Beau: Cowboy Protector. Marin Thomas

Springs. “Duke was makin’ a run at the National Finals Rodeo this year, then he slipped off the radar. He get injured?”

      Beau wished an injury had sidelined his twin from today’s rodeo—he was the only Adams competing this first weekend in October. He’d hauled Thunder Ranch bucking bulls, Bushwhacker and Back Bender, to the competition by himself. Duke, aka deputy sheriff had remained at home protecting the good citizens of Roundup while the Thunder Ranch hands had taken a string of bucking horses to a rodeo in Cody, Wyoming. Beau’s father was off doing who knows what with his new lady friend.

      “My brother quit,” Beau said. In July, Duke had blindsided him when he retired from rodeo, leaving Beau to carry on the Adams’ bull-riding legacy. He’d flipped out, angry that his brother had walked away from a possible world title when Beau had sacrificed so much for him. Beau had spent his childhood defending his twin when bullies had teased Duke about his stuttering. Standing up for his brother had carried into their teen years and when they’d reached adulthood, it had become second nature for Beau to make sure that Duke remained in the rodeo limelight.

      “You’re joking,” McLean said. “Duke was ranked in the top ten in the country at the beginning of the summer.”

      “No joke, McLean. Duke’s done with rodeo.” Once Beau’s anger had cooled, he’d realized Duke had never asked him for any concessions, which made Beau wonder why he’d allowed his brother to beat him in bull riding all these years. He had no one to blame but himself for the tight spot he was in—not enough rodeos left in the season to earn the necessary points to make it to Vegas. Regardless, Beau was determined to salvage what was left of the year by winning a handful of smaller rodeos leading up to the Badlands Bull Bash and Cowboy Stampede in South Dakota the weekend before Thanksgiving. A first-place win would show rodeo fans that Beau Adams was a serious contender for next year’s title.

      “You’re pullin’ my leg, Adams.” McLean stuffed a pinch of tobacco between his lower lip and gum. “Duke wouldn’t throw away his points ’less’n he had a good reason.”

      The sooner the truth got out, the sooner Beau’s competitors would forget his brother and take notice of him. “Duke’s been bit by the love bug.” At McLean’s puzzled expression Beau clarified. “He got married.”

      “The hell you say. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.”

      “It happened fast.” Crazy fast. So fast Beau’s head still spun. Of all women to go and fall in love with, Duke had picked Angie Barrington, a single mom with a grudge against rodeo. She ran an animal rescue ranch outside their hometown of Roundup, Montana, and a few of her boarders happened to include horses injured in rodeos. Much to Beau’s chagrin, Duke had traded in a trip to the NFR for a ring and instant fatherhood.

      You’re jealous. Hell, maybe he was. There must be a bug in the water back home, because Duke and all but one of Beau’s cousins had married in whirlwind romances reminiscent of Hollywood movies. It irked him that Duke was all in love and Beau had yet to catch the eye of Sierra Byrne, a woman he’d been flirting with since spring.

      “Too bad about Duke. His loss is my gain,” McLean said.

      “Don’t get cocky.” Beau grinned. “You gotta beat me to win that buckle.” Buckle aside, Beau wanted to take home the prize money—three thousand dollars. Not a fortune by any means, but with the tough economy, the cash would help pay a few ranch bills.

      “Adams.” McLean snorted. “You ought to know better than anyone that Bushwhacker’s the best bull here. All I gotta do is make it to eight on him and the buckle’s mine.”

      The braggart was right—Bushwhacker was the top-rated bull at the rodeo. At five, he was a year older than Back Bender, but both were money bulls. So far this season, Bushwhacker had thrown every cowboy who’d ridden him and only one rider had made it to the buzzer on Back Bender. “The odds aren’t in your favor, McLean.”

      “Ladies and gentlemen.” The rodeo announcer put an end to the cowboy banter. “As was broadcast earlier, due to one of our stock contractors encountering a flat tire, the rodeo committee has switched the order of events. Bull riding will take place next, followed by our final event of the day—the bareback competition.”

      The crowd booed its displeasure, but quieted when the announcer continued his spiel. “You’re about to witness some of the toughest and bravest men alive....”

      Beau blocked out the booming voice and studied his draw—Gorgeous Gus. His new best friend was a veteran bull with a reputation for charging anything on two legs. Beau adjusted his protective vest and put on his face mask. He hated wearing the gear, but if he intended to win a title he’d sacrifice his vanity to remain healthy and injury-free. He climbed the chute rails and straddled the two-thousand-pound tiger-striped brindle Brahma-Hereford mix.

      “Folks, I gotta say this next bull makes me nervous. Gorgeous Gus hails from the Henderson Ranch in Round Rock, Texas. Gus has already put three cowboys out of commission this season.”

      Music blared from the sound system but Beau kept his gaze averted from the JumboTron. He didn’t care to watch as it replayed Jacob Montgomery’s attempt to ride Gorgeous Gus in Denver this past July. Gus had thrown Montgomery and then, before the cowboy had gotten to his feet, the bull had gored his leg. A few seconds later the collective gasp that rippled through the stands sent chills down Beau’s spine.

      “Goin’ head-to-horns with Gorgeous Gus is Beau Adams from Roundup, Montana. This is the first match-up between cowboy and bull.”

      Beau closed his eyes and envisioned Gus’s exit out of the chute, but Sierra Byrne popped into his mind, interrupting his concentration.

      “You ready, Adams?” the gateman asked.

      “Not yet.” Beau shook his head in an attempt to dislodge Sierra’s blue eyes and flaming red hair from his memory. That he’d allowed the owner of the Number 1 Diner to mess with his focus didn’t bode well for the next eight seconds. He flexed his fingers and worked the leather bull rope around his hand, fusing it to Gus’s hide.

      Breathe…in…out…in…out.... The blood pounded through his veins like roaring river rapids after the spring snowmelt in the Bull Mountains.

      I’m the best.

      No one can beat me.

      Win.

      He repeated the new mantra in his head—different from his previous pep talks when he’d taken a backseat to his brother’s performances. Since Duke’s retirement Beau had won several rodeos, but the bulls hadn’t been rank bulls—not like the notorious Gorgeous Gus. A bead of sweat slid down Beau’s temple. In a few seconds, he’d know if he’d been blowing hot air when he’d sparred with McLean. Satisfied with his grip, he crouched low and forced the muscles around the base of his spine to relax, then he signaled the gateman.

      Gus exploded from the chute, twisting right as he kicked his back legs out. Beau survived the buck and Gus allowed him half a second to regain his balance before a series of kicks thrust Beau forward and he almost kissed the bull’s horns. Beau ignored the burning fire spreading through his muscles as he squeezed his thighs against the animal’s girth.

      The dance went on…twist, stomp, kick. Twist, stomp, kick. Gus spun left then right in quick succession, almost ripping Beau’s shoulder from its socket. Sheer determination and fear of being trampled kept him from flying off. The buzzer sounded and the bullfighters waved their hands in an attempt to catch Gus’s attention.

      Taking advantage of the distraction, Beau launched himself into the air. He hit the ground hard, the oxygen in his lungs bursting from his mouth like a six-pack belch. He didn’t check on Gus—a one-second glance might mean the difference between making it to the rails…or not.

      Ignoring the sharp twinge in his left ankle, Beau rolled to his feet and sprinted for safety. The mask on his helmet obscured the barrier, making it difficult to judge the distance. When his boot hit the bottom rung, a hand crossed his line of vision and a hard yank helped him over the top of the gate