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“He’s sharp. But we’ll see,” Tess said as the mahogany bull, shooed along by the roper, exited the pen. Her eyes were on the opposite chute, where the cowboys were struggling to rig the black bull for bucking.
Even with a calm bull, attaching the dummy wasn’t easy. One end of the strap had to be dropped to the bottom of the chute, caught with a hook, then pulled under the bull and up onto the other side before it could be inserted into the dummy.
An uncooperative bull could make the job difficult, even dangerous. And this bull was in no mood to cooperate. He was slamming the sides of the chute, his single horn clattering against the steel rails.
“What happened to his other horn?” Tess asked Brock.
“Infection at the base. The vet had to remove it. He was just a yearling at the time. But I can’t help thinking that having only one horn is what’s made him so damned ornery. It might have been a good idea to take them both off. Believe me, Tess, you don’t want that bull. He’s not worth the trouble you’d have.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Look, he’s ready.”
The black bull exploded out of the gate, leaping and twisting in midair to rid himself of the hated dummy. After a flash of spinning kicks that raised a cloud of sawdust, he was off again, jumping as if he had springs in his legs. By the time Brock pushed the release button on the remote, Tess was on her feet. She clapped and cheered as the bull circled the pen at a gallop, tossing his head before the roper herded him out.
“He’s amazing!” She took her seat again. “What makes you think I wouldn’t want him?”
Brock shook his head. “You just saw him at his best. But the black bastard is too smart for his own good. He’s got tricks that would make you wish you’d never laid eyes on him. For one thing, he’s hell to handle in the trailer and in the chute. Worse, we took him to one rodeo, and he wouldn’t buck. He had to be prodded out of the chute. The rider was given a reride. I could keep him as a breeder, like Whiplash, but that could be a problem, as well.”
“I’m still tempted to take him. He has so much potential. But I don’t remember seeing his pedigree.”
“That’s because he doesn’t have one,” Brock said. “A couple of my cowhands found this six-month-old calf alone in the desert, half-starved and fending off a family of coyotes. He had the look of a first-class bucking bull, but no brand or tags. I contacted the police and put out notices online and in newsletters, but nobody claimed him. My guess is that he was stolen, and the rustlers dumped him when the law got too close.”
“So you don’t know anything about his bloodline?”
“I don’t. That’s another reason for you not to take him. There’s always DNA testing. I’d have it done if I were going to sell or breed him. So far, it hardly seems worth the trouble.”
“I still like him. I like him a lot—just a feeling I have.”
Brock sighed and stood. Tess was five foot eight, but he loomed over her. She always felt small beside him. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Go home. Talk to your family. Sleep on the idea for a night or two before you make up your mind. I’ll have some bulls in the Cave Creek event this weekend. We can talk there. If you really want that bull, I’ll load him in a trailer and have him delivered to your ranch. But if you come to your senses and decide not to take him, you can come back and choose a different bull. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough. I’ll let you know.” She accepted the handshake he offered, her slim fingers lost in his big, leathery palm. Had he told her the truth about the black bull? The story seemed almost too fantastic to believe. Maybe he wanted to keep the bull for himself.
“I hope you’re planning to stay for lunch,” he said. “It’s a long drive. You’ll be hungry before you get home.”
“Actually, I should get going,” she said. “Don’t worry about lunch. I’ll grab a burger and fries somewhere.”
“You’re sure? The sandwiches are already made.”
“Quite sure. Thanks.”
To be truthful, she was hungry. But Brock Tolman’s presence was so overpowering that, after being with him, she had to go off and decompress. That clock was ticking now.
She fished the keys out of her shoulder bag and strode toward her beat-up Ford pickup truck. “I’ll let you know about the bull,” she said. “Thanks for patching me up, and for your time.”
Before he could respond, she climbed into the truck and started the engine. As she headed down the long driveway, she gave him a wave. But she didn’t look to see if he was waving back.
Reaching the highway, she shifted gears and turned right, toward home. The radio was blaring an old Patsy Cline song, “Crazy.” She turned it up and sang along.
Maybe she was crazy for wanting that black bull. Despite Brock’s warning, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. If she could get around his behavior problems, he could go all the way to the PBR—even all the way to the top.
As the song ended, she murmured the name she’d already chosen for him . . .Quicksand.
* * *
Brock stood watching Tess’s red pickup until it vanished in the direction of the highway. The Alamo Canyon Ranch was a three-hour drive from here. He could only hope that the rusting piece of junk she drove could make the trip. Brock had offered to buy her a new vehicle to celebrate their partnership. She’d turned him down, of course. That old red truck had belonged to her brother, Jack, who’d died falling under a bull at the National Finals Rodeo two years ago—or was it three years? Brock was too distracted to remember.
She’d be saving herself a lot of grief if she didn’t take that black bull. But knowing Tess, his warnings had only piqued her interest. He’d bet good money that she’d already made up her mind—and Brock knew better than to try to change it. Besides, right now, he had more pressing concerns.
Dark thoughts gathered like storm clouds as he mounted the porch and went back into the house. He could hear Cyrus, who cooked and ran the place, puttering in the kitchen. Brock had always trusted the old man to be discreet. But even Cyrus mustn’t know what was troubling his boss today.
