Rodeo Standoff. Susan Sleeman

the gun. Dropped her finger to the trigger.

      “Hey, bull,” a deep male voice called from the stands.

      Tessa’s gaze shot to the far end of the arena, shocked to find a cowboy climbing a gate when no one was supposed to be there. He was silhouetted against the rising sun, his hat pulled low, his shoulders broad.

      The bull swung his head toward the sound. The cowboy vaulted over the railing and dropped onto the sandy rodeo soil. “No need to use your weapon on the bull. I’ve got this.” He removed his hat and waved it at the bull. “Hey, bull, over here.”

      She searched his face to see if she recognized him, but he was half a football field away, and she couldn’t make out his identity. She opened her mouth to call out to him. To tell him to get back in the stands, but something about his confident stride told her he knew what he was doing. Besides, shouting would just draw the bull’s gaze back to her.

      The beast turned, his big lumbering body spinning faster than she would’ve imagined a nearly one-ton creature could move. He planted his hooves with a solid thump. She’d seen many a cowboy trampled by similar hooves and knew the severe damage they caused.

      “When I get him over here,” the cowboy called out, his tone calm as if on a pleasant outing instead of facing a monstrous animal, “I want you to head for the stands. Slowly, so you don’t draw his attention again. Don’t speak. Just give a single nod if you understand.”

      She tipped her head in the briefest of nods.

      The bull pawed at the ground and growled, his tone low—a warning.

      “Hey, bull. C’mon. Let’s get you moving.” Waving his arms again, the cowboy backed toward the return gate where bucking bulls and broncs exited an arena after the competition ride ended. Tessa knew from watching bull riding that breeders trained rodeo bulls on basic behavior, so the bull should recognize the gate once he got close and would know he could safely leave through it.

      The bull started moving. Trotting at first. Then picking up speed, his head low and ready to connect with the man’s fit body.

      “Go now,” the cowboy called out to her.

      She backed toward the stands, keeping her eyes pinned on the grumbling animal.

      One foot, then another, she told herself to keep her fear from taking hold and making her bolt for the stands.

      Inch by inch, she moved, making sure she didn’t add even a smidge of extra movement.

      The powerful cowboy stood tall. Her rescuer. Confident. Brave. Her hero.

      The bull reached full speed. Hooves thundered over the soil. Rapid. Racing.

      God, please, she begged as she continued to back away. If You’re there, please keep this cowboy safe.

      * * *

      Braden kept waving his arms to make himself a target. He had to. The bull could turn on a dime and still charge the woman. She was inching toward the wall just as he’d instructed. Thankfully, she didn’t bolt like a frightened calf. If she did, he couldn’t do anything to stop this monster from chasing her down.

      Once she was safe, he fully intended to question her about her reason for being here with a bucking bull. Just as important, the law enforcement officer in him wanted to know why she was armed for a visit to a public arena.

      “C’mon now!” Adrenaline he hadn’t felt since leaving professional bull riding raced through his body.

      The bull charged closer, his hooves kicking up dirt.

      Twenty feet. Fifteen. The urge to run grew with each step, but Braden stayed firmly planted in place to keep the bull moving forward. At the last second, he would climb the gate to get out of harm’s way.

      Timing was everything.

      Ten feet. Five feet.

      Just a little longer. Hold steady.

       One second. Two. Three.

      He jumped up. Clasped the steel railing. His heels hooked onto metal rails and held fast. The bull continued his course. Plowing closer. Pummeling the ground.

      Five seconds to impact. Braden held his breath. The bull swerved right and charged through the return gate as his training dictated.

      Braden blew out a breath. Jumped down and swung the gate closed. He secured the latch. The bull peered over his shoulder, his gaze still menacing.

      “I’m not sorry to ruin your fun, fella.” Braden let out another long breath, the adrenaline riding out on a wave of air.

      Footsteps pounded on concrete, heading toward him. He spun. Saw the woman running along the lower-level spectator fence. How she hadn’t collapsed in a puddle of relief, he had no idea. Most people would have fallen apart after narrowly escaping a run-in with a bull. But, on the other hand, most people would have had the sense to avoid that kind of showdown in the first place.

      Braden crossed the grounds to give her a piece of his mind for putting herself in this situation. Lifting his hat, he swiped away perspiration with a handkerchief. Always hot in Texas in the summer, forecasters predicted this Fourth of July weekend in Lost Creek to be a scorcher, and he already missed his air-conditioned apartment in Austin.

      Head down, her hat shadowing her face, the woman threw a leg over the top of the fence. He didn’t want her to get hurt climbing down, so he slammed his hat back on and offered his hand.

      She looked up. Fixed her gaze on him.

       Tessa McKade.

      He hadn’t seen her since he quit riding bulls six years ago. Not even when he volunteered at the events to promote the sport of bull riding. Not surprising he hadn’t run into her, he supposed. He’d mainly worked PBR—Professional Bull Rider—events dedicated solely to bull riding, and she was a barrel racer.

      He reached up to lift her down by clasping his hands on her trim waist. She smelled like apple pie and sunshine and all things American, as he’d known she would if he’d ever come close enough to engage in a conversation with her.

      Just touching her caught him unaware for a moment. He thought to let go but held on long enough for her sapphire blue boots below her nicely fitting jeans to hit the dirt. “Are you okay?”

      “I’m fine thanks to you.” She frowned. “Well, maybe my pride is a bit damaged from needing to be rescued by the great Braden Hayes.”

      Surprised to hear his name, he was caught off guard. “You know who I am?”

      She shoved a wispy strand of fiery-red hair up under her hat. “Everyone in the rodeo world knows a two-time PBR champion.”

      He tried not to frown, but he hated that people saw him only as a PBR champion, when he’d done so many important things since those days. Of course, he should’ve expected it when he volunteered for rodeo events and put himself back in the spotlight. He didn’t much like that part of the PR gigs, but he wanted to give back to a sport that he’d once lived for. For such a cause, he would put up with the way others gushed over him.

      He met her gaze. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor of officially meeting the great Tessa McKade. What is it, eight or nine years running as the local barrel racing champ?”

      Her mouth dropped open as if she found it unbelievable that he knew her name or anything about her for that matter. But he did. Or, at least, he thought he did from watching her compete for several years before he retired. Her earnest and naive personality had been refreshing in a place where scantily dressed women threw themselves at him just because he could stay on a bull’s back for eight seconds. She had been in her early twenties back then and rarely interacted with others on the rodeo circuit. Most of what he knew about her had come secondhand, or been observed from a distance. Still, something about her coffee-colored eyes that seemed to see the world in a different way had caught his notice.

      She