Slow Hand (Hot Cowboy Nights, #1)(84)

Dirk attached the bell to the rope and gave her a crooked smile that revealed a deep left sided dimple. “I hear you loud and clear.”

Every bucking horse and bull presented its own challenge and Mag was new and an unknown entity. A savvy rider studied his draw before his ride and talked to the stock hands. She was glad Dirk was willing to listen.

“Why all this concern about that dink?” Grady muttered, jerking his head in Dirk’s direction.

“Maybe ’cause he actually asked my advice.”

“How ’bout I give you some advice, sweet cheeks? Don’t waste yourself waitin’ around on Dirk. Everyone knows he has it bad for Rachel. They’ve been playing it hot and heavy for years. ’Sides, there’s better cowboys willing to bear company with a sweet thing like you.”

“Better cowboys?” She let her gaze flicker over Grady for a fraction of a second. “Like who?”

Grady grinned big, broad, and bad. “Why yours truly, of course.”

“Really?” She cracked a smile despite herself. “Does anyone besides you and your momma share this grandiose opinion of Grady Garrison?”

“Oh yeah, baby doll. Ask any buckle bunny from here to Houston.”

“That so?” Her smile instantly faded. “Then I ain’t interested.”

“Maybe I just need the right woman to make me wanna settle down.”

Janice snorted outright. “What a crock! Does that line of bull really work for you?”

He grinned shamelessly. “More times than I could count.”

“You’re the one who’s wasting your breath, Grady. I don’t sleep around, especially not with horndog cowboys.”

Ignoring her racing pulse, Janice double checked the flank while Grady hooked Dirk’s rope around the animal’s massive barrel. A moment later, Dirk climbed up and over the chute, then quietly lowered himself onto the bull’s back. He warmed the rosin-coated rope before tightening it around his bull, and then tied himself on. He’d passed on a protective helmet to keep his white Stetson instead.

“Who said anything about mattress dancing?” Grady smirked. “I’m only offering you a drink after the rodeo—Dirk will be buying of course.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Then how ’bout another wager? One just between you and me?”

“What kind of wager?” She knew better than to commit to anything Grady came up with without hearing all the details first.

“If I beat his ride you’ll go to the party with me after the rodeo.”

“Isn’t it a private event, only for the team members?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “But I’m on the team and I’m inviting you.”

“I’ll think about it, Grady.” Janice eyed the bull, hoping to hide the sudden flush in her face. Mag appeared deceptively docile, but there was a dangerous fire blazing in his eyes. Her gut told her the bull was gonna blow.

As the daughter of a stock contractor she’d seen more rodeos than she could remember, and more wrecks than she could ever forget, but no matter how hard she tried, she’d never become desensitized to the gory aftermath of any bull ride gone bad—usually resulting in lots of blood and mangled bones twisted at unnatural angles.

Up to this point, the finals had been surprisingly free of injuries, but the bull riding was where most of them happened. The last seconds in the chute never failed to send Janice’s heart into her throat. She’d kept a close tally of Dirk’s points and knew just covering this bull was all he needed. She hoped he wouldn’t slough off her advice about spurring. Her fingers closed tightly around the cold steel of the chute panel as Dirk raised his right arm and nodded at the gateman.

*

Straddling the rails above the bull, Dirk focused solely on his routine. Releasing one foot at a time from the steel rail, he stepped lightly onto the bull’s back, testing Mag’s reaction and then easing himself into position behind the animal’s massive shoulders. The bull snorted, pawed, and then tensed, a dangerous shiver of awareness rippling through the three-quarter-ton beast.

Wrapping his gloved hand around his rope, he gave a few swift jerks up and down and then pulled the sticky, rosin-coated rope through his hand in a suicide wrap. Closing his fist, Dirk sidled his hips up closer to his hand and then pounded his closed fist to cement his hold.

Although he’d spent plenty of time backing broncs, nothing on earth compared to the addictive rush of a bull ride. The sensation of backing a bull was a heady shot of pure adrenaline that coursed through his body, exciting every nerve. Just like a junkie seeking the next “fix,” hundreds of cowboys risked life and limb grasping for the elusive eight second high.

It was balls to the wall every time the chute opened.

He inhaled deeply and then slowly emptied his lungs. In these final seconds his senses were hyperaware. Everything seemed magnified—the noise of the crowd buzzing in his ears, the familiar smells of dirt, sweat, and cow shit. Dirk shut his eyes, and closed his mind to everything but the snorting mass of muscle and sinew under him. “Fuck Grady,” he murmured. “This is between you and me, Mag. It’s just us.”

With his jaw set in fierce concentration, Dirk opened his eyes, raised his right arm, acutely aware of his own heartbeat, of the sensation of his blood pulsing through his veins, of the metallic click of the gate latch echoing in his ears, as he gave the nod to the chuteman.