The Bull Rider's Homecoming. Jeannie Watt

check it out, but knowing himself as he did, he didn’t want to be tempted to hurry things along. The longer he healed, the better his chances of having a winning season the next year—and the better his chances of getting the best of Brick and funding that season. Or at least part of it.

      The problem, as he saw it, was that the only way to be a successful bull rider was to live and breathe the sport. Unfortunately, that made downtime difficult. Trace had nothing to fill the hours once he’d gone through all his exercises and rehab, mental and physical, and fed the animals. The one positive to the ranch was that for the first time in forever, he had a real kitchen to work in—one where his stepmother wouldn’t instantly kick him out, anyway—and within a matter of days his simple meals became more elaborate.

      Being at the stove reminded him of being with his mom. As she’d grown more ill, he’d taken over the cooking, following her instructions as she sat at the table and watched, sometimes with her head resting on her arms. She hadn’t had much of an appetite by that point, but she’d taught him to make hearty food that would feed a growing kid. She’d also taught him how to stretch ingredients, shop sales, use coupons and maintain a household budget.

      Trace’s mouth tightened as he put a cast-iron pan on to heat. He missed his mom. Sixteen years and the ache was still there. He’d lost his father not that long ago, but mostly he felt resentment when he thought of his dad. It wouldn’t have killed the guy to open up a little—at least tell him he had a serious heart problem. But no. He didn’t find that out until the heart problem had put his dad in the ground.

      Lex had a nicely stocked kitchen and Trace started a list of the things he needed to replace as he used them. She also had a decent collection of cookbooks, and it was while he was thumbing through one, looking for inspiration, that he stumbled upon the Gavin chamber of commerce pamphlet and discovered that he knew a local bar owner. Gus Hawkins was also from northern Nevada, and he and Trace had competed in a lot of the same rodeos in high school and college.

      It would be great to see someone he knew. Someone he didn’t have to fake small talk with. For all of the time he’d spent alone in his life, alone on this ranch felt different. It had to be because he wasn’t traveling and he wasn’t riding bulls. His life had changed radically after the surgery and his brain was still trying to figure out how to cope with these new limitations.

      * * *

      TRACE DID HIS grocery shopping Friday evening, just before the store closed for the night, then parked outside the Shamrock. The place was beginning to get crowded, but there were still a few empty tables around the periphery of the room. Trace bypassed the tables and headed to the bar, which was manned by an older guy who looked at him over his glasses as he approached.

      “Hey.” Trace put his hands on the edge of the bar and looked at what was on tap. He ordered then asked if Gus was around.

      The old guy’s glasses slipped a little lower as his chin dropped. “It’s his day off.”

      “I rodeoed with Gus during high school.”

      “You did, now?” Trace started to pull out his wallet but the bartender waved his hand. “First one’s on me.”

      Trace smiled. “Thanks. I guess I’ll stop by on a day that’s not Friday.”

      “Or Thursday. His other day off. By the way, I’m Thad. Gus’s uncle.”

      “Trace Delaney.”

      “You ride bulls.”

      “I do.” He wasn’t a big name, but it wasn’t unusual for people who followed bull riding to know who he was.

      “Are you done with the circuit?” Thad pushed a foaming draft across the bar.

      Trace raised his glass. “Bad shoulder. I should be good to go in a matter of weeks.” Months, he reminded himself. No pushing this recovery as he’d always done in the past.

      “It’s got to be rough on the paycheck being out for so long.”

      “Doesn’t help,” Trace agreed with a “that’s life” smile.

      A group of six or seven youngish guys dressed in matching baseball shirts came in through the back door, and Trace stepped back as they crowded up to the bar. “I’ll tell Gus I saw you,” Thad called as he backed away.

      “Thanks.” The place was filling up, but Trace found a quiet table near the empty pool tables, where he sat and slowly sipped his beer, watching the people around him. He was in no hurry to get back to the lonely farm and was therefore in no hurry to finish his beer. It was only 7:30 p.m., so a long night stretched before him.

      Another rowdy group of kids dressed as cowboys came into the bar and soon commandeered the pool tables. Trace watched the dynamics in the group, pegged the cocky guy with the black hat as the leader and wondered if he’d looked that stupid after having one too many. A girl in tight silver pants draped herself around Black Hat, who practically shook her off. Silver Pants pouted a little as Black Hat took his pool shot then gave a smirk when the ball hit the edge of the pocket and rolled to the center of the table.

      “I told you to rub me for luck,” she said.

      And Trace had had about enough people-watching.

      He went back to the now almost deserted bar to drop off his glass, and he and Thad started talking again. Thad seemed fine to talk despite being busy at the bar, so Trace lingered a bit before heading out the back door leading to the parking lot. He’d barely stepped outside when he heard a woman cry out and then the sound of a scuffle. He rounded the first row of vehicles in the lot and saw Black Hat and Silver Pants standing next to a tricked-out truck.

      “Leave me alone,” the girl yelled. Black Hat didn’t move, so she started slapping at him, until he put his hands up and pushed her back into the truck. Her head struck the mirror, and even though she didn’t appear to be hurt, Trace started toward them. If it had been a couple of evenly matched guys, it would have been different, but this wasn’t an even match.

      “Mind your own business,” the guy growled, barely sparing Trace a glance as he faced off with the girl who was now spitting curses at him while rubbing her head with one hand.

      Trace stepped in between them. “She asked you to leave her alone.”

      “You going to get involved, cowboy?” the guy asked in a deadly voice.

      Trace took another step forward, hoping the woman had the good sense to take off while she could. “I don’t want to get involved, but if she wants to go—” Something hit him hard on his temple, knocking him sideways. His teeth clacked together and he tasted blood, but he didn’t go down.

      “You get away from us,” Silver Pants shrieked. When Trace turned toward her, the guy swung at him. Trace managed to pull back enough to miss the brunt of it, but the guy swung again, hitting him square in the bad shoulder as he attempted to dodge the blow, and the fight was on. Trace got a couple punches in with his right hand before the guy grabbed his shirt and swung him around. He lost his balance and went down, pulling Black Hat with him.

      They rolled in the gravel, hitting one another, the girl shrieking and smacking at them with her purse—the same purse she’d used to coldcock him. Just when Trace got a lucky shot to the jaw, he heard the sound of tires on gravel, and then the reds and blues lit the ground nearby. A pair of rough hands pulled him away from Black Hat and the next thing he knew, his hands were cuffed behind his back, the pain in his shoulder so raw and deep that he could barely catch his breath, much less give his name when the cop demanded it.

      “He started it,” the girl sobbed. “He did. We were out here talking and he just attacked us!”

      Trace let his cheek drop to the gravel. He was so thoroughly hosed.

       Chapter Three

      “We need to give a statement,” Danielle said as the deputies finished handcuffing