Sunday night—finals night. The lights were bright, the crowd was large and Stead was ready. He stood above the chutes, shaking out his hands, waiting. One round to go, then the final round, when they’d bring on the best buckers. By the end of the night he should know if he was back. Normally he focused inward to get prepared but tonight he found himself distracted: by the deep rich brown of the combed arena dirt, by the sound of Missy’s horse’s hooves thundering past with the flag waving as the crowd stood, hands over hearts, singing the National Anthem. Pride and comradery and something he didn’t have a word for rose in him in a liquid rush that he had to blink back.

God, he loved the rodeo.

A dark cloud of ‘what ifs’ hovered for only a moment before he pushed them away. If he had to face giving up bull riding, he’d face it. When he had to. In the meantime . . .

He tugged his riding glove, making sure the pigging string was tight. Excitement fizzed through his veins like a shook-up soda.

And tonight, he’d once more gotten lucky and drawn what should be a pretty easy ride. He didn’t feel a bit bad about it. Give him a chance to build his confidence.

One bull at a time, Stead. He wouldn’t get to his finals bull by looking past this one.

He jumped at a slap on his shoulder and turned to Ace’s mug.

“Dude, you gonna ride one or stand there mooning like a lovesick calf?”

“You worry about your bull. I’ve got this one nailed.” He threw a leg over the metal gate and set his boot on the spotted hide.

The music died and the announcer cut in. “Ladies and gentlemen, this Texas cowboy came back from a scary wreck at the finals that fractured his skull and laid him up the whole off-season. He’s back, and if last night was any indication, he’s as good as ever. How about a round of applause for a hard-headed rider . . . Stead James!”

He babbled on, but Stead let it flow past, shutting everything out but his mind, his body and the animal beneath him. When he was ready, he nodded and the gate swung.

The bull reared out of the chute. Stead shifted, thrusting forward. The bull came down and kicked like he was aiming for the lights. He rocked back fast, leaning into his knees, tucked at the bull’s withers. Then they were spinning in a dance they both knew well. The bull led, Stead followed without a bobble.

The horn blew earlier than he would have expected. He jerked his hand out of the rope and was launched over the bull’s head. Smack into the metal gate. It drove every ion of air out of his lungs and he clung, stunned, as the arena went silent.

“You’re okay. I got you.” The bull fighter guarding his back yelled.

Good thing, because he didn’t think he could move, much less climb a fence.

His head stopped spinning about the time his lungs ended their revolt, letting in enough air to stay conscious.

“Ladies and gentlemen, he paid at the end, but I don’t think he’s going to care because the judges just scored that an seventy-eight-point ride!”

“I’m back!” He pushed off the fence, turned and raised his arms. “Woooo hooo!”

The audience cheered.

Heartbeat banging in his ears and gulping hot sweet air, Stead scanned the stands, hoping for a glimpse . . . there! Harper stood, fingers in her mouth, letting loose a high-pitched whistle he could hear over the applause.

Grinning like four fools, he made a dash for the fence, ducked between the poles and grabbed her under the arms, lifting her over his head. She squealed, then laughed. “Put me down, you weirdo.”

He obliged, letting her down slow and easy, aware of every spark of contact where her body touched his. Her eyes, as they went by his on the way down, were wide open. There was passion there, and a bit of panic. Good. He wasn’t the only one off-balance.

When she stood on her feet again, he lowered his head and captured her lips. He wanted her to share what that ride felt like. He poured everything into it – trying to somehow convey his exhilaration in his kiss.

Some of it must have gotten through, because when she stepped back her face was a fiery red and her green eyes flashed in the lights. She laughed up at him.

“Better hope her daddy ain’t seen the Jumbotron, cowboy.”

He looked up to see the two of them, smiling and doe-eyed, on the big screen at the end of the arena. The crowd laughed and the world rushed back in.

“Bring him on—that was worth it.” He winked at Harper and ducked back under the fence to retrieve his hat and bull rope. Hot damn, that girl could kiss. Maybe she saw him as more than a dumb charity case. Maybe he’d somehow managed to stick his boot in her door before it closed. Maybe he had a chance.

* * *

Two hours later, Stead hurled his bull rope into his gear bag. “Goddamn, I’m about to drown in my own sweat.” He jerked off his riding glove and dug for the start of the tape on his fingers.

“You had the worst draw in the finals. You’ll get the next one, Partner.” Ace propped one foot on the pole fence, unbuckling a spur.

I won’t. There’s the problem, right there. The bull wasn’t bad. In fact, he was good. Maybe great. And Stead had about as much chance of riding him as he did riding the wind. His reflexes were almost as good as they used to be—and he wasn’t a top ten bull rider then.

Disappointment burned at the back of his throat, failure, in the lining of his chest. He knew he couldn’t ride forever, but it had been in the far-off Hazy Future. Now that the future had faded to black, he realized that he’d never seriously looked down the road to plan B—he’d been too busy chasing women and drowning what few brain cells he had in beer. A chasm of What Next opened under his boot heels.

Despite the burn, he reached over and smacked Ace on the back. “Damned fine ridin’, Dude. That purse is gonna buy a lot of gas to get us down the road.”

“Screw that. First, it’s gonna buy me a bunch of beers tonight.” He tossed the spur in his bag, and started on the other. “Come to the bar. I’ll even buy you a couple.”

“I’ll probably see you there. Gotta collect a lady on the way.”

Ace swiped at his sweaty neck. “Yeah, from what I saw of that kiss, I’m not betting on ya’all making the bar.”

“Can I help it if I’m irresistible?” He ducked as the spur flew by his ear. “You finish throwing things. I’ve gotta go get a date for the evening.” He smacked his jeans to loosen some arena dirt.

“I’ll pick up one at the bar. This should help.” Ace held up the champion buckle he’d just won and it flashed in the lights.

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. A better athlete, yes, but not a nicer guy.” He trotted off while Ace looked for something else to throw.

He walked through dark, only occasionally broken by circles from pole lamps, passing contestants and stockmen, horses and kids.

“That kid that heels with Casey Jürgen is damn handy with a rope.”

“Did you see how he stopped?”

“Yeah, he really buried his butt.”

“. . . Mom said you have to give it to me. Hand it over, you little weasel.”

The smell of hot dogs, hot dust and animals mingled to make the rare, expensive perfume called rodeo.

God, he loved it.

God, he was going to miss it.

God only knew how he’d live without it.

“Not going there now,” he muttered, seeing the spotlight he sought ahead. The one with the Taylor-Made truck smack in the middle of it.

Worries whisked away as he strode into the light and stepped up to the side of the serving window. A grannie with a cloud of white hair, wearing plaid and denim stood beside him, waiting.

“Here you go, Miz Paredes. You be sure and tell Martha hey for me, now.”

“Will do, Harp. And you tell your Daddy how much I enjoy his meat.”

Stead’s snort of laughter earned a glare from Harper.

The oblivious old lady wandered off, hands full of food.

“Hey pretty one, let’s go out tonight.”

She blew a damp curl off her forehead. “Can’t you see? I’ve got customers here.”

“Oh.” He checked over his shoulder at the three people in line. “Okay.” He walked to the back of the line, and in minutes he stood at the counter once more.

Harper looked adorable; a red kerchief covering her hair, flushed from the heat of the grill, a stained apron over her jeans. She stood pen in one hand, pad in the other. “What can I get you?”

“Come, go out with me. We’ll discuss the rest, later.” He winked.

Her face didn’t change. No, that’s not true. . . the skin around her eyes tightened, and a muscle flexed in her jaw. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I mean later. Come on, don’t you want to put on something pretty and go dancing?”

Her eyes darted right, then left, maybe checking to be sure her dad wasn’t nearby.

That’s okay, Stead owed him an apology too.

“Meet me out back.” She leaned back, “Hey, Melissa, take the window for me for a minute, willya?”

By the time he walked around the back, she was leaning against the trailer, hands behind her, looking jumpy as a fly-bit horse.

“What’s the matter? I’m not asking you to run away to the circus, only to go out dancing with me.” He held out his hands, palm up, to show his good intentions.

“You don’t have to. We’re going to do Rodeo on the Rez, we’re good.”

“Have to? You beat all, you know that?” He scratched at the sweat bead that rolled down his neck. “Come out with me. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t want to put on some bling and cut loose a little.” Her expression of misgiving was hardening like setting clay. Words piled into his mouth and he spilled them fast, just now realizing how much he wanted to be with her—to see her laugh—to see her happy. “I’ll bring you home before last call. And I won’t even have a beer, so you don’t have to worry about getting home safely. Hell, if you want, I’ll go find your daddy and ask his permission.”

Eyes down, she scuffed the dirt with the toe of her old boot. “I just think it’s better if we say goodbye here.”

“Goodbye? Why would you say goodbye?” A gut-bomb of panic went off. He was getting shut down. Getting shut out. “You can’t tell me that kiss didn’t mean something. It wouldn’t be goodbye anyway, because we’ll be working on the Rodeo together, and I’ll be back before then—”

“Stead, your acquaintance with the truth is pretty tenuous. Better not push it.” One side of her mouth curled in the saddest smile he’d ever seen. “Besides, I’ve got to work. The shop is a mess from the craziness this weekend. I promised my mom I’d clean, so she wouldn’t have to.” She pushed away from the side of the trailer.

“Okay, if that’s what you want.” It only took one step to put him in her personal space.

She looked up, startled.

“But this isn’t goodbye.” He lifted a silky curl that had escaped the bandana; leaning in close, he ran it between his fingers before tucking it behind her ear.

She froze, and he hesitated, his lips close enough to feel her rapid breath. All he’d need to do is tilt his head, and they’d be kissing.

But she didn’t waver, didn’t lean the fraction it would take to close the gap.

So he turned, shoved his hands in his front pockets and walked away, whistling.

She wasn’t getting rid of this cocklebur cowboy that easy.

* * *

After a quick shower, he ironed in his bluest blue jeans with a razor crease, and his black pearl snap dress shirt. Too heavy for this heat, but he was going to need all the good looking he could garner to persuade Harper. With a liberal splash of cologne, he was out the door and on the road. Luckily, Ace was riding to the bar with his buds, so the truck was available.

He ignored the speed limit and within ten minutes he was again at the door of Taylor-Made Catering. Harper stood at the back sink in shorts, a tank top, an apron and big yellow rubber gloves, waiting for a bucket to fill.

He knocked. She jumped and spun.

He gave her his sexiest smile and a thumbs-up.

Shaking her head, she walked to the door and unlocked it. “You’re harder to discourage than a two-year-old on the cookie aisle. What do you want? I know you didn’t come to help, dressed like that.”

“I’ve come to keep you company, then drive to you home to get a shower before we head out dancing.”

She looked him up and down then turned and walked to the back. “What part of goodbye didn’t you get?”

The dart found its target and he deflated. He gave her his little boy smile. The one that never failed him. “Aw, why you wanna be so mean, when I’m just trying to be sweet?” He lifted the bucket from the sink. “Where are we going with this?”

“Nowhere.” She pulled at the fingers of the gloves and tugged them off.

Her persistent stare told him she wasn’t talking about the bucket.

“Let’s just say you’re not my type, and let it go at that.”

The dart must have been poison-tipped because he started to burn. She wasn’t the only one who could take gloves off. “That’s not what you said last year. I was there, remember?”

From her rapidly pinking face, she did remember. She turned away. “Well, that was last year, okay?”

“No. It’s not okay, because you’re not telling the truth.” He put a hand on her arm. “That spark is still there. Hell, half the people at the rodeo saw it on the jumbotron tonight. Why are you denying it?”

“You’re one to preach about the truth. Just let it be, will you?” She shook off his hand and walked across the room to a metal door propped open with a chair.

This was his exit cue. In the old days, this is where he’d disappear in a cloud of dust, head to the bar to pick up the next girl. But that was a problem, because sometime during the weekend he’d realized that he didn’t want the next girl. Or the one after that.

He only wanted this feisty redhead who was good-hearted and proud and way, way too good for him.

Something wasn’t right here, and he wasn’t letting her drive him off like a stray until he knew why. He followed her. “So, you have no use for an uneducated bull rider?”

She spun at the door. “That must bother you, because you keep bringing it up. One of us obviously believes that, but I assure you, it’s not me.”

“Really? Then you want to explain why you’re, ‘come on’ one minute, and the frigid schoolmarm the next?”

“I owe you the same explanation that I got after you lit out of here last summer.” She stood in the doorway, jaw tight, arms crossed. “How does it feel to be on the other side?”

“It sucks. And I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” His voice was deep. As deep as the regret the words sprang from.

For just a moment, there was flicker of indecision in the turbulent sea in her eyes. Then she turned and walked into the room, throwing over her shoulder, “Yeah, well, go tell it to some buckle bunny.”

He realized the room must be a refrigerator, because when he stepped in cool air brushed his anger-flushed skin. Tiered rolling racks lined the walls, filled with dirty trays. Flanking the door were stainless counters. “Why don’t you tell me what this is really about?” She was acting like a Chihuahua he knew once. It’d growl and bare its teeth when it was . . . “You are afraid, aren’t you?”

If he hadn’t been watching close he’d have missed the waver in her fingers when she reached for a tray on a rack—the slightest hunch of her shoulder, as if the words hurt—the tiniest sound of indrawn breath. She rounded on him. “I don’t want you here. Are you so arrogant you can’t see that?”

The day’s frustrations, fuss and failures had worn on him. Her mulishness rubbed through his last thread of Zen. “Lady, if you can’t see what I’m trying to say . . . fuck it. You know what? I’m outta here.” He lashed out and kicked the chair holding the door. It skittered across the floor.

“No! Wait!” She lunged for the door, but the chair hit her thighs, slowing her.

The door fell closed.

He put his hand on the handle. “You give me a call when—” He pushed the handle down. It didn’t move. He rattled it.

He turned at her groan. She had her face in her hands.

It’s broken. I noticed it on Friday night, but I’ve been so busy, I forgot to tell Daddy.” She lifted her head. “It only opens from the outside.”