And that experience showed when the bull shot out of the chute and went to work. Cody rode him well. The rules prohibited the rider from touching the bull with anything other than the hand cinched to the animal’s back, so the free hand was kept high in the air. As the bull did its best to unseat the cowboy, Kent focused on both man and bull, committing to memory how low the animal dropped its thick neck and head when it bucked and how high the hind legs rose when it kicked and spun. For such a big animal Bushwhacker was nimble and agile. The crowd chanted a countdown of the seconds. When it reached eight, Cody was still in control. Grudgingly impressed, Kent wondered how much longer he’d stay on. The bull must have been asking itself the same question because it executed a move that seemed to throw its body in every direction at once. The crowd roared. Cody lost his grip and hit the ground. Scrambling, he ran like hell to the fence and cleared it two steps ahead of the charging bull.
Kent was next.
Seated on the broad back of the restless bull, Kent carefully cinched his gloved hand to the connecting rope and concentrated on pulling in deep calming breaths.
“Let’s hope he’s tired,” Cal cracked.
The bull’s owner, an old rancher from Texas, grinned. “This bull can do eight—nine runs a day. He’s probably more mad than anything else.”
That wasn’t what Kent wanted to hear.
“Are you ready?” Cal asked.
Kent nodded.
The owner crowed, “Then get ready for the ride of your life! Good luck!”
The bull cleared the fence and Kent was thrown up and down. He felt the jolt in his ribs, spine, and the bones in his legs. Keeping his free hand high and hoping his head didn’t fly off, he let the bull do its best to put him on the ground. He had a vague sense of the screaming crowd but didn’t dare let his concentration slip. The bull was tricky and strong. At past events, he’d always been able to count off the number of seconds in his head. Not this time. Between trying to stay upright and make it look effortless for the style points the judges added to the scores, he had no idea how long he’d been riding. Kent felt the animal gathering its strength and knew he was in for the move that had unseated Cody. Sure enough the powerful contortion made him lose his grip. He hit the ground, hastily found his feet, and ran for the fence. With the bull right behind him, he scrambled over the top rung, then leaned forward to catch his breath. Every bone in his body ached. Dropping to his knees, he decided, win or lose, his bull riding career was over. Next he knew, he was surrounded by his giddy family and friends.
“Fifteen seconds!” Cal yelled, joyously slapping him repeatedly on his throbbing spine. “You won!”
All Kent wanted to do was go home and lie in his big soft bed but Portia was kissing his cheek, Regan was hugging him and squealing, and his father was grinning from ear to ear, which made all the pain worth it.
That evening, Kent was still sore, but getting gussied up to escort Portia to the dance had overridden the aches and pains. They’d just come off the dance floor after a lively reel, and the happiness on her face filled his heart.
Suddenly, Rhine and Eddy were in the center of floor. Kent and Portia along with everyone else stared curiously.
Rhine’s voice rang out. “May I have your attention please?”
The musicians stopped playing.
“My wife, Eddy, and I would like to announce that our niece Portia Carmichael has agreed to become the wife of our long-time friend and champion bull rider Kenton Randolph.”
After a moment of shocked silence, the barn exploded with cheers and applause. Rhine beckoned Kent and Portia to join him, and Portia said under her breath, “If I didn’t need him to give me away, I would shoot him for this.” Kent knew she didn’t like being the center of attention, but she was smiling. An amused Kent took her hand and they walked out to stand with Eddy and Rhine. They were welcomed with another avalanche of applause.
Rhine said, “The wedding will be in ten days and you’re all invited. How about something special from the musicians?”
Portia looked like she really wanted to shoot Rhine then, but when the musicians began to play a slow Mexican waltz and Kent led her slowly and expertly around the floor, the love shining in her eyes was for him alone.
After the dance, the crowd lined up to offer personal congratulations. Some even teased Portia for being so sure she’d never marry, but she took the gentle ribbing with the good spirit in which it was given.
But when Darian Day, overdressed in the same black long-tailed evening coat he’d worn to Rhine and Eddy’s anniversary dinner, stepped in front of them, she had trouble hiding her dislike.
“So,” he said. “I suppose I won’t be getting that spot on your dance card you promised me.”
“I don’t recall promising you anything.”
His eyes swung to Kent. “You’re a lucky man.”
“I know.”
“Too bad she married so far down.” He sniffed.
Portia replied, “Not as far down as I am speaking with you now.”
His face twisted with anger.
“Move along,” Kent said. “You’re holding up the line.”