when Jacob Cameron came west after the Civil War. Carpetbaggers cheated him out of his holdings in Virginia so he named his new spread Cameron’s Pride after his plantation back East. He was headed for California, but a grizzly spooked his horse and dang near scalped him—he would have died right there except some Ute girls found him and dragged him back to their camp.”

He laughed. “He kept his hair—their medicine woman sewed his scalp back on. By the time he was healed up, he’d fallen in love with one of the girls who found him. They rode down to Taos in the dead of winter and got the priest there to marry them so there’d be no question of their sons’ right to the land. We’ve been in the same spot ever since.” If he closed his eyes, he could almost see the log house snug under the cottonwoods with wood smoke rising from the chimney and light streaming from the kitchen windows into the winter night.

“So you’re part Ute?”

“Way back,” he said, “but it’s complicated—I can never keep the connections straight. Old Jacob and his wife had three sons. One died young, one married a schoolmarm come West from Kentucky and one married back into the tribe. They also had sons but none of those boys married Ute girls so the bloodline got diluted with more Scotch-Irish and some French—my great-grandfather served in France in World War I and came back with a war bride. Funny thing, one Cameron in every generation shows up with red hair and blue eyes like the first Jacob. My dad’s hair was red till it turned gray early, and my sister got it this go-round.”

“My mom’s family has a couple branches like that,” Jo said. “My great-uncle married a Japanese woman and his son brought back a Vietnamese bride. My grandfather thought it was a great idea. He raised prize sheep—he always said bringing in new blood improved the flock.”

Tom laughed. “Something like that. Our ranch backs up to Ute land, so Luke and I grew up hunting and fishing and scrapping with our Ute cousins just like Dad did and his dad and his dad. Jacob’s sons stocked the ranch with stray cattle they drove north from the old Spanish land grants in New Mexico—rustled them, more like it. Now we run Red Angus cow and calf pairs and my stepmother raises ranch horses.”

“Are ranch horses a special breed?”

“Just whatever cross produces smart, tough horses good for working cattle,” he said. “Shelby has been breeding quarter horse mares to her mustang stallion and getting some top-notch cutting and rein horses. She’s got this two-year-old bay filly in training right now who’s going to burn up the arena in reining competition.”

He pulled out his cell phone. “Okay if I make a quick call home? My folks can watch some events live, but the satellite reception is iffy.”

“I remember—you let them know you and Luke are okay. Please, go ahead.”

He hit Send and waited, then said, “Hey, Shelby, did you guys...” He laughed. “Me too—I was ducking and weaving for all I was worth. That bull’s mama goes back to Bodacious—I think she passed along all his tricks.”

He listened for a moment, frowning. “How much do you expect?” More listening while he rubbed the bridge of his nose and jerked his hand away. “Just don’t let Dad...”

He smiled. “I know you will.” He glanced at Jo. “Yeah, she’s here—she’s getting a triple dose of bull riding this weekend. You guys take care. We’ll be home by Monday morning.”

“Everything all right?” Jo asked.

He sighed. “I guess. They’re expecting some snow, and that always worries me when we’re this far from home. My dad had a heart attack last spring during a blizzard—he was just forty-six.”

Tom still had trouble believing it had happened. Except for the dark time between their mother’s death and Shelby’s arrival, Jake had always been the rock they all looked to for shelter.

“There’d been a couple days of rain, and then the wind swung around out of the north,” he said. “The western slope of the Rockies got hit with three feet of wet snow right at the beginning of calving season. Dad was out gathering all the heifers into the home pasture where he could get feed to them. My stepmother was pitching down hay for the horses when Dad’s horse came in without him—luckily there was already enough snow on the ground she could track back to where he fell. She got him to the hospital in time, but the storm wiped out half our herd in one weekend, all bred heifers and new calves. At least we didn’t lose any horses—they sheltered in a big shed attached to the barn. Some folks had stock freeze to death right in the corral.”

“How terrifying for your stepmother, dealing with that all alone.”

He gave a wry chuckle. “You don’t know Shelby—not much she can’t handle. When my dad met her, she was hitchhiking because she told the guy who gave her a ride she’d rather walk than sleep with him. She jumped ship in the middle of nowhere with snow coming on. She says this won’t be much of a storm, just six inches or so.”

He’d been able to replace some of the dead cattle with last year’s winnings, but Cameron’s Pride was still drowning in red ink from the blizzard losses, plus Jake’s medical bills. After much soul-searching, Tom had concluded that lightening the financial pressure with his prize money would help his dad more than if he worked at the ranch full-time.

“You and Luke were on the road when it happened?” Jo said. “You must have been frantic to get home.”

He nodded. They’d watched Weather Channel coverage of the storm from inside an airport nearly two thousand miles away, unable to get a flight even as far as Albuquerque.

“When we finally got to Durango, we checked on Dad at the hospital and then headed out to the ranch. The ice and drifts were so bad we had to go in by snowmobile the last ten miles. And then we started looking for our cattle.”

Bitterness rose in his throat at the memory of finding the cows, most of them raised at Cameron’s Pride, dead with their calves lifeless inside them or frozen at their sides. They’d had to burn the carcasses, and the stench of scorched hair and roasting meat had hung in the valley for days.

“Is your dad doing okay now?”

He turned to her with a start; he’d been living so deeply in the past, he’d almost forgotten her presence.

“So the doctors say. You’d never know he almost died, but Shelby still rides pretty close herd on him.” Yet another reason to bless her presence in the family.

He yawned, almost cracking his jaws, and flushed. “Dang, I’m sorry,” he said a second time. “I guess my battery’s running low.”

A lot of unmarried riders partied after the event, blowing off adrenaline with booze and the ever-willing girls who swarmed around the cowboys. He didn’t care much for drinking—the loss of control scared him—and he’d never again settle for sweaty sheets and girls whose names and faces ran together in a blur. Usually he walked for a couple hours to step down from the high of riding; tonight talking with Jo about home had drained away the tension. Too bad Traci had never been interested in hearing about the ranch.

Jo smiled. “Sounds like a cue to call it a night. What’s the schedule tomorrow?”

“The event starts at one,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs for breakfast around nine if you’d like to join me.”

“Why don’t you stop by my room first? I can help with the concealer again.” She stood just as the door opened.

Luke stopped short. “Hey, I can come back later...”

“Jo’s just leaving,” Tom said. “I’ve been boring her with Cameron family history.”

“Far from it,” she said. “I could listen all night.”

“And he could yammer on about the family legends till you want to stuff a sock in his mouth,” Luke said. “Best take it in installments.”

“Thanks for listening,” Tom said, although she’d probably considered it just part of her work.

“Anytime,” she said with a smile, gathering her purse and the day sheet from the evening’s competition. “I’d love to hear more about your family and the ranch.”

For a moment, he pictured her at Cameron’s Pride and then banished the image. He was a job to Jo Dace, nothing more—they’d have no problem as long as he kept that in mind.

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