A Rodeo Man's Promise. Marin Thomas

stories. Their one and only lusty kiss three years ago had been a bust, but they’d remained good friends. “Did you miss me?” Riley asked.

       “Heck yeah, I missed my biggest tipper.” She slipped her arm through his and walked with him to the cowboy-ready area. “You’re comin’ to the bar later, right?”

       “You bet.” Maintaining his championship swagger had become increasingly difficult when he hadn’t hit a top-three finish since his July 4th win in South Dakota seven weeks ago.

       “Hey, Fitzgerald!” Billy Stover waved his cowboy hat. The bronc rider occupied first place in the standings. “Showin’ up kind of late in the day, aren’t you?” Stover eyed Sugar while Riley signed in for his event.

       “Couldn’t catch a tailwind with the Cessna.” Riley felt a zap of satisfaction at the smack-down. No matter how great Stover became at bronc-bustin’, the cowboy would never earn the amount of money Riley had at his disposal on a day-to-day basis.

       No sense trying to downplay his wealth when the media made sure Riley’s competitors and rodeo fans knew the Fitzgeralds of Lexington, Kentucky, were rolling in dough. He’d heard the whispers behind the chutes—spoiled rich kid had nothing better to do with his time than play cowboy.

       After graduating from college with a marketing degree, he’d bypassed the family business—Kentucky Derby horses and a century-old bourbon distillery—and had hit the rodeo circuit, living off his trust fund. Other than sharing a love for the sport, he didn’t have a whole lot in common with the average rodeo cowboy. He knew horseflesh—the racing kind—but next to nothing about punching cows, which was what most rodeo contenders did to earn money between rides.

       “Forgot you flew your own plane,” Stover said.

       “You’d forget your brain if it wasn’t trapped inside your skull.”

       Stover spit tobacco juice, the glob landing inches from the toe of Riley’s boot. “A win tonight ain’t gonna put you back in the running.” Listening to the man’s crap would be a lot less painful if Riley lasted eight seconds in the saddle. His dismal performance the past month fueled personal attacks and provided fodder for the media.

       “Worry about yourself, Stover. Your luck might run out tonight.”

       “Doubt it.” Stover disappeared into the crowd. The sports world was having a field day debating whether or not Riley deserved last year’s championship title. Riley’s first year on the circuit, he ended the season ranked seventh in the standings. The second year he’d won the title—by default—when Drew Rawlins had scratched his final ride. This year Riley intended to prove the naysayers wrong. He’d had a hell of a run during Cowboy Christmas, but he’d been slipping downhill since then.

       “Ignore him.” Sugar glared at Stover’s retreating back. “Win or lose, you’re the hottest cowboy on the circuit.”

       Too bad Riley’s pretty face couldn’t keep his butt glued to the saddle.

       “Grab a seat, folks, and hang on to your hats.” The rodeo announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “The saddle-bronc competition is about to begin.”

       “Go get ’em, cowboy.” Sugar kissed Riley’s cheek then disappeared into the stands.

       Rummaging through his gear bag, Riley found his chaps and gloves. He’d put his spurs on during the cab ride to the arena.

       “Riley Fitzgerald from Lexington, Kentucky, is up first.”

       An ear-splitting din echoed through the stands as the crowd stomped their boots on the aluminum bleachers. His confidence might have abandoned Riley but at least his fans hadn’t.

       “Fitzgerald’s about to tangle with one of the orneriest broncs on the circuit.”

       Riley had ridden Peanut earlier in the season at the Coors Pro Rodeo in Gillette, Wyoming, and the stallion had been hell on hooves. The gelding had practically thrown Riley into the rails. He shoved his Stetson on his head—not that he expected the hat to stay on. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. Large, industrial air vents circulated the smell of horseflesh, urine-soaked hay and sweaty cowboys through the air.

       Gotta make it to eight.

       He scaled the chute rails and slouched low in the saddle then worked the buck rein around his hand until the rope felt comfortable. As with most notorious broncs Peanut didn’t flinch or twitch a muscle—he was every cowboy’s best friend until the gate opened.

       “You folks may not know that three years ago Fitzgerald won the National Intercollegiate Rodeo Association Championship in saddle-bronc riding his senior year at UNLV. One might recall the story behind that ride…”

       The facts surrounding his infamous ride had been embellished through the years until no one believed the truth—sheer luck and not skill had kept Riley in the saddle when Lucky Strike swapped ends—jumped into the air and turned 180 degrees before touching the ground. The ride had vaulted Riley into instant stardom and earned him sponsorship offers from Wrangler, Justin boots and Dodge trucks.

       “Hang on, folks. The flagman’s signaling a problem with the clock,” the announcer said.

       A sequence of slow-motion action shots played inside Riley’s head as he envisioned his ride. First, he marked out the bronc—touching both heels above the horse’s shoulders as the animal exploded from the chute. Peanut bucked, spun and back-jumped. Riley held on, his body moving in sync with the horse while spurring. The image abruptly vanished when loud music blasted through the arena.

       “Fitzgerald dropped out of the standings this month. If he’s gonna defend his title he’s gotta win on the big buckers like Peanut.”

      Win—exactly what Riley intended to do.

       “Clocks have been fixed. Let’s see if Fitzgerald can stay in the saddle.”

       A final squeeze of the rein then Riley signaled the gate man. The chute door swung open and Peanut leapt into the arena. Riley spurred the gelding, goading it to buck harder—the feistier the bronc, the higher the score. But his efforts were in vain. Peanut whirled right, left, then back to the right, but without much vigor.

      Son of a bitch. Peanut was acting like a dink—a bucker with no buck.

       The buzzer sounded and Riley leapt to the ground, resisting the urge to smack the bronc on the rump as he walked to the chute.

       “Don’t rightly know what was wrong with Peanut tonight. He sure didn’t do Fitzgerald any favors. An eighty isn’t good enough for a win. Better luck next time, cowboy.”

       “Tough draw,” Ed Parker said.

       Too pissed to speak, Riley opened his gear bag and stowed his rigging. Parker was one of the nicer competitors on the circuit and didn’t deserve Riley’s cold shoulder; but better to keep his mouth shut than spout statements that would make the morning papers and sully the Fitzgerald name.

       Riley’s great-great-grandfather Doyle Fitzpatrick had purchased the family’s first thoroughbred horse in Ireland and brought the stallion with him when he’d immigrated to America. He sold Duke of Devonshire and used the money to buy Belle Farms—the burned-out shell of a pre-civil war estate on the outskirts of Lexington. Doyle then opened a local bourbon distillery, using the profits to renovate Belle Farms and invest in the world’s finest horseflesh.

       “You headin’ over to Lil’s?” Parker asked.

       “Yeah.” Riley would drink a beer and pretend he didn’t give a rat’s ass about losing when he did. After socializing he’d phone Rosalinda to fetch him from the bar then he’d fly to his next rodeo in Payson, Arizona.

       “I’ll give you a lift after my ride,” Parker said.

       “Appreciate that.” Riley headed for the food vendors, where he purchased two hot dogs, fries and a Coke. He sat in the stands and ignored the buckle bunnies with big hair, big boobs and big rhinestone