“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You’re crazy. You at least need a glove. How are you going to hold the rope?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Here.” Harper strode toward her hesitantly, holding out a leather work glove. “It’s not the best but it’ll at least keep you from cutting your pretty hand.”
“Slowly, Harper,” Dusty warned.
He obeyed, and she took the glove. He was right. She did need it.
“You don’t have chaps. Or a helmet.”
“I’m fine.”
“Damn, Dusty, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“He won’t hurt me.”
“He hurt Chad McCray pretty badly a year ago.”
“I’m not Chad McCray.”
“No, you’re not.” Harper kept his voice low and melodic, despite what he was saying. “That’s my point.”
“Shh.” The soft whisper of her quieting command seemed to relax Diablo. “I’m going to sit up now and try to get him to stand.”
“Dusty.”
“Shh.” She slowly lifted her body until she was sitting perpendicular to the bull. She willed her pulse to stay steady as she sat for a few moments. Then she gently squeezed her thighs together, and Diablo stood.
“I’ll be goddamned,” Harper said under his breath. “This is impossible. Damned impossible.”
“No, it’s not. You’re witnessing it. How’s his strap look?”
“Looks fine to me, but—”
“No buts.” She stroked the bull’s back. “Give me a few minutes. Then I want you to open the gate.”
“No.”
“Please, Harper.”
“I can’t.”
“Please. I need this.”
“Dusty…”
“Does your watch have a second hand?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re my timer. Zach will trust you if you say I rode him longer than eight seconds.”
“So you’ve done this before?”
“Of course.” Her voice was tranquil and harmonious. “Many times. Just not with this bull.”