Читать книгу Midnight Rider - Joanna Wayne - Страница 12

Chapter Three

Macabre kicked his way out of the creaky gate with a vengeance that sent adrenaline exploding through Cannon’s veins.

One. Two.

The bull bucked wildly. The rope dug into Cannon’s gloved hand. His lucky Stetson went flying. Bad omen.

Three. Four.

The crowd’s cheers mingled with the thunderous stamping of the bull’s hooves and the frantic beating of Cannon’s heart.

Five.

Cannon’s body shifted and began to slide. Instinct took over. He struggled to hang on, leaning hard, fighting to shift his weight.

Macabre’s fierce back hooves propelled the animal’s powerful muscles, twisting and spinning the two-ton mass of fury. The rope slipped. White-hot pain ripped through Cannon’s shoulder.

He was on the ground. The rank breath of the snorting bull burned in his own nostrils. Flying dirt blinded him. He blinked, covered his head with his hands and rolled away.

Shouts from the rodeo clown echoed though the arena, but the bull didn’t back off. It swerved and came back at Cannon.

Cannon rolled in the opposite direction. The crowd gasped in unison as one hoof came so close to his head that Cannon could feel the vibrations rattle inside his skull.

Then the bull turned and went after the clown. Cannon owed Billy Cox big-time.

He picked himself up, grabbed his hat and waved it to the crowd as he scrambled back to safety. Cox was safe, as well. Only then did Cannon check the results.

Seven seconds.

Disappointment burned inside him. One more second and he would have scored big. He’d drawn Macabre, the most vicious of the bulls on tonight’s docket. The animal that could have put Cannon in pay dirt.

Already December, one of the last of the rodeos in what had been a great year for Cannon. Still, he could have used that prize money. Like most rodeo addicts who loved bull riding, the day would come when he’d have to retire. He’d need mucho cash to do that right.

What was a cowboy without a ranch?

“Bad luck,” one of the other riders said.

“I’d say good luck,” another said. “You could have been leaving here in an ambulance tonight.”

“Seven seconds on Macabre should be worth ten on any of the other bulls in the chute tonight.”

Cannon acknowledged the comments with a nod and a shrug. Nothing else was needed. They all knew the disappointment of losing to a bull.

“Mighty tough way to make a living.”

The voice was unfamiliar, gruff, but with a rattle that came with lots of years of living. Cannon turned to see who’d spoken.

Reality sent a shot of acid straight to his gut. As if tonight hadn’t already been bad enough.

“What are you doing here?” Cannon asked.

“I came to see my son ride,” R.J. said. “No law against that, is there?”

Probably should be. “You’ve seen me,” Cannon said. “Now what?”

“We need to talk,” R.J. said.

Cannon wasn’t interested in pretending he had any fatherly feelings for a man who hadn’t given a damn about him when he could have used his help. And he wouldn’t play any part in the old man’s search for redemption before he died.

Actually, he’d figured R.J. was already dead by now. Or maybe everything he’d said about the inoperable brain tumor at the bizarre reading of his will had been lies. He wouldn’t put anything past R. J. Dalton.

“I know you have no use for me,” R.J. continued. “I probably deserve that. We still need to talk. And I have someone you should meet.”

“Look, R.J., you had your say at the reading of your will. I wasn’t interested then. I’m still not. I don’t play games.”

“Looks like you were playing a potentially deadly one tonight.”

“That’s work, not a game. And it’s my business.”

“So is what I have to tell you.”

“Then spit it out.”

“Okay. You think I’m a lousy father. I agree. But unless I miss my guess, you’re about to get the chance to prove you’re a hundred times better at it than I ever was.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You will in a minute. Come with me.”

Crazy old fool. Cannon couldn’t even begin to guess what kind of absurd scheme he was working now. He leaned against the wooden railing that separated the contenders from the rest of the arena as R.J. ambled off without looking back.

Every muscle in his body complained silently, aches and pain seeping in like the bitter cold of a West Texas winter morning. He craved a hot shower, a couple of over-the-counter painkillers with a six-pack to wash them down.

Then he’d plop on the lumpy mattress back at the motel. No place like home, and a lonely motel room was as close to home as he’d been since he’d finished his tour of duty with the marines.

But something had brought R.J. clear out to Abilene to talk to Cannon. Doubtful the old coot would just turn around and drive home without saying whatever he’d come to say. Might as well get it over with.

Cannon followed in the direction R.J. had gone. He spotted him a couple of minutes later, standing near the wooden bleachers. A stunning young woman stood next to him, cuddling a baby in her arms.

Surely R.J. didn’t have the testosterone to father another child at his age. And even if he had, why would he think Cannon would give a damn?

The woman turned toward him and attempted a smile that didn’t quite work. Her gaze shifted from him back to the sleeping baby.

R.J.’s words about his getting a chance to prove himself as a father echoed through his mind. If he thought Cannon was going to raise this baby for him he was nuts. So was the infant’s mother.

A more troublesome angle struck him. Surely, R.J. wasn’t insinuating Cannon could have fathered this baby.

He studied the woman. Fiery red hair that cascaded around her shoulders. Deep green eyes. Not a woman a man could easily forget, yet she didn’t stir any memories for him.

“I’m Hadley Dalton,” she said as he approached. “Your half brother Adam’s wife. And this is Kimmie.” She held up the baby for him to get a better look. The infant stretched and rubbed her eyes with her tiny balled fists, but then settled back to sleep.

So this was Adam’s child. Cannon exhaled, releasing the dread and the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Cute baby. You and Adam did well.”

“But that’s just the thing,” R.J. said. “It’s not their baby. You’re her dad, or at least some woman down in Houston claims you are.”

Macabre’s hooves couldn’t have packed a bigger wallop.