Читать книгу The Bull Rider's Twin Trouble - Ali Olson - Страница 10

Chapter One

Brock McNeal breathed deeply, moving his body in time with the jumping, twisting animal beneath him, and counted the seconds. Six...seven...eight.

The whistle sounded and he jumped off the bucking bull as bullfighters surrounded them, rolling to his feet and away from the large animal.

Brock soaked in the roar of the crowd. It hadn’t been a great ride, he knew, but he’d hung on to Big Tex, one of the wildest bulls he had ever faced, and the audience was showing their appreciation. He tipped his hat to them and slid a wink over to a group of buckle bunnies holding signs, their skintight clothing leaving little to the imagination.

He almost didn’t hear the shouts behind him as he basked in the glow of the crowd, but eventually he registered that something was wrong in the ring. Before he could turn around, two thousand pounds of animal flesh and muscle slammed into Brock, pushing him to the ground.

A hoof slammed into the ground inches from his face, kicking dirt into his eyes. Brock lay still, waiting for the next hoof, the one that would break his arm, puncture a lung or crack his skull.

After another few seconds, he opened his eyes to see the sky above him. The bullfighters had pulled the stomping, twisting bull away and out of the ring. The audience was silent, waiting to see how injured he was.

Brock jumped to his feet, tossed another smile to the people noisily showing their approval and walked out of the ring to join the other riders, enjoying the feeling of adrenaline pounding through his veins.

After receiving congratulations from the pack of men, Brock set off toward his truck.

“You trying to get yourself killed?” a gruff voice demanded the moment Brock was alone.

He turned to find his uncle standing behind him, hands on his hips. He looked angrier than Brock had seen him in a long while.

Brock gave him what he hoped was a calming smile. “I’m fine, Uncle Joe. Not a scratch,” he said, raising his hands for inspection, or possibly in surrender to his uncle’s fury.

“That was dangerous, and stupid, Brock. You know not to hang around in the ring like that, especially not with a bull like Big Tex in there with you,” Joe said, shaking his head. “Jeannie must be rolling in her grave right now. And what would Sarah say if she knew you were putting yourself at risk like that? My sisters would never forgive me if something happened to you. I’d be hounded in this world and the next.”

Brock winced at the verbal assault. His mother had been dead for twenty years, since he was just a little boy, but it still bothered him to hear his uncle talk about her like that. And Brock knew that if his uncle said anything to Sarah, his ma, the woman who had raised him since his parents died, she would worry herself sick.

Uncle Joe seemed to realize he’d been harsh, and his expression softened. “You’re lucky you survived today, you know.”

Brock nodded, not saying anything. His uncle had been one of the best bull riders in his day, and it was only through his coaching that Brock had managed to turn it into a career.

“I don’t know why I put up with you and your recklessness,” Uncle Joe groused.

Brock stayed silent. His uncle always said things like that when he was angry, and Brock had learned it was best not to respond. Joe would keep coaching Brock as long as Brock wanted to ride, so there was no point fighting with the old man.

Joe seemed to have grumbled himself out on the matter, and he changed topics, to Brock’s relief. “You’re headin’ home tonight, right? Sarah’s been on my case about you going for a visit.”

Brock nodded. “Ma’s been especially persistent lately, so I’ll be there for two weeks, until the next rodeo. Amy, Jose and Diego will be coming into town in the next couple of days, too.”

It had been a long while since Brock had seen his adopted brothers and sister, and he was sure Ma was in a tizzy waiting for her kids to come home. Sarah and her husband, Howard, had treated Brock like their own child since he was eight years old, and his adopted siblings even longer. Even though they were technically his aunt and uncle, he never thought of them as anything but his parents.

Joe nodded. “Keep your nose clean and I’ll see you at the rodeo.”

Brock couldn’t help but smile. He was pretty sure it would be impossible to get into any trouble in a one-stoplight town like Spring Valley, Texas.

His uncle seemed to know what he was thinking, because he pointed his finger at Brock’s chest. “Don’t give me any guff, boy. I don’t know how you manage to get yourself in the scrapes you do, smart as you are.”

Brock considered saying that what Uncle Joe considered “scrapes” usually involved other men from the rodeo, whom he’d met through Joe himself, but he kept his mouth shut. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be there all night listening to a lecture.

Brock tipped his hat in silent promise to keep his nose clean, then he turned back to the parking lot. “I better get on the road. I’ll tell Ma you said hi.”

The older man nodded. “Take care of yourself and don’t do anything foolish,” he said before heading back toward the large arena, from which sound erupted as another cowboy tried for his chance at the purse.

Brock turned toward his truck, the silver behemoth glinting in the afternoon sun, just one of many in the parking lot, waves of heat floating above the sea of metal. It was still early enough that most of the audience and competitors wouldn’t be leaving for another hour or more.

Normally he would have stayed to talk to the other cowboys, watch the last few rides, the closing ceremonies and possibly even the musical performance scheduled after the rodeo ended—and maybe get to know a few buckle bunnies while he was at it—then top the whole thing off with late-night drinks and planning the next big adventure with his friends. But he had a long drive ahead of him and he wanted to get to his parents’ house before it was too late for a good meal, so he took one last look at the stadium behind him and opened the door to his truck, allowing the wave of pent-up heat to pass over him.

He wished he had his motorcycle with him so he could enjoy the sweeping curves of the mountain roads at top speeds, feel the rush of adrenaline and the wind at the same time. When he was on the circuit, though, it stayed in storage back in Dallas, so his truck would have to do. Anyway, if he rode up to Spring Valley on his bike, he’d get an earful from his ma, and he’d already had enough of that for one day.

He couldn’t say he was happy about spending the weeks before his next rodeo in his tiny hometown, without much of a chance to prepare. He wanted to earn a spot at the NFR in Las Vegas, one of the toughest rodeos around, and Brock knew he couldn’t take time off without hurting his chances.

But at least he was sure to get big servings of his ma’s delicious country cooking, and he’d manage to find some way to keep himself sharp. Also, he could spend time helping Pop with the small riding school he ran on their property, though Brock knew that any insinuation that his dad was too old to do the work would earn him more than a stern talking-to.

Brock cranked the AC, steered out of the crowded parking lot and turned south toward Spring Valley.

* * *

AS THE SUN disappeared behind the mountains surrounding the small town and ranches of Spring Valley, Brock turned off his truck’s engine and stretched. The sprawling house in front of him looked cool and welcoming against the heat of the evening, and the unmistakable smell of horses and jasmine was so familiar that he would have known he was home even with his eyes closed. It was a smell that filled him with nostalgia and even a little longing. He’d always loved working on the ranch.

But that wasn’t the life for him, he knew, though at times he wished it was. Rodeo life took a toll on a man, not just physically, but mentally. Moving from city to city, following the rodeo circuit, left Brock weary and glad for the short respite of a visit home, even if it made him itch for something more challenging, more dangerous, at the same time.

He saw the front door open and pulled the reins on his wayward thoughts as his ma came bustling out, her grin wide and her arms open. He climbed out of his truck and walked toward the woman who had cared for him so much of his life.

The frail-looking older woman pulled Brock into a hug so tight he could hardly breathe. He smiled at her. “You miss me?”

She swatted him on the shoulder. “Don’t give me any attitude, boy. You’ve been gone too long and you know it. I oughta give your uncle Joe a piece of my mind. At least you didn’t ride in here on that infernal motorcycle of yours,” she said, shaking her head.

Before he could even attempt to respond, she continued, “Come in now, dinner should be ready in a few minutes. I made Howie wait until you got here. I knew my boy would be hungry.”

Brock let Ma’s words of reprimand and love wash over him as he followed her into the warmth and glow of home, smiling at how familiar it all was. Everything was just as it should be on McNeal Ranch.

The smell of fried chicken attacked his senses as soon as he crossed the threshold and his stomach growled in response. “You were right. I’m starving,” he said, veering toward the kitchen and the delectable smells.

Before he reached his destination, however, his ma blocked his entrance. “Don’t you go rummaging around in there. You’ll need to wait ’til I’m finished with everything and we sit down at the table like civilized folks.”

He stopped and heaved a theatrical sigh, hoping she might relent, but it seemed clear she wouldn’t be swayed by pity. After another look at the determined set of her jaw, he shrugged. “Okay, okay, I’ll go grab my things,” he said, turning to head back out to his truck.

“Actually, I have a job for you to do,” she said in a seemingly casual voice that didn’t fool him for a second. Brock wondered if he would finally hear why she had been so insistent about him coming for a visit.

He raised his eyebrows and waited. In that same falsely casual tone, she said, “A sweet widow moved into the old Wilson place. Cassandra Stanford. She needs some help fixing up things around there. I told her my strong son would be happy to lend her a hand. You should go introduce yourself before we sit down to eat.”

Brock was slightly disappointed. She just wanted him to do some work for an old widow? He had been expecting some bigger reason than that. His mother had been so pushy about him coming home, he’d half expected a mail-order bride to be waiting on the doorstep when he arrived. Maybe Ma had finally stopped trying to get her kids hitched and settled down, and was focusing her energy on helping her neighbor instead.

Brock doubted it, but for the time being, he was happy to be out of his ma’s crosshairs. The last several times he’d been home, she had spent most of the time hinting about one girl or another from his high school, and she was always disappointed when he left for the circuit again without anything to show for her efforts.

Even if she had some plan for him during his stay, he was glad to see that she wasn’t entirely consumed in her schemes. And it would be good for his ma to have a new friend nearby. Maybe they could knit together or something. Or, he shuddered to think, they could team up and become the town matchmakers.

He held in the smile that would lead to questions and another smack on the arm and gave Ma a kiss on her cheek. “Sure, I can help. I’ll go introduce myself.”

She grinned like the cat that ate the canary. “Don’t rush yourself back. The chicken still has a ways to go.”

Brock turned and headed back out the door he had walked through just a couple of minutes before, cutting through a paddock instead of heading out to the road. The Wilsons had been talking about moving for years, and he knew the place had fallen into disrepair as they got older. Why an old woman would want to take on the job was beyond him.

The walk was quick, and he hurried up the steps to the front porch of the neighboring home, noting the squeak of one of the steps and the white paint that was flaking off the house, showing the wood beneath.

There was plenty to do to make this place like new, if his first impression was any indication, but he knew it was a solid construction with good land. Part of him wished he had been the one to buy this property. Not that he had the money for this place. A middling rodeo cowboy didn’t pull in enough for that kind of down payment. A National Finals cowboy might, though.

And it wasn’t that likely he had even a chance of making it to Vegas if he spent the next two weeks painting and mending porch steps. He hoped the widow didn’t expect him to be working there too often, or he’d be in a bit of a pickle. If Ma was so desperate to have him around, why would she give him a big job that might eat into all the time he had at home?

Brock brushed the question aside and turned his mind to the task at hand. He’d go through a short introduction and make his way back for his hot meal just as quickly as he could, then he’d make a plan as to how he should go about fixing up this place while leaving time to prepare for the next rodeo. He knocked.

After a few seconds, the door opened and any thought of food or rodeos disappeared. He stared, caught off-guard by the lovely woman who stood there, the warm glow of the lit room behind her enveloping her in almost a halo of light.

Her dark brown hair fell around her shoulders in a mass of curls, framing an open, sweet face and lips that promised more than just smiles for the guy lucky enough to get to kiss them. It was impossible to tell if her eyes were more brown or green, and he wanted to get near enough to get a better look. The blood in his veins moved faster just at the notion of being that close to her.

His ma’s designs suddenly became clear: it wasn’t the widow she had wanted him to meet, it was the beautiful lady standing before him. The widow’s daughter, maybe?

He silently thanked his mother for her interfering ways as his eyes slid lower and took in more of the amazing view, noting how her jeans hugged her hips and the tied button-down shirt that accentuated her slim waist, giving just a peek of midriff. The top was unbuttoned low enough to give more than a suggestion of the breasts beneath.

Everything about her set him on fire. She was rather petite but didn’t seem frail in the slightest despite her stature. She gave off an air of feistiness. Brock liked feisty.

Brock realized that he’d stood there without speaking for far too long, and brought his eyes back to hers. He suddenly felt a bit like an awkward teenager, not a grown man of nearly thirty. It took all his effort to arrange his face into a cool, confident smile. “Hello, ma’am,” he said, putting on a slightly thicker drawl than usual. Ladies liked the Southern drawl. “I’m Brock McNeal. My folks live just over the way. They said Mrs. Stanford was in need of some help fixin’ up this place, and I thought it best to come introduce myself.”

A plan was already formulating in Brock’s mind. Make nice to the old lady, get in good with the beautiful mystery woman, then ask her for a date. Easy enough. His only problem was that two weeks in town suddenly didn’t seem near enough time if he could spend it enjoying her company.

The woman standing before him smiled. “Nice to meet you. Call me Cassie. Your mother was so sweet to offer your help. I really don’t know how I would manage all of the work by myself.”

Brock’s mind shifted gears quickly. The widow wasn’t some old woman at all. Which meant that Cassie was here all on her own. But was she mourning a recently lost husband? She didn’t seem to be. Would it be wrong to ask her out?

Before he could come to a conclusion, there were noises behind her and two young boys shot into the doorway behind Cassie, their identical faces peering at him from behind Cassie’s legs.

“Zach, Carter, say hello to Mr. McNeal. He’ll be helping us fix up the place a bit,” Cassie said.

Brock tried his hardest to keep the disappointment off his face, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.

Of course she had kids. There had to be something or his ma would’ve just come out and told him about her sneaky little plan. She knew well enough by now he didn’t plan on having any children, and that meant no dating women with kids, either.

When the boys chirruped quiet hellos, he gave them a little wave before turning his attention back to their too-beautiful mother. “It was nice to meet you, but I better get back for dinner,” he said.

Cassie seemed to sense his suddenly urgent need to leave; she nodded and said, “But I’ll see you tomorrow and we can discuss the repairs?”

The almost desperate look in her eyes was too much. “Sure thing,” he responded before turning away from the door, cursing his own bad luck.

Why did she have to be a mom?