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“Be careful with that one. I’ve heard no-one messes with him. But I still don’t get it. What’s the point of having these guys come after you if you’re not interested?”
“I have my reasons,” she replied, tilting her head to the side, “now can we please change the subject?”
CHAPTER FIVE
The following morning, with the salacious dream still lingering in his mind, Rick left his motorhome and made his way to the tents to prepare for the eight-second bull ride. Every cowboy had his own regimen. Some liked hanging out, telling jokes and stories as they taped their joints, usually wrists and ankles, and some, their shoulders. But a few, like Rick, were loners.
It would take him almost an hour to get ready, and he always managed to find a place where he could be by himself. He’d already scouted out a supply room beneath the stands and received permission to use it. He only hoped the other guys wouldn’t get wind of it and decide to join him.
The year before, at one of the bigger events in Mesquite, he had wowed the crowd and won high scores with an exceptional performance. The winning moment was forefront in his mind as he began his exercise routine, then the bandaging.
But the decadent vision kept popping into his head.
A knock on the door caught his attention.
“Fifteen minutes,Rick.”
Abruptly his focus shifted.
As he stepped outside, he imagined settling on the bull’s back and taking hold of the rigging, then the sound of the boisterous crowd sent his pulse racing.
Adrenalin pumped through his body.
He savored the feeling.
Striding up to the chutes and rubbing his gloves together to warm up the rosin, he nodded a greeting to the other riders, then spotted one of his close friends, Todd Hickman.
“Hi, Todd,” he called, walking up to join him.
“Hey, Rick. Are you ready?”
“Always,” he replied with a grin. “How did you do?”
“I hit the dust hard and banged up my wrist.”
Another heart hits the dust.
The bartender’s comment flashed through his head.
“Rick? Are you okay?“
“Sorry, something just came to mind. Do you think your wrist is broken or just sprained..”
“Just sprained. I should be fine in a couple of days. I just landed wrong.”
“Easy to do,” Rick remarked, trying to forget Dan’s comment and push Bailey’s image to the back of his mind. “I’d better get over to the chutes.”
“Yeah, you’d better, and good luck. Whiskey’s gotta helluva twist.”
“He sure does,” Rick agreed, “but he usually scores high.”
The bull Rick had drawn was known for its athleticism, and a quick, contorting buck that could throw a rider in the blink of an eye. But marching away, a renewed determination flowed through his veins. He wasn’t about to let thoughts of a girl he didn’t even know interfere with his performance.
“Hey, Rick?” one of the handlers yelled as he approached. “Two more and you’re up.”
“I’m comin’.”
Climbing up the chute, Rick watched the two competitors ahead of him. One lasted only a couple of seconds before the powerful bull bucked and spun, sending the cowboy to the ground. The next ride was more successful, and the rider stayed on the required eight-seconds, but at a crucial point he’d leaned too far back.
