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Chapter 1
RAFAEL CARRERAstood on the top of the chute, looking down at the rankest bull on the circuit. He’d drawn the only bull that hadn’t yet been successfully ridden that season… for very good reasons. Henny Penny had to be the worst-named bull Rafe had ever seen. This bull was as mean as they came. Henny was known to throw riders, then do his best to stomp on them, and sometimes gore them, as if to make the rider pay for daring to get on his back. So yeah, this was one nasty fucking bull—and Rafe had drawn him.
He was currently in second place. The leader was already out with an injury, standing at the rails, the man’s big brown eyes targeting his back. Rafe could feel the heated glare of Duane Mendeltom boring into him, sending all the ill will and buck-off vibes he could.
Fifty points. That was all that stood between a championship buckle and everything that came with it… or second place. And it had to be Henny Penny that stood in the damned way.
“Okay, kid,” the chute master said. “You ready?”
Rafe didn’t answer, already in the zone. He just climbed up and got into position. Henny bounced under him, a thousand pounds of muscle and power ready to lay into him with everything he had. Eight of the longest seconds in sports… hell, it was the world’s longest eight seconds, as far as he was concerned. His bull ropes were in place, just where he wanted them. The vest he wore would help protect him, but not against Henny’s hooves. His lucky hat was on his head, and all it took was a nod for the game to begin.
The gate swung open, and Henny jumped up and out. He landed with a bone-jarring thud that usually did in most riders. Rafe was ready for it, though, letting his body ride with the movement, rolling his hips as Henny jumped, legs going out, body twisting under him in midair. Rafe let out a yell, thinking like the fucking bull, ready when the son of a bitch pivoted to try to sink him in the well. He leaned the other way just a little, countering the move, and damned if Henny didn’t stop on a dime and twist the other damn way.
Rafe couldn’t counter fast enough, but he held on with everything he had, his shoulder pulling, muscles straining. But Henny was not going to get the better of him. Rafe had been riding bulls for too damned long. Hell, he was the old man on the circuit, and this was it, his last chance. Even if this fucking bull ripped his arm out of the socket, he was not damn letting go. Another jump and Rafe felt his legs come up. His luck was about to run out.
Then the buzzer sounded, and Henny took one more jump. Rafe bailed and let the bull throw him in the air. He flipped and saw the roof of the arena for a second before somehow righting his legs and landing on his feet. As soon as he felt sand, he raced for the side and jumped as high as he could. He damn near ended up in the lap of a pretty lady who was grinning like she won the lottery. “Hi, darlin’,” he said with a smile before turning around in time to see the clowns rounding up Henny and getting him out of the arena. Only then did he jump back down to the arena floor and hurry over to pick up what was left of his hat. It seemed Henny had stomped and gored it in his place. He held it over his head anyway, to deafening cheers from the crowd.
“Eighty-eight point three,” the announcer practically sang. “That means our winner of the day, the go-round, and the championship buckle is none other than Rafael Carrera!”
He waved to the crowd once again, accepted the trophy and the buckle from the judges, and held both over his head as what seemed like a million flashes all went off at once. He turned slowly to let everyone see and to soak up the moment he’d thought would never come.
Half the circuit had written him off, including himself. He was almost thirty-three, an old man by this sport’s standards, and yet here he was: PBR World Champion. After taking another bow, he walked off the arena floor and nearly bumped into Duane, who still glared at him. “You are one lucky fucker,” he said with a sneer.
“I just rode the rankest bull on the circuit. I don’t think luck had anything to do with it,” he said as he turned to head away.
“Fucking queer asshole,” Duane muttered under his breath. At least that was what he intended, Rafe was sure, but it came out louder, and one of the officials pulled Duane aside. Rafe continued back to the locker area, set his trophy and buckle on the bench, and shook hands with all the other guys, accepting their congratulations and praising the others who’d had great rides.
“Ladies and gentlemen….” The announcer’s voice filled the arena, and the locker room went quiet. “Duane Mendeltom has been disqualified for ungentlemanly and unsportsmanlike conduct.” Then he went ahead and listed the adjusted rankings. Rafe kept his head down, trying to stop a smile. That little remark had cost Duane a big payday, as well as his place in the standings for next year.
“Jesus, I would not want to be him,” Hank Matise said as he handed Rafe his gear. “But you should go ahead and get packed up and out of here before he gets back. Duane is going to want to take it out on someone, and he doesn’t have much to lose right now.”
“Thanks, Hank.” Rafe packed everything away, including the buckle and trophy, and headed out into the heat of the Las Vegas night. He climbed into his truck and was about to pull away when a man rapped on his window. Shit. His first thought was that Duane had already found him, but Duane never wore a polo shirt. Rafe lowered the window. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Rafael Carrera?” the man asked.
Rafe wondered what the hell he’d done. “That’s me. I need to get back to the hotel.” His arm ached like hell, and he wanted to ice it, get himself a huge meal, and maybe go down to the spa and take a deep soak in a hot tub before falling into bed. Tomorrow was soon enough for him to figure out what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life.
“My name is Luther Gillian. I’m an attorney, and I have been looking for you for three months. I need to talk to you. And it’s an important enough conversation that I don’t want to have it out here in the parking lot.”
“Fair enough. I’m staying down at the Mandalay Bay. If you want to follow me, we can talk there.” After getting a nod, he waited while Luther hurried to his car and brought his BMW up behind him. Then Rafe pulled out of the lot and headed to his hotel. Once there, he parked, making sure there was a space for Luther next to him.
The whole time, he tried to think what the hell he could have done to have a lawyer after him. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and lawyers didn’t usually look for soon-to-be-retired bull riders with no future prospects other than trying to find a ranch that would take him on.
Rafe got out and grabbed his gear bags, then hauled them toward the hotel until a bellhop took mercy on him. His arm hurt like hell, but he knew what to do about it. The muscles had been pulled, and the arm needed rest and ice. Luther held the door, and the bellhop and lawyer followed him to the elevator and up to his floor. Rafe tipped the guy at the room and unlocked it, thanking him when he set the bags down.
“Mr. Gillis….”
“Please call me Luther,” he said as Rafe pulled off his boots and sat down with a sigh. The adrenaline was wearing off… which meant the pain was setting in. “I’m here because of your uncle. I believe he was your mother’s brother. MacDonald Greene.”
“Uncle Mack?” God, he could barely remember him. “I used to go to his place when I was a kid. That was where I first learned to ride and saw the cowboys riding broncs and bulls. I knew what I wanted to do after one of those visits.” Then, when he’d been about twelve, something happened. Rafe had no idea what it was, but those summer visits ended. All his dad would ever say was that things were not good with Uncle Mack, that he was ill and they all needed to pray for him come Sunday.
“It seems he remembered you. Your uncle passed away three months ago, and he left a will naming you as the sole beneficiary—you’ve inherited everything he had.”
“And what is that?” Rafe asked, completely bowled over. “I mean, did he still have the ranch?”
Luther nodded. “That I’ve been able to trace. He does still have the ranch. Well, technically you own the ranch now. Once I found you, I was to give you this envelope. When your uncle asked me to draw up the will three years ago, he was very specific that you were to get everything.” He opened a case and pulled out a sheaf of papers, which he flipped through. “I leave everything to my nephew Rafael Carrera. My sister Rachel and my brother Forrest are to get just what they gave me in life—nothing. The rest of my family is to get nothing either. I wish them all well, but they can continue living their lives on their own, with no help from me.” Luther closed the papers.
“Well, I guess Uncle Mack told everyone how he felt. But why me?” Rafe asked. It had been twenty years since he’d seen his uncle. Though Rafe had sent a few letters and cards when his mama wasn’t looking. He always wondered why he never got anything back.
