Two To Wrangle (Hotel Rodeo #2)(30)

She watched below as the bulls—huge, snorting, slobbering beasts were loaded into their chutes. One rammed itself against the panels. Her breath stuck in her throat as another one leaped into the air and tried to climb over the metal rails. The sheer brute strength they demonstrated brought home the danger Ty spoke of. As a spectator, she now understood the fascination, but she was still far from comprehending why these men would risk their lives by taking on such a potentially deadly animal.

Ty returned a few minutes later with a beer in a red Solo cup.

“What were you doing down there?” Monica asked.

“Zac broke his wrist on his last ride. He asked me to help him tape it up.”

“He’s going to ride with a broken wrist?”

“Sure. Could be a lot worse. He’s ridden with a broken leg before. Zac is iron to the core.”

“Cowboys.” Monica shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Bull riders,” he clarified. “They are a breed apart, Monica.”

“Are they stupid too?” she asked. “How can he hold onto the bull if his wrist is broken?”

“He’s gonna swap riding hands. It’ll be awkward as hell, but he can’t afford to forfeit. He only gets a paycheck if he rides.”

The lights dimmed for the preshow, an elaborate pyrotechnic extravaganza with shooting flames and a pounding, hard-rock beat. The crowd went wild when the riders appeared, entering the arena through circles of flames like some kind of superheroes. The pageantry of it all brought to mind once more the vision of the Roman Coliseum. In the fans’ eyes these cowboys were surely modern-day gladiators.

“Enjoying the show?” Ty asked with a grin.

“It’s quite a spectacle,” she laughed.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright with anticipation. His excitement was both palpable and contagious. “Look down there.” Ty pointed. “See that little guy in the black hat? That’s Guilherme Alvaro. He’s the high point leader. Has been for three years running. Damned good bull rider. He drew X-Treme Vortex, one of the rankest bulls of the tour.”

“Drew?” she asked. “The riders don’t get to choose?”

“Nope.” Ty shook his head. “It’s literally the luck of the draw, and the rankest bulls make for the best rides—if you can make the whistle.”

“I don’t understand. I thought the goal was just to stay on the bull for eight seconds.”

“It’s more than that,” Ty explained. “Every rider gets scored on his ride, and every bull gets scored on his bucking. The judges combine those scores for the total ride score.”

“So you’re saying that making eight seconds doesn’t count for much if the bull’s a dud? Where’s their equipment?” Monica asked. “Isn’t there some kind of special saddle or something?”

Ty laughed. “The only equipment a bull rider uses is a rope, a glove, and his spurs.”

“What’s that bell for?” she asked, pointing to the first rider’s bull rope.

“It gives the rope some weight so that it falls off as soon as the rider comes off the bull’s back.”

“Is it true they tie it around the bull’s genitals to make him buck?”

“No, Monica. What you’re thinking of is called the flank strap. It goes around the bull at the level of his flanks and never touches his testicles. That’s a total fallacy propagated by ignorant animal activists,” Ty scoffed. “The flank strap acts as a minor irritant to encourage bucking, but it doesn’t hurt ’em a lick. These bulls love to buck. It’s what they live for. They’re bred purely for athletic performance and are treated as well as any high-dollar thoroughbred race horse.”

“I had no idea.”

“Well, now you do,” he said with a curt nod.

The announcer’s voice interrupted to introduce the first bull and rider. “Keep your eyes on the middle chute down there.” Ty nodded to where a cowboy was poised above the animal’s back. “When that gate flies open you’re going to see bovine hell breaking loose.”

Music blasted their ears as the rider gave a nod and the gate swung free. Monica perched on the edge of her seat as the bull exploded from the chute, spinning, kicking, and bucking, his every movement whipping the rider’s body. Halfway into the ride, the cowboy’s balance began to falter. The next buck tossed him to the ground like a ragdoll.

“No ride for that cowboy.” Ty shook his head with a look of disgust. “I figured the bull was gonna take that round.” Ty nudged her side, nodding to the bullfighters as they sprang into action. “That’s Kade down there. There’s usually three or four guys protecting the rider, plus another one on horseback just in case reinforcement is needed to get the bull back in the pen.”

Kade had interposed himself between the animal and the fallen rider, while two others flanked the bull on either side. Waving and yelling, the three men distracted the manically bucking animal while the rider scrambled out of the danger zone. He spun and charged Kade, who barely dodged a horn. The bull then froze, stared down the arena and snorted a stream of snot before trotting back to the chute leading to the holding pens.

Ty chuckled. “That’s one badass bull. Least the rider didn’t wreck.”