Back in the Saddle (Jessica Brodie Diaries #1)(34)

When I could figure out how to stop the tears, if not eradicate the need for them, I gave a little resistance in order to straighten up. After a moment, he let me, eyes trained on my face as I wiped away smudged make-up.

“You look fine,” he whispered, his face still close to mine.

I met his eyes. William was looking back at me with an expression of such tenderness it opened my weepy heart all over again. Two big crocodile tears escaped my tear ducts and tumbled down my face. He brought his hand up slowly, his eyes still locked with mine, and gently touched his thumb to my cheek, wiping away wetness, then finishing by tracing a finger along my jaw.

“Please don’t cry,” he said in a way that matched his expression. “Is it the accident with the bull? The cowboy will be okay. I talked to him. He has injuries, and will be sore for a while, but he’ll be fine.”

I nodded. Then shook my head.

He gave me a small smile. “I am here, if you want to talk.”

I started to laugh. That weepy “everything is all better” laugh that crying people do to move out of the center of attention.

“Men talking?” I said sarcastically.

He smiled. “Only to the damsel. I don’t make a habit of it.”

As the sadness receded embarrassment pushed forward to take its place. Pity parties never did anything good for starting relationships. Men usually went all gooey for a female in trouble, especially with tears they weren’t responsible for, but it wasn't lasting concern. They were drawn to the vulnerability. This situation fit that bill perfectly.

The problem was, when that veil of intimacy lifted, both parties would go back to the real world. The girl would go back to her normal self, which in this case was a pushy, bold bitch, and the guy would go back to his normal self, which was a busy, hot, successful entrepreneur. The moment, as it were, would get disjointed within reality. Expectations would get erased, or worse, tainted, and the whole thing would be doomed.

I knew this from experience.

“Okay, all good. Thanks for the pep talk, coach,” I said as I stood, one final wipe beneath my eyes for any lingering mascara.

He gave a weak smile, eyes still locked with mine, searching—probably wondering where the magic from a moment ago went. He was unaware that he was dealing with a pro. I could bounce back on a dollar, baby!

So please like me after this, okay?

After a moment, he asked, “Are you okay to go back?”

I let the breeze finish drying my tear streaked face.

“Yes, I’m okay. Sorry about that.”

He shook his head in frustration, waving away my apology with his hand. Not taking his probing eyes off mine, he politely gestured for me to go ahead of him. Ladies first.

As we rounded the corner of the trailer, the older man ran into us. His expression was hard until he took me in, then immediately softened.

Apparently I was still emanating chick in distress.

“Willie, your next bull is about to go. You should get back there. Georgie Jones is ridin’ him.”

“Georgie is here?”

“Yes. And he is about to ride your bull. I’ll escort this lady back.”

William looked at me, nodded, tipped his hat and said, “Ma’am.” He ran off toward the gate.

The older man held out his hand. “My man is Tom. Senior.”

It was William’s dad, as I thought. The looks gave it away. Well, and the name.

“Oh, hi. My name is Jessica Brodie.”

“Brodie? Is that Scottish?”

“Uh, yes actually. My grandfather was from Scotland.”

He returned my smile. He had an ease to him that made me feel comfortable. “My wife’s maiden name is Scottish. Cameron. Would you like to head back to the arena?”

Yeah, sure, why not? Today couldn’t possibly get any worse.

By the time we arrived at the arena, the rider was ready, hand up but immobile, braced. Just waiting for that gate to open.

“This rider is very good." Tom said conversationally. "He competes in the top purse rodeos with some of the best bulls in the country. He also happens to be riding the toughest bull of my son’s stock. It is a wonder how he drew this bull. It is good for all the other riders, of course. Otherwise he would probably take the purse without a struggle.”

As man and beast rushed from their tiny confinement, the same old dance filled the arena, except this time, the performers were professionals. The bull was obviously the strongest, brutish yet, with twists and turns, leaps and bucks to make a hooker proud. Georgie was picking up what the bull was putting down, almost.

The bull did a powerful spin, jump, buck, spin combination that had the rider totally bewildered. He was hanging on by sheer stubbornness. Georgie’s once perfect, coordinated rhythm was thrown to the walls. The power in this animal was beyond the others, and this rider could not maintain his poise under such duress.

After the buzzer sounded, and Georgie was chased to the gate, Tom said, “That was a really good ride. It wasn’t pretty, but that was a nasty bull, so he’ll get points for that. Should be a high scoring ride.”

“Does that mean the bull will go to the bigger circuit? Or, you know, more advanced rodeos?”

“Well, he’ll have to be in a few more small time rodeos first, but I have no doubt he’ll make it if he continues to do this well.”