Rodeo Dreams Page 3

  “Travis, I don’t know what you expect me to do. She even brought a copy of the application form—nowhere does it say ‘men only.’ She had a clean ride, her membership is in good standing and if I don’t let her ride, her uncle...” He let the sentence trail off as he fished out his bandanna and wiped off his forehead. “I’ve got to let her ride.”

  “This is how he calls it in? What the hell did he do to make you let a girl ride on our circuit?”

  Mort’s face went scarlet as his mouth opened and shut several times. “I— It— He— Look, Travis, this is just the way it is!”

  “So that’s it? She rides next week in Texas because some guy pulled your fat from the fire?” Travis had spent two years clawing his way back to the break-even point, putting his body on the line every single weekend—and some pretty little thing was just going to waltz her way into the show on a wink and a favor? Hell, no. Not on his watch.

  This had nothing to do with the “pretty” part, either. That’s what Travis told himself. He’d hate to see that face—or that body—messed up by one bad landing, though. One landing was all it took. Nobody knew that better than he did.

  Finally, Mort managed to look like he had a spine. “Listen, Younkin, no one said you had to ride with her. Feel free to hobble off into the sunset like you should’ve done in the first place. You can try to talk her out of it, but I doubt you’ll have much luck—just like normal.”

  Maybe it was a good thing Travis had hit his weak shoulder tonight, because the fact that he didn’t think he could get off a solid swing was the only thing holding him back. “You rat bastard—”

  Mort threw up his hands to ward off the verbal blow. “Be reasonable, man! Didn’t you see the way those women flocked to her like she was a superstar?”

  “So?”

  “Think about it from my point of view! Don’t you remember that woman race-car driver? She ain’t even the best one out there, and she’s pulling them in!” Mort waved his arms like he was welcoming the women of the world into his office.

  This wasn’t about applications or permits or even bull riding. And Mort just confirmed that fact as he went on. “All of a sudden, there’s a woman who rides with the men, and the wives and mothers and daughters are buying tickets to the show, buying pink girl-power T-shirts with her name on them, buying posters that she’ll autograph—”

  “You’re going to let her kill herself for money?” Who was he kidding? Of course Mort would. He’d throw his own mother—walker and all—into the ring if he thought he could make a dime off it.

  “Have you met the girl? I’m not gonna let her do anything.” Mort snorted. “Look. Either she’ll break a nail and go home, or she’ll do well. And if she does well, she could add to the gate.”

  A percentage of the gate went to the take-home pay for the riders every night. That was why most of the guys here had chosen the TCB circuit as opposed to the rival rodeo outfit where calf roping and bronco busting were part of the competition. Here, a man could just ride a bull, and bigger crowds meant bigger checks.

  If Mort explained it in those terms to the guys...well, most of them needed the money. Travis was one of the few who had a steady sponsorship and earned enough most weekends to make a living. As it stood now, he was nearing the money cutoff for the pro circuit. Not so for most of the other guys. They drove all night to get back to their jobs or ranches, worked all week and then did this every weekend. Sort of like playing Russian roulette as a hobby.

  Travis wasn’t going to win this battle, not with Mort and probably not with the other guys— especially not with the Preacher and Mitch out there making her feel at home.

  He was going to have to take this to the source.

  “Fine. You believe she’s going to be your gravy train. But I’m warning you,” he said, grabbing the edges of the card table and shoving it hard enough that it bounced off Mort’s considerable girth, “if anything happens to her, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

  The door still wouldn’t slam when Travis stalked out of the broom closet, but he gave it his best effort.

  “Well?” Randy seemed to be speaking for the group of guys nervously milling around. “What’d he say?”

  Travis tried not to snarl. They’d heard every word, no doubt. “I’m going to go talk to her.”

  A few eyebrows went up.

  “You guys agree that this isn’t a safe place for a woman, right?”

  “Sure,” Randy said as heads halfheartedly nodded. “We don’t want her to get hurt, but...” Standing behind him, Garth, another rider, elbowed him in the ribs. “Is it true, what Mort said about the gate?”

  Travis could feel the last of his cool slipping away. “We all know that she’s not going to make us rich, Randy. I don’t want her blood on my hands.”

  Randy looked doubtful. “So you’re going to talk her out of it?”

  Someone in the back snorted. “Good luck with that!”

  “I’ll handle it,” Travis said with more force. “You guys go on and have a good time tonight. Watch out for the buckle bunnies, okay? They can be brutal in this town.” He knew that from personal experience. That had been a long time ago—must be almost seven years now.

  Seven years ago, he’d been a green rider with a lot of promise, just like some of these guys. He hadn’t been too crazy his first year, but he’d drunk most of his winnings and woke up in plenty of strange beds with stranger women.

  That hadn’t happened in a great while. No one wanted a man who looked like Frankenstein. Especially not pretty women who could ride bulls.

  Wait—where the hell had that thought come from? He shook it away. He had a job to do here, one that did not involve female bull riders in a state of undress.

  The remaining guys began to place bets on who would go home with which bunny and who could drink who under the table. Just kids, he reminded himself as they headed back toward the collection of secondhand cars and trucks parked in the back. Normally, he’d shadow along, keep an eye out for trouble, make sure whoever got the drunkest got somewhere safe to sleep. But not tonight.

  He had to go looking for trouble. And her name was June.

  He headed back out to the parking lot. Calm down, he told himself. If he lost his head, he might do something stupid, like grab her again, and this time, without bystanders, she might break his arm.

  And if she broke his arm, then he’d never get the chance to finish his big comeback—to prove to the world that he wasn’t a cripple who should have hobbled off into the sunset, broken and forgotten. To prove that he hadn’t lost a thing to that damned bull. Travis was still one of the best in the world. He just had to prove it the hard way.

  By God, he’d spent too long rehabbing his broken body and then working his way back up from the very bottom of the bull-riding circuits to have his plans blown to hell and back all because some pretty girl wanted to ride with the big boys.

  And the fact that she was beautiful? Nothing but an unwelcome distraction. Distractions got a man killed out there. Hell, distractions had already almost gotten him killed once—when he’d caught his girlfriend, Barb, making eyes at Chet Murphy right before Travis had gotten on that damn bull, No Man’s Land. He’d paid dearly for wondering what the hell she was doing.

  He couldn’t allow another woman to distract him. Not ever again.

  He stopped, took a deep breath and pushed Barb far from his mind. He sure as hell wasn’t going to get upset about her again, not when he hadn’t even seen her in three years.

  Once he was calm, he focused on keeping his gait even. It wasn’t easy. He wished again he had landed on his right side tonight. Every part of his body on the left was screaming in agony, from the wire mesh in his jaw to the rods in his leg. He needed to take an ice bath and a Percocet as soon as possible, because he had to get up at a reasonable hour tomorrow
and put in an appearance at True West Western Wear, his sponsor.

  Not too many guys actually had sponsors at this level—Red had Red Bull, of course, but Red also wasn’t going to stay in the minor leagues that much longer. Within a year or two—sooner, if Travis couldn’t keep his stuff together—Red would be up in the bigs, riding with the real pros—just like Travis had been doing three years ago.

  Before the rods and wires and Percocet.

  But that girl had a sponsor—her vest had a huge America’s Real Pride Beef patch sewn right on the back. Not even a winner, and someone was paying her to ride.

  Where was she? He scanned the lot before he saw the lone white car, parked on the far side, away from the lights. He didn’t see her, per se, but the dome light in the car was on. Most of the guys had parked back on the other side, closer to the bulls and away from the general crowd. How clueless was she? Didn’t she know that she needed to be in a well-lit area so people didn’t sneak up on her?

  Like he was doing now?

  He couldn’t make out where she was, but she had to be around. No one wandered off from a car with the door open.

  “Listen, uh...” He fumbled around for the right thing to call her. “Miss, we need to talk,” he said, hoping his words gave her enough warning.

  As he came up alongside the car, a fury of barking erupted from the backseat, and suddenly a dog’s head lunged out of the partially open window. Okay, maybe she already had some protection. This thing didn’t even look like a dog. It looked more like a wolf had gotten together with a fox and produced some sort of devil’s spawn. Even the faint light from the distant streetlamp was enough to catch the slobber on those killer teeth.

  “Jeff!” At the sound of June’s voice, the dog reduced his volume to a steady growl, but its nose followed Travis as he stepped forward. Mental note, he said to himself as he tried to locate June from her voice, do not piss off the hellhound—named Jeff?

  Then he found her on the far side of the car, in the field that bordered the parking lot. All he saw was a wide sheet of hair so black that it made the sky look bright at this time of night. It was like she was trying to hide.

  “You move quiet for a white man, Travis. And my name is June.”

  He caught a glimpse of a white-clad bottom that curved out from one side of that hair curtain. Compared to the darkness of her hair, that backside was a blinking neon light that demanded a guy look at it. And look he did.

  She had a fine backside. Even better in a simple pair of panties than when it had been cradled by her chaps....

  He shouldn’t be looking. Not why he was here.

  He took a step backward—right into range of the now-snapping jaws of Jeff.

  Jeans slid over the whiteness, leaving him both relieved and disappointed that he hadn’t gotten a better look.

  “Jeff! Cool it!” she ordered, apparently unconcerned with the fact that Travis had chosen the moment she was changing to barge in on her.

  The dog acted like it was listening. His trap snapped shut, but apparently nothing would stop the throaty growl. The animal’s reaction was like something out of a movie—the Indian princess at one with the forest creatures.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Travis’s mouth opened. “What kind of Indian are you?” The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

  “Gee, what gave it away?” He could almost hear the eye roll behind that hair. “Was it the hair? The brown skin? The last name? Most people get it from the last name, you know.”

  “No, you just—”

  “Just what? Trained my dog to listen? Please.” She snorted in derision. “I do not have a telepathic link with animals. I do not shape-shift into eagles. I do not dance with the wolves.” She sounded irritated, sure, but not like she was going to kill him. He relaxed a bit. “I’m not ‘some’ kind of Indian. I’m a Lakota Sioux, a full-blooded Lakota woman. Can you handle that?”

  Was she lecturing him on political correctness? Well, he had that coming. “Sure. I’ll make sure to remember that. Lakota. Sioux.”

  She was still hiding behind that sheet of hair, nearly invisible in the darkness. He was afraid to look again—what if she still wasn’t completely dressed? A hit of adrenaline rushed into his blood at the thought.

  “Something you needed to get off your chest, Mr. Younkin?”

  Oh, she was going to be like that, was she? Her body might get his blood pumping, but her mouth sure did get his hackles up. “I’m not your father’s age.”

  “But you’re going to tell me what I can and cannot do?” She snorted, a sound that was echoed by a throaty bark from the backseat. Finally, she flipped that hair out of the way, just in time for Travis to see her fingers buttoning up the last few buttons on her shirt.

  This was all messed up. In one short evening, this...this...this female creature had not only managed to complicate his comeback year, but she was making him feel things he hadn’t felt in a long time. Since before the wreck.

  “I just don’t want to see a pretty girl like you—”

  “You overbearing, egotistical, racist, male-chauvinist pig,” she said, managing to spit the words out while still sounding calm. “I’m going to be twenty-two in four months,” she went on, taking a step out of the field and toward him— pushing him closer to the growling muzzle of Jeff the hellhound. But instead of paying attention to the dog, he couldn’t look away from her eyes. They were a deep liquid-black that barely scratched the surface of the bullheadedness he was witnessing firsthand. “In a month, I’m going to graduate magna cum laude from the University of South Dakota with my bachelor’s degree in history with a secondary-school certification.”

  “Really?” She was beautiful and smart? Impressive. He was sure there was another student in the circuit, but he couldn’t think of the guy’s name off the top of his head. Most bull riders weren’t cut from the same cloth as students. He sure as hell hadn’t been—and see where that had gotten him? Struggling to make it back to the pros with no other options.

  That was just another reason to keep her off the bulls. She was a woman who had options. She had a real life waiting for her. He couldn’t let her risk her good looks and her education on one bad ride. One bad ride was all it would take.

  “I own my car, I’m legal to do anything I want in any state I want and I don’t need a—” Travis almost heard the phrase “has-been” smacking against the back of her teeth. But she reined herself in. “An experienced professional such as yourself to worry your pretty little head over me. I’m just here to ride.”

  His pretty little head? Now she was openly mocking him. No one sporting the scars he did could ever be confused with pretty. “If you’re so smart, why are you changing in the parking lot?”

  She rolled her eyes at him as she began shoving her stuff into the car. “Like you and every other cowboy here tonight weren’t all changing out of your lucky jeans right behind the chutes without so much as a solid wall in sight—or did you think that those metal bars offered more privacy than the dead of night? You know,” she went on easily, “if you hold on to that double standard any tighter, it’s going to split you right in two.”

  “It’s different for me. But you’re a—”

  “I swear to all that is holy, Travis, if you say ‘pretty little thing,’ I’ll personally split you in half myself.” Even as she said it, her gaze danced down to his chest and back up. Was she checking him out? No, not possible. She was just looking to see if she could find the best point to start splitting.

  He couldn’t help it, not when her eyes rested on his left hip. Even though the scars were well covered by denim and flannel, he still pivoted sideways. “That doesn’t change the fact that this was a stupid thing for you to do, sweetheart. Out here, all alone—you’re just asking for it!”

  Her face solidified into a fearsome look—t
he kind of look he’d seen a hundred times on a bull. Without a doubt, he knew that this girl—this woman—was about to trample him.

  And he had it coming.

  “Is that what this is? Am I asking for it, Travis?” Underneath the fierce look, there was something else. Disappointment, if he didn’t know better. “And it’s your job to put me in my place, is it?”

  “I didn’t say that.” But even as he said it, his gaze moved down and then back up her body. He couldn’t help it. He was a man, after all.

  She flipped her hair back, something new in her eyes. “Are you going to kiss me?” she whispered in an inviting tone as her back arched, pushing her breasts out front and center.

  Another hit of adrenaline caught him off guard. God, he wanted to. He could pull her into his arms and feel the warmth of her body molding to his. He couldn’t remember wanting to kiss a woman as much as he wanted to kiss her.

  A flash of hardness crossed her eyes, and he realized it was a trap. She was trying to distract him. If he got close to her, she’d set him down—of that he had no doubt. He’d seen what she’d done to Red earlier.

  So that’s how it was going to be. She would threaten her way onto this circuit and when that failed her, she’d use sex.

  Once he’d been misled, back when he was still green around the edges. It wasn’t until after the wreck that he’d seen how Barb was only using him to climb onto bigger, better prospects.

  Red or his cohorts might be stupid enough take her up on her “invitation,” but Travis wasn’t. Not anymore.

  He wouldn’t get to kiss this woman, no matter how much he wanted to. What a crying shame.

  “Not without the right invitation.” He held his hands in front of his chest to show he wasn’t going to grab her. “But some guys would—they’d do a whole lot more than kiss you, no matter what you were offering. It doesn’t matter how tough you are, June. A bull in the arena, a rider outside of it—this circuit is no place for you. I don’t want you to get hurt, sweetheart.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I am so not your sweetheart, Travis,” she said, her voice low enough that it was hard to hear over the sound of that dog barking his head off. “It would behoove you not to forget that.”