“Dad never talked about it. But whatever it was, it must’ve been bitter. Val never came home again. Not even for his funeral.”
“Now that he’s gone, is there any chance that might change?” His voice held a faint note of hope.
“Val hasn’t mentioned it—not that we hear from her that often. But the ranch can’t compete with Hollywood. There’s nothing for her in Arizona.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, both of them lost in thought. A couple of years ago Lexie, Tess, and Callie had driven into Tucson to see Val in a movie. She’d played the hero’s receptionist, her only spoken line, “Mr. Ames will see you now, sir.”
Val had appeared in a few other bit parts and done some commercial work. She hadn’t made it big in movieland. But she was still there, living her California life and waiting for her big break—a break that might never come. Meanwhile, knowing Val, the last thing she’d want would be to admit failure and come crawling home.
Lexie could only hope that Casey would understand.
“Here we are. What’s your pleasure?” Casey had stopped at a food truck parked next to some picnic tables. Mouthwatering aromas drifted through the windows. Lexie ordered brisket with beans, coleslaw, and a Diet Coke before grabbing the shadiest table and waiting for Casey to bring their trays. When it arrived, the brisket sandwich tasted as good as it smelled.
“So tell me about your bull.” Casey had taken his seat across the table from her. He speared a forkful of potato salad and took a taste. “I’ve heard good things about him. Are they true?”
“I hope so. He’s bucked off twenty-four good riders in the PRCA rodeos. But tonight will be a whole new test for him. I hope he’s up to it. Will you be there?”
“Yup. I’ll be right out there on the dirt with him. And I’ll do my best to keep your boy from hurting anybody.”
“He’s not a mean bull,” Lexie said. “In fact, he’s a lamb when he’s at home. But in unfamiliar surroundings, especially if he’s angry or confused, Whirlwind can be a handful.”
“Believe me, he won’t be the first handful I’ve faced down.” Casey took time for a bite of his pulled pork sandwich. “Who’ll be riding him? Have you seen the results of the draw?”
“Shane Tully will be riding him. He arranged it ahead of the draw.”
“Shane Tully?” Casey looked surprised. “That’s interesting.”
“Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation. He’s a good cowboy. Decent man, too, from what I’ve heard. But he just made the top twenty. He could be drawing from the best bulls on the circuit. To keep his place, he’ll need the score that a great bull could give him. Why would he take a chance on a rookie like Whirlwind?”
Lexie lowered her gaze to her plate. “He volunteered. Maybe you should ask him.”
Casey chuckled. “I know that look. Something’s going on here, Miss Lexie Champion. Would you care to tell me about it?”
Lexie looked up, meeting his kind eyes across the table. Now that Jack was gone, Casey was the closest thing she had to a big brother. Outside of her family and Ruben, there was nobody she trusted more. And the need to unburden herself had become a pain that cried out for easing.
She gave Casey a half-hearted smile. “How much time have you got?” she asked.
He returned a grin. “I’ve got all afternoon if you need it, little sis,” he said.
* * *
The bull riding event was scheduled to start at seven o’clock, with the top riders and bulls getting into the action at eight. By six-thirty, with the stands already filling, the space beyond the chutes was a beehive of activity. The medical crew was already busy, taping and bracing injured riders who were determined to compete. The money and glory at stake were worth eight seconds of pain, no matter how excruciating. Riders were warming up in the locker rooms and halls. Some of them laughed and joked. Others prayed.
The air was electric. Even the bulls in the pens seemed to sense the excitement. They were restless, snorting and pushing at the gates as if anticipating what was to come. They’d been bred and trained for what they were about to do. Bucking was in their genes and in their blood.
Shane’s ride on Whirlwind would be fourth in the lineup. He dressed in a quiet corner, doing his best to focus. Even thoughts of Lexie couldn’t be allowed to break his concentration.
Under his Wranglers, he wore tight, supportive bike shorts in place of a cup. Over his jeans, he wore fringed leather chaps, to show off and protect his legs.
He took a moment to buckle on his spurs and tighten the fit. The rowels were blunted, made for gripping the bull’s tough, loose hide without hurting the animal. Over his blue western shirt went the solid, logo-covered vest to protect his ribs and vital organs. The vest, which had been invented after the great Lane Frost had died in the arena from a broken rib that pierced his heart, was required gear for every bull rider.
The heavy-duty helmet was not required. Shane was one of the riders who chose not to wear it. He opted instead for the traditional western hat, somewhat riskier than the helmet but more comfortable and stylish. Bull riding, after all, was show business.
Three more items remained—the mouthpiece, which Shane slipped into his pocket; his braided bull rope, custom-made for him by a craftsman on the Navajo reservation; and the thick leather glove used to grip the rope handle. Before the ride, the glove would be taped tightly around his wrist to keep it from slipping off. Shane couldn’t wrap the tape one-handed, but he could always find another rider to assist him. There was no mean-spirited rivalry among bull riders. They cheered, helped, and supported each other, in and out of the arena.
With the glove tucked into his hip pocket and the rosin-coated bull rope slung over one shoulder, Shane was about to leave the locker room when Brock walked in, looking troubled. “Come with me,” he said. “I need to talk to you—alone.”