Cowboy Crush(28)

“Move, kid,” Sawyer muttered under his breath.

Cal felt sour acid rush into his throat. His legs felt like jelly. He’d watched hundreds of guys get tossed in the arena, but he’d never been related to any of them. He’d seen horns puncture sides and hooves sinking into muscle and never felt one bit sickened. But this was his kid brother. Fear pressed against him, squeezing him in its vise grip.

“Goddamn it,” Cal yelled, scrabbling over the fence. “I’m coming.”

Sawyer caught hold of his leg. “The boys have it, Cal.”

Cal paused as Wyatt hightailed it, boots churning up the dust. One of the ranch hands pulled the bull’s attention away and the bull turned, lowered his head and bore down on Wyatt’s savior who spun expertly out of the way. The escape gate bounced against the metal enclosure and the bull headed toward it, the promise of hay waiting.

Wyatt ran for the fence, scrambling over almost directly opposite where Cal and Sawyer stood. The boy’s straw hat sat smashed in the center of the arena, the only casualty on the ride.

“Jesus,” Cal sighed, slinking off the top of the fence with relief. He’d never felt so hopeless as he watched the kid hit the dust and have the bull turn on him. Cal wanted to be nonchalant, like he knew this was part of the sport and the toss-off was run-of-the-mill. But for some reason it didn’t feel that way.

Hal Sawyer let out a rusty laugh. “Different when it’s your kid. Aw, I know he ain’t yours, but it’s the same concept. Probably have to clean his shorts, but he’s fine.”

“Right,” Cal said as he headed toward Wyatt. Rounding the corner he saw the kid grinning and his heart sank. The kid hadn’t been rattled in the least.

“Woo,” Wyatt said, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. “That was crazy, man.”

Cal nodded, unable to find his words. He wanted to lecture him but also wanted to praise him for having the balls to ride. What route should he take? He’d been so sure riding a bull would scare the shit out of his little brother that he hadn’t planned on something to say when the kid beamed up at him happy as a pig in sunshine after the two-second ride.

Sawyer came on his heels. “Good ride, kid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sawyer. Scared the hell outta me, but I loved it. It’s like a rush I’ve never felt before.” Wyatt dusted himself off and grinned at Cal. “Now I know why you do it.”

And Cal could see Wyatt did understand the euphoria, the challenge, the need to win. Ruth Whitehorse was going to kill her oldest son. “Yeah.”

Wyatt slapped Cal on the back. “We could be a family dynasty, right?”

Cal was silent, managing a nod.

Sawyer grunted, eyeing Wyatt. “How tall are you, son?”

Wyatt’s grin flickered. “Uh, I’m nearly six foot.”

“And not through growing,” Sawyer noted, his expression growing serious. The older man knew Cal’s concerns, though Cal had not come out and asked the old cowboy to pop Wyatt’s bubble. Something hot flashed across Cal’s gut because he knew the man was going to do what he could not. “I’m not sure you’ve looked around PBR and the PRCA, but most bull riders are squirts. No offense, Cal.”

“None taken,” Cal said.

“Ain’t many six-foot riders and most of them started riding when they were little things. I ain’t saying you couldn’t do it. You got guts, but you have some things stacked against you. It’s a hard life—ask Cal.”

Wyatt looked over at him. “I thought you liked being a bull rider. All those girls, all that money, being on the road. You’ve always made it sound pretty damn good.”

Cal nodded. He had always made his life sound good. He figured it helped his mama to know he wasn’t lonely or missing her bad cooking. He’d never wanted her to know how crappy he felt nursing a concussion alone in a hotel room or scrabbling to find a few dollars so he could wash his clothes in the laundry mat. So he embellished. “I don’t have regrets. But it’s rough sometimes. Lonely.”

“So?” Wyatt shrugged, walking toward the equipment shed that cast a fat line of shade onto the dusty ground.

Sawyer turned to Cal. “I got the boys pulling Sunny D. He’s the grandson of Disastrous D and he’ll give you all you want.”

“Ranker the bull the better. I haven’t ridden in months and need the best you got,” Cal said with a smile. He didn’t feel like smiling, of course. He felt like a man awaiting execution for some reason. Which was insane. He’d never feared a bull. Whichever one he drew, he rode. No complaints. No qualms. Just a healthy dose of respect for the power of the beast and the damage it could do.

But today he felt different.

Because he knew he wasn’t even close to 100 percent. In the past he’d ridden with a bum knee or a few stitches in the side of his head. He’d ridden with a cracked rib, wrists banged and bruised, and once he’d ridden with a cast on his forearm. But the shoulder felt different—sharp pain that took his breath at times and limited range.

The ride would hurt. No doubt about it.

Fifteen minutes later, he tightened his rope and fit his gloved hand beneath the loop, gripping the freshly rosined tail, staring at the curved horns of the massive beast beneath him. The bells on the side of the bull quivered, much like Cal’s gut.

“Get him off the gate,” Sawyer cautioned as Cal settled his boots against the flanks.

“Got him,” Cal said, giving a nod.

The gate pulled and Sunny D shot out, a cannon unloading into the dusty Texas afternoon. The bull bucked hard, leaping, twisting. Cal hung on, allowing his body to anticipate the bull with a naturalness that came to him. He’d done this a thousand times before. Hold on, move. An airhorn sounded. Cal gave a perfect dismount, rolling into the dirt, springing up to look for Sunny D bearing down on him. Instead the bull trotted toward the exit.

Scene. Roll tape. Action. Cut. Couldn’t have been scripted any better.

“Hell, yeah!” Wyatt gave a fist pump. Sawyer and his ranch hands wore grins. Cal felt as though he could vomit. The pain was bad, the adrenaline soaked him with sweat that had nothing to do with the hot sun bearing down on them. His legs wobbled as he managed to jog to the perimeter and pull himself onto the fence near where everyone looked on.

“You looked good,” Sawyer observed, clasping his hands together. “Not top form, but Sunny D looked atypically sluggish. How’s the shoulder?”

Hurt like hell. “Little stiff but good.”

Wyatt slapped him on the back. “Man, you rode that son of a gun like a mofo.”

“That’s just one bull.”

“Still,” Wyatt said, looking at the crushed cowboy hat in his hand. Cal’s gaze stuck on the ripped fibers, bashed and dirty from the bull’s hooves. Was that how he’d looked after Rasputin had gotten through with him?

No. He was Cal Lincoln, two-time world champion, a top money earner and resilient cowboy who covered bulls. He wasn’t damaged goods. He could live with the pain. Not like he hadn’t done it before.

“Thanks, Sawyer, for letting us grab a ride today.”

“My pleasure, though I have to admit I wish my bull would have performed better, but I like having riders on my stock. Anytime, fellas.”

“Let’s go back to Coyote Creek, Wy.”

* * *

A WEEK PASSED. Then another. Maggie worked on the house. Charlie, Wyatt and Cal helped her. Floors got refinished, and she painted the exterior a fresh white and added crisp navy shutters. Window boxes were filled with heat-tolerant coreopsis that spilled out, and roses gave a color splash to the whitewashed fence. Cal erected the American flag off the shady porch with its new rocking chairs and porch swing. The Triple J had gone from looking like a crack house to looking like it could grace the cover of Country Living.

The box with Bud’s ashes in it stared down at her from the top of the pantry like a gynecologist’s appointment circled on her calendar. Maggie eyed it several times a day, wondering when she’d get up the nerve to do what she’d promised. It sat waiting, reminded her time slipped away. Soon she’d sign papers on the sale of the house and bid her bull rider adios.

The thought made her heart ache.

But what could she do?

The closer the date Cal would leave got, the more strained their relationship had grown. They’d not even made love last night. After a dinner of nachos in front of the TV, she’d fallen asleep. She could blame it on the new plush couch or the fact she’d been exhausted from spending the day working in the flower beds. Cal had woken her and she’d shuffled off to bed. When she’d awoke that morning, she discovered he hadn’t slept with her last night. She’d been alone.

For a moment, lying in the soft dawn light, she’d experienced a loss so severe she couldn’t breathe. Her hand moved over the pillow on the left side of the bed—the side he’d chosen for the past month without even asking—and her heart broke apart.

The agreement for a “mutually beneficial, no strings attached” relationship had backfired on her. Because even though they would end as planned, it wasn’t going to be painless. No “all the fun, none of the heartache” Cal had promised. She hadn’t gotten fat by indulging in a frolic with Cal, but she’d gotten hooked. Her cowboy was a drug. And come Monday—a mere five days away—she’d start rehab. A hard time lay ahead.