The Bull Rider's Son. Cathy Mcdavid

partners. An arrangement requiring give and take on both sides.”

      “What did he give?” From where Cassidy stood, her mother had done all the compromising.

      “He agreed to put money aside for Benjie’s college education.”

      Cassidy was taken aback, especially when her mother named the amount.

      “His own personal money,” her mother added. “Not the arena’s.”

      She quickly recovered. “He can’t buy my affections. Or my forgiveness. And he can’t buy off his responsibility for what happened.”

      “Did it ever occur to you that he’s simply doing something nice for his grandson? He does love the boy. And Benjie adores him.”

      He did, which rankled Cassidy to no end. “I’ll tell him no.”

      “You can’t stop him. It’s his money. He can do with it what he wants. And when the time comes, Benjie can accept it, with or without your consent.”

      Cassidy liked that less.

      During these past six months her life had been slowly spiraling out of control. First her father returned. Then both her siblings met their future spouses. Lastly her father had hired Shane.

      Cassidy vowed anew to keep her son from his uncle’s path as much as possible. The benefit would be twofold. In addition to keeping the identity of Benjie’s father a secret, she’d quell this wild and inexplicable attraction to Shane. Anything else was unacceptable.

      * * *

      “ATTA BOY,” SHANE CROONED. “Steady now.”

      Wasabi swayed from side to side, but managed to remain standing—which was a good thing. If the bull collasped onto all fours, his massive weight could compress his lungs and cut off his breathing. It was imperative that every move be precisely executed, every step accomplished at the exact right moment or Wasabi might die.

      “We’re done,” Doc Worthington said, visibly relaxing as the tranquilizer took effect.

      Getting the bull sedated had been a tricky process, to say the least. With few choices, and to be as humane as possible, the Becketts’ vet had used a tranquilizer gun, aiming the feather-tipped dart at Wasabi’s muscular hind-quarters. The bull hadn’t felt a thing.

      Turned out, the initial dose hadn’t been strong enough, and the vet had to administer a second one, which had worried Shane. Stress and excitement could cause the tranquilizer to run through the bull’s system at an incredible rate. Shane had once seen a bull require five doses.

      Now, he carefully monitored the entire procedure from his place beside the wizened country vet. So far, so good, and his respect for the older man grew.

      Two of the arena’s most capable wranglers had been recruited to act as spotters, along with Mercer. If Shane appeared to be in any trouble during the bull’s massage therapy, they’d jump right in. Shane was glad for their presence. Despite his show of confidence, this type of therapy was relatively new to him. A phone call yesterday with the bovine sports medicine specialist had yielded some helpful advice.

      The older veterinarian considered Shane a bit crazy to take this on, especially since he had limited experience.

      Yes, there were risks. In more ways than one. Shane might get injured, or, worse, he could make a fool of himself in the eyes of his new employer and possibly lose his job.

      “You ready?” Mercer called from the sidelines.

      “Let’s do it.” Taking a fortifying breath, Shane crawled through the fence rails.

      “There’s still time to tie him up.”

      “I don’t want to upset him more than he already is.”

      Shane didn’t have long. Twenty minutes at most before Wasabi came out of the sedation. No telling how the bull would react. Dazed and disoriented, he’d likely attack the nearest object with horns or hooves. In this case, Shane.

      Straightening, he surveyed his surroundings before slowly approaching Wasabi. A small crowd had gathered to watch from a safe distance, Cassidy among them. Their gazes briefly connected before Shane looked away. He couldn’t afford any distractions, and Cassidy was a big one.

      Since their encounter in the trailer four days ago, it seemed as though she’d made it her mission to avoid him. Often, like at last night’s bull riding jackpot, he’d sensed her presence, only to turn and find her staring at him or, more often, quickly averting her head.

      She was obviously drawn to him, if nothing else, out of curiosity. And the feeling was mutual.

      Why, then, did she run for the hills every time he approached? Her behavior just piqued his interest further, and Shane wasn’t a man to be put off indefinitely.

      “Watch it,” Mercer hollered when Wasabi opened his bleary eyes and swung his head clumsily to the side. Mercer, along with the two wranglers, had formed a circle around Wasabi and Shane. “Maybe you should dose him again,” he said to the vet.

      “I don’t dare. Not unless you have a crane handy we can use to lift him.”

      That elicited a round of nervous chuckles from the wranglers. They, too, were on high alert.

      A moment later, the bull calmed, and his eyes drifted closed. He rumbled as if snoring. Shane waited another minute, positioning himself near Wasabi’s shoulder, avoiding both the bull’s hind end and head, either of which could be deadly.

      When the bull didn’t react, he tentatively stroked Wasabi’s back. Other than a slight twitch, the animal remained motionless. Growing bolder, Shane removed first one, then the second dart. Wasabi continued sleeping, and Shane skimmed his palm down the bull’s thick neck to his shoulder. Probing gently, he searched for any lumps, swelling or other signs of a contusion. Wasabi’s injury could have been the result of a kick from another bull, requiring a potentially different course of treatment.

      “Find anything?” Doc Worthington asked.

      “Nothing yet.” Shane increased the pressure, kneading methodically.

      Wasabi snorted lustily. A moment later, he quieted.

      “He probably just sustained a sprain.”

      In Shane’s opinion, the vet was being optimistic. Wasabi could have a torn tendon or ligament. Trauma of that nature would end his career.

      “Guess we’ll know soon enough,” Mercer said.

      They would, if Wasabi didn’t improve quickly. Like, within days.

      Knowing he had little time left, Shane continued with the massage. It might be his imagination, or wishful thinking, but he swore the bull relaxed beneath his touch.

      “Get the tape,” he said.

      Mercer delivered the roll from the vet. During Shane’s phone call yesterday, the bovine sports medicine specialist had recommended elastic therapeutic tape, the same type human athletes used for their injuries. Wasabi would look a little funny, but if it helped, who cared?

      Just as Shane finished affixing the last strip, the bull started to rouse.

      Doc Worthington raised his tranquilizer gun. “I can dose him again.”

      “Don’t bother, I’m done.”

      More correctly, Wasabi was done. Grunting angrily, he jabbed the empty air in front of him with his horns. Shane jumped out of the way, though the dazed bull missed him by a mile.

      The reprieve didn’t last. Wasabi awakened quickly and, finding himself confronted by hated humans, charged the closest one, which happened to be Shane. And, like that, the race was on.

      Shane bolted for the fence. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mercer and the wranglers attempting to distract Wasabi. The bull ignored all but his tormenter and bore down on Shane, his loping gait growing steadier