Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

CHAPTER 1

Pecos, Texas

June 1970

THE RODEO GROUNDS SIMMERED UNDER A TORRID TEXAS SUN. THE dusty air was rank with tobacco smoke, diesel fumes, and the earthy smell of manure. Cattle shifted and lowed in the stock pens. Flies swarmed in the heat. Riding the updrafts, a lone buzzard circled in the sky.

Behind the chutes, cowboys waited their turn to ride for glory. Some lounged, chewing wads of tobacco and spitting in the dust. Others paced. A few of them prayed.

They were young, mostly, all of them hungry to win prize money and the coveted belt buckles that served as both honor badges and woman-bait. The cowboy who wore one could count on plenty of attention from the rodeo groupies known as “buckle bunnies.”

From the arena beyond the chutes came the sounds of cheers, groans, and occasional laughter. The Pecos Rodeo claimed to be the oldest in the country—which meant that it was most likely the oldest rodeo in the world. Size-wise it might not be up to much. But the fans loved it, and they crammed the covered bleachers for every event.

Not that Virgil Tyler gave a damn about the rodeo’s history or its crowd size. He was here to ride bulls for enough cash to get him to the next rodeo town and enough points to boost him in the rankings. If he won, he’d have his choice of the buckle bunnies, too. But right now his mind was on other things.

At twenty, he’d been on his own, and on the circuit, for three years. Big and rangy, with dark hair and arresting blue eyes, he’d started with broncs and last year moved up to the ultimate ride—the bulls.

He’d broken his wrist and his collarbone, cracked three ribs, and dislocated his shoulder so many times that he’d stopped counting. None of the injuries had kept him from missing a ride. He’d taped up, clenched his teeth, and climbed into the chute every time. Eight seconds to hang on to a bucking, twisting three-quarter-ton tornado of an animal. For eight seconds, he could stand any pain.

His dogged determination had earned him a new nickname—Bull. Bull Tyler. He liked the sound of it—helluva lot better handle for a cowboy than Virgil. Maybe he should use it in the arena. But he would think about that later. Right now the PA system was announcing the rider just ahead of him in the lineup.

Tex Holden was a good cowboy, and he’d drawn a decent bull. But the groans of the crowd told Virgil he’d barely made it out of the chute before being tossed off in the dust. The rodeo clowns were already rushing in to head off the bull while Tex scrambled to safety. Now, with the bull headed into the pens and the arena clear, it would be Virgil’s turn for the last ride of the day.

His bull, a foul-tempered Brahma–Angus cross named Sidewinder, was already in the chute. Virgil had ridden him before. On a good day, Sidewinder’s spirited performance, which counted for half the score, could rack up the points. On a bad day he could be peevish, surly, and downright murderous. When Virgil settled onto the wide, brindled back and noticed how the brute tried to crush his leg against the chute’s metal side bars, he figured this was one of the bull’s bad days.

Wrapping the rope around his gloved left hand and gripping the leather-bound handle, he raised his right hand high in the air and gave a jerk of his head. The gate opened, and Sidewinder barreled out of the chute in a cloud of dust and fury. The heavy bell that hung from the rope behind the bull’s front legs clanged as he bucked across the arena.

Using his core strength to balance, Virgil dug his blunt-rowel spurs into Sidewinder’s loose hide and hung on. The bull jumped like a rocket and landed like an earthquake. Pain from old injuries shot through Virgil’s body as the huge beast tilted, spun, and changed direction with dizzying speed. Just a few more seconds. . .

The buzzer signaled a successful ride. Virgil tensed for the dismount and flung himself free of the raging animal. Only then did he realize that the rope had tangled around his hand, tying him to the bull. He landed upright. But when Sidewinder swung his upper body around, trying to hook him with a horn, the sudden strain pulled Virgil off his feet and almost yanked his arm out of its socket. He fought to get his legs under him. If the brute broke into a run, he could be dragged to death.

The two rodeo clowns, heroes in face paint and baggy clothes, charged in to save him. While one distracted the bull, the other managed to free Virgil’s left hand from the tangled rope. He would’ve helped Virgil out of the arena, but Virgil motioned him away and walked to the gate, alone, head high and hurting like hell, to the cheers of the crowd.

Safe behind the gates, he sank onto a bale of hay. Nothing was broken or bleeding, but he felt like he’d been run over by a freight train. He swore as the announcer gave his score. Seventy-eight points out of

100—respectable but barely in the money. He loved the challenge and the danger of bull riding. But at times like this, it struck him as a crappy way to make a living.

From the tobacco plug that he’d buttoned into his shirt pocket, he twisted off a wad of chew and slipped it into his mouth. Filthy habit, but at least it helped calm his nerves.

“Virgil?” A familiar voice spoke his name. “Damn it, but you’re a hard man to track down!”

“Jasper!” He stood to greet the cowboy who’d worked on his father’s Rimrock Ranch since Virgil was twelve. Jasper Platt would be in his late twenties by now. Beanpole thin with a drooping mustache and a slow way of talking, he was the best all-around rider and cowhand Virgil had ever known. Maybe the best human being, too.

Virgil might have hugged him. But sore as he was, the best he could offer was a handshake. He hadn’t seen anyone from the ranch since he’d run off at seventeen, after a gut-wrenching showdown with his father. The fight had been a long time coming. When it was over, Virgil had bundled up his gear, walked two miles to the highway, hitched a ride on a cattle truck, and never looked back.

“Bless my soul, boy, you’ve sprouted like a blasted weed! What are you now? Six foot two?” Jasper stepped back to look him up and down. “You’re a grown man, all right. But what a sorry sight you are! You look like you got run down by a cattle stampede!”

“Did you see me ride?” Virgil asked.

Jasper nodded. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Virgil had hoped for higher praise from his old friend.

“Let me tell you a hard truth,” Jasper said. “A big hombre like you ain’t got a chance in hell of makin’ it to the top as a bull rider. It’s those quick, little wiry guys that can stick on and bounce off like monkeys that rack up the points. You might be strong, but you’re draggin’ those long arms and legs and that extra weight. And I’ll tell you somethin’ else. The way you were gettin’ slammed around by that bull, if you keep it up, you’ll be crippled by the time you’re twenty-five—if you even live that long.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Virgil studied the man who’d been like an older brother to him during his early teenage years. Jasper wasn’t here by chance. He’d clearly gone to a lot of trouble to find him. There had to be a reason.

“What are you doing here, Jasper?” he asked. “You didn’t track me down just to see me ride bulls.”

Jasper lowered his gaze to his dusty boots, as if summoning his resolve. In the beat of silence that passed before he spoke, Virgil sensed what might have brought him. But Jasper’s words, when they came, still struck hard.