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In a scene that Shane would remember as a slow-motion nightmare, a sudden twisting move by the bull ripped the glove off Cory’s hand. Before the bullfighter could yank him to safety, Cory’s legs gave way. He slid under the pounding hooves. Each second it took for the bullfighters to drive Renegade off the rider and out the exit chute seemed to pass like an eternity. When the gate closed behind the black bull, Cory lay crumpled in the dust, barely moving as the paramedics rushed out to stabilize him, ease him onto a transport board, and carry him out of the arena. Moments later, the wail of an ambulance siren confirmed that he was seriously hurt.
Damn! Rotten luck. He could be out for the season. And with a young family to support.
Even with the improvements in safety gear, injuries were a given in this dangerous sport. Veteran bull riders wore scars like medals and carried memories of the bones they’d broken—limbs, ribs, backs, and shoulders. Shane had known riders to wrap fractured bones with duct tape so they could stay in competition, enduring awful pain for the sake of that eight-second ride and the chance for prize money.
The show would go on. The next bull was already in the chute, waiting to buck. But Shane couldn’t help worrying about his friend. And he couldn’t help thinking about Lexie and how she’d watched her brother die in the arena less than a year ago. The wreck that she’d just witnessed had probably brought it all back. That she was here now, with her family’s bulls, showed what a tough woman she was.
He trained his binoculars on her, sharpening the focus. She was still on the fence, her spine rigid, her mouth set in a firm line, as if she were fighting tears. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Shane watched the next eight bulls, including the brindle and the white, spotted animal that Lexie had brought to the competition. The Alamo Canyon bulls were the best of the lot, showing their Oscar-linked bloodline mixed with the feisty heritage of the British White Park cattle, removed to America during World War II for safekeeping.
Unfortunately, both bulls bucked off their young riders out of the gate. If Whirlwind did the same, there’d be only the briefest chance for Shane to see how he performed.
Whirlwind would be next. The rider’s name rang a bell, though Shane didn’t know him. Jay Walking Bird had a decent record in the PRCA. He had a chance to do what Shane wanted—stay on the bull long enough to put on a good show.
Even without the binoculars, Shane had no trouble seeing the bull in the chute. Still riderless, he was slamming sideways against the gate, shaking his blunted horns.
Rank. That was the word for a bull with a lot of fight in him. And rank was the word for Whirlwind.
Jay Walking Bird lowered himself onto the bull’s back, bracing himself while a man outside the chute pulled his rope to tighten it around the bull’s body. This was a dangerous time. A bull could slam a rider’s leg against the inside of the chute, hard enough to break bone. Shane knew this because it had happened to him last year. He’d ridden the beast anyway, in terrible pain, and racked up a score of 88.6, his best ever. The men used a long wooden wedge against the side of the chute to hold the bull steady while the rider made the final adjustments in the rope and gripped the handhold.
At Walking Bird’s nod, the gate swung open. Whirlwind blasted out. Dynamite on four legs was the description that struck Shane’s mind. He could see how the bull had gotten his name.
Shane tended to lump bucking bulls into three categories—leapers, kickers, and spinners. Whirlwind combined high kicks and leaps with a blinding spin that churned up dust clouds around him.
Bushwacker . . . Cochise, maybe . . . even Bodacious. Shane searched his memory for bulls with that kind of power. Whirlwind was smaller than those monsters, maybe 1700 pounds. But he owned that arena.
His hindquarters kicked so high that his body was almost vertical. Still, Walking Bird hung on, gripping the rope with his right hand. Three seconds . . . four seconds. The bull came down spinning to the left like a tornado as he kept on bucking. Five seconds . . . Six . . . Abruptly, to Shane’s amazement, Whirlwind made a subtle shift of direction. Walking Bird, who’d been leaning away from his hand, had no time to adjust. Pulled into the spin, he went flying off the right side, just short of the eight-second whistle. Only the quick action of a bullfighter, throwing himself almost onto the bull’s horns, saved the rider from being trampled. Tossed into the air, the bullfighter landed hard and came up limping. By then, Walking Bird had scrambled up the fence, and Whirlwind was roped and headed out the gate.
Good show. Shane glanced up at the posted score. Forty-five points for the bull, zero for the rider. Cory’s high score had given him first place.
And knowing about Whirlwind’s spin-and-switch trick would come in handy for Shane if he happened to draw the bull in PBR competition.
Lexie was gone from the fence. Shane knew better than to look for her. He’d only be wasting his time. There was no way she’d want to talk to him.
He would call Brock later with a report on Whirlwind’s performance. But first he wanted to drive to the hospital, find out how Cory was doing, and let him know that he’d won the event—and the needed prize money.
Without waiting for the awards, he left his seat, made his way out of the arena, and headed for his truck.
* * *
The four bulls had been returned to the holding pen behind the rodeo arena. As usual, they were given time to eat and settle down before being loaded for the drive back to the ranch.
“If you don’t mind keeping an eye on them, I’d like to take the truck and go to the hospital,” Lexie told Ruben. “Cory and his wife are friends from school. I don’t want to leave town without checking on him.”
“No problem. I’ll get some rest. We can load when you get back. I’ll help you unhitch the trailer.”
Leaving the foreman dozing in a lounge chair by the trailer, Lexie exited the fairgrounds and followed the signs that marked the way to the hospital. Her hands gripped the steering wheel as she battled the emotions she’d held in check since Cory Jarman’s injury. The wreck—as such incidents were called—had happened right in front of her. As Renegade’s hooves had trampled the young rider, the indelible memory of her brother’s death had crushed her with fresh weight. She’d strangled the scream in her throat, willing herself to remain in place, rigid and stoic, showing no emotion. That was a rule of the sport—no matter what was happening in the arena—or inside your head—you cowboyed up and put on a brave face.
It shouldn’t trouble her that Cory had been hurt by one of her bulls. Riders assumed the risk, and bulls were praised for following their nature. Bodacious, one of the rankest buckers of all, had injured so many riders, mostly by bucking them over his head, that he was retired early and had since been awarded the greatest recognition for a bull—the PBR Brand of Honor.
Still, she couldn’t help feeling guilt for the elements of fate that had brought Cory and Renegade together for a ride that had ended in disaster.
She shrugged off her misgivings as she pulled into the hospital parking lot and found a space for the truck. She wasn’t here to rail at fate or cast blame. She was here to offer comfort and support.
Cory and his wife, Rianne, had been Lexie’s friends and classmates all the way through school. Even in kindergarten, she couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t loved each other. They’d married young, had hard times with money and with their efforts to have a family. But with the birth of their baby boy, Rowdy, and the upswing in Cory’s rodeo career, things were finally looking good for them.
Now this.
