Breathless(62)

“I do.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Portia’s.”

She laughed and he nodded polite greetings to the other women adding cakes to the line. While they worked they kept taking peeks at him, making him wonder if they knew he and Portia were getting married.

“Matt won the pie eating contest a little while ago,” she told him.

“Really?” he replied with a laugh.

“Who knew that rail-thin body could hold so much. Of course he was pretty sick afterwards, but he gets bragging rights for the year.”

Kent was sorry he missed it. “Do you know where he is now?”

“He was with Doc Finney. She has a tent over on the other side of the bunkhouse.”

“He wanted to help out during the competition, but I think I’ll just let him nurse his pie hangover.”

“That might be best.”

Cal Grissom walked up. “You ready, Kent?”

Cal volunteered to help out, too. He’d done a bit of bull riding in his younger days.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Portia came out from behind the table. “I don’t have a bandana for you to wear, so this will have to do.” She gave him a slow sweet kiss more potent than a hundred bandanas. “Good luck, cowboy.”



Sitting on the top rung of the corral waiting for his turn, Kent watched Bushwhacker shed the first two riders as if they weighed no more than roosters. None of them lasted three seconds, let alone the required eight. A raucous crowd filled the risers fanned out around the oval. He spotted Portia seated with her family and his. Her kiss had been a pleasant surprise. He had no idea why she’d suddenly dropped her no kissing in public rule but he was glad she had. He’d be needing all the luck he could find.

Cody, the cowboy who’d spoken to him earlier, was up next. The previous contestant had been bucked off in less than a second, leaving the crowd so disappointed they couldn’t decide whether to laugh or rain down cat calls, so they did both.

Kent hadn’t seen Cody’s qualifying rides but now, watching him, Kent noted confidence and expertise in the way he sat the bull and wrapped the braided rope around his gloved hand.

“He’s ridden a bull or two,” Kent said to Cal.

“Or five or ten.”

Kent grinned.

And that experience showed when the bull shot out of the chute and went to work. Cody rode him well. The rules prohibited the rider from touching the bull with anything other than the hand cinched to the animal’s back, so the free hand was kept high in the air. As the bull did its best to unseat the cowboy, Kent focused on both man and bull, committing to memory how low the animal dropped its thick neck and head when it bucked and how high the hind legs rose when it kicked and spun. For such a big animal Bushwhacker was nimble and agile. The crowd chanted a countdown of the seconds. When it reached eight, Cody was still in control. Grudgingly impressed, Kent wondered how much longer he’d stay on. The bull must have been asking itself the same question because it executed a move that seemed to throw its body in every direction at once. The crowd roared. Cody lost his grip and hit the ground. Scrambling, he ran like hell to the fence and cleared it two steps ahead of the charging bull.

Kent was next.

Seated on the broad back of the restless bull, Kent carefully cinched his gloved hand to the connecting rope and concentrated on pulling in deep calming breaths.

“Let’s hope he’s tired,” Cal cracked.

The bull’s owner, an old rancher from Texas, grinned. “This bull can do eight—nine runs a day. He’s probably more mad than anything else.”

That wasn’t what Kent wanted to hear.

“Are you ready?” Cal asked.

Kent nodded.

The owner crowed, “Then get ready for the ride of your life! Good luck!”

The bull cleared the fence and Kent was thrown up and down. He felt the jolt in his ribs, spine, and the bones in his legs. Keeping his free hand high and hoping his head didn’t fly off, he let the bull do its best to put him on the ground. He had a vague sense of the screaming crowd but didn’t dare let his concentration slip. The bull was tricky and strong. At past events, he’d always been able to count off the number of seconds in his head. Not this time. Between trying to stay upright and make it look effortless for the style points the judges added to the scores, he had no idea how long he’d been riding. Kent felt the animal gathering its strength and knew he was in for the move that had unseated Cody. Sure enough the powerful contortion made him lose his grip. He hit the ground, hastily found his feet, and ran for the fence. With the bull right behind him, he scrambled over the top rung, then leaned forward to catch his breath. Every bone in his body ached. Dropping to his knees, he decided, win or lose, his bull riding career was over. Next he knew, he was surrounded by his giddy family and friends.

“Fifteen seconds!” Cal yelled, joyously slapping him repeatedly on his throbbing spine. “You won!”

All Kent wanted to do was go home and lie in his big soft bed but Portia was kissing his cheek, Regan was hugging him and squealing, and his father was grinning from ear to ear, which made all the pain worth it.



That evening, Kent was still sore, but getting gussied up to escort Portia to the dance had overridden the aches and pains. They’d just come off the dance floor after a lively reel, and the happiness on her face filled his heart.