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Silly woman! Why bother?she chided herself as she leaned against the high fence, watching her bulls. That night in the desert hadn’t meant a thing to him; just a way to pass the time with a willing female. Brock probably had a stable of pretty, sophisticated women back in Tucson—models, socialites, the kind of ladies a man would enjoy showing off at some fancy party. She was more the type for sharing a platter of nachos in Lefty’s Tavern.
But why did she have to be so blasted insecure? If she wasn’t lady enough for Brock, that was his problem. She was who she was. If he didn’t like it, he could go jump in the lake.
“Miss Champion?” The drawling voice from behind made her reflexes jerk. Tess turned to find a lanky man in high-end cowboy clothes with a press pass pinned to his vest. He was standing so close she could smell the breath mint in his mouth. She took a step backward.
“Tex Poulson, from the National Cowboy TV Channel.” He flashed a photo ID card. “I was hoping we could set you up for an interview—about that bull of yours—the black one that nobody’s ever rode.”
Tess hesitated. She’d done interviews before. Mostly they were a waste of time. But the Cowboy Channel was national. Getting Quicksand’s name out there could get her bull noticed by the right people—including Clay Rafferty.
“If we could do the spot now, it would run tonight,” Poulson said. “That would stir up some interest and snag us more viewers for tomorrow’s finals. So, are we good to go?”
Tess had been trucking bulls most of the night, and she could imagine how she looked. But the TV spot would be about Quicksand, so what did it matter? “Sure. Let’s get it done,” she said.
Poulson snapped his fingers, and a cameraman appeared with his equipment. Tess glanced around for Ruben, then remembered that he’d gone to get some breakfast. She was on her own.
“Let’s get a close-up of the bull.” Poulson directed the shots. When the cameraman came up against the pen and tried to shoot between the rails, Quicksand charged. The cameraman jumped back as the bull stopped just short of a collision.
“You mustn’t get close like that,” Tess said. “This bull’s been traumatized. He’s never seen a camera before. We’re trying to keep him calm, but you’re not helping.”
“Sorry,” the cameraman said. “At least I got a great shot of him charging.”
“Traumatized?” Poulson pounced on the word like a chicken on a bug. “Traumatized? How?” The microphone was thrust into Tess’s face. “Did it have anything to do with losing his horn?”
“No, he was found as a calf, lost in the desert, fighting off a pack of hungry coyotes. He’s almost four now, but the experience stayed with him. He still spooks easily.”
“Were you the one who found him?”
“No, it was a friend of mine. I traded another bull for Quicksand.”
“A friend?”
“That’s what I said.” Tess didn’t want to mention Brock’s name on the air.
“I see the bull is wearing Tolman ear tags. Was it Brock Tolman who found the bull? Are you and Tolman . . . uh . . . close friends?” The innuendo was clear.
Tess cursed silently. She’d meant to replace those ear tags but had never gotten around to it. She scrambled to change the subject. “Let’s talk about his bucking record—six outs, all buck-offs with scores in the midforties. And he’s only a rookie bull in his first season.”
“But this isn’t really his first season, is it?” Poulson’s gaze narrowed. “I did my homework before our interview. This bull froze the first time out last year. He refused to buck. Are you afraid he’ll do it again? Would you care to lay odds?”
Tess held back a surge of anger. “We’ve done a lot of work with Quicksand, helping him overcome his fear. So far, he’s bucked magnificently. I’m extremely proud of this bull. I believe he can go all the way. And now, Mr. Poulson, I’d say this interview is finished.”
* * *
The TV interview left Tess with a sour taste in her mouth for the rest of the morning. Poulson, a well-known rodeo reporter, had controlled and manipulated her to get just what he wanted. Now viewers would be waiting for Quicksand to fail.
If she’d known Poulson was going for tabloid fodder, instead of talking about Quicksand’s great performances, Tess wouldn’t have given him the time of day. The worst of it was his bringing up her connection with Brock—something both of them had reason to keep private. Wherever Brock was now, she would need to alert him about the broadcast.
In the motel room, she sat on the edge of her bed and composed a text, apologizing for the way she’d let Poulson lead her on and warning Brock that his name had been mentioned. Brock wouldn’t be pleased, but at least she’d let him know.
Ruben lay on the opposite bed, fully dressed and snoring like a diesel truck with a bad muffler. A smile tugged at Tess’s lips. She’d lost track of the times in the truck when she’d drifted off to that sound. Ruben’s snoring had always made her feel safe.
She sent the text to Brock, not knowing how or even if he’d respond. Then she took a few minutes to freshen up. When she came out of the bathroom, Ruben was still snoring. Tess crossed the room quietly, let herself out, and locked the door behind her. She would leave him to his nap, check on the bulls, then maybe look for some fast food.
The arena was less than two blocks from the motel. Stretching her legs, Tess covered the distance in a few minutes, arriving just in time to see the Tolman rig pulling through the gate.
Two men sat in the cab of the truck. The driver was a cowhand she remembered seeing at Brock’s ranch but didn’t know by name. The passenger was Jim, the young man she’d met earlier.
Tess moved aside to watch as Jim, who’d climbed out of the cab, directed the driver to back the trailer up to the unloading chute. The rear door swung open. Three handsome bulls, wearing the Tolman brand and ear tags, thundered down the ramp to be herded into their pen.
