As we drive to the next town for my performance, I spend the entire trip staring at Sheila’s legs.

It’s not my fault. Way we’re positioned in the van that the higher-ups rent for this purpose, with half our possessions in the world jammed in around us, and some new driver kid I don’t recognize steering up front, I’m stuck directly across from Sheila.

Not that I’d want to be sitting anywhere else.

She shifts in her seat, uncrosses her legs and flips them one over the other. Her eyelids flutter in her sleep, and I tense, ready to rip my gaze from her if she notices me looking. The last two times she caught me staring, I earned a solid whack on the thigh with the magazine she’d been reading at the time.

Again, not that I’m complaining. I’d let this woman throw anything she wanted my way.

There’s something about her. Maybe it’s the fire in her baby blue eyes, or the way she clenches her jaw when she tells me what to do. Or maybe it’s just those miles-long legs, wrapped in jeans so tight I bet I could see her credit card numbers through her back pocket. It makes me want to peel those jeans off her body. Flip her over the backseat and spread those perfectly sculpted, curving thighs of hers, and fuck her until she screams my name.

I’m getting hard just thinking about it.

That’s been my whole afternoon so far. Fighting the desire that rages hot in my veins.

I think back to this morning. To her bleary, sleep-tousled expression as she glared at me over the rim of her coffee. The sharp tenor in her voice when she issued her commands.

No drinking.

No fighting.

No fucking.

But I could see it even then, behind her stern demeanor. The moment I stepped close to her, something flared in her eyes. Something tense, something she wants to repress.

Something I’m going to tease out of her no matter what it takes. Because deep down, I know Sheila wants me just as badly as I want her. I could see it written all over her face when I taunted her. I put a ring on your finger, Sheila Greyson, and then you and I can both do what we’re obviously itching to.

I was kidding, of course. But it would be a way around her damned rules. And not gonna lie—I could get used to waking up beside a woman like her every morning.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, my father’s near-to-last words still echo. The same way they did in the bar, when I was gazing up at her and fading out of consciousness, when the creep who’d been all over her punched me. Find a good woman, Dad told me. It’s all he ever wanted for me.

Could that be Sheila?

She shifts again, flutters her eyes a few times this time. I glance away just in time. She sits up and stretches with a yawn, before bending down to peer through the front window. “Almost there, Hank?”

“About another five minutes, Ms. Greyson,” the driver calls back.

“Perfect.” She stretches again, and it takes every ounce of self control I possess not to stare at the way her breasts pop under her tight little tank top, or trace my eyes along her curves to the gentle arch of her hips. Hips that I want to wrap my big hands around and yank onto my lap. God, I can just imagine the way her mouth would drop open in a moan as she straddled my lap, riding me hard and fast until—

“Ruckus.”

I get the feeling it’s not the first time she’s said my name. I yank my attention back to reality and grin. “Sheila darlin’?”

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “If you’re insisting on first names, then at least stick to just Sheila. Now, I want to go over your schedule for the night.”

“Rodeo starts at 8. I’ll clean up the field by about 9:30. Winner’s ceremony at 10, then I’m done for the night,” I recite. Same as every night. The organizers run a pretty tight ship with these events—except for the odd Sunday routine that lasts longer, it’s not a bad gig. Short and simple and sweet, whenever I win. Which is most of the time.

But Sheila’s shaking her head. “I’m not talking about the event itself, Ruckus. I want to know where you plan to be after it.”

I wiggle my eyebrows at her. “If you’re angling for me to take you back to my place, believe me, I would be more than happy to.”

She kicks my shin. “Your place is just a crappy a motel room like the one I’ll be staying in.”

“Your place it is, then,” I reply smoothly.

She speaks over me. “Where you won’t be going, is a bar.”

“Then I guess you’d better accompany me to ensure I behave.” I smirk.

She smirks right back, a dare flashing in her eyes. “Believe me, Ruckus. If I have to follow you home every night and chain you up in bed to ensure you behave, I will.”

“Promises, promises, sweetheart.” I lean closer, eyes locked on hers. I savor the way her breath hitches, the way, just for an instant, her gaze drops to my mouth, lips parted. Oh yeah. She’s definitely thinking about this as much as I am.

But a moment later she jerks backward, jaw set once more. “That’s settled then. You head straight home after the rodeo.”

“And you come with. Right.”

She ignores me. Flips open a clipboard and runs down a checklist. “And before the show begins, I’ve got you scheduled to attend a local AA meeting to talk about your recovery—”

“You what?” I sputter.

Her eyes flash, the humor only appearing just now.

I scowl. “That was a joke.”

“Don’t test me, though, or next town we hit, I really will put an event like that on your to-do list.” With that, the van pulls to a halt. Sheila slaps my knee in a friendly gesture as she pushes out of her seat to climb through the door. “See you in the stadium,” she calls over her shoulder.

I stare after her, still debating whether the view of that fine ass of hers bent over exiting the van is going to be worth all the hell this woman will clearly put me through.

* * *

The crowd erupts as the announcer calls my name for the fourth and final time tonight. It’s the grand finale, the main event. The moment all these screaming crowds have come to see.

The moment I lasso, climb onto and ride a bucking bull.

I burst out of the passageway into the stadium with both hands raised in the air, pumping my fists to work the crowd the way I always do. I hear screams, shouts, chants of my name. Ru-ckus, Ru-ckus, Ru-ckus. It echoes in my ears as I gallop across the field toward my target—the angry as hell bull on the far side of the stadium.

He’s wild, pumped up with fury by all the shouting and the noise in the stadium. One glance at me and he starts to charge my stallion, snorting as he races toward us. Some people in the crowd gasp. Others cheer louder. Hell, half the time I think they want me to fail. It does make a more interesting show that way, I suppose.

Sorry to disappoint.

I whip my lasso above my head and wait for the right moment. Until the steer is just close enough in his mad charge, eyes crazed with bloodlust. Only then do I let the rope fly, and tug my stallion’s reins slightly to get him to sidestep out of the bull’s path. The rope lands true, right around his neck, easy as a ring toss. He flies past me, still racing, his bulk making it difficult for him to cut and follow us as easily as my horse can dance out of his path.

At the same time as the bull flies past in a cloud of dust, I yank the rope tight, securing it around him, and loop that over the horn on the front of my stallion.

On his next pass, I leap off the horse and slap his ass. My horse speeds away across the field, which draws the rope around the steer tight. He stumbles, then leans back into his rope to try and tug my horse off-balance. But while he’s distracted with that, I leap onto him from the side and with a quick flash of my fingers, undo the knot binding the rope that held him.

He snorts out a huge breath, furious now that I’m on his back.

This combo event is highly unusual in the rodeo. I’m one of the only cowboys who performs it regularly, and for good reason. It’s dangerous from start to finish. Especially now that I’m on the back of this madder-than-hell bull, who will do anything to throw me off him and then stomp me senseless.

But I’ve done this show so many times I could do it in my sleep. There’s nothing that can throw me, not even this bull, as he rears up onto his hind legs and leaps forward with a vicious back kick.

Nothing… Except when I glance up and catch a glimpse of a woman in the front row of the stands. I didn’t notice her standing there before. I figured she’d skip the show—Frank always did. Why watch the show when it’s just the same thing every night on repeat, manager or no?

But there she is. Smack dab in the front row, hands over her mouth, eyes huge as dinner plates as she watches me work.

Sheila Greyson. The girl who’s been stuck in my head ever since the moment she strode into the bar where I was drinking myself senseless. Before I even knew who she was, I sensed the connection between us. Like I’m this angry bull, only she’s the one pulling my strings this time.

Speaking of the bull.

I’ve let my attention wander. Only for a millisecond, but on the field, in the middle of a tense part of the show like this, that’s a millisecond too long.

The steer bucks again, and this time I’m not ready for it. Off-balance, I go flying—not off to the side the way I’m trained, either. I fly straight forward, over his head. I feel a stabbing, searing pain in my thigh as one of his razor-sharp horns grazes my thigh on my way over. I’ve got jeans on, thick ones, but that definitely felt like it found its way through the fabric.

Then I’m distracted from the pain in my leg by the pain of the dirt field hitting me smack in the face. I skid across the pitch, dust and debris all stuck up my nose and in my teeth as I scowl through the fall. My whole head rattles, and every bone in my body feels limp. But I hear screams in the audience, shouts for help from the trainers and emergency responders right down on the field near me, and I know I can’t just lie here.

Not when that bull is about to come down on my head.

I have just enough energy left in me to roll to the side. Not a second too soon, either, as a hoof crashes down onto the spot where I’d been just seconds before. I shove up to one knee, gasping for air. I don’t have strength to go much farther. One more hit and the bull will be on me. From the corner of my eyes, I spy the trainers racing for me, several of them whipping lassos overhead. But they’re too far away. The bull is right here, right on top of me, and he’s about to either spear me through with those vicious horns or stomp me into oblivion.

I take a deep breath, trying to make my peace with God, when I hear it.

A voice.

Her voice.

“Hey! Over here, you big ugly brute!”

Sheila, no.

I power through the screaming pain in my body from the fall I just took and whip my head up. Sure enough, on the far side of the field, there’s Sheila—having hopped the front row stand in which she stood and whipped off the jacket she was wearing. She holds it out at her side now like a matador, waving it like crazy.

A lot of people think that in bull fights, you use a red flag to piss off the bull. But that’s horse shit. Bulls are color blind. The red is for the audience’s benefit. All you really need is something rippling, making a lot of movement, catching their eye. Shouting helps too. Both of which Sheila appears to know, as she whips her jean jacket at her side, shouting more insults at the beast.

He turns toward her, snorting out his fury. I watch her eyes go wide, realizing what she’s done, and I shove myself up to both knees now, ready to dive in front of the bull, intervene.

But it’s too late.

He charges. Straight toward Sheila.

“No!” The scream that escapes my mouth doesn’t sound like me at all. Hell, it doesn’t even sound human. It sounds crazed, as wild as the bull. I stagger upright and try to chase after the monster, knowing it’s fruitless—there’s nothing between Sheila and this animal but thin air.

But somehow, as the beast charges straight for her, Sheila just keeps whipping her jacket, jaw set and eyes determined. At the last second, she lets go of the jacket, and the bull head butts the denim, ripping straight through the fabric. He skids to a halt then, snorting and tossing his head as he struggles to throw the denim off his face.

At that moment, the trainers finally catch up and loop lassos around his head from either side, pinning him in place. Sheila ducks out of their way as more trainers arrive to lasso his hind legs next and draw him from the stage. The moment she’s free of the storm, she rushes toward me.

By that point, I’ve finally made it back to my feet, though I’m breathing hard. And… shit. I glance down at my thigh and find a deep gash there, welling blood. He got me good when I flew over his head.

Sheila reaches me at the same time as the medics. “Ruckus!” she shouts, and before either of us say anything else, she flings her arms around me. “Are you okay?” she mumbles into my shirt. I try not to think too hard about the sensation as her mouth moves against the fabric of the jacket, right against my skin. It does painful things to my jeans, making them tighten and strain at the crotch.

I tug her closer to me, savor the firm press of her solid little body. “Me?” I ask, half laughing. “What about you? Are you crazy?”

“He was going to kill you,” she protests, then, jerking back a little to peer up at me. “What was I supposed to do, just watch?”

“Cover your eyes. Not leap into the field of battle completely untrained.” I scowl down at her. “You could have gotten killed doing what you just did.”

“Did I look completely untrained to you?” she fires back, lifting her jaw. “I’ve been working in the rodeo ring for years now. I know bulls are dangerous.”

“Knowing they’re dangerous from watching shows and actually facing one in the ring are two very different things,” I point out. “Next time something like that happens, you let me face it alone. I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

“Yeah?” She narrows her eyes. “Well I don’t want to find a new job, which I’d have to do if you went and got yourself killed performing. What’s it matter to you if I get my hands dirty anyway?”

“There’s getting your hands dirty and then there’s getting yourself killed for me. I can’t let anyone do that. Not for a guy like me. Not even my future wife.” I mean it as a joke, though it comes out too serious after the rest of the tirade. We both freeze, eyes locked, our mouths a breath apart. I’m gazing down at her, and only then do I remember her arms are still around me, our chests both rising and falling fast as we try to catch our breaths. From the argument. From the warm press of her body against my side, molded perfectly against me, her soft curves sinking into my hardened muscles.

My throat hitches and I know I should push her away. Know it, and yet, my arms refuse to obey. In fact, they only clutch her tighter.

“Ruckus…” Sheila murmurs.

Then one of the field hands clears his throat, loudly. “Um, excuse me, Mr. Ruckus sir, but, uh, you’re still… bleeding.”

We both step back, startled out of it. I glance down to find the red stain spreading down my jeans. Dammit.

“I’ll let you boys take it from here,” Sheila tells the field hand and the medic beside him who’s clutching an oversized emergency kit and clearly stifling a laugh with difficulty. Sheila’s face is bright red. I wonder if mine is any better.

She scurries from the field and I let the medical team take over, though I can’t stop my mind from replaying the sensation of holding her in my arms.

* * *

“How are you doing?” Sheila asks, hesitant. She’s paused at the doorway of the medical center where the staff brought me after bandaging my leg. The on-site doctor just finished giving me stitches, which I can feel tugging at the seams whenever I shift my balance on the table.

“Not great,” I admit. “Though I’ve been worse.” Also true.

She laughs at that, but it’s weak. Half-hearted. The smile drops from her face as she enters the room, checks behind her, and gently eases the door shut.

“Having second thoughts about coming home with me tonight?” I tease her. “Offer’s still open.”

She scowls, but unless I’m much mistaken, I catch the corner of a grin before she straightens her facial expression. “Listen, Ruckus, about earlier. I’ve been thinking about what you said on the field…”

“And you’ve come to the conclusion that I was right, it’d be an awful shame for a woman like you to waste her life trying to save an asshole like me? Good.” I grin wider.

She sits on the edge of the bed where my leg is propped up. Her gaze darts to my chest. The medic left my shirt open after taking my vitals, and I didn’t bother buttoning it again, hot as it gets in this medical wing. Now I’m glad I didn’t, if it makes her stare at me like this.

But then I realize where her eyes are focused. On the tattoo in the center of the chest. The stallion rearing over my heart, and below, down under my pec, the mare and foal both watching him in the distance. A perfect little family. The one my dad always dreamed about. The one he had, albeit briefly, until my mom passed away way too young. Then I was all that was left of his perfect life.

And he was all that was left of mine.

“You are worth saving, you know,” she says, in a voice softer than I’ve ever heard from her.

Whatever I expected, whatever kind of lecture, it wasn’t this. My eyes widen. Lock on hers as she crosses toward me. Even in the stale fluorescent lighting, she’s gorgeous. The kind of woman you could spend your whole life looking at and never get tired of it.

“What’s your tattoo mean?” she asks. She reaches out, tentative, but I nod, and she traces her fingertips along the arch of the stallion’s back. She barely touches me, just the very tip of her finger, and yet I swear no woman has ever set me on fire with so little before. It sends a flare through my veins, makes me want to pull her against me, flip her over so she’s under me on this table, and run my hands over her the same way. I want to touch every inch of her, feel her soft skin under mine, her smooth curves as they melt into me. I want to spread her legs and press between them, feel her hips grind against mine, as my hard cock traces up her inner thigh…

Her hand drops, and with it, I try to force myself to focus. To ignore the aching throb in my jeans where my cock is already getting hard, wanting to take her the way I imagined.

I clear my throat once, hard, to distract myself. What did she ask? Right. Tattoo. I grimace and glance down at the dark ink on my bare chest. “I got it after my father passed away,” I say. When I lift my eyes to hers again, they’ve widened. I hold her gaze this time when I talk. “Family meant everything to him. He always wanted me to have a family, like he had—a family he cared about more than anything. I got this to remind me of that. To remind me what my father wished for me.”

She steps closer. Without thinking, I stand from the table. The blood rushes to my head, from the wound on my leg—or maybe just from her. Her proximity, her scent which is overwhelming in this small space. She smells like leather and spice and underneath it all, something softer, sweeter, like a hint of vanilla. It makes me want to taste her.

I reach up to brush a strand of stray hair behind her ear. Her eyes fixate on me, wide, her lips parted as her breath hitches. It’s no good. I can’t resist her any longer.

I don’t want to, anyway.

I lean down and crush my mouth to hers. Her lips part under me, soft and pliable, and when I invade her mouth with my tongue, hers swirls around mine, matching my motions. She tilts her head, and I cup her cheek, run my hand around to the back of her neck, down her neck to her shoulder blades. I wrap my other arm around her waist and crush her against me, the way I imagined doing so many times since I met her. But the real deal blows any of those fantasies away.

She feels right. Her soft curves fit exactly against the hard planes of my chest, my stomach. When she arches her back and pulls just far away enough from our kiss to gasp for air, I can feel the shudder of desire that passes through her whole body—the way she lifts a leg to wrap around my waist, and for a second, my rock-hard cock grazes her inner thigh, and all I see is white hot lust. I want her. I need her.

Right. Now.

Then she pushes back, both hands against my chest, and twists away from me.

I let go, not without a pang that travels all the way through my body, an ache, a hole that until just a minute ago I didn’t even know existed. A hole she fills, perfectly.

“I can’t do this, Ruckus, I’m sorry,” she’s saying, her voice so fast it sounds like her words are tripping over one another. “This goes against my own rules, personal and business alike. I don’t blend the two, not ever.” When her eyes find mine again, they’re hardened now, a steely reserve behind them that I’ve seen in her before. It’s one of the things I admire most about her. How dedicated she stays to her causes. How sure she is of doing the right thing.

I respect it, even though right now, I wish to hell she’d let it go for once.

“I was hired to do a job,” she says, lifting her chin higher, shoulders straight. “I’m not going to fail at it. I never fail.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I say, and I try not to let the disappointment, the ache of desire show on my face. Not even when she turns to go.

“I’ll find the doctor,” she calls over her shoulder. “Send him to check on you.”

I sink back against the table. My leg throbs worse than ever, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest. This woman just might be the weak spot I never knew I had.