Prologue
Coke rolled his shoulders, shifting his weight from leg to leg, bouncing.
He liked Phoenix; it was hotter than the hinges of hell, but he was a Texas baby, born and bred, and there was something about them dark mountains in the distance. He wasn’t sure he could live out here, but…
Wally’s shoulders went tight when he pulled the rope, the gate swinging open, and Ghostrider came whirling out, Danny’s boy, Jason Scott, sticking like Super Glue. Lord have mercy, that kid rode with pure balance, no strength required. Jase was going to win the world one day. Coke knew it. He’d known it since Jason’s first ride.
Counting in his head—six, seven, eight—he nodded and moved into place as the whistle blew. “Come on, Jase!”
The bull turned left instead of right, and suddenly he found himself behind those kicking hooves instead of near the shoulder where he’d planned to be. He dug in, hollering for Nate to come on, move. Go.
He hadn’t finished his first steps before Jason’slegs swung around, the sound of Jason’s head hitting Ghostrider’s horn like a crack of lightning.
“Ghostrider! Here! Here!”
No.
Not Jason. Not Danny’s boy.
He ran, pushing his body between the bull and Jason and Andy Baxter, who was right there. Staring.
Silent.
Please, Jesus. Please, no.
Not Jason.
Chapter One
Dillon Walsh wiped sweat off his forehead and slid his hat back on, giving the crowd his little trademark hip roll when he did. It was almost time for the short go, which meant it was almost time to get behind the barrel and stay quiet, for the most part.
That was good. He was freaking tired, a little grumpy, and he wanted to kick back and have a beer and let his calf muscles stop cramping. Of course, the short go was when he got to sort of wander and watch Coke Pharris work.
That was always a good thing. Really, really good.
There were bullfighters—then there was Coke Pharris, the Fearless One. Wide shoulders, square jaw, big old hands, calves like… Fuck, did anyone on earth have calves like those men? Coke wasn’t scared of shit, and the man knew those bulls like no one else.
Nate and Fred waved him over to huddle, get pumped up. Dude. Coke touching. Nate Walker clapped one arm over Coke’s shoulders, the other dwarfing Fred’s skinny ones. Nate towered over the other two, but it was Coke giving direction, Coke calling the shots.
Had been that way since long before Dillon’d joined the tour.
Rumor was, it had been that way since before John and Lefty retired.
His mouth watered a little, and someone squawked over his headset, telling him to dance, to get the crowd pumped up again. The first rider was taking too long to set up.
Pasting on a smile, Dillon cued the music, letting his sore legs warm up with a few seconds of bouncing before going into a full-on flailing clown routine.
He had to stop mid-step as the chute popped open, Sam Bell sticking to the bull like a tick to a dog.
There was something about watching one of the veterans, one of the ninety-point club members. They just sat those bulls like the rookies couldn’t imagine, even when they bucked off at six seconds, like Sam did.
Damn it.
Coke grabbed Sam by the collar, hauling him up and out of the way, flinging Sam toward Fred as Nate grabbed one horn, turning Blaze’s attention. Look at those bullfighters work. Look at Coke laugh and slap Sam’s shoulder. It made his stomach hurt, how beautiful that man was.
It didn’t take long—Ronaldo and AJ went down hard, Alan and Rick and Balta stuck. Beau Lafitte, though? Damn.
The whole place went quiet until the 93.5 came up on the screen and the confetti went flying.
