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Mack tuned the other rider out, tuned out the noise of the crowd and the announcer’s tinny voice over the loudspeaker and focussed on what he knew. Something familiar. His final gear check before he mounted up. Gloves; he pushed down between each of his fingers, one after the other, making sure the gloves were as tight and firm as they could be. Chaps. To help him grip the bull’s sides and safeguard the vulnerable skin of his inner thighs. Hat. Mack banged it harder onto his head. His mother would call him a fool for not wearing a helmet tonight, but it was what Mack was used to. Some of the guys wore helmets, but it wasn’t compulsory. Mack knew he looked more the part with his black cowboy hat on. Protective vest. He yanked on the front to make sure the zipper was secure and slapped at the panels that shielded his ribs and lower torso. Mack had removed all the sponsorship badges from his vest, leaving glaring bare patches where they used to be. Clarissa had made sure that he’d lost all his sponsors after his accident. The bitch. She never admitted it, but it could only have been her. She had a vendetta against him, and did everything in her power to make him pay. But he couldn’t let that worry him now. Soon enough, he’d garner more sponsors, maybe even after his ride tonight.
Fleetingly, he wondered if Bindi was sitting in the bleachers watching the meet, like she’d promised. It’d be nice to know she was there. Nice to know someone was rooting for him. Normally, he had any number of people calling his name, urging him on, stroking his pride. This was a whole new world, and he needed to remember that.
It was time. The announcer called his name, and the spotter beckoned him over the railing. Mack dropped all thoughts of Bindi and Clarissa and his family, and stepped up onto the wooden platform beside the bull pen, handing his bull rope to the spotter to fit underneath the bull’s belly.
Then he was lowering himself over the bull’s back and everything shifted, the boom of the announcer melted away, the voices of the guys around him in the chute became a buzz in the background. He locked those memories of his fall into an impenetrable safe in his mind, determined not to let them out until this was over. It was just him and the bull. This was what he knew. This was what he lived for. Mack raised his hand in the air and nodded. The chute flew open, and the crowd roared. Sugar Baby came out bucking, twisting his immense bulk in the air, then landed and spun, kicking out his hind feet.
Mack was pitched from side to side as the bull tried his best to rid the unwanted rider from his back. He was slightly taller than most bull riders; the short stocky ones had a lower center of gravity, but Mack knew how to stick on a bull, come hell or high water. And he wanted this one. Bad. Squeezing his thighs together, he counted the seconds in his head along with the announcer. “Three. Four.”
All he had to do was stick on this beast for eight seconds. A tiny amount of time in the scheme of things. But eight seconds could have been eight thousand the way Sugar Baby bucked, jarring his arm almost out of its socket every time he landed.
“Come on, you sonofabitch, show me what you got,” he ground out between clenched teeth, and dug his heels into the bull’s muscular sides. As if the bull heard him, he doubled his efforts to dislodge him. “Five. Six.” He was almost there. The bull pitched forward, and then dropped his hindquarters with a gut-wrenching jolt. “Seven.” Mack’s free hand whipped through the air, trying to regain his balance, but he could feel himself sliding, his left leg losing position.
Mack sailed through the air, managing to get his feet underneath him just in time. Clowns rushed in from all sides, distracting the bull while Mack made his escape. He hadn’t heard the buzzer. Had he made the eight seconds? Leaping onto the bottom railing, he climbed the fence, searching for the scoreboard at the same time.
Yes. He let out a whoop of joy. He’d made the eight seconds. But it wasn’t all about timing. Points were awarded by two judges to the bull for its efforts as to how difficult he made it to stay on his back, as well as for the contestant’s style. Even before his score had been posted, Mack knew he wasn’t the winner. Sugar Baby had been ornery and big, but he wasn’t the meanest bull by any means tonight. Other bulls had showed a much stronger bucking action. Add to that, Mack’s lack of riding over the past two years, and he knew his style score would be lower than he was used to.
“Seventy-nine points,” the announcer bellowed, and Mack let out a sigh of relief. Not enough to win, but it put him in fifth place on the winner’s board, and he was okay with that. For now. It wasn’t a bad start. “Not a bad score for this formerly unheard-of rider,” the announcer continued. “My instinct tells me we haven’t seen the last of Mack Diaz, not by a long shot.”
Mack couldn’t help the smile that crept over his face. He landed on the ground outside the bull pens, and a number of guys came up to congratulate him, Billy Scadden amongst them.
He’d been right, it was Billy he’d spotted with the crowd this morning. And Mack knew the exact second Billy recognized him as he’d approached the group. The man had a protruding nose and a thin mouth, which turned down in a grimace of distaste as he saw Mack coming. The emotion was a fleeting one, and he’d just as quickly extended his hand and painted a welcoming smile of surprise on his face, but Mack hadn’t missed the look of dislike.
Billy smacked him on the back and said, “Great ride, dude.” Mack knew he was only acting so magnanimous because Billy had come second tonight, with a score of eighty-eight points.
Mack wandered away from the well-wishers, floating on a cloud of euphoria. He’d done it. Conquered his demons and completed his first ride since the accident. He searched the crowd for Bindi’s face, but he could see no sign of her. Shit, she hadn’t watched him like she’d promised. Something cold settled in the pit of his stomach, bringing his feet back down to earth with a thump. He wanted to go and celebrate, but what was the point of celebrating on his own?
Perhaps she’d gone back to the car to wait for him. He needed to take his stuff back to his truck, anyway. He headed toward the parking lot. Everything looked a little different in the dark. Large spotlights had been erected atop tall poles to light everything from above, but there were still deep shadows in many places. The plan was for them to sleep in their swags next to the truck, and then head home tomorrow morning, after taking another wander around the fair. Mack had been surprised at Bindi’s plan, he was used to crashing at a local hotel, but she’d said this was the way most people did it here in Oz. That was fine with him. Once she’d explained that a swag was an Aussie version of a bedroll crossed with a small tent, and she’d borrowed Dale’s swag for him, Mack was almost looking forward to trying out this new challenge. Perhaps he could unroll his swag beside Bindi’s. Who knew? He might even be able to persuade her to give him a kiss or two. Kissing Bindi might be a very nice distraction, indeed. Those full, lush lips would be sweet and soft against his.
Wending his way between the parked cars, his mind was so preoccupied with the exact tilt of Bindi’s mouth, Mack didn’t see the other guy until he almost barreled into him.
“Whoa, sorry, man.” Mack had to tilt his head back to stare up at the other guy’s face. Even in the dark, Mack could see he was huge. With massive shoulders, like a weightlifter, and a big, ten-gallon hat rammed on his head, keeping his features in shadow.
“You Mack Diaz?” the man barked.
Immediately, Mack’s hackles rose at the tone in the other man’s voice. “Who wants to know?” he shot back.
“I got a message for ya.” The big man leaned in closer. With cars on either side of him, Mack’s only form of retreat was backward. But he wasn’t frightened of this big goon.
“Oh, really,” Mack drawled, feigning disinterest. “Well, I don’t care for your tone, so if you’ll just let me past—”
The man reached out and took hold of the front of Mack’s protective vest in a vise-like grip. “You listen up, and you listen good,” the man growled into his ear.
Mack bunched his fists at his side, ready to fight if he had to, searching the surrounding parking lot for help. But they seemed to be alone.
“Stay away from the circuit. You don’t belong here. Don’t ride again, or bad things will happen. Got it?”
What? Was this guy crazy? He was threatening him. But why?
“Who’s the message from?” Mack demanded. “And what—”
“You don’t get to ask no questions,” the man growled back. “Just heed this warning, that’s all.”
The big guy turned to go, and Mack called after him, “Well, you can just tell your boss, or whoever, that you don’t frighten me. I don’t intend to stop riding. I’m going to get back in the ring and I’m going to win this Aussie circuit next year. Then I’m coming back to take the US championship, as well.”
The man glanced back once, scowling, then disappeared between the cars, moving much more quickly than Mack might’ve guessed, given his bulk.
Mack stood in the parking lot, mind whirling. Who was trying to warn him off riding? And why? Surely, it couldn’t be Clarissa. Could her reach extend all the way to Australia? How did she even know he was here? And why would she try to stop him from riding? Did her contempt of him run that deep? Did she despise him that much, that she’d try and stop him at any cost?
