Chapter 25

Shawnee had never resided on the continent of discretion, let alone in the same neighborhood. There’d never been a need. She didn’t do men who had reasons to sneak around, and by her reckoning, if she was embarrassed to be seen with a guy, why bother?

But that was before Cole.

All he had to do was give her one of those slow, deliberate looks and every cell in her body dissolved into slobbering lust. If he had actually touched her in the past three days, she probably would’ve torn his clothes off and taken him on the spot.

Except there’d always been at least one set of eyeballs observing every look and making note of every word that passed between them.

Honest to freaking hell, it was like trying to get laid at a church picnic, they had so many chaperones. On the travel days, when Mariah and Analise bunked with her and Tyrell and Hank shared Cole’s quarters, privacy was getting to pee without anyone listening. And since they’d arrived and set up camp, let’s see what Cole and Shawnee do had become the main form of entertainment. Hank had opted to stay in the truck again for fear he might miss something, even though it was his week to get the motel room. She’d even caught Cruz checking them out during what was threatening to become their weekly Tuesday night dinner. And Cruz never paid attention to anything but his rawhide projects until it was time to fight bulls.

Thank the Lord the rodeo had started tonight, and everyone finally had work to distract them.

The closest thing Cole and Shawnee had had to alone time was this very moment, sitting side-by-side in the arena, both staring at the bucking chutes and pretending they weren’t intensely aware of each other. Or that might just be her. Cole’s powers of concentration were legendary.

Then he turned his head, caught her gaze, and his eyes were hot blue smoke that went straight to her head when she sucked in a breath.

He smiled slightly and turned his attention back to the bucking chutes. Shawnee followed his example. She had to stay sharp. Tonight was a new experience for her. It was the first time she’d worked in an arena with a turn-back fence—a smaller U-shaped portable pen inside the larger arena, to keep the bull riding action close to the chute. It decreased the likelihood that a bull would decide to lope off into all that wide-open space instead of bucking. It was also better for the riders and the bullfighters, who didn’t get caught fifty yards from the nearest safe haven if a bull turned on them.

Shawnee hated it. They had set up the fence when they worked the stock that morning so she and the bulls could get a feel for it, but she still felt like a fish in a barrel—and they were about to release a shark. This Brahma-cross wasn’t named Master Assassin for nothing. But at least he didn’t have horns. Talk about your small blessings.

Tyrell’s voice poured out of the loudspeakers like satin. “This next bull rider is a rookie out of Camp Woody, Texas, who drew his first professional paycheck at the Los Fresnos rodeo back in February.”

“He may be young, but he’s got a world of experience behind him,” Ace chimed in, his easy tenor a nice counterpoint to Tyrell’s bass. “A lot of our fans may remember his uncle, Sterling, who dominated this circuit back in the late eighties, and made two trips to the National Finals Rodeo.”

In the nearby seats, Shawnee saw some of the older audience members nodding and sitting a little straighter, paying attention to a cowboy they might otherwise have overlooked. Deep in her chest, a tiny, warm bubble swelled. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it pride. More like not-embarrassment. For once Ace was making a contribution to something other than her stress levels.

As the cowboy lowered himself into the chute, Hank gestured to Cruz to move farther left, where he would be in position to help if the rider got into trouble but wouldn’t catch the bull’s eye and distract him out of his standard right-handed spin. Amazing. When Hank stepped into the arena, he was a different person. The goofy knucklehead disappeared and he was all business. Last year he’d ditched the soccer shorts and gone retro—baggy Wrangler cutoffs and suspenders with yellow and red bandanas tied like flags to the belt loops—worn today over a flowered fuchsia pearl-snap shirt.

The bulls couldn’t miss Hank, which was the point. His goal was to be a more attractive target than the cowboys. He stood now, hands on thighs, and shouted “Give ’im the gas!”

The rookie nodded his head. Master Assassin took one jump, then cranked it back to the right only feet from the chutes, just as advertised. The cowboy sat square in the middle of a storm of spinning, head-slinging beef, hips solid, chest out, feet hustling to keep him there. Six seconds. Seven. With each lunge the bull got him strung out a little farther, his chin coming up and his free arm whipping back over his head. Shawnee held her breath, willing the kid to hang on just a little longer…

Right when the eight-second whistle blew, his hand popped out of the rope. His feet flipped up and he flew backward, heels over head, just as Assassin kicked high and hard. His hips slammed into the kid’s shoulders and flung him into the front of a steel chute gate. He flopped to the ground, limp.

When the bull swung around, Cruz was there, stepping between the cowboy and the irate animal. Assassin caught him in the chest and tossed him against the chutes, too. Cruz bounced off and sprawled, belly down, shielding the cowboy with his body.

Shawnee spurred her horse into motion, a stride behind Cole, as Hank jumped at the bull, yelling and slapping its head. Assassin took the bait, charging after him. Hank sprinted along the front of the chutes and dove under the turn-back fence a whisker ahead of the pounding hooves.

“Lead him off!” Cole yelled at Shawnee. “I’ll get in behind and rope him.”

She and Salty sideswiped the enraged bull to get his attention and make themselves his next target. He wheeled around and charged after them. She hustled Salty to stay ahead while Cole reined in behind, rope swinging. Before he could release his loop, Assassin rammed his head into Salty’s butt, blocking the shot.

“Look out!” Cole shouted.

Shawnee glanced ahead. Fuck! They were already at the fence. Salty skidded, then whirled, but the instant’s hesitation was enough. The bull drove his head under the horse’s flank, lifted him off his feet, and threw him onto his side, so fast Shawnee barely had time to think oh shit before she slammed into the dirt. She tried to kick free of the tangle of bull and horse, but her heavy chaps were pinned under the saddle. For an instant, she saw nothing but the bull’s murderous eyes.

Then a flash of fuchsia cut through her field of vision. Hank leapt over Salty’s thrashing legs and threw himself at the bull’s face. Startled, Assassin jumped back and flung up his head, sending Hank hurtling through the air to crash into the turn-back fence. The distraction was just enough to allow Cole to whip a loop around the bull’s neck. He dallied up and Hammer dug in. Master Assassin bellowed with rage as they dragged him away. Committeemen yanked down a section of the flimsy turn-back fence, allowing Cole and the bull out into the bigger arena, clear of the wreckage Assassin had left behind.

Salty scrambled to his feet and shook off the dirt. Since she couldn’t feel any real damage, Shawnee did the same. Cowboys and committeemen came running from every direction, grabbing at her arms and trying to prop her up.

“I’m fine!” she snapped, swatting them off so she could get a look at her horse.

She grabbed the dangling bridle reins and led him a few steps. He showed no sign of a limp. She ran a hand along his ribs and over his flank, probing with her fingers. He didn’t flinch. There were no scrapes or signs of swelling. Shawnee dragged in a huge breath and let it out in a relieved gust.

Back at the chutes, the medical team was huddled around the cowboy. In response to their questions, he gestured with one dirt-streaked hand. At least conscious, then, and not seriously injured, judging by the body language of the medics. A few feet away, Hank paced circles, rubbing the back of his head and shaking out one leg.

“Anything broken?” she asked.

“The fence, maybe. It’s no match for my head. You?”

“We’re good.”

She shooed away the horde of rescuers and climbed on Salty. The crowd roared when Hank gave them an A-OK wave. Salty showed no sign of ill effects as they trotted through the gap in the fence, over to the far corner of the big arena where Cole and Hammer held Master Assassin, thrashing around on the end of the rope. Cole lifted his chin in question. Everybody all right? She nodded and circled around to help herd the bull toward the exit.

She didn’t start shaking until the gate swung shut behind him.

Cole’s hand closed over hers on the reins before she could turn away. “Are you both okay to finish out these last three rides?”

“We’re fine.” She met his gaze and saw, behind the stoic mask, eyes dark with the dregs of fear. “Thanks to you and Hank.”

And no thanks to Shawnee. Her mistake could’ve seriously injured or killed Salty.

“All in a day’s work, right?” She forced her shoulders to square and her chin to come up, and pushed a mulish look onto her face. She could do it. She had to, for the sake of pride if nothing else.

Cole studied her, long and hard, before giving a clipped nod and letting her go.

By the time the final whistle blew, Shawnee had breathed through the worst of the aftershocks. Lord knew, it wasn’t the first time she’d bit the dirt. It wouldn’t be the last. She’d just never stared mutilation in the face while she was lying there, helpless. As Tyrell bid the crowd a good night and safe travels, she dismounted and followed Cole out of the arena, only to be mobbed by people. Cowboys, crew, committeemen, even a few spectators slapped her on the shoulder and patted Salty on the rump.

One drunk tried to do the opposite.

He was shoved aside, and Shawnee found herself face-to-face with her father. He stared at her for a beat, then pushed his hat to the back of his head to swipe at his damp forehead with his shirtsleeve. “I swear, girl, it took ten years off my life, seeing that bull standing over you.”

Shawnee blinked. Had she ever seen Ace express an honest emotion? “Uh…well, it wasn’t real pretty from my angle, either.”

“I don’t imagine.” His arms came up, hesitated, and for a bizarre moment she thought he was going to hug her.

Then she was blindsided by a black-haired whirlwind. “Oh…my…GOD!” Mariah squealed. “I thought you were dead. Or at least maimed.”

“Not until now. If you’ll just let me—”

She started to peel the girl off, but Mariah abruptly let go to fling herself at Hank. “Are you okay? When you hit that fence—”

Oh good Lord. Shawnee allowed herself a small eye roll as she turned back to Ace.

He had disappeared…along with the fleeting connection between them.