Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

The black-and-white bull, a huge beast, bucked and twisted, the heavy bell clanging below his chest. Bull kept his grip on the rope, his right arm high and clear. He was looking good. Then one powerful, spinning jump tossed his body up and to the side. Clinging to the rope, he hung on. But he was taking terrible punishment. How long could eight seconds last? Watching with clenched fists, Susan just wanted the hellish ride to be over.

And then it was. Just before the eight-second buzzer, Geronimo changed direction in midair. Caught off balance, Bull lost his grip, flew off, and landed rolling. As he struggled to his hands and knees, the huge animal wheeled, hooked him with a horn, and tossed him into the air. As the clowns rushed in, Bull hit the dirt with a crunch and lay facedown. A moan went up from the crowd.

While Geronimo was driven off to the pens, two paramedics rushed in with a stretcher. Supporting Bull’s body, they eased him onto it and carried him out of the arena. Susan realized she was sobbing. What she’d seen that monster do could have killed any man, even Bull.

What if she’d lost him?

On her feet now, she shoved her way to the stairs and rushed down into the corridor under the stands. The fifteen mi

nutes it took to find her way through a maze of people, animals, and equipment to the far side of the arena, praying all the way, seemed like an eternity.

When she finally spotted Bull through the crowd, he was sitting on a bale of hay, drinking from a bottle of Gatorade while a medic finished checking his vitals. He’d taken a terrible beating, and looked it. His shirtless body was bruised and battered, but he was alive. Right now, nothing else mattered.

“Susan!” He got to his feet. “What the hell—”

Her legs could barely hold her. She stumbled toward him and would have flung herself into his arms, but something in his eyes—something cold—stopped her like a wall. She hesitated.

“Are you all right?” she asked, sensing the awkwardness between them.

“I’m fine. Big bastard knocked the wind out of me, that’s all.” He scowled down at her. “What are you doing here, Susan?”

“I came to see you ride—to see you!”

“Did you?” His voice was flat with sarcasm. His gaze flickered to her bare finger. “What about Ferg? He told me you two were getting back together. And that wasn’t all he told me.”

“What did he—? Oh, Lord . . .” Susan went weak as the realization hit her. Ferg had told Bull his version of what had happened. And Bull had no reason to disbelieve it.

“Ferg lied!” she said. “It isn’t true!”

Bull’s expression didn’t change. “So why haven’t you called, or even written? What was I supposed to think?”

“We need to talk. Can we go somewhere?” Telling him the truth—everything—would be as hard as anything she’d ever done, but it was her only hope of moving past this painful time.

The medic had finished. Bull glanced around as he buttoned his shirt. “I’m done here. I’ll take you to dinner if you’ll settle for a burger and fries. I’m not dressed for anyplace fancy.”

“That’s fine, as long as it’s someplace quiet. We can take my car.”

Bull had told her he was all right, but he limped as they found an exit to the parking lot. Knowing Bull, he was hurting a lot more than he’d let on.

The sporty silver Mustang her parents had given her for her sixteenth birthday had been valet parked. The attendant took only a few minutes to bring it.

“I take it you know where we’re going,” she said. “Do you feel up to driving?”

“Sure. I’ve always wanted to try one of these little critters.” Bull held the passenger door for Susan, then eased his body into the driver’s side and slid the seat back as far as it would go. He was cool and polite, but as he drove, Susan sensed that he was holding back. He was far from ready to trust her again.

* * *

They drove to a quiet-looking roadhouse that served drinks and food. Bull had never been there, but he’d heard it was good. He parked the car, biting back pain as he climbed out. Inside, he ushered Susan to a corner booth. The place was quiet, the country music little more than a low, throbbing beat in the background.

Excusing himself, he used the restroom to wash off the worst of the dust and bull smell. The face he saw in the mirror looked like a prizefighter’s after ten rounds in the ring. But the older bruises were from the fight with Ferg—the fight over Susan.

He knew better than to pass judgment on her until he’d heard her side of the story. But this woman had left him with wounded pride and a broken heart. Deeply as he ached to believe and forgive her, he wasn’t fool enough to let her hurt him again.

He returned to find her waiting with two cold Bud Lights on the table. “I went ahead and ordered,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. Our hamburgers and fries will be out in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.” He took a seat where he could face her. The ice-cold beer glided down his dusty throat. She sat looking at him, her eyes soft in the shadows. He saw the glimmer of a tear.

“Oh, Bull,” she whispered.