Rodeo Dreams. Sarah M. Anderson
He spun hard to the right, trying to whip her off like a centrifuge, all while kicking his back legs up higher than her head.
Four.
She dug in her spurs as he reared back again. Better points for spurring. Roll.
Five.
Roll, she chanted over and over as her body whiplashed right and right again. He was trying to get her down in the well, but she knew if she leaned too far left, he’d spin back that way and throw her under his feet.
Six.
Roll. The adrenaline dumped into her blood, making her body sing. In a moment of sheer physical clarity, she knew again that this was what she was supposed to do. This was who she was supposed to be.
Seven.
Hallowed bent back hard left, the jolt ripping at her grip. She couldn’t hold on much longer. Her arm was just about to give. One more second. One more—
Eight.
The buzzer sounded just as her fingers slipped the handle.
This was June’s strength—landing not under the feet of a pissed bull, but on her own. “Catlike,” more than one observer had noted. No matter what she was being thrown by—the mustangs she broke back on the Real Pride Ranch, the bulls she couldn’t stay away from, even that one wild buffalo—she managed to land feetfirst. Sure, more often than not, a hand hit the ground, as well, but she’d seen video of her rides. She landed like a runner taking her mark, not a discombobulated rider on the verge of getting trampled. She didn’t know how she did it and didn’t care, as long as she hit the ground in a position to move.
The ground rushed up to smack her, but she managed to get her torso spun around just enough that her feet hit at the same time. And she was running for the safety of the gate. A bull like Hallowed was likely to hold a grudge, and she had no desire to be on the receiving end of those lopsided horns.
It wasn’t until she’d clamored up the side and Hallowed had trotted out of the arena to have his flank strap removed that she heard the silence. The only sounds were her heart pounding and Hallowed snorting as he muscled his way down the chute.
It lasted about five seconds, and then the group of cowboys on the platforms, the bullfighters in the arena and the women in the bleachers exploded.
“Did you see that?”
“Did she just do a somersault in midair?”
“Did she just land on her feet?”
“Did she just ride Hallowed Ground?”
“She did it!”
“She really did!”
Had she? “A good ride?” she hollered, afraid to look. She’d made the time—but had her free hand stayed clear? Women were allowed to use both hands, but men weren’t. Would she get a score? Would she qualify?
Would she get to ride?
“Eighty-nine,” the judge announced over the loudspeaker. “An eighty-nine for June Spotted Elk on Hallowed Ground.”
Relief turned the adrenaline to sheer joy. This rush left her giggly and high with her own power. She whipped off her hat and flung it into the air with a “Hiiieyeee!”
This was the sweetest ride she could remember—not only had it been a good ride, not only had she ridden a monster of a bull like Hallowed Ground, not only had so many of the men here failed to do the same, but if this had been the competition, she would have been in second place after the long go—the first round of rides. Right behind Travis Younkin’s ninety, and right ahead of Red Willis’s eighty-seven.
This was who she was. This was what she was supposed to do.
To hell with what everyone else—her father, Travis, Red—thought. She was tired of living hand to mouth, scraping by on scholarships and her mom’s welfare check, tired of people thinking she couldn’t do anything because she was a poor Indian woman.
She was born to ride bulls. Men got paid good money to do the eight-second dance. Why couldn’t she? She could—the Ranger Circuit was the first step.
And June was on her way.
Amid the shouts and applause from the women in the audience, Mitch jumped into the arena, hat in hand and a grin on his face. “Ma’am, I’m sure I speak for Mort—and us all—when I say that we’re pleased to welcome you with open arms.”
THIS WAS NOT HAPPENING.
From his perch on the platform, Travis stared in disbelief at the scene unfolding below him. Not only had Mort let that girl on Hallowed Ground without a helmet, not only was he going to let her on the Ranger Circuit, not only were the wives down there treating her like she was rodeo royalty—but now Mitch was also down there, bowing and scraping.
Or flirting. Knowing Mitch, he was laying the groundwork for another conquest. They didn’t call him the Heartbreak Kid for nothing.
That girl should not do this. Travis fumed as he watched her gather up her bull rope, shake Mort’s and then Mitch’s hands, and strut out like she owned the damned place. She moved with a grace he hadn’t seen in the arena before, which had the fringe on her sky-blue chaps billowing out behind her like eddies in a stream. It was a beautiful sight—those chaps cupping that backside, her long braid brushing against both of them—one he wanted to savor. She was something a man didn’t see in a bull-riding arena very often—beautiful.
She’d gotten lucky—Hallowed wasn’t on tonight, that was all. And that landing? A once-in-a-lifetime shot to hit the ground running.
No, there was no doubt in his mind that the next time out, she’d regret the day she set foot in an arena. She should not do this, plain and simple. To try again was certain death. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let her die for riding bulls.
“Travis,” Randy Sloap said as he sidled up beside him, “what are you going to do?”
Randy was one of the younger riders, green and eager. Later, Travis would pound Mitch and his Poppa Bear comments into the ground, but that didn’t change the fact that Travis was the senior rider and a lot of these guys looked up to him. He had never been comfortable as a role model but it was a far sight better than the cult following Red was building over there.
Those men disgusted him. Seven guys talking and laughing and groping the hour-glass figure they were cutting through the air with their hands. The bulls weren’t the only things that were going to do that girl in. This was no place for her kind.
“Travis?” Randy was looking at him expectantly, thumbs stuck in his belt loops.
“I’m on it.” Travis scanned the arena—and spotted Mort headed for the front gate, where he’d set up his office in a broom closet. As fast as he could without limping, Travis climbed off the platform and took off.
Mort tried to shut the door in Travis’s face. Tried, and failed.
“You are not letting her on the circuit.” Travis slammed the door behind him. The piece of crap bounced right back open again, but he was too hot to care. “She does not belong here.”
“Travis, please.” Mort settled his sweaty bulk into the folding chair. “I don’t have a choice. If it were up to me, she’d be out of here—”
“Why isn’t it up to you? Ain’t you the boss around here?”
“She had a clean ride. She’s got her TCB permit—”
“She’s got her what?” How the hell had she gotten that?
Mort shuffled the papers on the folding card table. “Here—see? What can I do?”
“J.