Let It Bree. Colleen Collins

      1

      BREE CUPPED Val’s face between her hands. His mug was so huge, so hairy, it was like gripping a fur-covered volleyball.

      “Val—” She stopped and frowned. She lifted her gaze to meet his, but her head remained dipped. Being six feet tall, she was accustomed to lowering—or as she preferred to call it, dipping—her head. Usually it just reinforced that she was different—bigger, taller, more athletic—than other females.

      But today, ready to say something that meant life or death—which to Bree meant Europe or Wyoming—dipping was okay.

      She stroked his chin, grappling for words. She’d never been a great talker. Action was more her style. “It’s your moment,” Bree finally said. Darn, she’d found the words and now her voice was quavering. She eased in a calming breath. “Our moment,” she continued. “When you walk into the ring, be proud, majestic.” She lowered her voice. “We both know you’re just an oversize puppy, but keep that part buried, deep, because right now, you’re tough. Awesome to the max. You’re gonna blow them out of the stands—” She caught herself from adding, “and get me out of Chugwater.” But even without saying the words, she imagined Val understood what was in her heart. He was her one-way ticket to freedom.

      Emotion clogged Bree’s throat. She swallowed hard, stuffing down the reality that escaping Chugwater also meant losing Val. She shifted her gaze to his expansive chest so he wouldn’t see tears were threatening to spill. She refused to cry. That was for girls who played their emotions—and their charms— to manipulate people. Men, in particular.

      Not Bree. She prided herself on cutting to the chase. Raising her head, she patted Val’s massive shoulder reassuringly. “Come on, Hot Stuff, let’s make you a star.”

      She led the way, her shoulders thrust back, her chin high. She wanted to look like a winner already—after all, the stock show was getting radio and TV coverage throughout the Midwest.

      The tang of animal sweat and hay saturated the air. As they headed into the arena, the crowd’s buzz intensified, reminding her of the time her crazy cousin Rupert stuck a twig in a hornets’ nest, triggering a buzzing fury. Before those ornery critters had a chance to attack, nine-year-old Bree was pumping her long legs, running for her life. It hit her how, today, she was running again for her life. A new life. One where she could finally escape stuffy, small-town Chugwater, Wyoming, and discover the world.

      Behind her, Val pounded the dirt floor in giant, Olympian strides. Oh yeah, awesome to the max. After all, Valentine Bovine was a major contender for the big prize—the Grand Champion Brahman bull.

      Squinting against the glare of the overhead lights, Bree searched the stands. Under one of those Stetsons was Carlton Rugg from Bovine Best, the internationally renowned cattle breeding organization. They had a stellar reputation, and were known for their humane treatment of bulls, so she’d given them her verbal permission—an implied contract, not a written one—to bid aggressively for Val should he win the championship.

      And if he won, she’d win three hundred grand— maybe more! With that kind of prize money, she’d fly out of nowhere, small-town Chugwater faster than a full-court slam. And Val would ease into the life of a full-time Romeo, making love to lady bovines for the remainder of his days. They’d both be happy…just happy in different parts of the world.

      “Stepping into the arena, ladies and gentlemen,” announced a baritone voice over the loudspeaker, “is Valentine Bovine.” Chuckles rippled through the crowd. Fighting her sadness, Bree forced a smile. She’d named her bull Valentine because of the small white heart on his rear flank, and then she couldn’t resist making his last name Bovine because of its lilt. Her name, Bree Brown, lacked any lilt whatsoever, and she hated it. Her mother had named her after the French cheese, brie, her grandmother had told her, but it wasn’t until Bree was six months old that her mom had realized she’d misspelled it. And Brown? That was about as boring and ordinary as Chugwater itself.

      “Valentine, the fourth and last finalist, represents the senior bull champion division,” continued the announcer, his baritone voice reverberating through the speakers.

      The crowd’s incessant chatter prickled Bree’s ears. She wiped at her suddenly hot, moist face and for a dizzying moment, she thought she might keel over. She’d never been this freaked out in a volleyball competition—but then, no single game had ever meant fulfilling her dream.

      But in a sense, this was like a “single game” considering she’d only helped Mr. Connors, her neighbor back in Chugwater, show his bulls in competition before. This time, with Val, was Bree’s first solo showing, all on her own.

      Keep it together. Stay focused. Bree tightened her hold on Val’s leather halter, needing something to grip to quell her adrenaline-crazed nerves. Just as she used to do in high-stress volleyball games, she took a few moments to distract herself. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned Mr. Connors, who’d bequeathed Val to her in his will last June, seven months ago. It wasn’t a surprise, really. After all, he’d let her name the bull the day it was born two and a half years ago, when she was barely twenty-one. Mr. Connors’s death hadn’t been a surprise either, but she didn’t want to think about that now.

      She swung her thoughts to Grams, with whom she’d always lived a few miles outside Chugwater. She had vague memories of her father, who’d deserted them when she was two, and of her mother, who’d died when she was five.

      The rest of Bree’s family consisted of Aunt Mattie, Uncle Scott and three over-testosteroned cousins who lived next door. But even with a large extended family, it was old Mr. Connors who’d become her best pal. He was the one she’d entrusted with her most secret dream—one day to ride the Orient Express, the exotic and romantic train, through Europe. A fantasy she’d never dared confess to anyone, especially not her Aunt Mattie, who still fretted that Bree had earned a degree in art history rather than in something practical like accounting.

      The announcer’s voice jarred her thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, Doctor Marshall from Yuma, Arizona,” he said, reintroducing the grand-champion judge.

      To a smattering of applause, the livestock veterinarian strode across the arena, his leather boots kicking up dirt. The overhead lights sparked off his gray hair, the shine competing with his fist-size silver belt buckle.

      “Slow, boy,” Bree murmured. She barely tugged the strap and Val halted, standing stock-still. Brahmans were known for their smarts, but Val was exceptional. Not only did he understand her vocal and physical cues, Bree swore sometimes he could read her thoughts, too.

      The vet began scrutinizing Val, running his hands expertly over the bull’s back and sides. Val will live the rest of his life as a breeding Casanova, Bree reminded herself. But the justification felt hollow. If she hadn’t been so busy these last few days hauling Val down to Denver, registering into the stock show, prepping him for the competition, she might have taken a few moments to ponder if winning your dream was worth losing your roots.

      Finally, Dr. Marshall straightened, eyed Val one more time, then walked over to one of the 4H helpers who offered him a microphone. Taking the mike, the vet turned to the crowd. “Valentine,” he began—his drawl making her bull’s name sound