Chapter Three
Adam Taggart was about to blow a vein in his temple. God help him if he ever had to go back to working the little rodeos and bull-riding events for a living again. Hell, if he had to do that, he’d just go back to ropin’ full-time. These cowboys were about stupid. The saddle bronc-riders hadn’t known what to do with a pickup man, and the bareback event wasn’t shaping up much better. He glanced across the arena at his youngest brother, Chrissy, and rolled his eyes. One more of these boys reached for the wrong one of them and Chris might just explode, too.
Bri was the patient one. Bri was the one who wanted to be out here playing cowboy so that fucking bull-rider Jason Scott could get on a goddamn baby bull in front of fifty old farts and their women and not get trampled into the fucking dirt.
Coke Pharris owed his ass but good. Hatching a plan to re-launch the career of a truly broken bull-rider was crazy. Re-launching one who was blind like Jason Scott? Christ.
Coke owed him steak and Cuervo for the next month good. Him and Chrissy both. He tapped his heels against Shylock’s sides, moving into better position for the next rider.
Chrissy moved with him, eye on the gate. Adam was fairly sure the gate puller was either drunk or blind in one eye. Either way, if a cowboy twitched his face just wrong, the man took it as a nod and the gate swung open. Two horses had already fouled themselves on the gates, and re-rides were piling up.
That made for tired damned riders, too.
The gate opened and the mare lunged out, sun-fishing for all she was worth, rider Anderson Kige looking about rattled. The mare hopped around like a bunny, finally sending Anderson flying over her head. God damn, Adam didn’t want to think about the bull-riding. It was gonna be brutal.
Beau and Sammy were wandering around, the little Cajun one hell of a distraction, all on his own. He wasn’t sure what the hell the boys were doing here, but…
“Chrissy! Rope that bitch!”
Chris nodded, spurring toward the mare, loop ready to go. Which was when the next gate burst open early, a paint gelding slamming right out into the arena. Right into Chrissy’s horse. Shit fire and light matches.
Chrissy and Sugarland went down together, Sugarland rolling over his brother, leaving Chrissy sprawled and still in the dirt. Now he had two broncs, Sugarland, and his fucking brother to deal with.
God damn it.
He wheeled around on Shylock, praying to God the broncs decided to run together, circle the arena and buy him some time. They didn’t. The damned paint kicked out, missing Sugarland by a hair, making Chrissy’s horse shy, which made the mare turn and head right for Chrissy’s prone body.
Adam had one of those moments of total, utter panic that only happened to him when one of his brothers was in trouble. He hesitated, then he heard a yodel of stunning proportions, a tiny, bare-footed, brown cowboy running the rail and jumpingon Sugarland’s back, a rope in hand. The kid—because it had to be a kid or a bull-rider—wheeled Sugarland around, snapped the bronc on the flank, and those hooves landed on the ground beside Chrissy.
“Come on!” The little fuck hooted and roped the mare, running her hard away, and Adam saw both Coke Pharris and Sam Bell jump onto the arena floor, followed by Beau Lafitte and that little Sterling boy, a new bullfighter.
Then he was moving again, his heels slapping at Shylock’s side, his rope whirling. He threw for the paint and got him, steering Shylock toward the out gate.
The cowboy on Sugarland, because the man was truly one, yessir, ran the mare around again, giving him time before heading her in, slick as seaweed in Galveston. They worked together like a dream, and Sugarland didn’t throw the man, which was a miracle in itself.
Adam didn’t go to Chris until the all clear was sounded by Coke.
Chrissy was sitting up, blinking some. “Damn. Who’s on my horse?”
Pharris snorted. “Chrissy’s fine. Fucking Taggarts. First word out of those boys’ mouths was horsey.”
Adam chuckled, holding a hands down for Chris. “At least it wasn’t ‘clown.’ I don’t know who’s on your Sugar.”
Beau glanced up. “That’s just Landon. He roped with Sam.”
“Landon Gaudet?” Adam stared, craning his head to see. He’d met the kid. Hell, he’d embarrassed the poor guy, he thought. The kid had been offering things there was no way someone so young should know. Adam had been tempted as hell, but he wasn’t a cradle-robber.
Button-black eyes, glinting like a bird’s in a lean, pointed face peered down at him. “He okay? I can work for the rest of the saddle bronc round.”
“I think you might-ought to, son,” Coke said before Adam could open his mouth. “His bell is rung.”
“Yessir.” Landon patted Sugar’s neck. “She likes me well enough, I think.”
“You’ll do,” Adam said, nodding. Landon was looking pretty good on horseback.
Even if he had bare feet.
The announcer was wearing his panicked face, and Landon worked beside Adam, like a wild Injun in the saddle. Jackass. This was not professional. Hell, the kid was in his after-the-show jeans, that button-down half-open on his chest.
