Читать книгу Cowboy Fever - Joanna Wayne - Страница 7

Dakota Ledger was back in Texas and the heat was on. Sweat rolled down his back and pooled at his armpits, staining his lucky red Western shirt. The smell of livestock and manure permeated the still air. “All My Ex’s Live in Texas” blared from an aging sound system. The edgy excitement of competition was electric in the stifling June air.

“Gotta love bull riding in San Antonio.”

Dakota turned to the youthful cowboy who was grinning like a puppy with a new bone. “What’s so special about San Antonio?” Dakota asked.

“I qualified for the competition.”

“That’ll do it.”

Dakota didn’t know the rider’s real name, but even though he was relatively new to the Professional Bull Riders Association circuit, he’d already earned a nickname. “Cockroach” stemmed from the way he scurried out of the reach of a bull’s kicking hooves. It was a great talent to have if you wanted to keep living with all parts working.

Cockroach rubbed his palms against his chaps. “This is my first year to compete in PBR-sanctioned events, so I’m a little nervous.”

“The adrenaline will take care of that once you drop onto the bull’s back.”

“I’m counting on that.” Cockroach adjusted his hat. “One day I hope to be the PBRA world champion, just like you were two years ago. A million-dollar purse. I could use that. Not to mention all those endorsements you have.”

“Bull riding’s not about the money.”

“I know.” Cockroach toed the dirt as if putting out a cigarette. “It’s a long, hard ride from the bottom to the top, but I plan to be one of the few who make it.”

“Persistence is a large part of the battle,” Dakota agreed.

“And skill is the rest,” Cockroach said.

“Skill, passion and luck,” Dakota corrected. “You gotta love what you’re doing. And you gotta stay alive to keep doing it.”

Cockroach reached down and adjusted his right spur. “Have you ever been seriously hurt?”

“Never met a bull rider who hasn’t. I’ve had cracked ribs, concussions, a broken right wrist and bruises probably on every inch of my body.”

“Hey, Dakota. Looking good.”

Dakota turned toward the railing that separated the paid attendees from the competitors. A group of young women were leaning over the railing, probably not a one of them over twenty years old. Not that he was all that much older at twenty-five, but he sure felt it.

Still, he tipped his hat and smiled.

“Your friend’s cute, too,” one of the females called.

Cockroach beamed, turned a tad red and tipped his hat to his vocal admirer.

“What’s your favorite rodeo town?” Cockroach asked when he turned back to Dakota.

Dakota nudged his worn Stetson back from his forehead. It damn sure wasn’t San Antonio or any other town within five hundred miles of here, but he wasn’t getting into that.

“Doesn’t really matter where you are. It always comes down to just you, the bull and the clock.”

“Can’t be the same in places like Montana. I mean look at those hot babes over there. Short shorts, halter tops, sun-streaked hair and all that luscious tanned flesh. Bet you don’t get that in cold country.”

“They’ve got hot buckle bunnies every place they’ve got rodeo competitions,” Dakota assured him. “The names change. The flirting and seduction games remain the same.”

At least that had been true for him until he’d run into a certain dark-haired beauty with class and brains after a bull got the best of him last year at Rodeo Houston. The attraction between them had struck like lightning, shooting sparks without warning. They’d had six days together before he’d had to move on to the next competition. Six torrid, exciting, fantastic days.

End of story. He hadn’t been the one to write the finale. The rejection had stung a lot more than expected. His performance level had taken a drastic drop for several months after that. He could thank Viviana—along with a couple of injuries—that he didn’t even make it to the championship finals last year.

Dakota turned back to the circle of dirt where he’d face tonight’s battle. Letting anything interfere with your concentration was suicide for a bull rider.

Which was why he should have never come back to Texas. Even before he’d met Viviana, the odds here were stacked against him. The Ledger name was infamous in the Lone Star State and that had nothing to do with his reputation with the bulls.

Nineteen years after the fact, the brutal murder of Dakota’s mother was still being written and talked about in this area of Texas. She’d been shot at home, in a ranch house less than a hundred miles from where he stood right now.

His father, Troy, had been convicted of the crime. Dakota had been six years old at the time.

Luckily, questions about his past hadn’t come up today in his interviews with the local media. All they’d focused on was taking pictures and asking him about his success. He suspected that was because the competition’s organizers had told them any mention of Troy Ledger was off-limits.

Cockroach got the signal to head toward the chute. He looked over to the female cheering squad and tipped his hat before swaggering toward the bucking, snorting beast that was already fighting to clear the chute.

“Remember, it’s just you and the bull,” Dakota shouted after him. Six seconds into the ride, the bull bucked and veered to the left. Cockroach was thrown off. Fortunately, it was his hat and not his head that got entangled with the bull’s hooves. True to his nickname, the cowboy got out of the way while Jim Angle distracted the indignant animal.

Jim was one of the rodeo clown greats. It had been Jim Angle who’d saved Dakota from getting seriously injured back in Houston the night he’d met Viviana. The past attacked again, this time so strong Dakota couldn’t shut the memories down.

Images of Viviana filled his head. Dark, curly hair that fell to her slender shoulders. Full, sensual lips. Eyes a man could drown in. A touch that had set him on fire.

Damn. If he didn’t clear his mind, he’d never hang on for the full eight seconds, and he needed a good showing tonight to make it to the final round in this event tomorrow. A rider couldn’t rest on past laurels and the competition got tougher every year.

He’d drawn the meanest of the rough stock tonight. That was half the battle to getting a high score. The other half was up to Dakota.

He was the last rider of the evening and he worked to psyche himself up as the other contenders got their shot at racking up points. As his turn drew near, he fit the leather glove on his riding hand and one of the other riders helped him tape it in place. The resin came next, just enough to improve his grip. Then he climbed onto the chute. It was time for action.

A rush of adrenaline shot through him as he gripped his worn and trusty bull rope and felt the 1700-pound bull buck beneath him. It would be a hell of a ride. The crowd was with him. Their cheers pounded in his head, their voices an indistinguishable roar.

“Hey, Ledger. We don’t like murderers around here.”

Unlike the cheers, the taunt was distinct. Cutting. Jagged.

The gate clanked open and Devil’s Deed charged from the chute.

In what seemed like a heartbeat, the bull went into a belly roll and Dakota went sailing through the air. His right shoulder ground into the hard earth. A kicking hoof collided with his ribs as he tried to scramble to safety.

Pain shot through him like a bullet.

Yep. He was home.