Prologue

The instant Grace McKenna stepped into the barbecue joint, she was attacked from behind. She squealed in surprise as strong male arms hoisted her off her feet and swung her in full circle.

“Grace!” Hank Brookman dropped her onto her feet and spun her around, and as always, her heart stumbled at the sight of his laughing face. “You’re back! I was starting to think you were gonna spend the whole Christmas break at school.”

“I had to work until yesterday.” One of three part-time jobs that were putting her through college.

Hank thrust her out to arms’ length, his brown eyes dancing as they took her in, head to toe. “What’s up with the dress? I thought you were throwing them all out when you turned eighteen.”

“I have a luncheon with my mom at the church.” And she really didn’t want Hank to see her in this dull gray dress and sensible shoes, but when she’d spotted his pickup outside the Smoke Shack, she’d reluctantly decided it was better to see him like this than not at all. “I’m changing into jeans the minute we get home.”

“Aw. I sorta miss my little red-haired girl.”

“My hair isn’t red,” she pointed out yet again. And now that she wasn’t living in her parents’ house, she no longer had to follow their dress code, except for church on the rare Sundays she got caught at home.

He tweaked one of her rusty-brown curls. “Close enough. And you’ve still got those cute freckles.”

Cute! Gah.

But then he grinned at her again and all was forgiven, as it had been from the first time he’d flashed that smile at her in the fourth grade. Behind the mischief there was true warmth, and a sweetness that had saved him time and again from the consequences of his failure to think first.

“Order’s ready, Hank!” the blond boy behind the counter called out. Then Hank’s best friend spotted her. “Hi, Grace. How’s it going?”

“Hey, Korby.” Unlike some, he’d been friendly to the weird, nerdy girl whose family had moved into Earnest when they were all ten years old, and nowadays when their paths crossed on campus, he always said hello. Then again, Korby was the human equivalent of golden Labrador puppy—he knew no strangers. “Do you have time for a Coke?” Grace asked, turning back to Hank.

“Not right now.” Hank grabbed the large, fragrant bag, topping a grimace with an eye roll. “Dad’s got his shorts all in a twist because the vet’s coming to Bangs vaccinate our heifers and Mom decided she didn’t feel like cooking—or helping out at the corral. Melanie’s working this weekend, so it’s just me and the old man.” He slapped his butt with his free hand. “Get a good look at this ass now, because it’ll be chewed off by the end of the day.”

Grace never quite knew what to say to his not-quite-joking comments about his family. Sorry your parents suck, but at least your sister is cool? Though never around since Melanie had graduated from college and gotten a job in Amarillo.

“Forget that.” Hank’s eyes lit up again. “I’m so glad I saw you. Can you sneak away tomorrow afternoon and come to the Holiday Bull Bash in Goodwell? Jacobs Livestock is the contractor and I am one of the bullfighters!” He practically vibrated in place. “It’s gonna be my first event with pro cowboys and the A-string bulls. I could use some moral support.”

“The money goes to support their rodeo team,” Korby added. “They have a pig roast and live music afterward, and all the alumni will be there signing autographs.”

Whoa. That was a fistful of world champions, including the legendary Etbauer brothers. No wonder Hank was excited.

He grabbed one of her hands. “See? You’ve gotta come and watch.”

Grace’s pulse did a crazy jitterbug. For nine years she’d sat next to Hank in class and across from him at lunch, forbidden to date anyone let alone that wild Brookman boy. Now finally, finally, she was out from under her father’s thumb and not only could Hank invite her to a rodeo, she could say yes!

“I’ll be there,” she said.

Even if she had to steal her mother’s car.

* * *

In the end, Grace worked up the nerve to ask for the keys—after her father had left to help build props for the church nativity play. Her mother fussed about Grace going alone, but relented when she pointed out that it was an afternoon event and Goodwell was only an hour away.

She’d call later with an excuse to stay for the party—and deal with her father when she got home. After she’d had the time of her life.

As she walked into the indoor arena, Grace smoothed nervous hands over her hips, sure everyone in the place was staring at the rhinestones on the back pockets of the jeans she’d changed into at a convenience store along the way. The bling on her butt would have been too much for her mother.

She’d topped them with an emerald-colored Cowgirl Tuff hoodie that brought out the green in her hazel eyes, and had layered on more makeup after leaving the house. With the low-heeled roper boots she’d acquired along with her second job—cleaning stalls and exercising horses for a trainer outside of Canyon—she felt almost like a real cowgirl.

But when she spotted a cluster of her former classmates in the bleachers, she didn’t have the guts to join them. They were the coolest of the cool in tiny Earnest, Texas, the rodeo kids who’d been competing since they were old enough to sit alone on a horse.

Girls who grew into women like Violet Jacobs, who sat horseback in the arena in full pickup rider gear, next to her cousin Cole. Jacobs Livestock had been putting on rodeos in the Panhandle since the nineteen-fifties, and Violet Jacobs, Melanie Brookman, and Shawnee Pickett had won a national intercollegiate rodeo team championship together. Since Melanie and Violet were the definition of BFFs and usually had Hank tagging along behind, he’d all but grown up on the Jacobs ranch.

Grace would need a lot more than flashy jeans and a pair of boots to be part of that crowd—unless she was with Hank.

The thought bubbled like champagne on her tongue, making her want to giggle.

Searching the bleachers, she located an empty space next to a gray-haired couple. “Is this seat taken?”

It was not. The woman welcomed her to sit down, while her husband gave a stiff nod. “Don’t tell me a pretty young thing like you is here all alone?” the wife asked.

“I came to watch a friend,” Grace said with a twinge of pride.

“Oh?” The woman glanced at her program. “Which one?”

“The bullfighter. Hank Brookman.”

“Then you must know my grandson Korby. He’s riding tonight.”

Of course he would be. For a guy who took laid-back to a whole new level, Korby was a surprisingly tough bull rider.

“Oh, look! There’s Hank.” Korby’s grandmother waved as Hank came through a pass gate beside the chutes. Grace’s heart gave another little flip. Wow. She’d never seen him in full rodeo gear—soccer-style jersey and shorts, cleats, and cowboy hat. He looked so…real. Not just the kid she’d gone to school with, but a real pro.

The wave caught his attention and he trotted over, grinning. “Grace! You made it!”

Before she could answer, Cole Jacobs barked his name. “Gotta go,” Hank said. “But meet me back behind the chutes when we’re done, okay?”

Then he was off to work his way along the front of the chutes, helping riders set their ropes. Like when he’d stepped onto the football field or basketball court, he moved with an easy, infectious energy. Watching him, Grace could barely sit still.

They stood for the singing of the national anthem, and then Hank took his position in the arena, jogging in place a dozen yards out into the arena and off to the side of chute number one. His partner, an older man named Red, stood stocky and resolute on the opposite side.

The cowboy nodded, the chute gate swung wide, and the first bull launched into the arena. Grace didn’t even have time to suck in a breath before the rider flew in the air and the bull jogged away without a second glance. Hank picked up the rope that had been dragged free by the weight of the cowbell and handed it to the cowboy, who let it trail dejectedly in the dirt as he limped out of the arena.

Well, that was anticlimactic.

Grace eased off the edge of her seat as one cowboy after another bit the dirt without giving the bulls much of a run for their money. Then her seatmate clutched her arm. “Here’s Korby.”

There was a subtle shift in the energy in the arena, spectators craning forward in their seats, the cowboys on the back of the chutes jockeying for a good viewpoint.

“This should be a great match-up,” the announcer declared. “Dirt Eater is a young bull from Jacobs Livestock that had an impressive rookie year, and he’s getting stronger all the time. This cowboy is going to have his hands full.”

Hank paced in a circle, and Grace could practically see his nerves vibrating from clear up in the stands. He came set, knees flexed and hands on thighs, as Korby scooted his hips up onto his rope and nodded.

The silver-and-black bull took two long, high jumps, then cranked into a spin with Korby squarely in the middle of his back. The roar of crowd swelled, second by endless second. Then Dirt Eater gathered to heave himself straight into the air, his body nearly vertical as he came down, front hooves driving into the ground. Korby reared back to avoid being flung onto the bull’s blunt, curved horns, and Dirt Eater took advantage, his hindquarters whipping left to sling the cowboy off the side.

Korby fought to recover his balance, but slid farther down with the next powerful lunge. One more jump yanked his hand from the rope and dropped him right under the bull’s belly. The entire crowd gasped as a massive hoof slammed down a mere inch from Korby’s helmeted face.

In a flash, Hank was at Dirt Eater’s head, swatting at his nose and yelling to draw him away as Korby scrambled for the fence on hands and knees. For an instant it looked as if the bull had him dead to rights. Then Hank yelled again and the bull charged him, practically blowing snot up the back of Hank’s jersey as he sprinted toward the exit gate. Just inside the alley, he leapt onto the fence and tumbled over, assisted by the horn Dirt Eater hooked under his leg, tossing him like a rag doll into a crowd of cowboys before sauntering off to the catch pen.

He disappeared from sight, screened by a wall of bodies. Grace stood along with everyone else, holding her breath as she strained to see through the crowd. Had that horn done some damage? Or had he landed on his head or neck or…

Hank popped up, vaulted over the fence, and trotted out to the roar of the crowd, meeting Korby in the middle of the arena for a chest-bumping, back-slapping hug.

The grandfather spoke for the first time. “That Hank might be even better than Korby’s been telling us.”

Grace couldn’t help puffing up a little. That was her friend. And he’d invited her to be here for one of the biggest moments of his life—so far.

By the time the last bull bucked, Grace was as exhausted as if she’d been out there fighting them herself. Hank had had several more good saves and close calls, and as the arena cleared, cowboys paused to pump his hand and pound him on the shoulder in congratulations.

Grace hung back, saying goodbye to her new friends and waiting until most of the crowd had shuffled out before making her way to where Hank was packing away his gear. He’d stripped off his jersey and was ripping loose the Velcro that held his vest in place, leaving a damp T-shirt beneath.

When he saw Grace, he dropped the vest on top of his bag to give her a sweaty hug, lifting her off her feet with a whoop. “Hot damn! That was so awesome!”

“You were great.” She couldn’t have forced the smile off her face. “Everyone was really impressed.”

He threw back his head and laughed from sheer joy. “God! I could have kept going all day.” He grabbed her hand and twirled her in an impromptu dance. “Look at you, all cowgirled up. Nice jeans.”

“Thanks,” she said, breathless from his proximity and approval.

“Hey, Hank! You about ready to go?” Korby called from a few yards away, where he lounged against the fence with his arm draped over the shoulders of a girl with blond hair that hung in sleek waves to her shoulders. Another equally pretty dark-haired girl stood beside them, eyes narrowed at Grace.

“I’ve just gotta swing by the locker room to change.” Hank grabbed a manila envelope propped against his bag. “The photographer is printing out and selling pictures from tonight, and he gave me this one.” He held it up for her inspection—a classic shot of Hank eye to eye with Dirt Eater, his outstretched hand brushing the bull’s nose as Korby scrambled safely away. “Got a pen?”

“Uh, sure.” She dug into her bag and found a black Sharpie she’d used to make poster boards for one of her class projects.

“Perfect.” Hank propped his foot on the bottom fence rail and scribbled something on the photo, then held it and the pen out to her with a wide grin. “Merry Christmas, Grace.”

“Thank you.” Her stomach jittered with pleasure as she squinted to decipher his scribbles. To my little red-haired girl, from a future National Finals Bullfighter. Love, Hank.

Her heart tumbled, and it was all she could do not to clutch the picture to her not-so-impressive bosom. “This is great. My first autograph.”

“Mine too.” For an instant his smile dropped away, replaced by steely determination. “It’s not gonna be the last.”

“I’d better take really good care of this one. It’ll be worth a fortune someday.”

His eyes softened and he reached out to tug one of her curls. “Thanks, Grace. It means a lot, you being here. You’ve always been my good luck charm.”

“Hank!” Korby called again before Grace could reply. “We’re gonna die of old age here.”

Hank shoved his vest into the bag before slinging it over his shoulder. She’d taken a full step to follow him when he said, “Have a great night, Grace. See you at the Smoke Shack tomorrow?”

Grace lurched to a stop, unable at first to comprehend what was happening. But he’d said…he’d asked…

Oh.

He’d asked for nothing except for her to show up and cheer him on. As a friend. He hadn’t said, “Be my date, Grace.” Hell, he’d obviously already had a date. And he hadn’t even mentioned the party. That had been Korby. But Grace had been so pathetically eager, she’d led herself on.

So she had no one but herself to blame for the fistful of hurt and humiliation that slammed into her gut.

Hank was still looking at her, friendly and expectant, so she fumbled for some kind of response. “I…have church in the morning,” she stammered.

“So we’ll make it later. Two o’clock, okay? I can’t wait to hear all about the wild college life.” And with that he was gone, looping an arm around the brunette’s shoulders as he walked away.

Grace sat carefully on the bottom row of the bleachers as tremors rolled through her body. She was such a fool. As if all she had to do was change clothes and put on some makeup for Hank to notice she was more than good old Grace. When would she ever learn…

Not anytime soon, apparently. Once she’d choked down the rush of tears, she tucked the photo carefully back into the envelope instead of tossing it into the nearest trash can. And despite her vows to the contrary, at two o’clock the next afternoon, she would be walking up the worn wooden steps to the Smoke Shack.

Pathetic as it might be, she couldn’t stop settling for whatever tiny pieces of himself Hank wanted to give her. But as she gazed out over the empty arena, a new resolve stiffened her spine. Having the freedom to do what she pleased wasn’t enough. Real cowgirls—real women—like Violet Jacobs, Shawnee Pickett, and Melanie Brookman didn’t wait for championships to fall in their laps. They grabbed life by the scruff of the neck, gave it a shake, and told it exactly what they wanted.

From this point forward, Grace was going to be that kind of woman. And if she ever got a real shot at Hank, there would be no doubt in his mind that she was interested in more than his autograph.