The Bull Rider. Helen DePrima

our cattle.”

      Bitterness rose in his throat at the memory of finding the cows, most of them raised at Cameron’s Pride, dead with their calves lifeless inside them or frozen at their sides. They’d had to burn the carcasses, and the stench of scorched hair and roasting meat had hung in the valley for days.

      “Is your dad doing okay now?”

      He turned to her with a start; he’d been living so deeply in the past, he’d almost forgotten her presence.

      “So the doctors say. You’d never know he almost died, but Shelby still rides pretty close herd on him.” Yet another reason to bless her presence in the family.

      He yawned, almost cracking his jaws, and flushed. “Dang, I’m sorry,” he said a second time. “I guess my battery’s running low.”

      A lot of unmarried riders partied after the event, blowing off adrenaline with booze and the ever-willing girls who swarmed around the cowboys. He didn’t care much for drinking—the loss of control scared him—and he’d never again settle for sweaty sheets and girls whose names and faces ran together in a blur. Usually he walked for a couple hours to step down from the high of riding; tonight talking with Jo about home had drained away the tension. Too bad Traci had never been interested in hearing about the ranch.

      Jo smiled. “Sounds like a cue to call it a night. What’s the schedule tomorrow?”

      “The event starts at one,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs for breakfast around nine if you’d like to join me.”

      “Why don’t you stop by my room first? I can help with the concealer again.” She stood just as the door opened.

      Luke stopped short. “Hey, I can come back later...”

      “Jo’s just leaving,” Tom said. “I’ve been boring her with Cameron family history.”

      “Far from it,” she said. “I could listen all night.”

      “And he could yammer on about the family legends till you want to stuff a sock in his mouth,” Luke said. “Best take it in installments.”

      “Thanks for listening,” Tom said, although she’d probably considered it just part of her work.

      “Anytime,” she said with a smile, gathering her purse and the day sheet from the evening’s competition. “I’d love to hear more about your family and the ranch.”

      For a moment, he pictured her at Cameron’s Pride and then banished the image. He was a job to Jo Dace, nothing more—they’d have no problem as long as he kept that in mind.

CHAPTER EIGHT

      JO OPENED THE door to Tom’s light knock and did a quick survey of his face. The swelling had subsided but the bruises around his eyes still gave him the look of a raccoon’s mask. She waved him to a chair by the window and opened the tube he handed her.

      “Did you have a better night?” she asked. “You look rested.”

      “I slept like a baby with a clear conscience.” He set his hat brim up on the table and closed his eyes.

      She studied his face, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the firm set of his mouth, the scar running down one cheek—innocence and maturity oddly blended in his unguarded expression.

      “So you’re a hardcore city girl,” he said as she dotted the Dermablend over the bruises. “Where did you learn to ride enough to gallop a race horse at Churchill Downs?”

      “I didn’t grow up in New York City,” she said. “My mom and I moved to my grandfather’s farm in upstate New York after my father died.” The old ache stirred but without the usual stabbing pain. “My grandfather took in retired police horses and my cousins and I rode them, mostly bareback.”

      She feathered the tinted cream around his eyes, smoothing the makeup with the sponge. “Now you can face the world.”

      They walked together to the hotel dining room. Riders, some with their wives and small children, occupied many of the tables. Sophie Haley waved for Tom and Jo to join them.

      Sophie inspected Tom’s face. “Either you’re a fast healer or Jo’s a wizard with makeup,” she said. “Len looks like he’s been beat up for days after he takes a hit like you did.”

      Tom grinned. “I’m thinking about signing her to a contract.”

      “Or you could wear a helmet,” Len said.

      “Now you sound like Doc,” Tom said.

      Jo kept her gaze resolutely on her plate.

      The conversation turned to anecdotes about bulls and riders, some humorous, others grim. Jo tried to absorb it all for the copious notes she would write that evening on her flight back to New York.

      “We saw you above the chutes last night,” Sophie said. “Why don’t you sit with us this afternoon? There’s a free seat in our section—Lou-Ann had to leave early. Someone left a gate open at their ranch and now they’ve got bred heifers spread across half of Custer County.”

      Jo looked at Tom. “I’ve really enjoyed watching from the chute seat, but...”

      “Sit with the wives,” he said. “You’ll get a different view of the action and pick up a lot of good background for your writing.”

      Sophie punched her husband’s arm. “I told you she was a writer.” She turned to Jo. “I’ll bet you’re working on a novel. Will you put me in it?”

      Her husband ruffled her red curls. “Of course she will—you’re a sure-enough character.”

      “Not a novel,” Jo said with a laugh. “I don’t have that kind of imagination. I’d planned to do a magazine feature, but the short format couldn’t do bull riding justice.” She looked at Tom and took the plunge. “I’d like to do a book, as well, if I don’t wear Tom out with my questions.”

      Tom smiled. “I reckon I can put up with you for a while anyway.” He signed for their meal. “For helping with the makeup and letting me bend your ear last night.”

      He stood and beckoned. “There’s someone I want you to meet before the event starts.”

      She followed him to a rear entrance of the arena and into the maze of pens and alleys holding the bulls for the afternoon’s competition. He stopped beside an enclosure in which a massive cream-colored bull stood half-asleep.

      “That’s the bull that bucked you off in New York, isn’t it?” Jo asked.

      “Good eye, city girl. Yep, this is Gunslinger. He’s one of the great ones—he’s been on the tour for three years and never been rode. I plan to be the first.” He reached through the bars. “Get over here, you big baby, and let the lady pet you.”

      Gunslinger snorted and stuck his nose between the metal rails.

      Jo put a tentative hand on the huge head and then scratched behind an ear. The bull closed his eyes and rocked on his feet.

      “He’d purr if he could. Want to ride him?” Tom asked with a straight face.

      “You’re joking, right? Do I look crazy?”

      “Safe as sitting on a pet pony. Safer—ponies are tricky little rascals. He’ll stand just like this until he feels the bull rope tighten up.”

      “Will you try to ride him again today?”

      “If I get to choose first after the long round. I’ll keep picking him till we get it right.” He gave the bull a final scratch. “Later, buddy.”

      “I’ve heard jockeys talk like this about special horses,” she said, “but they’re a team trying to win together. The bulls try to keep you from winning.”

      “Well,