Dillon stood behind the cage in the center of the arena, bouncing from foot to foot.
Three rides left. Three. They’d had a little concert at intermission, had a bunch of high eighty-point rides. The crowd was rockin’, their memories way shorter than the guys on tour.
That was good, though. No one wanted to pay money to be depressed. Adam Taggart’s horse was almost right behind him—Dillon could feel the rush of hot breath. Was it time to play? He checked with David, raising his palms.
David nodded once, rustling papers before giving him the thumbs-up.
Dillon turned around and squeaked, backpedaling as if he was surprised to find Smoke right in his face. Adam twitched the reins, and Smoke bobbed his head, looking for all the world like he was laughing.
“Dude! Horse breath! This guy, he’s always throwing his horsepower around.” The crowd laughed, even though it sounded lame to Dillon. Not even his B game.
Adam looked like they all felt, gray and tense under the Stetson. Still, they had a job to do, and Adam had Smoke dance around. Dillon clapped, getting the crowd into it, and the soundman got with it, and soon enough, they were ready for the next ride. Two more, then Beau.
Assuming Beau hadn’t just had a total temper tantrum and left. The man’d been promised the chance to go first, but between sponsors and the network, well… Nobody got what they wanted.
Sandy had been purple with rage, which made Dillon like him more than he ever had.
Kynan got a score. A ninety. Damn, that was gonna be hard to beat, though really Beau just needed to stay in the middle and make a score.
Still, what mattered was that Sam’d won the event, right? Was still alive.
In a coma.
In the hospital.
Jesus.
Nausea threatened to take him over, so he pasted on a smile and did a flip instead.
The crowd went crazy, then Raul, that new boy from Brazil, was up. The cowboy had been riding like a madman, covering bull after bull after bull. Rhymes with Snot whirled around and Raul spurred hard, the bullfighters flanking him. He rode a lot like Balta Silva. Pure strength and a very spare style. Dillon stayed quiet, dancing idly to the music. Raul made the ride, easy as you please, then hopped off. The bull headed for Nate, who slapped it aside. Thank God, because just catching Raul had knocked Coke into a gate, and Dillon could see him turn pale.
His feet wanted to go over, but his brain told him that Coke wouldn’t thank him. He had to wait.
Beau was next.
Coke was at the gate, talking hard. Blood dripped from that one poor hand, staining Coke’s arm.
Balta pulled Beau’s rope, that pretty mouth moving fast, too. Beau wouldn’t care if the words were Portuguese. Dillon knew the man just needed to suspend thought.
One ride. Please God. Let the man ride so he could go.
The noise level rose to the point where Dillon could barely hear David in his earpiece. The crowd was just as ready as everyone. “Okay, Lonnie. One more ride. This is it. Shake it.”
Dillon was going to kill him.
Dillon shook it, though, the music swelling to cover the sound of the men down at the chutes. He prayed hard, knowing Coke wouldn’t have the chance. He saw the familiar hat brim dip and the gate opened, the little black bull spinning quick. Beau’s chin was down, the expression on the cowboy’s face pure fury. Dillon got it. He was pretty rage-y himself. Damn.
Six. Seven. Eight. Bingo.
Beau got off, landing damn near in Coke’s arms. The man barely waved at the crowd, which was going wild.
That had been the best damned ride of a season of amazing rides. Lord above, that was what they all needed.
He barely heard the announcement of the scores, what with David telling him to get Beau the trophy and the big check.
Jogging across the arena, he watched Balta jump down off the chutes and pick Beau up, tears streaming down the big Brazilian’s face. Dillon’s eyes stung some, too, but he blamed the dust. Coke and the others were already gone, disappeared into the back.
Ace met him at the front of the chutes with the trophy, and Sandy brought the buckle. Beau was about ready to explode.
