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Today, as Brock sat astride his big sorrel gelding and watched Miss Tess Champion ride out across the pasture, Brock reflected that most men would be satisfied with what he had. But for him, it wasn’t enough. To Brock’s way of thinking,enoughdidn’t exist. There was always more to want, always more to get.
And more to lose.
Brock shifted in the saddle, feeling the crackle of the folded envelope he’d stuffed into his hip pocket. It had arrived in yesterday’s mail, but he hadn’t opened it until this morning. What he’d found inside had jerked a noose around his heart. He’d recognized the yellowed newspaper clipping at once; but what did it mean? Was it some kind of warning? Maybe an attempt at blackmail? Was his whole perfectly ordered world about to come crashing down around him?
He’d been reading the text when Tess’s truck had pulled up outside. There’d been no time to do anything but replace the clipping in the envelope, fold it, and stuff it into the deep hip pocket of his Wranglers, where it wouldn’t be seen by any eyes but his. He would worry about it later. Right now, he had more pressing matters on his mind.
A few months earlier, he’d bailed Tess’s family’s ranch out of foreclosure and forced a reluctant Tess to take him on as a business partner. He might have had other ideas for Tess—like getting her into his bed. But if there was one thing he’d learned in life, it was that mixing business with pleasure was a recipe for disaster.
So, for as long as they were partners, the rule would be hands off. And that was a damned shame, Brock mused, admiring the way her slender body sat the horse and the way the wind played with the long dark hair that fell loose below her hat. Tess was well past girlhood, but she was a beautiful, smart, sexy woman. The fact that she was the most stubborn, muleheaded, prickly female he’d ever known only sweetened the challenge.
But Brock knew better than to cross that line. He was a man who made his own rules and played by them. With Tess, for now at least, the rule was strictly business.
This morning Tess was here to choose the bull he’d offered her in exchange for Whiplash, the rank bucker who’d been ruled too dangerous for the arena. Brock had long dreamed of breeding a world champion bull. It was his hope that Whiplash’s fiery bloodline might make the magic happen.
In return, Tess had been given her choice from among Brock’s three- and four-year-old bulls, who were just starting their careers in the rodeo arena. There were twenty-three of them in this pasture, all trained, tested, and ready for the big time.
Tess had a keen eye for bulls. She would no doubt pick one of his best. Brock was fine with that. As her partner, he would retain part ownership of any bull she chose. He had nothing to lose.
But curse the woman, why had she insisted on riding out alone to inspect the herd? Brock had saddled up, planning to go with her. However, after declaring that she wanted to view the bulls without the distraction of his company, she’d ridden off and left him fuming at the pasture gate.
Something told Brock that chasing after her would only add to his humiliation. He would let her go. But he couldn’t help worrying. Tess was an expert rider, and she knew her way around bulls. But if anything were to go wrong, she’d be unprotected out there.
He would keep his distance, Brock resolved. But he wasn’t about to let the woman get too far ahead of him.
* * *
Tess paused her mount to scan the pasture. The grassy expanse, scattered with creosote, ironwood trees, and clumps of sage, seemed to go on forever. But why should she let that surprise her? Everything Brock Tolman owned was too large, too grand, and too fine for ordinary folk. Even the horse he’d lent her, a registered Appaloosa, was probably the most superb animal she’d ever ridden.
Not that she was impressed. Brock was a show-off who lived for the power and possessions his money could buy. Tess couldn’t abide the man. What was more, she didn’t trust him.
True, he’d saved her family’s Alamo Canyon Ranch from foreclosure, but he hadn’t done it out of kindness. He wanted the ranch for himself. And now that he had a foot in the door as her partner, he wasn’t about to back off.
Right now, she knew that Brock was watching her. If she were to look back—not that she’d give him the satisfaction—she would see him sitting his horse like John Wayne, just as big and rugged as the late actor—except that Brock was no movie hero. He was more like a scheming, avaricious villain.
But she wasn’t here to judge him. She was here to pick out a promising bull—one that would dominate in the arena and strengthen her family’s own small herd with his bloodline. The future of the Alamo Canyon Ranch could be riding on the choice she was about to make.
She could see the bulls now, loosely scattered at the far end of the pasture. Brock had shown her the stud book at the house, but looking through it had scarcely been worth her time. The young bulls appeared to have solid pedigrees and had been tested in the bucking pen. Any one of them could earn his keep in the PBR or PRCA rodeos. But would any of them have that fiery spark—the spark she’d witnessed in Whiplash before fate had led the big brindle to kill an intruder on the ranch?
Brock’s intervention had saved the bull’s life and given him a home. But Whiplash, so strong and full of promise, would never compete again.
The young bulls had caught her scent. They’d raised their heads and turned in her direction, watching her approach. Tess held the horse to a measured walk. She’d been dealing with cattle all her life, and she knew better than to alarm them, especially bulls.
She also knew better than to get off her horse for a closer look. Here, as on her own ranch, bulls in the pasture were handled on horseback or from sturdy vehicles. They were accustomed to mounted riders. But a human approaching on foot would be asking for trouble.
At a distance of about thirty yards, she paused again to study the bulls. They were splendid animals, sleek and muscular, their horn tips newly blunted for the arena. Green metal ID tags, inscribed with numbers, dangled like jewelry from their ears. Most of the bulls were a solid color, ranging from fawn to red to dark chocolate. Two of the bulls were pale cream speckled with black. One bull, the biggest of the herd, was as black as sin with a white slash, like a lightning bolt, running down his face. His left horn was missing—likely due to injury or infection. The other horn, even blunted, was long enough to do plenty of damage.
As Tess ventured closer, the bulls tightened their ranks, snorting and lowing in a way that clearly meant,That’s far enough, stranger.The big black lowered his head and scraped at the grass with his single horn—a clear threat.
Tess backed off a few steps, keeping an eye on the bull who’d already captured her interest. It was too soon to make a decision. But her instincts were calling for a closer look at this tough brute.
“You’re certainly no beauty.” She spoke in a soothing voice. “But then, this isn’t a beauty contest, is it, big boy?”
She should at least look at the others—and of course, she’d want to see some of them buck. It would be rash to make an on-the-spot decision. She needed time—days, even weeks, to choose the right animal.
The black bull tossed his head and pawed the ground. Tess didn’t believe he’d charge, but just to be sure, she backed the horse farther away, onto the low, brushy rise where she’d stopped earlier. The Appaloosa responded to her lightest touch.
The bull stood his ground, eyeing her suspiciously. “It’s all right, big boy,” she said. “I’m not coming any—”
