Paradise Peak (New Americana 5)

“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.

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.”

Lexie didn’t have to ask which bull he was talking about. That would be Whirlwind, the rankest bull the Alamo Canyon Ranch had ever produced—the bull that, after twenty-three times out of the chute, had yet to be ridden to the eight-second whistle—the bull that had just been selected to join the PBR circuit.