Chapter 9

Shawnee wouldn’t mind never seeing another pink ribbon. And Tough Enough to Wear Pink days were bad enough without the dumb-ass T-shirts. Save the Tatas. Free breast exams while you wait. Whatever, asshole. Get your nuts smashed and irradiated every year and see if you still think it’s cute. Damned ungrateful for the girl most likely to benefit from money raised for breast cancer research, but as the therapist at the children’s hospital had told her, “Feelings are feelings—you don’t have to justify them.”

During cancer awareness events, what she felt was irritable. Tight. As if during one of the operations the doctors had implanted a steel band inside her rib cage that wouldn’t allow her to take a full breath. On good days, she could ignore it, just the slightest constriction that she’d grown so used to, she barely noticed anymore.

On the very worst days, it sucked down tight around her lungs, her heart, until she had to resort to her happy pills to relieve the pressure.

Luckily, this week’s rodeo committee had gone out of their way to provide her with a distraction. The Jacobs convoy had arrived to discover a stretch of fence along the front of the grandstand had been lowered to improve the view from shiny new VIP boxes. When Cole pointed out that it wasn’t high enough to stop a bronc or bull determined to jump, the president had responded with a patronizing smile. “Isn’t that why we have pickup men? To keep the stock under control?”

Shawnee and Hank had had to drag Cole away while Tyrell remained behind to be the voice of reason, for all the good that had done. Then the president had compounded the problem by giving them an extra helper—his round-assed moron of a son who was incredibly gifted at being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Even Tyrell’s powers of persuasion were no match for stupidity squared.

So for two performances Cole and Shawnee had been busting their butts, trying to take care of the cowboys while keeping one eye on the fence and trying not to mow down or strangle Idiot Jr. It was so exhausting they didn’t even have time to snipe at each other.

And now they were fixin’ to turn out a bull named for his inclination to make a break for freedom at the slightest opportunity.

“In chute number three,” Tyrell boomed, “National Finals bucking bull and son of Jacobs Livestock’s legendary Dirt Eater…meet Flight Risk!”

Cole shot Shawnee a warning look. She lifted her rope in response, to show him her loop was built and ready. Plan A was to get a rope on Flight Risk the instant the bull rider was clear. Plan B…

Things were gonna get western if they had to resort to Plan B.

The energy of the crowd built around her along with the beat of Foo Fighter’s Learn to Fly. Salty pricked his ears in anticipation, as if he recognized the song. Like all of Cole’s mounts, he was fast, strong, and knew where she wanted to go before she touched the reins. Cole might suck at people, but the man had a way with horses.

The cowboy nodded and Flight Risk fired out of the chute, a fifteen-hundred-pound missile launching into midair. His head whipped around to the left and his body followed; the sheer power ripped the cowboy’s hand out of the rope. He shot backward, ending up astride the bull’s butt. On the next jump, Flight Risk slung him skyward, but instead of sailing free, the cowboy was jerked down and slammed into the ground, one spur caught in the flank strap.

Hung up in the worst possible way.

Cruz threw his body on top of the cowboy in hopes that the extra weight would rip the spur free while Hank grabbed for the tail of the flank strap to yank the slip knot loose. As his hand closed around the rope, Flight Risk kicked high, picking Hank up and tossing him a dozen yards, right into Hammer’s path, forcing Cole to rein up hard. The flank strap and the cowboy came loose and Flight Risk broke into a gallop, headed straight for the luxury boxes.

Shawnee spurred after him. One, two, three swings and—

A horse cut in front of her. Son of a bitch. Ignoring Cole’s strict instructions to stay the hell out of the way, Idiot Jr. blundered straight into Shawnee’s path, shouting and waving. The bull all but rolled his eyes as he ducked around the moron. There was nothing Shawnee could do but watch as Flight Risk reached the fence, gathered himself, and leapt.

He landed in a narrow walkway between two of the VIP boxes, greeted by screams and flailing bodies. Flight Risk ignored them, focused on the tunnel that led under the grandstand and out to freedom—and the midway.

“Plan B!” Cole yelled.

He was already riding through a pass gate and into the stands. Shawnee was right on his tail. Hammer and Salty plowed through the chaos, impervious to dropped beers and flying nachos. When they clattered out the end of the tunnel, Flight Risk was twenty yards ahead, aimed straight for the line of shooting galleries and ring toss games. A mother grabbed her toddler and flung him over a low counter, face-first into the rubber duck pond, then dove in after him. A carny waved his oversized hammer in self-defense as the bull hooked a giant purple panda with one horn and flung it onto the lap of a bug-eyed girl on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Flight Risk dodged left between a cotton candy booth and a trailer peddling funnel cakes and deep-fried pickles. Cole followed. Shawnee stayed right so the bull couldn’t circle back. As they thundered past the mini donut truck, people scattered, shrieking and stumbling. Salty planted his fronts and swerved hard to dodge a stroller, knocking a candied apple out of a wide-eyed teenager’s hand.

“’Scuse us!” Shawnee called over her shoulder.

As they came even with the next gap between vendors, Shawnee saw Cole’s loop settle over the bull’s horns, then heard Hammer’s hooves scrabbling on the asphalt when Cole dallied up and attempted to bring the bull to a stop. As Flight Risk turned, Shawnee skidded around the shaved ice stand, took two swings, and laid her loop under his belly, snatching up both hind feet and whipping solid dallies around her saddle horn. Salty grunted but held as the bull stretched between the horses, teetered, then flopped onto his side a foot shy of a bouncy castle filled with squealing preschoolers.

Shawnee was blowing as hard as Salty. Ho-ly shit. That…was…so…awesome.

Cole didn’t look nearly as thrilled, eyeing the pandemonium in their wake, and the flock of morons with cell phones already creeping closer. “We’ll have to hold him until security clears these idiots out, then take him back to his pen and go ask that dickhead what he thinks of his fence now.” Then, of all things, he grinned, and her heart gave an odd little blippity-blip. “Nice loop, by the way.”

A warmth that had nothing to do with the heat rushed through her. It was just…okay, yeah, it meant more coming from Cole, not because she treasured his opinion, but because he was so stingy with his praise. That was all. Just a major ego stroke.

And maybe, just a little, that smile. Damn. She considered mentioning that if he broke it out a little more often, his wife hunt might go considerably better. But she’d had to earn it…and she didn’t want to share.

Uh-oh.

She couldn’t turn loose of Flight Risk and run, so she did the next best thing. She batted her eyes and leered at him. “See? I told you we’d be good together.”

But this time, Cole didn’t blush.

* * *

Cole wasn’t allowed anywhere near the committee president. Instead, when he and Shawnee rode out of the arena gate after herding Flight Risk back to his pen and finishing the last three rides of the rodeo, lights flared in his face.

A woman with a microphone blocked their escape route. “Cole Jacobs? We’re from Channel 5 News. We were out on the midway doing a feature on this year’s fair food and were lucky enough to catch the dramatic capture of your bucking bull on film. Can we have a few words with you and Miz Pickett?”

Cole didn’t drop many f-bombs, but…well, fuck. A news crew with footage of a Jacobs Livestock bull terrorizing women and children? And pointing their microphones at him? He could feel his brain grinding to a halt while he stared into the light like a paralyzed rabbit.

“Sure.” Shawnee eased Salty near enough to lean over and hiss words directly into his ear. “You nod your face and say, ‘We expressed our concern when we saw the fence had been lowered. You’ll have to direct any other questions regarding the safety of the facilities to the committee.’ I’ll handle the rest. Got it?”

He nodded, downshifting from outright terror to mild panic. He had his lines. He just had to spit them out at semiappropriate moments. God save them from whatever Shawnee blurted, but she couldn’t do worse than him.

The news lady positioned them side-by-side in front of their horses, then amped her smile up to a thousand watts as she turned to the camera. “Tonight’s rodeo offered some unexpected thrills when a bull called Flight Risk lived up to his name, escaping from the arena and onto the midway. Our cameras were on hand for the dramatic capture of the bull by Jacobs Livestock pickup riders Cole Jacobs and Shawnee Pickett. Thanks to their immediate response and impressive skills, what could have been a disastrous incident resulted in only a few minor scrapes and bruises.” She held the microphone up to Cole. “According to spectators, you didn’t hesitate to ride your horses through the grandstand tunnel. That split-second decision may have saved lives.”

Shawnee reached over and pulled the microphone down to her level. “Cole anticipated that if an animal jumped the fence it would go through the tunnel, so we practiced to be sure our horses could follow and asked the usher to be ready to open the gate for us.”

“Really?” An avid gleam lit the woman’s eyes. “You knew the arena might not be secure?”

Shawnee nudged Cole in the ribs. He started. That was his cue.

“We expressed our concern when we saw the fence had been lowered.” His face was as stiff as frozen mud. “You’ll have to direct any other questions regarding the safety of the facilities to the committee.”

“But if you—”

“As Cole said,” Shawnee cut in, “those are questions for the committee. If you don’t have any more for us…”

The reporter hesitated, as if debating whether to push the point, then plastered on another smile. “It was an impressive display of horsemanship and roping skills. Especially for a woman.”

Cole felt Shawnee stiffen, but her tone remained neutral. “Anyone willing to put in the time and effort could do the same.”

“But you aren’t just any woman. Your father, Ace Pickett, is a former world champion roper. He must have been a big help to you along the way. Not to mention having Cole’s expert guidance.”

Oh geezus. Shawnee went dead still, and Cole could feel her winding up. He had to say something before she blew.

“The most important thing is good horses,” he blurted, to fill the awkward pause. He reached back to rub Hammer’s ears. “These are the real heroes.”

“You train your own horses?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Cole is the best,” Shawnee declared. “One of these days, he and his horses will be picking up broncs at the National Finals.”

Cole shot her a surprised glance. She sounded so matter-of-fact, as if it was a given. Was she being sarcastic or trying to change the subject?

The news lady hit Cole and then Shawnee with a speculative look. “The two of you work extremely well together, almost like you read each other’s minds. Have you been partners for long?”

Oh shit. Oh shit. Here it comes. Cole braced himself for the explosion. To his shock, Shawnee threw an arm around his waist, leaned her head on his shoulder, and poured syrup all over her voice. “We’ve only been together for three weeks, but like I said… Cole is the best.”

Cole just stood there, stunned, his heart pounding so hard Shawnee must have been able to feel it. But somehow his arm found its way around Shawnee, and stayed there even after the news lady stepped away and turned to smile directly into the camera. “As we’ve said before, you can find almost anything at this year’s fair—including drama and a little romance. For Channel 5 News…”

The instant the light on the camera went off, Shawnee pushed away and grabbed the news lady by the arm, yanking her around so they were nose to nose. “Listen, sweetheart, you may have fucked the boss to get your job, but I earned mine, and I didn’t need my daddy’s name to do it. Don’t insult the entire female population by implying we can only get ahead if a man gives us a push.”

She spun on her heel and strode away. Salty had to break into a trot to keep up. The newswoman stood, red-faced and stuttering, as the camera crew chewed their lips to stifle their laughter. Cole closed his eyes and let his chin drop to his chest. Honest to God. The woman was unbelievable.

But in this case, he wasn’t sure he meant it in a bad way. The news lady had it coming. And the way Shawnee roped that bull…

An elbow nudged Cole’s arm and he looked up to find Tyrell grinning beside him. “Just guessing, but that interview might put a serious crimp in your wife search. Unless you and Shawnee—”

“Don’t even say it.” But he still felt the shape of her pressed up against him. And a sneaky little part of his mind was already working out how he could go about getting her there again. Oh hell. He really was losing his mind. But on the other hand…

He gazed off in the direction of the midway and gave an appreciative sigh. “You should’ve seen the loop she threw out there.”

Tyrell laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Eat your Wheaties, son. You’re gonna need ’em if you go after that.”