PROLOGUE
Fort Worth, Texas
Three Weeks Ago
I know a setup when I see one, and Tyler Brennan's draw stinks like week-old roadkill.
The chutes at the Fort Worth event are loud as hell, bulls slamming metal and riders checking rope, but I catch the look on Tyler's face when they announce his ride. Hellfire's Revenge. Nasty bull, sure, but Tyler's ridden worse. He's one of the best bull riders on the Southwest Circuit, right up there with me and Colt Holloway in the standings. He should be focused, locked in, getting his head right.
Instead, he's scanning the crowd. Looking for someone.
"You good?" I ask, leaning over the rail between our chutes.
Tyler jerks his attention back to me. "Yeah. Fine."
He's lying. I've known Tyler since we were seventeen, breaking our asses on practice bulls in dusty arenas across Texas. He's never been a good liar.
"Tyler."
"I said I'm fine, Grant." He adjusts his bull rope, movements too quick, too jerky. "Just got a lot on my mind."
I let it go. Wade Ashcroft walks past behind us, hauling his saddle bronc rigging toward the other end of the chutes, and catches my eye long enough to give me a nod. Slade Carrick's leaning against the fence near the steer wrestling box, arms crossed, watching the scene with the flat expression he wears like a mask. The Southwest Circuit is a small world. We all compete at the same events, drink at the same bars, sleep in the same cheap motels. You learn to read the people around you because your life depends on knowing who's steady and who's about to crack.
The announcer's voice booms across the arena, introducing Tyler's ride. The crowd roars. Tyler settles onto Hellfire's Revenge, working his hand into the rope. From where I stand, I can see his jaw clenched too tight, his shoulders tense. Whatever's got him distracted, he needs to shake it off or this ride's going to get ugly.
The gateman looks at Tyler. "Ready?"
Tyler nods.
The chute opens.
Hellfire's Revenge explodes out of the gate with standard aggression, nothing Tyler can't handle. The bull spins left, kicks high, and Tyler adjusts his weight like he's done a thousand times. One second. Two. Three. The ride looks clean.
Then at four seconds, something changes.
The bull's movements go from aggressive to berserk. Hellfire twists midair in a way bulls don't naturally move, comes down hard, and throws Tyler forward over his hand. Tyler loses his seat, tries to recover, but the bull's already spinning back the other direction with speed that's all wrong. Too fast. Too targeted.
Tyler gets launched. Hits the dirt on his back, hard enough I hear the impact over the crowd noise.
The bullfighters move in, trying to pull the bull's attention away so Tyler can get up and run. Standard procedure. I've seen it a hundred times.
But Hellfire doesn't go for the bullfighters. The bull turns, finds Tyler on the ground, and charges straight back at him with intent that makes my blood go cold. Not random aggression. Targeted.
I'm moving before I think about it, vaulting the rail and hitting the arena dirt at a dead run. The bullfighters are shouting, waving, but Hellfire's locked on Tyler like he's got a score to settle. Tyler's trying to get up, dazed from the fall, and the bull's closing fast.
I'm ten feet away when Hellfire reaches him.
The horn catches Tyler in the ribs, drives him back down into the dirt. The bull follows through, hooves coming down on Tyler's chest and his shoulder. I grab the bull rope still hanging from Hellfire's back and pull, using my weight to drag the animal's attention off Tyler. It works. The bull spins toward me, and the bullfighters finally get between us and Tyler.
Stock contractors flood the arena. Someone gets a hand on Hellfire's halter, starts pulling him toward the exit chute. I drop to my knees next to Tyler.
Blood. Too much blood. His chest is caved wrong, ribs clearly broken, and when he breathes it sounds wet and horrible.
"Tyler." I get my hands on his shoulders, trying to keep him still. "Don't move, man. Medics are coming."
His eyes find mine. He tries to say something, lips moving, but nothing comes out except blood.
"Don't talk. Just hang on."
