One Rodeo Season. Sarah M. Anderson
day on the job.
He looked back at the chutes, and a cowboy caught his eye. At least, it looked like a cowboy. A little shorter, a little rounder. With a jolt of awareness, Ian realized it was not a cowboy, but a cowgirl, which was unusual enough. Aside from his cousin, June Spotted Elk—who was one of the better bull riders in the world—there weren’t usually a whole lot of women behind the chutes during the rides. Buckle bunnies had no place back there. Ian tried to think. Had there been a cowgirl out in the arena for the preride introductions and prayers—another rider? He didn’t think so.
But what made her more unusual was that the cowgirl was glaring at him as if Ian had personally slapped her on the ass and told her she should be pregnant, barefoot and in a kitchen somewhere. What the hell?
He nodded his head at her, which only made her scowl harder. Everyone else in the arena tonight was his biggest admirer. To hell with what one woman thought.
Randy limped up to him. “Man, I owe you one for that.”
Ian shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
Randy grinned. “It’s one hell of a job, ain’t it?” He slapped Ian on the leg. “I’ll catch you tonight at the bar—drinks on me!”
Ian nodded and grinned. After that save, the bar was going to be a lot of fun tonight. It’d been more months than he wanted to admit since he’d picked anyone up. Maybe he’d cut loose and find a beautiful woman to spend the evening with. He might not have the street cred of a bull rider, but bull riders tended to be on the scrawny side of things, like Randy. That kid probably didn’t weigh 170 pounds wet. Ian brought a certain physicality to the table. It went with the whole football player thing.
Even as he was thinking about buckle bunnies, his gaze drifted back over to where he’d last seen the angry cowgirl. She wasn’t there.
“Did you see that woman?” he asked Jack.
“The blonde? Damn straight I saw her,” Jack replied with a low whistle. “She didn’t see me, though. Only had eyes for you, curse your red hide.”
Jack was about the only man on the planet who could say something like that to Ian and not get the pulp beat out of him, mostly because Black Jack Johnson was, in fact, black. Aside from a few Brazilians and Mexicans, there weren’t a lot of men of color on the circuit. Jack and Ian stuck together.
“Never seen anyone pull a stunt like that in the arena,” Jack went on, shaking his head. “Damn foolish, too. What if you’d hurt the bull?”
“I’m fine, but I appreciate your concern,” Ian retorted as they hopped down off the fence and headed back toward the water. They had about twenty minutes before the short goes started. “This isn’t the first time I’ve wrestled a steer. I know what I’m doing.”
Mostly, anyway. And he had a feeling he wasn’t entirely fine. The right side of his body was screaming from the strain now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He must have pulled something. Ian did a couple of preliminary twists and felt a twinge. Damn. The latissimus dorsi on his left side was definitely strained. Looked like he would have to take an ice bath tonight.
“Don’t do it again,” Jack said, and Ian had to nod in agreement. Jack had been a bullfighter for close to twelve years and this was Ian’s first year at this level. Bullfighters made it to the bigs as a team. Jack was calling the shots like a quarterback. Ian was, once again, the linebacker doing the blocking. Funny how the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
Ian dumped half a bucket of water over his head to knock the dust and sweat down a layer. Bullfighting might be a lot of fun, but it was a dirty job on the best of days. As the water dripped down the back of his neck, he said, “Don’t get knocked on your ass again, old man.” Jack had been a much higher ranked bullfighter before he’d gotten stepped on in a bad wreck two years ago. This season was about him getting back on top of his game. “Then I won’t have to save—”
“Hey! You!” An angry voice cut through the din.
Ian whipped his head around to see the cowgirl he most definitely had not imagined stalking toward him. The look on her face might turn a lesser man to stone, but Ian held firm. Besides, he had the advantage of height. This woman was a little thing, probably a solid foot shorter than he was—but she clearly made up for that in sheer ferocity. She might even be pretty, if she wiped that scowl off her face.
But pretty was not the word for her. Violent would be better. Ian opened his mouth to say something—“hi” was always a good place to start—but she cut him off. “What was that?”
“A damn good save,” Ian replied confidently. He stood up straight and puffed out his chest.
Her eyes widened and a spark of electricity flowed between them as her features softened. She was pretty, he noticed. Delicate features, wide eyes with fringed lashes. Her skin was tanned, but she had a smattering of freckles over her nose. Her lips were lush and lightly parted. Her face was diametrically opposed to the unsexed cowboy outfit, almost as if she were trying to hide herself under a cowboy hat.
The electricity between them felt good. He admired a lot of beautiful women in the bars, but that spark—he hadn’t felt that in a long time. “Hey,” he said in a more seductive voice, hoping to fan the flames a little. “Tonight at the bar—”
Anything pretty or sparky or electric about her disappeared as she sneered up at him. “You do not touch the bull, you understand?”
“What?” Ian said, bristling. “I’ve got a job to do. I’m there to protect the riders. I protected the rider. I don’t give a damn about the bull.”
A look of hatred twisted her features. “That animal is worth a hundred grand. You so much as rub his fur the wrong way and I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth.” She gave his dirt-and-muck-stained pants and the red-and-black shirt that matched Jack’s a dismissive glance. “Which obviously isn’t much.”
“What is your problem, lady?” Even as he said it, he realized what she’d said. She’d sue him.
“He’s my bull,” she snapped. “Touch him again and you will live to regret it.”
“You’re the stock contractor?” But he said it to her back as she turned and stomped off in the direction of the pens. “She’s the stock contractor?” he asked the only other person who was listening.
Jack didn’t answer. He was too busy laughing.
Ian twisted back around and tried to see where she’d gone. Who was she?
Someone tiny and fierce and unafraid of him. Someone who had a hell of a lot of spark.
It wasn’t as if Ian hadn’t been yelled at before—he had. Especially the time he’d dated two girls years ago. Yeah, that hadn’t been his smartest idea. But Ian was a big guy—especially compared to a slip of a girl. Most women—hell, most men—wouldn’t confront him like that. She’d gotten the drop on him, and that, he didn’t like. Next time—if there was a next time—he didn’t want to be caught off guard.
He hoped there was a next time.
He located her as an older man in a ten-gallon hat stepped in front of her. The huge hat topped off a face pinched into a permanent sneer. The long mustache did nothing to improve the man’s appearance. Neither did the potbelly that hung over his belt buckle. Aside from the belly, everything else about the man was scrawny—scrawny mustache, scrawny legs, scrawny neck. He was ugly and mean looking, but the cocky grin on his face said loud and clear that he enjoyed the meanness.
The man said something to her. Even at the distance of twenty or so feet, Ian saw her reaction. Her shoulders tightened and she took a nervous step backward. The older man said something else, and the woman backed up again.
The hackles went up on the back of Ian’s neck and he started moving. Okay, so that woman might have dressed him down in public, but Ian didn’t like the way the man was leering at her and he especially didn’t