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“It’s a dangerous sport,” he said, flashing back to that terrible moment that still haunted his every waking minute, even a year later. But he couldn’t stop the memory of the last bull-riding event. And for a moment, the roaring in his head became the crowd that day. He could smell the dust and the blood, could see Johnny lying there, his neck at an unnatural angle. Dylan had to swallow a bitter rise in the back of his throat. He washed away the grief and guilt with the second beer the bartender had brought over.
“Can you keep her safe?” Dolly asked.
No. But it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
“I’ll do my best to give her the skills she needs, but the rest is up to her and the bull she pulls.” He reached for something comforting to say. “I can’t imagine they’re going to start a new event without taking a careful look at the bulls. They’ll save the wild ones for the men’s events.” Dylan pushed the image of Johnny out of his mind.
“Right,” Dolly said, and he heard her take a shaky breath. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to give LeAnn your number. She’ll call you when we get to Amarillo and you two can make arrangements to train.”
“I’ll look forward to her call.” For more than a few reasons.
“Thanks.” Dolly hung up after saying goodbye.
Dylan wasn’t looking to get laid anymore. Not unless LeAnn was here. He had managed to put that night out of his mind when it was obvious that she wanted nothing more to do with him the next day. He figured it was because she had regrets about throwing away her virginity on the likes of him, but he hoped he hadn’t scared or hurt her. It had been an intense and pleasurable few hours. She had been on top for most of it and having the time of her life. They both had been. He wished he knew what had made her avoid him for the rest of the season. Dylan chalked it up to her coming to her senses.
Across the bar room, Mick laughed in that hyena way he had, and Dylan’s eyes narrowed on him. LeAnn had dated that asshole. In fact, she’d defended his bullshit right up until she caught him cheating. And Dylan had been the first man that she had seen after she had stormed out of Mick’s trailer with something to prove.
A gentleman wouldn’t have let her rebound into his arms.
Dylan hadn’t been a gentleman. And LeAnn hadn’t been interested in cooling down and taking things slow. She had been a force of nature, totally destroying the “Ice Princess” moniker that Mick had given her. She was Killer Keller in bed and Dylan had loved seeing the ruthlessness she showed in the arena when she took her pleasure with him. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Dylan pushed those thoughts out of his mind. She had been on fire, and he would gladly burn again.
Dylan was glad Mick hadn’t managed to talk his way into LeAnn’s pants. The asshat hadn’t deserved her. Dylan was also pretty sure he didn’t deserve LeAnn either, but at least he respected her. Mick would have taken an ad out in the rodeo bulletin if he had claimed the Ice Princess’s virginity.
“What are you looking at, Porter?” Mick sneered.
“Not much,” Dylan responded. “A bad bull rider with a small mind and a disgusting sense of personal hygiene.”
It took a minute for Mick to process the words and realize he had been insulted. Dylan’s even tone must have thrown him off his game.
“Come here and say that.”
“Go outside and say it,” the bartender said.
Dylan nodded. He didn’t want to be banned from this place. They’d be coming back here in a few months.
“After my beer, I’ll kick your ass if you still want me to,” Dylan said, taking a large swallow. “And I really hope you do.”
“I ain’t waiting.” Mick launched himself across the room at Dylan. He charged like a bull, head down, with tunnel vision. Like a bullfighter, Dylan sidestepped and Mick crashed into the barstool.
Bouncing Mick’s head off the bar once for good measure, Dylan grabbed him by the back of the shirt and dragged him outside, then tossed him in the dirt of the parking lot.
“You almost made me spill my beer,” Dylan said, finishing the last of it while Mick staggered to his feet. Tossing the bottle into the recycling can, he barely avoided Mick’s fist. He managed to get his arm up and Mick nailed him there, instead of in his face.
So, it was like that, then. Okay.
Dylan swung with his other arm and felt Mick’s nose crunch under the force of his punch. Staggering back, Mick shook his head, splattering a few drops of blood. The pain in Dylan’s knuckles eased the ache in his conscience that remembering Johnny’s death had caused. It felt good to get lost in a scrap, a mindless exchange of punches. Unfortunately, Mick couldn’t even do that right. It was over just before it had really begun. Mick tapped out on the ground, struggling to catch his breath after Dylan’s follow-up punch dropped him.
Now what?
Dylan didn’t feel like going back into the bar in case Mick got his balls back along with his wind. And Dylan didn’t want to risk being pulled over after having two beers, so that left him taking a walk until he was reasonably sure he’d be able to pass a Breathalyzer test.
Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem—if they had been on the circuit. But it was pre-rodeo season and the only thing the MPRC had them doing was small-town shows to drum up interest for the new season. He was in a one-horse town, and the horse had gone to bed an hour ago.
His own horse, Lola, was in the barn for the night. He had given her some anti-inflammatories with the joint support medication that the last vet provided. Dylan hoped that she was resting peacefully and without pain. She had a long ride in the trailer tomorrow.
It was getting time for her to retire. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a place for her to spend out her days. Not yet, anyways. He’d be damned if he would send her to his uncle’s farm to be ignored. And he couldn’t afford to board her while he was on the road. Not unless there were more training jobs lined up, and he won a lot this season.
As Dylan walked down the rows of closed shops, the quiet of the night started to get on his nerves. He decided to head back to the barn and check on Lola. It would give him time to sober up and then he could walk back to his truck and take it to the cheap motel he had splurged on. The small town they were in reminded him of where he grew up, and the memories soured his stomach. Maybe he should have just kept drinking to keep the ghosts of his past at bay, or maybe he should make it a point not to drink after a long day in the saddle. Either way, Dylan couldn’t help but hear his uncle Lou’s voice in his head.
