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But Lexie wasn’t just annoyed. She was puzzled, and a little scared. Last week she’d found a threatening note on her windshield. Today a charming cowboy had gone to a lot of trouble to win her confidence and pump her for information.
Was there a connection? Was someone trying to scare her, or was the danger real?
CHAPTER TWO
SHANE WANDERED DOWN THE MIDWAY, KILLING TIME AND FEELING lower than a snake’s belly. He’d done exactly what Brock wanted him to. Even though the staged rescue hadn’t gone as planned, he’d managed to break the ice with Lexie. He’d gotten a close look at Whirlwind and learned about conditions at her ranch. He’d even let her know that he had a buyer for the bull if her family was interested. After that, with her discovery that he was working for Brock, things had fallen apart fast. He’d be surprised if the woman ever spoke to him again.
Brock couldn’t fault him for effort. But right now, Shane didn’t like himself much. Lexie Champion wasn’t just pretty. She was honest, passionate, and smart. And he’d played her in a way that was downright insulting.
He glanced at the time on his cell phone, scrolled to Brock’s number and prepared to give his boss an accounting.
Brock picked up on the second ring. “So how did it go?” His deep, throaty voice would have done credit to a Star Wars villain.
“Not as good as we’d hoped,” Shane said. “The bull looks world-class. I’ll know more when I’ve seen him buck. But she’s not interested in selling.”
“That’s no surprise. Anything else I should know?”
Shane took a breath, knowing Brock wouldn’t be pleased with the next bit of news. “Just this. She guessed that I was fronting for you. And she wants you to know that she wouldn’t sell you a mangy, three-legged dog.”
The connection went silent for an instant. Then Brock’s laughter boomed through the phone. “Those Champions have always had it in for me. The old man would’ve spat in my eye if he’d dared. And he’s passed his venom down to his daughters. But I’m not giving up, and neither should you. One way or another, we’re going to get our hands on that bull.”
After the call ended, Shane wandered aimlessly along the crowded midway, past the booths selling barbecue, hot dogs, cotton candy, funnel cakes, and fried ice cream, past the souvenir stands, and the carnival rides. From the arena beyond the gate, he could hear the rodeo—the cheers of the crowd and the blare of the announcer’s voice. He already had his ticket, a pricey first-row spot where he could get a good look at the bulls. But the drama of the past half hour and the phone call to Brock had left him on edge. He needed time to unwind before taking his seat.
At least Brock had taken Lexie’s refusal in stride. Even after ten years on the Tolman Ranch, Shane couldn’t predict how the boss would react. Brock could be kind and generous—as he’d been when he’d taken in a scrawny, homeless teenager, put him to work, and, when Shane had shown the drive and the talent, given him the chance to ride bulls. Everything Shane had and was, he owed to Brock Tolman; and he’d repaid the man the only way he could—with his loyalty.
But Brock could also be cold and ruthless, especially when it was the only way to get what he wanted. A lifetime aficionado of bull riding, Brock had retired on his investments almost a dozen years ago with enough money to stock his ranch with the quality bucking bulls he bought, bred, and delivered by the trailer load to big rodeo events.
But there was one thing Brock had never possessed—a bull with true star power, a bull with the heart and fight to stand beside champions like Blueberry Wine, Little Yellow Jacket, Bushwacker, and Bodacious.
Did Whirlwind have that kind of potential?
That’s what Shane was here to find out.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, with the sunset fading behind him and a cold beer in his belly, Shane presented his ticket at the gate, picked up a printed program, and made his way to the front row. The lights had come on above the arena, glaring bright against the deepening sky. Dust motes glittered like specks of gold in the air. Insects swarmed and fluttered overhead. The day had been hot enough to melt asphalt, but with the sun gone, the air was pleasantly cool.
The barrel racing event was just winding down, the barrels being cleared away and the winners receiving their trophies. Bull riding would be next. Shane’s seat gave him a good view of the chutes at the end of the arena. The first two bulls of the ten that would buck tonight were being moved into place behind the gates.
A glance at the program confirmed that neither of the starters would be Whirlwind. He was scheduled last, which made sense. The fact that he’d been unridden in twenty-three consecutive outs had already gained him some celebrity. No one would be leaving the stands early.
Shane scanned the list of riders. He recognized about half the names from his own days in the PRCA. The others were new, probably young hopefuls.
The safety crew had entered the arena—a mounted roper and three men known as bullfighters. Dressed in loose-fitting athletic gear to cover their protective vests, the bullfighters were the unsung heroes of the sport. It was their job to distract the bull and help the downed rider get away. In the old days, this dangerous work had been done by clowns. Clown makeup was still an option, but the bullfighters were serious athletes as well as trained paramedics. Countless riders owed their lives to these men.
A hush fell over the crowd as the loudspeaker introduced the next event. Shane took a small but powerful pair of binoculars from his pocket and trained them on the bucking chutes. Behind the first gate he recognized the black bull that Lexie had brought to the rodeo. And there was Lexie on the fence, all in blue, keeping out of the way as the rider, wearing fringed chaps, a helmet with a face mask, a protective vest, and a glove on his left hand, straddled the chute, lowered himself onto the bull’s back and waited for help pulling the rope tight.
Shane was here to watch bulls, he reminded himself. Still, for a moment, he kept the binoculars focused on Lexie, admiring her unconscious grace as she waited in tense anticipation for the gate to open. He wouldn’t mind getting to know her better. But after today’s encounter, he’d be lucky to get within a dozen yards of the woman.
Pulling his attention back to the event, Shane checked the program again. The rider was a friend—an experienced cowboy and a good man, with a wife and new baby to support. As the announcer’s voice boomed out the rider’s name and the name of the bull, he silently wished them both a good ride and a high score.
“Out of chute number one, ladies and gentlemen, we have Cory Jarman on Renegade!”
The gate swung open. The black bull exploded into the arena. As he leaped, kicked, and spun, putting on a spectacular show, the rider gripped the handhold on the rope. His right arm remained high and free, pumping with the bull’s motion. His blunted spurs dug into the bull’s loose hide. Good job, Cory, Shane thought as the eight-second whistle sounded. The combined score for bull and rider should be well into the eighties.
Then something went wrong. With Renegade still bucking wildly, Cory slid off the left side, twisting his gloved hand in the bull rope. Caught fast, he was dragged along by one arm against a spinning, jumping monster determined to shake him loose.
The bullfighters had leaped into action. Two of them sprang in front of the bull, trying to distract him and slow him down while the third man moved in close to support Cory and try to work his hand free.
