Montana Gold. Genell Dellin

but I ain’t gettin’ on no roughstock,” Tater said, when he could be heard again. “Gotta hand it to you, man.”

      Chase slapped him on the shoulder and moved on among the tables, looking for Robbie. The place was full of people, pulsing red-dirt music and the smells of steaks and onions sizzling over mesquite coals. His mouth watered and his stomach growled. He never ate much before he rode and afterward he was ravenous.

      Somebody all the way over by the dance floor stood up. Robbie. Smiling all over his good-looking Brazilian face because they’d both had great rides tonight. Good old Robbie. Without doubt, the best buddy he’d ever had and one heck of a bull rider. They’d had a lot of fun since they’d partnered up for traveling some of the time, hitting the big rodeos and competing on the professional bull-riding circuit, too.

      Chase headed that way, stopping here and there to shake hands and hear compliments about his bull ride and his bronc rides, to swap jokes and good-natured insults. He knew, at least by sight, probably half the people in Larry’s tonight and some of the ones he didn’t know were watching his progress, smiling, pointing him out. He’d probably sign some autographs before the night was through.

      Robbie was rustling up another chair from somewhere and the dozen or so friends around the long table were moving over to make room for Chase when he reached them. The first thing he spotted was Elle Hawthorne among them.

      The welcoming flash of her smile before she turned to say something to her friend Missy Jo gave him a little prickle along his spine. He’d never met her and he wanted to talk to her and here she was, put right in his path.

      It’d be interesting to see what she was like out of the arena. A woman who wanted to be a bullfighter—no, who was one—was bound to be a whole lot different from all the other girls, and he wasn’t quite sure how to approach her to get his message across with the least blowback.

      He wasn’t prejudiced. He believed that anybody, man or woman, ought to do anything they were big enough to do. But maybe women should do anything they wanted except be bullfighters.

      Once they got the chairs arranged, somehow the empty one ended up so that he sat just across from her. She looked right at him, direct and sassy—and young, so young—sizing him up.

      “I don’t think you two have ever been introduced,” Robbie said in his soft, lilting accent. “Elle Hawthorne, this dangerous cowboy is Chase Lomax. Chase, this is Elle. Now you can see her beautiful face, my friend, instead of only a blur in the arena.”

      She stuck out her hand and Chase stood up to shake it. Beautiful might be a bit of an exaggeration, with that dusting of freckles across her nose.

      Or not. Her smile was a hundred watts and her eyes were something else. She sure didn’t look like a bullfighter right now.

      Best plan of action might be to try to charm her into seeing things his way, just as he would any other woman.

      “Pleased to meet you, Chase,” she said. “Are you truly dangerous?”

      “Some say so,” he drawled, returning her smile with a big one of his own. “But then, you look like you can handle a little danger, Elle.”

      Robbie favored her with his famous grin.

      “Come to me, Elle,” he said, “if you should need any help. I know how tricky he is.”

      “Now that right there is a trick,” Chase said to her. “He introduces me, but then he tries to keep you for himself.”

      “That’s life, right?” Elle said, grinning. “Always something to watch out for. If it’s not a bull, it’s a cowboy.” She held the floor for a beat and added, “Or as M. J. always says, if it’s full of bull, it’s a cowboy.”

      They all laughed and then she turned to her right and started talking to Tim Traywick.

      As if he were the interesting one. Nothing against Tim, but any other woman would’ve been all over Chase and Robbie instead. Face it: Tim was no champion, and he looked hardly old enough to be away from home alone.

      Then the waiter came by and when Chase had finished ordering, he saw that she was really laughing it up with Tim. Far as Chase knew, the boy wasn’t known for being a wit. Without really trying, he overheard Elle say something about one night when Cooder Graw was playing live at Billy Bob’s. They could be dating, for all he knew. Or cared.

      But when he turned to listen to whatever it was that Robbie was trying to tell him, he decided he’d dance with her. That would be the way to talk to her privately. And this definitely had to be private.

      In a minute, the band switched to the lively Alan Jackson song “Burnin’ the Honky Tonks Down.” Chase looked back at Elle. She was still busy with Tim, but too bad. Chase didn’t care if they were dating. This was his chance to get rid of the rock stuck in his craw.

      “Come on, Elle,” he said, pushing back his chair, “dance with me.”

      She glanced up at him, startled, but he held her gaze and she didn’t try to look away. She grinned and stood up, too. “How do I know you can dance?”

      Cute grin. But he had enough women on his case already, and she was way too young for him, to boot.

      “You saw me gettin’ clear of old Smoke ’Em tonight.”

      That made her laugh. He liked her laugh, too.

      “I hate to hurt your ego, Lomax, but I didn’t have time to watch your footwork.”

      Well, you certainly had time to interfere with my dismount.

      He would dance one dance with her and tell her that in the nicest possible way.

      He met her at the end of the table, which was at the edge of the dance floor, took her hand, and they went with the music. Really went with it.

      She was a dancer who put her heart in it, no holding back, reading his mind like a gypsy woman and adding plenty of flourish during the guitar, the fiddle and finally the mandolin breaks. He had a whole new respect for her.

      Elle Hawthorne was one of a kind. She threw herself into play as hard as she did into work.

      When the song ended, they just stood there for a minute, grinning at each other, pretty proud of themselves.

      “I love a partner who’s not afraid to dance,” he said.

      “Me, too.”

      So when the band struck up a slow one, she just naturally moved into his arms. He started to say something but then he didn’t. He didn’t want to ruin this yet.

      She was warm in his arms, small and just the right height to lay her head on his chest. She didn’t, though. She kept a little distance.

      He pulled her to him and brushed his legs against hers as they danced. She threw him a surprised glance, as if to say she wasn’t quite sure if she liked it, but she didn’t pull back. After a while, she even moved a little closer and slid her free hand higher onto his shoulder.

      But instead of looking at him, she stared off into space. At first he thought she must be looking for somebody else who was on the dance floor, but then she tilted her chin up, met his eyes and held them like she was thinking him over. Her eyes were so clear and deep they made him think, too.

      No matter what, the whole time they were moving in sync. Perfect partners.

      “You’ve got the moves,” he said.

      That made her grin.

      “Yeah,” she said dryly. “I have the moves.”

      “In the arena, too. I watched you and Smoke ’Em after I got off.”

      “Thanks,” she said. “You made a good ride. What was his score going in? Smoke ’Em thirty, riders two?”

      “Sheer luck,” he said.