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Tess cleansed her face and hands and dabbed salve on the scratches she’d gotten from rolling through brush and cactuses. The red line slashing across her left cheek was the worst. But it wasn’t deep. It would heal.
She finished and gave herself a quick inspection in the mirror. She looked as if she’d tangled with a bobcat. But she’d long since given up fussing over her appearance.
If she had a dime for every scrape, cut, bruise, and sprain she’d suffered on the ranch, she’d have a pile of money. And she’d likely have an even bigger pile by the time she was an old woman. But since her fiancé’s death in Afghanistan almost ten years ago, she’d never expected anything more from life than days on the Alamo Canyon Ranch with her family, the animals she loved, and the endless routine of hard work. The ranch was her everything. She would fight to her last ounce of strength to keep it.
After tucking her shirt into her jeans, she found her hat, crossed the living room, and stepped outside to the porch. Brock was seated at a teakwood table with a half-finished Corona in his hand.
“You caught me,” he said. “Cyrus left us some sandwiches in the kitchen. If you’re hungry, we can eat before we watch the bulls buck.”
“Are the bulls ready?”
“The first one’s in the chute. The other two are lined up.”
“Then let’s go. We can eat later.”
She strode ahead of him to the arena, built with two bucking chutes and a row of elevated bleachers along one side. The pen was thickly layered with sawdust and surrounded by a six-foot steel rail fence. A series of gates and passageways allowed the bulls to be herded into the chutes without open contact.
Two cowboys manned the gated chutes. They worked as a team, preparing the first bull to buck. Tess recognized one of them as the blond young man who’d taken Brock’s horse earlier. Another cowboy waited in the pen, mounted, with a rope ready.
Tess moved over to make room for Brock beside her on the bleacher seat. The bulls would be bucked with a remotely controlled dummy—a weighted metal box with a strap—on their backs. The remote in Brock’s hand would release the strap when the bull had bucked for eight seconds.
“I’m surprised you don’t have one of those new human-shaped dummies,” Tess said as they waited for the cowboys to rig the flank strap, and then the dummy, to the first bull. “I wouldn’t mind having one to train our bulls, but they’re expensive.”
“I’ve looked at them,” Brock said, “but I’m not sold. The traditional dummies always worked fine.”
“Tell me about the first bull.” She leaned forward on the bench, resting her elbows on her knees. She was at ease now. This was business—and also something they both understood and shared, a passion for bucking bulls.
“He’s a good, solid bull,” Brock said. “I’ve taken him to a couple of local rodeos. He bucked off both riders with decent scores.”
“Do you think he’s PBR material?”
“Maybe, with more experience. Take a look. Here he comes now.”
The gate swung open. The bull, one of the white speckled ones she’d seen, flew into the pen, kicking and spinning to fling the weight off his back. “Good kick, and he’s spinning left. Lots of energy, but I want to see more.”
At eight seconds, Brock pressed the remote, releasing the strap. The dummy flew off the bull’s back. The bull, accustomed to the routine, gave a couple of kicks and trotted out through the open chute. As the gate closed behind him, one of the cowboys retrieved the dummy from the pen.
“So what do you think so far?” Brock asked.
“He looks like he’d be easy to handle. But I’m looking for more fight,” Tess said.
“Take your time. If you’re aiming for the PBR, you know the kind of competition your bull will be facing.”
Tess did. Some of the all-time great bulls, like Smooth Operator and Sweet Pro’s Bruiser, had retired or were nearing the end of their careers. But the younger bulls moving up were stunning. The current bull to beat, a massive red beast named Woopaa, had won Bull of the Year honors at last November’s PBR finals in Las Vegas. Veterans like Chiseled and Lil 2-Train were still going strong. And breeding had become an exact science. Each new generation of bucking bulls seemed more spectacular than the last.
Whirlwind, the first Alamo Canyon bull to make the PBR, was doing well on the circuit. Whiplash, his full brother, might have done even better. But his glory time had ended almost before it began.
Where was she going to find another bull with that kind of talent?
The bull in the second chute was ready to buck. Tess caught a glimpse of mahogany-colored hide before the gate opened and the bull burst out.
Bucking bulls had three basic moves—kicking high with the rear legs, spinning while bucking, and leaping straight up with all four feet off the ground. A high-scoring bull could combine all three moves with surprise twists and direction changes.
This bull kicked high and spun fast. He’d probably earn some prize money on the rodeo circuit. A sensible choice, Tess told herself. But she had yet to see the rank bull who’d caught her interest.
Brock had been watching her reaction. “You couldn’t go wrong with this one. He could even be PBR material.”
