A Ranch for His Family. Hope Navarre

Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Excerpt

      CHAPTER ONE

      “OH! THAT’S COMING off a bull the hard way, folks, and that’ll mean no score for this young cowboy.”

      Neal Bryant paid scant attention to the rodeo announcer and none to the disappointed cowboy dusting himself off in front of the rodeo chutes. Instead, Neal scanned the packed bleachers rising behind the white pole fence hung with banners for Wranglers, Resistol Hats and Justin Boots, searching for one face in the milling, colorful crowd from his hometown. A face that haunted his dreams—the face of Robyn O’Connor.

      It would be five years, and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. The ache of missing her, of knowing he’d thrown away the best thing in his life, never left him.

      Would Robyn’s dark hair still be short? Or would she have grown it long again? He liked it best when she had it long. He remembered the way it felt in his fingers. How he could wrap his hands in it and pull her close. He loved the way it would spill like silk across his chest when they made love.

      He’d heard from his mother that Robyn had married not long after she’d left him, but that she was single again. He should be glad about that, but he wasn’t. He wanted Robyn to be happy.

      His mother and Robyn’s mother were neighbors and best friends. He could’ve made a point of keeping track of her, but he’d chosen not to. On his infrequent visits home, her name was off-limits as far as he was concerned. Robyn’s life was her own now. She’d made it plain that there was no place for him in it.

      He gave up looking for Robyn in the crowd. It was a stupid move coming back. He hadn’t been to a rodeo in Bluff Springs in years. He wasn’t sure why he was here now.

      Maybe she didn’t come to the rodeos anymore. After rolling down the sleeves of his blue-and-white-striped shirt, he fastened the snaps and then drew on his rosin-darkened leather glove. One thing Neal knew for certain, she wouldn’t come to this rodeo if she knew he was riding.

      He gave his attention back to the rodeo. The smell of dust, livestock and popcorn filled the evening air as the carnival music from the midway spilled over the arena. Another bull and rider burst from the chute beside him and began their awesome dance across the churned dirt of the arena floor. The crowd cheered wildly when the horn sounded. One of his competitors had lasted the full eight.

      The announcer’s voice blared over the PA system again. “The judges’ score is eighty-five. A great ride, ladies and gentlemen. And now we have a last-minute entry, but one I know you’ll enjoy. In chute number three, a native son of these Flint Hills and currently number one in the national standings—let’s hear it for Neal Bryant, looking for eight on board Dust Devil.”

      A roar of cheering and applause erupted. Tipping his hat to the crowd from the top rail of the bucking chute, Neal scanned the bleachers one last time. If she was out there, he didn’t see her. Biting back his disappointment, he turned his attention to the bull coming through the stock gate.

      The announcer’s voice droned on. “A two-time runner-up at the National Finals Rodeo...”

      Those words penetrated Neal’s concentration, and his jaw clenched in annoyance. Two-time runner-up was just another way of saying two-time loser. He hated losing.

      This year was going to be different. He knew it in his bones. This was his year. He’d given up everything to make it to the top of his sport. Failure wasn’t an option.

      As he glanced out over the stands once more, he relaxed. He’d ridden his first calf in this Bluff Springs, Kansas, arena when he was eight years old. He’d won that Little Britches go-round, and like his father before him, rodeo had gotten into his blood.

      The people there were friends, neighbors and some of his biggest fans. They deserved to see a damn fine ride, and he was going to give them one.

      Maybe, just maybe, the one person he wanted to see would be watching.

      Neal handed his cowboy hat to one of the men working the chutes and pulled on his helmet with the attached face mask. He lowered himself into the chute. His rigging was quickly pulled tightly around the bull’s massive torso, and then the bull rope was laid snugly over the palm of his buckskin glove. Wrapping it once around the back of his hand, he laid it across his palm again and then pounded the fingers of his rosined glove down on the braided leather until he was satisfied with his grip.

      The bull moved restlessly below him. The bell on the bottom of the rope clanged loudly when Dust Devil slammed his head against the gate. He was itching to get the rider off his back, and he knew which way was out.

      “Old Devil here, he likes to spin to the left,” the rodeo clown said from outside the gate.

      Neal recognized the man’s voice. It was Kent Daley, an experienced bullfighter. Kent had saved the hide of more than one unlucky rider, including Neal. They had traveled the same rodeo circuit for years.

      “I see you’re still playing with your wife’s makeup, Kent. Aren’t you getting a little long in the tooth for this business?”

      “I’ll give it up the day a bull’s hot breath on my butt doesn’t make me run fast.”

      “Just keep this one off mine, okay?”

      “Devil likes to spin tight. When you come off, get out of his way. He loves to stomp on folks. He’s got a mean streak a mile wide.”

      “What makes you think I’m gonna come off?”

      “Cocky, ain’t ya?”

      “Getting bucked off is so undignified.”

      “Well, when you dismount, you should remove yourself from this bovine’s vicinity with all haste.”

      “That’s the plan. Thanks.”

      Neal adjusted his weight until he was satisfied with his seat. He knew this bull. He’d ridden him twice before, but he had only stayed on for the full eight seconds one time. He couldn’t have hoped for a better draw, since both the bull and the rider were judged during the event. The harder a bull bucked, the higher the score his rider earned.

      Dust Devil liked to take three or four big leaping bucks straight down the arena before he started into the tight spin that had earned him his name. The high jumps earned more points. A rider couldn’t win with a lazy bull under him.

      “Okay, boys.” Neal was ready. He raised his hand and nodded. The gate flew open, and the massive gray bull exploded into the arena with a powerful lunge.

      The bull leaped again, thrashing in midair as he tried to shake his rider. When he made a third lunge, Neal’s lips drew back in a savage smile. He had this one.

      Adrenaline pumped through his body. The roaring crowd was nothing but a colorful blur at the edge of his vision as he concentrated on the animal beneath him. Devil’s massive head swung sharply to the left, and Neal shifted his weight when the bull started into his spin. He was going to ride him for sure this time. Suddenly, Dust Devil stumbled. The mammoth animal lost his footing and crashed to his knees.

      Catapulted forward, Neal flew over his riding hand, twisting it tighter in the rope. Devil lurched to his feet with Neal dangling helplessly against his side.

      Neal struggled to free his hand as the bull continued to buck and thrash, tossing him like a rag doll. Kent Daley darted in and began trying to loosen the bull rope.