Chasin' Eight (Rough Riders 11)

“Did you ever…?”

“Barf before I rode? Yep. ’Course, I always told myself it was from something bad I ate or drank and definitely not from bein’ scared shitless.”

That earned Chase a wan smile.

“It’s normal. In fact, I’d think you were abnormal if you weren’t shaking in your boots.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. But the trick is to use that fear and control it, not let it control you. Make sense?”

Ryan nodded.

“What number you ridin’ tonight?”

“Fourteen.”

“I’m ridin’ sixteen. If you want, I can help pull your rope.”

“You’d do that?” Ryan asked with total surprise.

“Ain’t like we’re competing against each other. We’re tryin’ to best a bull, and in my mind, that puts us on the same side.”

“You’re right, I guess.”

Chase nudged him with his shoulder, or tried to, but the kid was a solid six inches taller than him. “I’m always right. Now come on, let’s get ready to ride us some bulls.”

Barrel racing ended. Most competitors were behind the scene, willing to lend a hand to whoever needed it. Chase watched as three of the first eight riders covered their bull. Then three more.

The kid was quick getting his hand in position and a wrap. An older guy stayed to help and released his hold on Ryan’s vest when the kid nodded his hatted head.

The gate opened and they were off. First thing Chase noticed: Ryan wasn’t spurring much, but he remained on the bull, matching his upper body movements to every jerk and twist. When the buzzer sounded, Chase whooped and hollered with the rest of the riders.

The score boomed over the loudspeaker. “How about a ride of seventy-eight for the PRCA debut of this Nebraska cowboy?”

Not a bad score for a rookie. Not bad at all.

Chase wandered down to his chute and performed a couple of stretches before he secured his headgear. Funny thing was, for as much as he’d initially bitched about wearing the helmet during the training with Cash, he’d gotten used to it.

“Here. Lemme hold it for you,” Ryan said. Once he was set, Chase slipped in the mouth guard and ran through his final mental checklist.

Good seat. Check.

Hips parallel. Check.

Chin up, arm up. Check and check.

Ready to rock and roll.

Chase nodded at the gate man.

They exploded from the chute, dirt flying. Chase didn’t hear the crowd. He kept his focus on adjusting to each minute maneuver the bull made, and somehow, everything clicked into place.

The bull wasn’t a jumper, but a spinner. Or so Chase thought until the animal nearly went vertical. But he gritted his teeth and held on until the buzzer sounded. As soon as he jerked his hand free, he sailed off and whipped off his helmet, squinting at the scoreboard. Nothing yet. The bullfighter jogged over with his bull rope and high-fived him.

Finally, as he reached the side gate, he heard, “Folks, we have a new leader. Let’s hear it for an eighty-one point ride from Wyoming’s Bill Chase, on the rank bull, Gnarly Dude, brought to you by Jackson Stock Contracting.”

Chase waved to the crowd and disappeared into the contestant’s area, switching out his helmet for his battered ball cap. He leaned against the railing to catch his breath. To replay the ride while it was fresh in his mind.

Isn’t that Ava’s job as a videographer? To provide you with instant replay?

Ava. He hadn’t thought about her in hours. So when someone poked him in the chest hard, three times, he half-expected he’d look up into those stunning aquamarine eyes of hers.

No such luck. Ryan jammed his finger in Chase’s sternum twice more. The kid looked furious. Before Chase could speak, Ryan bit off, “I need to talk to you. In private. Right now.” He stomped over to the corner by the empty pens.

Chase followed. “What’s up?”

Ryan loomed over him. “I’ve wanted to be a bull rider since I was nine years old. So like any kid who discovered a dream, I became obsessed. I watched every bull-riding event on TV. Including spending the last five years studying the riders.” His voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “Did you really think no one would recognize your ridin’ style, Chase McKay?”

Shit.

“I’ve studied your form more than any other rider, including the reigning champs. You’re like my hero…and instead of bein’ happy I finally get to meet you, I’m pissed off that you’re running around here lying to folks. Are you doing this for kicks? You don’t get enough adoration ridin’ in the big league and bein’ on TV every week?”

Chase tamped down the immediate flare of temper. “I understand why you’re upset. But if you truly know my percentages and how I ride, then you also know how bad I’ve been sucking it up. Not just in the last few months, but in the last year. I’ve had a boatload of distractions. Made some piss-poor choices that affected my ability to concentrate.” He sent Ryan a questioning glance. “When was my last good ride?”

“Besides winning the championship at Man of Steel last year?” Ryan scratched the tip of his chin. “I’d have to say Tacoma. On Bad Reputation. You covered all your bulls, and if not for that single low score of eighty, you woulda won.”

“But I didn’t win. It’s been a struggle. Almost like I forgot how to ride a goddamn bull. You have no idea how frustrating it’s been for me.” Chase blew out a slow breath. “Look, it’s not my intention to trick anyone. I just wanna get on as many bulls as I can. So I’m asking you, Ryan. Please don’t turn me in. My entire career depends on no one knowin’ it’s me.”

“Sheesh. I ain’t gonna snitch on ya.” He sighed. Dug the toe of his boot in the dirt. “I can’t imagine what it’d be like, bein’ you but having to pretend you’re someone else. Someone average. Someone less successful. Don’t it feel weird?”

“A little. But mostly it feels good to ride.”

“You looked better than you have in a long time.”

“Thanks. Think anyone else recognized my ridin’?”

“Maybe. Most folks will chalk up the similarities to coincidence, kinda like I did at first. ’Cause no one would ever believe Chase McKay would be competing in a PRCA rodeo in Broken Bow, Nebraska.”

Chase chuckled. “True. That’s why I’m keeping a low profile around other riders and with the public.”