STETSON FIGURED he’d never seen anything as hilarious as a bunch of cowboys, who were incredibly athletic and damn manly, trying to play horseshoes.
Lord, that was like a weird kinda ballet—if ballet included tossing heavy things, missing, twirling, and cussing. He shoulda played. He was way better at this than Curtis. Now, the glad-handing and autograph signing that went with after? That was Curtis all over.
That part didn’t look fun at all. Of course, that wasn’t something he was ever going to have to worry about. He wasn’t looking for fame.
They wound through Dallas, the traffic something else, and this with it being Saturday. The rain was pouring down, the cold deep in his bones.
Stetson was excited to get to the arena. He got to watch Curtis on TV and at Santa Fe, but this was a big show.
This time they were together. This time Stetson was on Curtis’s guest list.
A fleet of pickups and cabs all arrived at the same time, Curtis parking around in the participant parking. “You ready for the behind-the-chutes tour, baby?”
“I am. You need to run upstairs and change?”
“Not yet. Might as well stay in the comfy boots for a while longer.”
“You know it.” Stetson was beginning to buzz, feeling the nerves that Curtis obviously wasn’t. Curtis looked utterly at home, relaxed and smiling. He couldn’t quite believe that Curtis was going to be happy at the ranch full-time, but no one said he had to be.
He figured Curtis could keep his card current, do events when he got an itch. When he could, Stetson would go with him, see the world some.
For now he would soak up what he had. Enjoy the fuck out of this and watch Curtis ride.
CURTIS STOOD behind the rail, bouncing up and down to warm up his muscles. He had his vest on, his gloves. His bull was up next to be loaded, so all he had to do was wait.
He’d drawn Big Mickey in the first round and ridden the little fucker for an eighty-five. Now he was staring at the broad back of Tres Equis.
“He tosses his head back,” Miles said. “Don’t you pull a Tuff, now, and bust your face. He spins to the left.”
Curtis nodded. He remembered watching footage of Tuff Hedeman after Bodacious had smashed every bone in his face. Jesus. Unlike that big yellow bull, Tres was a Plummer. Half Brahma, half longhorn.
“I got this.”
Miles had been bucked off in the first, big round. Hell, there were only six of them bucking in round two. Those odds were good for him. If he was real lucky, he’d be the only ride this round, but three of the guys were from the pro bull riding tour, not the NFR, and God knew they knew these bulls. KC Kramer was a freaking prodigy.
“Stop it. You got this. I know you do. You are the number one cowboy in the world,” Miles jabbered at him, the words soft and steady.
He glanced up at the family section of the stands. Stetson sat on the front row, arms propped up on the rail. Watching him. Okay. He had this. When Tres was in chute position, Curtis climbed the rail, letting the brute know he was coming with soft knee touches.
Miles had his vest, and Terry was pulling rope. The thick bastard was a leaner, trying its best to push his leg through the gate. The ground crew had to get the four-by-four, shoving at the two-thousand-pound maniac.
“Come on, you.” He slapped Tres’s hump. “Stand up.”
He was fixin’ to have to nod as soon as Tres—
The pressure released, and he nodded, the gate swinging open.
The huge beast whirled out, dipping his head so deep that he damn near scooped up dirt in his nasty mouth. Curtis arched back as far as he could, keeping his free hand clear, so when Tres slammed back, their heads didn’t meet.
The motion did rock his hips farther back from his rope than he liked, so he had to scoot forward like a cat skidding on ice, feet almost coming up over the big hump. He managed to recover, and then Tres began to spin.
He held on, wishing he knew what the count was. He’d lost it up front.
G forces pulled at him, but then Tres turned back into his hand, and damned if he didn’t get a foot up to spur.
The crowd went wild, and the buzzer sounded, and all he had to do was get off.
Right. He turned his head to look for a get off, but the bullfighters were scrambling, trying to keep up as Tres broke his spin and began to buck to the middle of the arena.
“Goddamn it!”
His hand was twisted in the bull rope, and he yanked at it, pulling hard, never even seeing that horn as it slammed into his temple.