They’d brought four bulls. Another contractor had brought two. They would alternate, with Quicksand bucking fifth. The sixth bull would be held in reserve in case a reride was needed. Tess could only cross her fingers and hope that wouldn’t be necessary.
The first two Alamo Canyon bulls were rodeo veterans. They could be counted on to put on a good show, buck their eight seconds, and trot out the gate without a fuss. As Tess helped Ruben attach their flank straps, she could hear the cheers of the crowd as the team roping contest ended. An expectant silence followed as they waited for the most dangerous and exciting event of the rodeo.
The safety barrels were rolled out. By the time the bullfighters, dressed and made up as clowns, had taken their places, along with the mounted roper, the first bulls were in the bucking chutes, ready for their riders.
This was small-town rodeo. The prize money was lower, the bulls less spectacular than in big-time competition. But the riders were every bit as hungry—younger ones after their first taste of glory, older men with families to feed, some just needing survival cash till the next rodeo. Some were local boys who’d rodeoed in high school. Others followed the circuit, driving their old cars and pickups through the night from one gig to the next. It was a known fact that the single greatest cause of death among rodeo cowboys was highway accidents.
Tess took the end of the flank strap Ruben handed her and fastened it on Quicksand’s back. The bull was agitated, snorting and slamming against the rails of the narrow pen. Was he scared or just eager?
Tess patted his side. “It’ll be all right, big boy,” she murmured. “You’re going to get out there and knock their socks off!”
Herded into the bucking chute, he slammed and reared while the young rider, a recent state high school champion, tried to mount him. Tess caught the name—Rowdy McKenna—from the announcer.
Only when a wedge was thrust against Quicksand’s side was the rider able to get a solid seat. Rowdy McKenna rubbed the rosin on his bull rope as the chute men pulled it tight. After wrapping the rope tail around the handle, he moved forward, just behind his gloved hand, and gave the nod.
As the gate swung open, Quicksand exploded into the arena, leaping high, kicking straight back and up with a twist of his hindquarters, then rising in front like a giant wave of power and coming down into a spin. Young McKenna was a promising rider, but at the six-second count, when Quicksand made a sudden direction change, he lost his grip, flew off to one side, and landed rolling in the dirt.
The scores were posted in seconds—no score for the rider, 44.5 points for the bull. Tess was beside herself, jumping and cheering. But meanwhile, Quicksand wasn’t finished. Lowering his head, he charged the downed cowboy, who was scrambling to get away. One of the clowns, doing his job, flung himself in front of the bull. After butting him aside, Quicksand went for another clown, who escaped into the barrel as the rider climbed the fence to safety.
By the time the roper’s lasso settled around his neck, Quicksand’s reputation as a rank bull was assured. He trotted out the gate, head high, into the narrow pen where his flank strap would be removed.
Tess fought tears as she unfastened the strap and sent her bull back to the pens. Her hunch had been right. Quicksand had the makings of a great bull.
Bursting with pride, she wove her way back through the chute complex to the bleachers. Right now, there was just one person she wanted to share Quicksand’s triumph with—one person who would truly understand.
The fans were leaving now, gathering up their gear, their snacks, and their children as they made their way toward the exits. Struggling against the flow of the crowd, she climbed the steps to the front row of seats, eyes searching for Brock’s tall form, broad shoulders, and black Stetson. Surely, he would be waiting for her.
Breathless with excitement, she reached the top of the steps and stopped as if she’d hit a wall.
Brock’s seat was empty.
CHAPTER TEN
BROCK SWUNG HISSUVONTO THE FREEWAY RAMP, GUNNED THEengine, and headed back toward Tucson. He’d been surprised and impressed by Quicksand’s performance and happy for Tess. But showing up to share her victory would only sour her celebration. There was too much conflict between them now. Too much anger and suspicion.
Had she told him the truth, when she’d denied having anything to do with killing his bull? Brock wanted to trust her. But right now, he’d be a fool to trust anybody—especially a woman he wanted as much as he wanted Tess. If he let desire cloud his judgment, he might as well be flying blind.
He’d told himself to forget that impulsive kiss. It had meant nothing—no more to her than it had to him. But even the memory sent a jolt of lust through his system. Proud, stubborn, passionate, impossible Tess. He wanted her in his arms and in his bed, her lithe, lovely body quivering as he pleasured her again and again. Just the thought made him ache.
But even if he could have her—which would be damned near impossible—he knew better than to let it happen. He already had enough trouble on his hands.
By the time he drove through the ranch gate and pulled up to the house, it was getting dark. He could see light through the windows of the bunkhouse, where the men were probably having supper. Brock hadn’t thought much about food today, but as he opened the front door and the aroma of Cyrus’s pot roast wafted out of the kitchen, his appetite came roaring back.
“That smells delicious, Cyrus.” He tossed his hat onto the rack by the door. “Go ahead and set it out. I’ll be along as soon as I check the mail in my office.”
“Comin’ right up, Boss.” The old man’s voice rose above the muted clatter of dishes and utensils.
Brock strode down the hall to the open door of his office and turned on the light. The mail was delivered to a box outside the ranch gate, where Cyrus, or sometimes Brock himself, would pick it up. Today, as usual, Cyrus had left the mail in a neat stack on the desk. There were a couple of catalogs, a utility bill, and a plain white envelope lying facedown. When Brock turned it over, his heart lurched. It was a perfect match to the envelope that had held the clipping—same blue ballpoint pen, same grade-school printing. Except for one thing. This envelope had no postmark. It had been put directly into the box.
Willing his hands not to shake, Brock used a letter opener to ease open the flap with a minimum of tearing. Inside was a single newspaper clipping—this one smaller than the first, as if it might have been a brief item from the inside page of a newspaper. It was fragile and yellowed with age. Brock picked it up carefully.
Ben Talbot receives three-year sentence.
Yesterday in Ridgewood County Court, Ben Talbot, the driver in the rollover crash that killed 15-year-old Mia Carpenter, was sentenced to three years in the Missouri State Prison at Jefferson. Talbot, who pleaded guilty to charges of drunk driving and negligent homicide, was led away to serve his sentence. Chase Carpenter, prominent Ridgewood businessman and father of the deceased girl, told the press, “Justice may have been served, but no amount of punishment will bring my daughter back to life.”
Brock’s appetite had fled, to be replaced by rage and a cold, sick dread. The worst of it, he knew, was that this harassment was far from over. Whoever was behind it—and he could no longer imagine that it was Tess—they wanted to crack him by degrees, little by little, until he was utterly broken.
* * *