Slow Hand (Hot Cowboy Nights, #1)(82)

Although he’d never looked sideways at her, Janice had followed Dirk’s rodeo career since high school when they’d competed on the same team. He’d ridden rough stock while she’d competed in breakaway roping. She’d always enjoyed working with ropes and livestock. Roping required speed, skill, and near perfect coordination between horse and rider—practical skills that were invaluable on a working ranch—and Janice was nothing if not practical. She’d been real good at it too. Probably could have gotten a scholarship or even gone pro if her family’s needs hadn’t kept her tied to the ranch.

In the end, she’d gone to work full time for her father, and Dirk had won a full scholarship to Montana State. She’d run into him on occasion since then, mainly during branding season when all the ranches helped each other out, but he’d never taken notice of her then either. He’d been too wrapped up in Rachel Carson. Along with half the boys at Twin Bridges High, he’d only had eyes for Rachel. Gangly Janice had never stood a chance against the pert, blue-eyed blonde.

Since graduation she’d only occasionally run into Dirk, usually no more than a hat tipping at the ranching co-op or the stock sale, but now that she was working the rodeos, their paths had once more crossed—not that it made any difference. Little had changed. Rachel was still the rodeo queen, leading the grand entry glittering with rhinestones, while Janice looked on from the rough stock chutes, mired ankle-deep in manure, and smelling like the livestock. Even now that she’d finally filled out in all the right places, she was either completely tongue-tied or jabbered like an idiot whenever Dirk came around, which was every day for the past week.

With her heart lurching into her throat, Janice watched as the cowboy of her dreams swaggered up to the holding pens. It wasn’t just his rugged good looks that made her palms sweat, there was something about Dirk, besides his long and lanky physique that put him head and shoulders above the rest.

He was clad in ass-hugging denim with leather chaps flapping, white Stetson shadowing his ice-blue eyes, and rigging bag slung over one broad shoulder. She watched him throw his rope over the coral panel in preparation for his ride.

Now or never, Janice. He’ll be called up any minute.

With her heart hammering, she inhaled for courage and licked her lips with a tongue that suddenly felt as dry as sandpaper. “I watched you on Outlaw Josie Wales in the second go ’round yesterday,” she blurted.

“Why thank you, ma’am.” Dirk tipped his hat with a mile-wide grin.

“You about spurred his head off,” she continued. “It was one of the best rides I ever did see.”

Grady Garrison leaned over from his perch on the adjoining pen and spat a wad of dip. “Good thing pretty boy scored so high on the broncs cause he sure as shit won’t make the cut on the bulls.”

“That so?” Dirk paused in prepping his rope, his ice blue eyes meeting Grady’s for only a second. “Funny, as I recall it just last week in Red Lodge I made the whistle while your ass hit the dirt.” He went back to work, crushing the lump of rosin and wrapping his gloved hand around the bull rope.

Grady jumped down from the pen with narrowed, steely-colored eyes. “I’m still going into the short round with the high score. You’re delusional as shit if you think to beat me.” His shoulders were thrown back and his thumbs hooked in his belt loops—the ones that supported the huge Collegiate Champion Bull Rider buckle.

Any stranger who didn’t know them as longtime rodeo buddies would surely think fists were about to fly, but Janice suspected it was just pre-ride posturing. Cowboys as a rule were ridiculously competitive. Still, she bit her lip at the tension of rising testosterone.

“Maybe you’re right, Grady, but a closed mouth gathers no boots.”

“What’re you sayin’? You think I’m all talk?”

Dirk shrugged. “I think a lotta rodeo legends are made by a flannelmouth on a bar stool. So maybe you’ll wanna put your money where that big fat mouth is?”

She wondered how far they’d want to take this pissing contest. Dirk was a decent bull rider, but the smaller and wiry Grady was one of the best. Unfortunately, like a lot of cowboys, he too often let his mouth run off, and his ego get in the way of his good sense.

“All right pretty boy. How ’bout the lowest score on the next ride buys the drinks tonight? And none of that cheap shit either.”

Dirk stood up straight, rolled his neck and shoulders, and then extended his hand. “You’re on.”

Grady accepted it with a laugh. Janice breathed a sigh of relief. The announcer gave the final scores on the barrel racing and then broadcasted the imminent start of the bull-riding.

Grady puffed up like a fighting cock as soon as audience attention riveted to their end of the arena. “Now the real rodeo begins.”

“Plenty of people watch the other events too,” Janice protested. “The broncs are my personal favorite.” She darted a glance to Dirk. “Classier than the bull riding.”

“Bullshit,” Grady scoffed. “You know as well as I do that the bulls are what eighty percent of these people come for. No one really gives a rip about all the warm up acts, though team ropin’s probably the worst.” He looked to Janice with an air of expectancy.

“Don’t ask why, Janice,” Dirk warned. “It’s his worst joke—and the one he always uses when he’s itching for a bar fight.”