Holding Out for Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #3)(74)
She glared up at the big man, trying not to show fear. “I’m not a buckle bunny,” she said. “And you’re drunk. I don’t like drunks. Neither does my boyfriend. If you’re smart, you’ll leave before he gets back here.”
The boyfriend part was a lie, but it was the only defense she had. Unfortunately, the way the man’s yellow-toothed grin widened told her it wouldn’t be enough. She’d told Ruben to take his time; but even if he were to show up now, the 150-pound foreman was pushing sixty. Without a weapon, he’d be no match for the hulking brute, and there was no one else in sight. Lexie was on her own.
Crouching against the steel fence, she prepared to defend herself. The big man was staggering drunk and appeared slow. A strike in a vital spot—his groin or his eyes—might disable him long enough for her to get away.
“C’mon, honey. You’ll like it once we git started.” He lunged for her, the move fast but awkward. Lexie had been poised to spring at him, boots kicking, fingers clawing; but her instincts took over. She dodged to one side as he lurched forward, stumbled over his own feet and crashed full force into the tubular steel rails of the fence. Stunned, he grunted and staggered backward, blood flowing from his nose. His legs folded beneath him as he collapsed in the dust.
As the man curled onto his side, moaning and cradling his bloodied nose, Lexie whipped out her cell phone. She didn’t have the number for fairgrounds security, but a 911 call should get some kind of help.
She was about to punch in the number when, from a short distance behind her, came the sound of . . . clapping.
Startled, she turned to see the rangy figure of a man striding toward her from around the far end of the fence. Moving fast, he came within speaking distance. “That was quite a show. Remind me never to tangle with Miss Lexie Champion.”
It startled her again, hearing her name. But she wasn’t about to lower her guard. “I could’ve used some help,” she said, glaring up at him. He was a shade under six feet tall, compactly muscled and dressed in weathered cowboy clothes. The only distinguishing feature of his outfit was the silver PBR prize buckle that fastened his belt. The man was a bull rider, evidently a good one, and he looked the part.
His grin widened. “If I’d shown up thirty seconds sooner, I’d have decked the bastard for you. But by the time I saw you, there was no need. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.” He swept off his battered Resistol hat and extended a hand. “Shane Tully. I took a chance on finding you here. It looks like I arrived just in time. If that jerk hadn’t fallen against the fence, you’d have needed some help.”
Lexie accepted the confident handshake. His palm was cool against her own, the skin as tough as boot leather. Shane Tully. The name rang a bell in her memory, albeit a faint one. He was a regular on the PBR circuit, his rank just moving into the top twenty. This year he was a serious contender for the finals in Las Vegas.
The man on the ground moaned and stirred. “Broke my friggin’ nose,” he muttered. “Need help . . .”
“Let’s get you on your feet, pal.” Handing Lexie his hat, Tully crouched behind him and worked his hands under the big man’s arms. Some pushing and lifting got the drunk upright. Tully took a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket and laid it on the man’s bleeding nose. “Keep it,” he said. “This’ll teach you not to make unwelcome advances to ladies. There’s a first aid station on the midway, by the Ferris wheel. Can you make it that far on your own, or should we call security?”
The man swore under his breath and shuffled off, one hand clutching the handkerchief to his nose. Lexie kept her eyes on him until he’d gained a safe distance. Only then did she turn to face the bull rider.
She knew he probably wasn’t here to compete. This rodeo was sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, or PRCA. The cowboys coming here would compete in bronc riding, calf roping, and other events including bull riding. In 1992, the leading bull riders had broken away from the PRCA and formed their own elite organization, the Professional Bull Riders, or PBR. Only the best could compete in their hugely popular events around the country. Membership, for both riders and bucking bulls, was by invitation only.
Which might have something to do with the reason Shane Tully had come to find her.
“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here, Mr. Tully,” she said, handing him the hat.
“It’s Shane, and I can’t say you’ve given me much of a chance.”
He smiled with his mouth. His features struck Lexie as more rugged than handsome—deep-set brown eyes, a long jaw ending in a square chin, and a scar, like a thin slash with two stitch marks, running down his left cheek.
He had the look of a man who’d been through some rough times, but Lexie guessed that he wasn’t much older than twenty-five or twenty-six. With a few notable exceptions, bull riding was a young man’s sport. Older bodies couldn’t take the punishment.
“I’m giving you a chance to tell me now.” She folded her arms, waiting.
His gaze flickered past her, into the holding pen where the four bulls milled like star athletes loosening up for the big game. Then his eyes, warmer now with flecks of copper, met hers again. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said, “and I thought I’d stop by and check out your bull, see how he bucks—maybe give myself an edge if I happen to draw him later.”