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“Don’t let your nerves show. The bulls sense it,” one guy told him.
“I’m never nervous, but thanks,” Jaren responded.
A couple guys exchanged looks they thought he missed but said no more to him.
When his turn came up, he could see what drove guys to compete in this event. The crowd absolutely erupted, leaping to their feet, boots stomping wooden bleachers and screams ripping through the air. An adrenaline high blasted through his system.
He poised over the bull in the chute, putting no weight on the animal until the last possible second when it would burst out of the gate.
“Go!” someone shouted as a horn blew.
Jaren dropped onto the bull’s back as it surged out. Fuck, it was fast, and power coursed through its hide and into Jaren’s muscles.
Then it ran faster.Just like racing minibikes as a kid.
It went into a spin.Oh, hell!
He only needed to hang on a few more seconds.
Digging in his knees, he clung to the whipping beast while it tossed him right and left in a split second.
His body listed to the side. Goddammit, he was falling.
The ground rushed toward his face, and his shoulder struck hard. A grunt of air exploded from his lungs.
Shouts rang in his ears, and hooves and dirt spattered him. A pair of rough hands clamped around one of his arms and a leg and dragged him out of the way at the last moment…right before he was trampled by the bull he hadn’t even begun to master.
Screams filled the air. Jaren rolled into a sitting position and stared into the painted face of the rodeo clown.
Rescued by a damn rodeo clown?That’s sure to impress the girl.
He threw a look toward the rail and saw her watching him. But as soon as he made eye contact, she turned her face away.
A familiar hand locked on his shoulder, and he glanced over to see Casey’s shit-eating grin.
“You win some, you lose some, Abel.”
He picked out the sassy swish of long brown hair vanishing into the crowd.
* * * * *
Trinity had seen a lot of idiots in the few months she’d spent caravanning from town to town with the rodeo circuit, andthatguy took the prize.
She knew just by looking at him that he was no bull rider. Sure, he could strut his hard, hot body in tight, worn Wranglers and show how good a white Stetson could look on the right man. But nothing about him screamed country, even if he did wear those boots, jeans and Stetsonsodamn well.
She caught him staring at her several times. And the way he swaggered over with that number on his chest made her think he only signed up for the bull ride to get her attention.
When he first seated himself on the bull named Angry Nelly, he looked like he actually might know what he was doing. But by the time the bull took its third step and the rider started tilting to the right, her impression of him hit the dirt about as fast as he did.
He didn’t just crash and burn—the poor bastard had to be rescued by Paul the rodeo clown.
Oh, it happened all the time, but she couldn’t help but giggle that it happened to such a cocky man.
As he walked out of the arena, covered in dirt, hat in hand, her interest faded and she turned her focus to her own troubles.
She scanned the crowd for what must be the thousandth time that evening. Her heart never stopped racing each time she did this, as if the organ knew something she didn’t. Though the probability of someone from her past looking for her in this small town nestled between the Montana mountains had to be low, she couldn’t stop the habit.
She couldn’t risk being spotted either. Keeping her belongings in her truck at all times made her feel a little better. If she saw somebody who might be looking for her, she only had to jump behind the wheel and take off.
