Rodeo Dreams. Sarah M. Anderson
“OKAY, HONEY, IF you can ride Ball and Chain, then you’re in.”
The fat man mopped his brow with a bandanna as he added, “But I’m not responsible for what happens out there, right?”
“Right.” June Spotted Elk fought an eye roll as Chain kicked the metal chute holding him tight.
“I’m just doing Dave a favor,” Mort went on as June reviewed her draw.
Ball and Chain was a small bull, only thirteen hundred pounds. Not the best bull on the Total Championship Bulls Ranger Circuit—the minor leagues of the TCB. Two-thirds of the riders made the eight seconds for a good ride. Tended to break left. No, not a bad bull to start out on.
Not that she was just starting out, but she was sick and tired of riding for a few hundred dollars while the men got checks with extra zeroes for doing the exact same thing.
June knew she was born to ride bulls. She knew she could ride with the big boys—all she had to do was prove that she had what it took, no matter what anyone said about her being a girl, an Indian or poor. Or all three.
She looked out at the sea of unwelcoming faces that crowded the indoor arena. It was Friday night in a small Illinois town she’d never heard of, inside what was normally a convention center. June had grown up riding in outdoor arenas, so the bright lights and the echo off the bleachers were throwing her off. But she couldn’t let a few technicalities undermine her. A professional bull rider rode no matter where they were. And she was a professional bull rider.
Or she would be, if she could just get on the bull.
She sighed in frustration. Proving she could do this was only the first step. But at least she’d gotten her foot in the door, thanks to her uncle Dave, who’d had to cash in a favor with Mort, the Ranger Circuit promoter. She knew good and well that was the only favor she was going to get.
The rest? All up to her, one bull at a time.
She wanted to compete. And competing meant riding against the men.
Not that the men were thrilled about it. Even though no one was within four feet of her, she could feel the palpable irritation in the air. But she was doing her damnedest to ignore them and focus on the bull. If she could just get on the bull...it would all fall into place.
Or she’d get crushed to death. Either way, really.
Mort was babbling again. “Just doing Dave a favor. I’m not responsible.”
“Mort, you’ve got to be kidding, right? Ball and Chain? For her?”
“Shut up, Red.”
So that was Red Willis. Number two on this circuit. And he was getting closer, his heels dragging his spurs across the dirt so loudly that they clanged.
“I’m just saying, if the little girl wants to ride with the big boys, she don’t want to ride Ball and Chain. She wants Hallowed.” An arm unexpectedly draped around her shoulder, pulling her into Red Willis’s chest. At six feet six inches, he was the tallest cowboy here. Even though she was five foot nine, June barely came up to his armpit. And his fingers were dangling dangerously close to her chest. Didn’t matter if she had on the protective vest that all the riders wore. The threat was implicit.
“Don’t you, honey?” Red was saying, smiling down into her face, his tobacco-stained lips pulled over brown teeth in a mean sneer. “Only the best for a girl like you.”
“Get your hands off me,” she said, trying to sound calm. She knew his type. As long as he thought he held all the cards, he’d make the wrong bet. Every single time. “I’m not your honey.”
The smile got meaner. “Come on, babe—”
That’s all it took. June knew if she didn’t nip this in the bud, half these boys would think it was open season and she would be the trophy everyone was trying to bag.
She was not here for a man. This was not some misguided attempt to snare a cowboy for her very own. She was here for herself. There would be no hooking up, no trailer hopping and absolutely no sleeping her way to the top of the rankings. The sooner everyone got that through their thick skulls, the better.
In one smooth movement, she grabbed Red’s hand and ducked down, twisting back until his wrist was near his shoulder blades.
“I said,” she repeated, ratcheting up his arm, “to take your hands off me. I won’t say it again.”
One of the few advantages of her rough childhood—she’d learned to defend herself early. And often.
“What the hell?” he squawked. That was better. Less bravado, more confusion. Keep the opponent off balance. Just like a bull would.
“This was your first and last warning, Willis.” With one final squeeze, she let go and pushed him back toward the other cowboys. Just about every jaw was dropped to the sawdust. Even Red was too shocked to do anything but let a few of the other guys hold him back. “I’m just here to ride. Anyone else got a problem with that?”
“Just doing Dave a favor,” Mort muttered to himself again. “Not responsible.”
“You really don’t belong here.”
One cowboy stepped forward. The overhead light hit the brim of his black cowboy hat, casting a dark shadow onto his face. The shadow, combined with the ten-day-old beard he wore, made it almost impossible to read his expression. His hands hung at his sides, the left shoulder at a slightly lower angle, probably from where he’d hit the ground rolling earlier.
“This is no place for a girl.”
June knew who this cowboy was—she’d know that jaw, those shoulders anywhere. Travis Younkin was the most famous bull rider on this circuit and one of the best bull riders in the last decade. He’d been on the verge of winning the TCB Harley Pro Challenge finals—the major league—in Vegas before that one last ride had taken a few years of his life. She’d followed his career before it got shot to hell and back—well, it was more than that. She’d followed a lot of riders’ careers, studying their rides for what worked and what didn’t. Travis was the one bull rider who’d held her attention in a more personal way, one that went far beyond a good ride. There’d always been something about him...
After his wreck, she’d cried for him.
Now he was trying to claw his way back up to the bigs. Aside from Red and one or two other guys, he was the only one here who could claim to be a real professional.
And he didn’t think she could do this, either.
The old anger flared up as she heard her father’s voice when he caught her watching bull riding on TV. You ain’t getting on those bulls, Junie. She could even hear the smack of his hand hitting the table, the wall, her face—because there was always a smack—as he said it. Unconsciously, she flinched as her body remembered the one time he’d caught her on a bull. And he’d been sober then.
She pushed the memories away. This was about here and now. Bulls didn’t give a crap for awful fathers and neither did she. She was going to ride and that was final. No way in hell would she let