Val’s seat was in an upper section, but the screens at either end of the arena gave her a close-up view of the action. Despite her resolve, she found herself scanning the nearest screen and the arena below for one face, one familiar set of broad shoulders, one man with an easy, confident way of moving. The first rider was mounting his bull in the chute before her eyes found him, poised for action near the gate, his face shadowed by the straw hat he wore.
Her breath caught at the sight of him. She hadn’t seen Casey in more than nine years. But she’d thought of him far more often than she’d wanted to. A woman never forgot her first love, especially when that first love was Casey Bozeman.
In the bad times—and there’d been plenty of those—the memory of his strong arms had been there, supporting and tormenting her, and she’d shed tears because she knew that no matter what happened, she could never go back to him again.
Especially not now.
The gate swung open and a hulking, tan monster of a bull with a wide rack of horns exploded into the arena. The rider lasted barely three seconds before a twisting leap sent him flying off into the dirt. He landed clear of the pounding hooves. But he was hurt, and the bull wasn’t finished with him. Turning, the beast lowered its head to do more damage.
The bullfighting team was already in action. Casey flung himself between the bull and the downed rider, grabbing the horns and taking the hit while one teammate dragged the rider out of the way. The second man diverted the bull in time to keep Casey from being shoved backward and crushed.
While the crowd cheered, Val closed her eyes and forced herself to take deep breaths. Acts of courage like this one were what fans had come to see. But watching Casey flirt with death only served as a bittersweet reminder of what the years had cost her.
Why had she let her sisters talk her into coming here? She could have stayed home in Arizona and spared herself the pain of memories that should have stayed buried.
It was all she could do to keep from bolting out of her seat, plunging down the aisle, and fleeing into the cool night. But she’d promised her family she would stay and see Whirlwind buck. And given the unseen threat, rushing outside would be the most foolhardy thing she could do. She had little choice except to stay and watch.
Of the thirty-five riders who’d qualified for the finals, there were seventeen left to ride in this round. At the end of the night, those with lower scores would be eliminated from competition. Tomorrow another round would begin with the riders who remained. The stakes, in terms of prize money and prestige, couldn’t be higher—for the bulls as well as for the riders.
With the rides happening in rapid succession, the time passed swiftly. Typically, the higher-ranked riders were saved for later in the event. Val already knew that Whirlwind would be bucking last, but she’d lost track of the count.
Her seat in the upper stands gave her an eagle’s-eye view into the bucking chutes. Now she could make out Tess, in the Kelly-green shirt she wore for luck moving behind the complex of gates and passageways that connected the chutes to the pens. Val’s interest quickened. If Tess was there, it had to mean that Whirlwind was about to buck.
* * *
Tess leaned over the top rail of the narrow holding pen to attach the flank strap in front of Whirlwind’s hindquarters. Made of soft cotton, it provided enough pressure to make the bull want to kick higher. Some critics of bull riding claimed that the strap constricted the bull’s testicles, causing pain. There was no truth to that. But the thin strap was slightly uncomfortable. It wasn’t attached until the bull was ready to go into the chute. And it was taken off as soon as the bull left the arena.
It was common custom for the stock contractor to attach and remove the strap. But getting it around the bull, which involved dropping it down one side of the narrow pen, catching it with a hook, and pulling it up the other side, was a challenge to manage alone. Tess was struggling when she heard a familiar voice.
“How about I give you a hand?”
Tess’s heart skipped. The speaker was Clay Rafferty, the PBR livestock director Shane had interviewed that morning. Close to sixty, and heavier than he’d been in his bull riding days, he was an easygoing man with friendly blue eyes. Tess had been introduced to him by Shane after the interview. She was still starstruck.
With expert skill he hooked the end of the strap Tess had dropped, pulled it up, and passed it across Whirlwind’s back for her to tie. “Nice bull you’ve got there,” he said. “He’s smart. I like smart. And that’s an impressive buck-off streak he’s got.”
“I know he’s got talent and heart,” Tess said. “But I’ve seen the other bulls here, and I’m familiar with their pedigrees. Some of them are sons and grandsons of legendary bulls like Bushwacker and Asteroid. Compared to them, my bulls are just mutts.”
“Don’t sell your bulls short. When that gate swings open and a bull comes rocketing out of the chute, it doesn’t matter what his pedigree is. All that matters is how hard he can buck.”
“Thanks for that,” Tess said. “I’m really hoping he’ll buck off R.J. McClintock tonight.”
“That would be fine,” Rafferty said. “But let me offer you a word of wisdom. At the end of the night, nobody remembers one more buck-off. What you want is for this bull to give R.J. a ninety-point ride. That’s what’ll get Whirlwind noticed and give him the points to move up in the rankings.”
“Thank you. I just wish you could make Whirlwind understand that.”
Rafferty grinned. “I know. Like any bull, he’ll do whatever the hell he wants. And your other bull will do the same. I’m anxious to see him buck with a world-class rider.” He tipped his weathered Stetson. “Good luck out there.”
Tess gazed after him as he walked away. Had he meant that Whiplash would get his chance in the arena?
But Tess had little time to think about that. Whirlwind was lunging against the gate of the holding pen as the chute boss ordered him moved forward to chute number three.
Tess mounted the metal stairs to the platform above the chutes. Standing there, looking down into the chute, was R.J. McClintock. Dark, lean, and as tough as barbed wire, he chose to wear a broad-brimmed black hat instead of a helmet. His thin, bony face was a study in concentration. But when he sensed Tess behind him, he turned and gave her a nod and an easy smile. He was a living legend, his body a mass of scars and metal. Each new injury threatened to end his career. But he continued to ride as if there were no tomorrow.
There were two rides ahead of him—both buck-offs, over fast, with no score for the riders. Tess’s heart crept into her throat as McClintock shoved his mouthpiece between his teeth, checked his glove, and moved between the bars above the chute. As the announcer blared out his name and the name of the bull, he lowered himself onto Whirlwind’s back.
* * *
Casey planted himself a few yards clear of the gate and waited while McClintock rubbed the rosined surface of his bull rope, thrust his glove into the handle, and wrapped the rope tight. This was the moment the Champion family had lived for—the most famous rider in the world on their bull. Casey could only wish them—and Whirlwind—the best.
As McClintock made the final adjustments and moved forward over his hand, Casey forced himself to focus. Whirlwind was an easygoing bull who usually went right out the exit gate, but anything could happen, and he needed to be ready.