Fearless Read online

  Okay, so he could keep his cool. Didn’t mean he was special. He was probably like the rest of the calf ropers—cocky and twitchy and only interested in listening to a woman for as long as it took to get her zipper down. “Didn’t seem like you needed much. Definitely not your first rodeo.”

  Billy grinned, shaking his head. “No, ma’am. It’s my second.” He was doing just fine…until Gidget bit the back of his shirt and pulled it out from where it’d been tucked in, jerking it around before Billy got free. “Really?” he grumbled, but he never raised a hand to his stallion. He just started tucking his shirt back in. “I’m trying to talk to this lady. You can wait.” He turned to me, calm as anything. “Sorry. He may look like a horse, but he’s really a heifer when he’s hungry.”

  Aston shifted beneath me like she wasn’t impressed, though I was having a harder time than ever keeping a straight face. “It’s all right.”

  But it apparently wasn’t, because Gidget’s nose was right back in Billy’s face, blowing raspberries. I couldn’t help it anymore, clasping my hand over my mouth.

  Billy took a deep breath, holding up a single finger. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  I nodded, pulling my hand away and chewing the hell out of the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Which was so weird: cocky guys in my experience were typically grabby and pushy but hardly ever funny. At least, not as funny as they thought they were. “By all means.”

  He took Gidget’s lead and walked them a few feet away. He kept his head close to his horse’s, talking and gesturing and looking like he was cutting a deal to get him to behave. It ended with Billy pulling a treat from his back pocket and pressing a kiss to Gidget’s nose while he ate it. Aww.

  Aston huffed and shifted again as Billy led Gidget toward us, my quarter horse clearly over the advances of the Akhal-Teke and ready to be pampered after working her ass off in the arena. And as much as Billy was…intriguing, to say the least, Aston Magic came first.

  “Sorry about that.” Billy made a supposed-to-be-stern face at his horse. “Gonna have a long talk about our manners when we get home.”

  Oh, damn it, that was cute.

  “It’s fine.” I kept my spine straight and chin high, voice kind but firm. “But I can’t stay, so you may as well get to telling me what your deal is.”

  “Ma’am?”

  I sighed—so much for sugarcoating it. I leaned down from the saddle, closer to where he was standing next to his horse. There were still plenty of people around, and I didn’t want to embarrass him any more than I was about to. “Drop the Mr. Innocent act, and be straight with me. What is your goal here? Because I’m telling you right now, I’m not sleeping with you. No matter what war you’re about to head off to.”

  Not entirely true. I hadn’t decided yet whether to sleep with him. He was hot and seemed nice, and it’d been a long time since I’d had a man in my bed. And heading off to the circuit meant my chances were narrowing quickly.

  Billy ducked his head so I could only see his hat as he looked away and shifted his feet. When he looked up, there was some pink in his cheeks, his hand fidgeting with his reins, and his thumb stroking the leather like a lover’s lips. “Don’t have an act or a goal. I was just wondering if you’d let me hang around you a bit, see if I can get you to like me some.”

  I took another look at everything about his size, his build, the way he held a rope, and the adrenaline still clearly drugging his veins and shining in his blue eyes. “Are you a bull rider?”

  A new kind of smile tugged at the edge of his lips—the guilty kind. “Maybe?”

  Damn it.

  Of course, there had to be a catch. I had sworn off his kind long ago, knowing too well the faces of bull riders’ wives, their girlfriends. The pain and worry the women go through. Because I used to be one of them.

  Kind of hard not to date bull riders when you’re working the medic tents at rodeos. They’re the only men you meet, because they’re the ones always getting hurt. I should’ve known better, because before I knew it, I was setting bones for men I loved. Watching them get bucked and broken and praying they would wake up. In the ambulance, in the hospital. At all.

  Bonnie Landry had been the last straw for me and that way of life. She’d loved Beau Blackwell and supported his bull riding career every step of the way. But Beau wasn’t as lucky as Eric, who broke his arm in two places. He wasn’t as lucky as Austin, with his busted ribs and concussion. He wasn’t even as lucky as Cash, who’d never walk again.

  Beau Blackwell got bucked at twenty-six years old, two days before his wedding, snapped his neck and died, and Bonnie Landry wore a black dress that Sunday instead of a white one.

  I stopped working rodeos after that. I broke up with Levi after that. And I promised myself that I would never forget how it felt to be so helpless over your future. Because those bull rider wives, those poor girlfriends, they watch their men volunteer for their deaths. And all so they could have eight seconds of glory when they could’ve had a lifetime with her.

  I wasn’t doing it. I’m worth more than eight seconds.

  What a waste.

  “Bye, Billy. Congratulations on your win.” I gave two clicks to Aston Magic and turned her away, struggling to swallow my disappointment as I headed back the way I came—to the pens and my family’s travel trailer and my laptop with the turn sequence for Phillip Island I was supposed to be learning.

  I’d be able to forget him. If I tried.

  Maybe tried hard.

  “Hey, Taryn, hold on!”

  I never should’ve looked back.

  Billy was already up in his saddle and trotting Gidget toward me, catching up. “I don’t ride bulls no more. I swear it.”

  I scoffed, still walking Aston toward the pens. I didn’t even care to act gracious or charming or any of that fake stuff anymore. All I could think about was the scent of his cologne mixing with my fabric softener. I hadn’t been laid in months. “Bullshit. Bull riders don’t stop until they’re too old or too broken to keep going.” I gave him a quick once-over. “You’re neither of those things.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you to say,” he said. “And I’ll grant you, that’s usually true. But in my case, I got a new job, and I can’t do both. I’m not allowed.”

  I stopped Aston and looked over, my curiosity regrettably piqued. “You an elementary school teacher or something?”

  He laughed, the sound pure and crystalline. No man should be allowed to laugh like that. Especially when he could throw calves like they were feather pillows. “No, ma’am. I’m a motorcycle racer.”

  Oh shit.

  I didn’t know what that meant. He wasn’t on the Superbike circuit with me, but the fact that he even mentioned a motorcycle…

  The devil was whispering all my favorite words.

  I urged Aston on, resolute to keep my cool. Just because he was also from Memphis, roped like a god, was sweet to his horse, and apparently rode a motorcycle for a living didn’t mean meeting him was destiny. Chances were I’d never see him again. “That right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. MotoPro.”

  Really? Damn—those bikes were fast.

  He guided his horse around a group of people stopped in the middle of the aisle. When he came up beside me, he tipped his hat a little farther back so his face wasn’t as shadowed. God, he was cute, with one of those iron-sharp jaws that always felt really, really good in your hands.

  “It’s kinda like Formula 1,” he said, “but with motorcycles instead of cars. And my contract with Yaalon, well, it says I can’t ride bulls anymore. My brother Mason can, but he’s with Blue Gator on a satellite team.”

  My brow furrowed. As a Superbike racer, I knew plenty about the Moto Grand Prix circuit. But the last thing he said didn’t seem right to me. My contract with Munich Motor Works had all sorts of provisions, but MMW never said anything abo
ut me barrel racing when I was home. “How come?”

  “How come Mason can ride bulls and I can’t?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shrugged, no stress in the movement or twitchiness to be found. “Don’t know. Probably because he’s better at it than I was.”

  Another thing that didn’t sound right. Bull riders were famous for their egos. “You ever miss it?” I tested.

  “Hmm, sometimes, I guess. It’s a hell of a rush. But I get that from racing now, so I don’t mind giving it up.” He sounded totally sincere as he smiled at me and said, “Besides, I got too much to lose.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. “In all my life, I’ve never heard a bull rider say that.”

  “Well, I told you: I’m not a bull rider no more.” He winked at me, and Lord, if he was telling the truth? I was in so much trouble. “And hey, since I’m not, you wanna be my date to the Mutton Bustin’ tonight?”

  I burst into laughter, no idea why my heart was jumping to agree and even my overly critical brain was struggling to refuse. “No?”

  “Why not?” He’d still never lost his grin, drifting his horse closer until his leg bumped mine, sending a zing through my veins that hit me straight between my thighs. “It’ll be fun, cheering on all those little kids climbing up there to ride their first sheep. And I hear after, they’re gonna have a dance for the big kids. And I’m a great dancer.”

  “Oh, are you now?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I couldn’t make myself stop smiling as I walked Aston up to her designated pen, then got down from the saddle, tying her lead and endlessly debating.

  I had hard and fast rules about dating bull riders. But Billy said he wasn’t a bull rider anymore. Plus, it was so sweet that instead of asking to take me out to a bar, he wanted to watch toddlers try to ride sheep. Where the families were.

  I turned around, finding him down from his saddle and standing a comfortable distance back from me, absently petting the underside of his horse’s jaw. “I promise to get you home at a decent time. And I won’t try nothing. I just…want to dance with you. If that’s okay.”

  His drawl was slaying all my defenses, husky and deep and rumbling beneath black cotton fabric doing its absolute very best to stretch across the broad expanse of his upper muscles. His arms were bigger than I’d realized, too. I bet with one solid flex of his biceps, the seams would be forced to rip apart.

  How awful for that poor, innocent shirt.

  Get a grip, Taryn.

  “I don’t…know you,” I said, because I honestly couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  The dancing part didn’t sound too bad, and it had been forever since I’d been on a real date with a guy and not just hooked up. Even longer since I’d been on a date with a nice guy. I wasn’t sure they existed anymore, truthfully. And I was tired of being disappointed when they all turned out to be after the same thing, which definitely wasn’t my brain. It wasn’t even my damn bike.

  But Billy…

  He was so disarmingly kind but still confident enough to ask for what he wanted—and in that Stetson blacker than any lingerie I’d ever dared to buy.

  He nodded to himself, taking a small step closer and slipping his hat off his head. My eyes widened a bit at the shock of sunny blond hair, seeming to match so much better with the gentleness in his baby-blue eyes. “Well, I’m trying to fix that, Taryn. If you’ll let me.”

  I don’t know why I said what I did. I don’t know what was wrong with me.

  I knew better, and I never should’ve looked back.

  Never.

  “Pick me up at seven.”

  Chapter 3

  Billy King—Present Day

  I was fine after she left the training pen at Hargrove Ranch. I smiled at Gidget on my way past him in the barn even though I didn’t stop by his stall, heading straight to my own truck parked out front. I got in and shut the door, and I was okay. But then I noticed the dust on the caliche driveway. It still wasn’t settled from Taryn driving down it faster than even Lorelai dares to, and when I put my key in the ignition and tried to turn it, I…I couldn’t.

  Still haven’t.

  Everything Taryn said about putting her first keeps playing in my head, and I think…I think she may be serious. She may really be done with me this time.

  The idea of never being able to call her or dance with her again… I grip the steering wheel hard with one hand, throwing my hat onto the seat next to me and wiping sweat from my brow. I keep telling myself I made the right decision that night in North Carolina, that the consequences would’ve been so much worse the other way. But it’s getting harder to remember why I felt like that in the moment.

  I stare at myself in the rearview, my father’s stormy blue eyes staring back. “It’s gonna be fine. You haven’t lost her yet. So stop fucking crying about it.”

  I reach for the ignition, and my wrist turns all the way this time. My truck’s old engine sputters to a start like she’s gonna stall, so I give her some gas until she’s definitely gonna be fine. The sound isn’t nearly as sweet as opening up the throttle on my bike, but I find a good quarter of my smile and pull out of Hargrove Ranch, heading for home.

  Well, heading for Gary “Cannonball” Willis’s house that my parents have been renting from him for nearly thirty years now. And I should’ve moved out long ago, but it’s hard to justify paying for an apartment when I’m gone all the time. Besides, my parents can use the rent money I give them for my childhood bedroom. Although I think my father charges me more than he makes Mason pay for still living there.

  My arm makes the familiar pull on the wheel to swing my tires into our gravel drive, leading up to the front of the house. The yellow paint is faded and cracked, but you can only tell once you look past the blooming flower beds, currently covered with a bedsheet against the dropping winter temperatures.

  The two front windows with their curtains pulled closed tell me that my father’s watching TV in his study, and my brother is probably up to no good in his bedroom. A couple of chickens shuffle and scurry at the sound of my diesel, and my brow furrows at the red GMC Sierra parked next to my mama’s Dakota, my father’s old Ranger nowhere to be found.

  I pull off the driveway and park under the oak tree next to Mason’s latest and greatest white truck: a brand new Dodge Ram Rebel with off-road tires and a lift kit. I scoff as I grab my hat and get out, wondering where he’s hiding his step stool to reach the running boards just to climb in that damn thing. Ostentatious as hell.

  “Hey, Mama,” I call out when I stride through the front door, reaching back to catch the screen at the last minute before it slams. The layered scent of Lemon Fresh Pine-Sol competing with vanilla candles and something that smells like dinner slams full force into me. A little more of my smile finds my face.

  “Hey there, Billy Bear,” she calls back.

  Like I’ve done since I was little, I tap my fingers down the long antique entry table, hopping over lace doilies and flicking the crystal candy bowl that’s always empty because of Mason’s sweet tooth. Family portraits fill our tiny living room, along with a tall grandfather clock that only I can get to keep time, it seems. Standard lumpy old sofa next to an oversized recliner, but ours is currently sporting a pink throw blanket. No one but Mama spends any time in there anymore.

  It’s been a kind of hard I didn’t expect: when the thing you love to do most in the world takes place on the other side of it, getting you gone way more than is good for anyone you care about. Yourself included.

  I round into the kitchen, sliding off my hat and hooking it onto my designated chair at the dinner table. Mama smiles up at me from in front of her gas stove. “Taryn wasn’t home?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. And what’s Cannonball’s truck doing out front?”

  “Oh.” She waves me off, going back to what she’s stirring in
her trusty orange saucepans and iron skillet: Hamburger Helper, mashed potatoes, mixed corn and peas and carrots and lima beans, and I think she’s even got biscuits in the oven. Smells damn good, too. “Your daddy’s truck hasn’t been running right, so Cannonball’s letting him borrow his extra so he can get to work.”

  Frustration sours every part of me, and I can still hear the snickers at the VFW, talking about “Borrower Bill King” and who they assumed he was sharing with Cannonball in return for use of his friend’s stuff. Nearly got myself arrested that night. Also scored a couple of stitches from the wrong end of a broken whiskey bottle, but I never did find the guts to explain to my father what started the fight.

  I reach over to pick out a piece of hamburger from the skillet, mentally ignoring Frank’s voice in my head yammering on about my protein intake and shaving hundredths off my lap time. “Please let me help. What if I get him a new truck for Christmas? Maybe that Raptor he’s always sighing at on the Waylon Gimley Ford commercials, or even—”

  She smacks my hand but still lets me eat the meat, then hands me a stack of silverware cradled in clean cotton dinner napkins. “You do help, Billy. All the time.”

  I take my dismissal and head to the table, setting it for her. Mason should be getting the glasses and pouring the sweet tea, but he’s probably jerking off or something in his room, like always.

  “What’s that?” Mama asks.

  I lift my head, praying I didn’t say that out loud. “Ma’am?”

  She’s pointing directly at me, but I still look over my shoulder through the bay window, out into the backyard. Nothing out there but a half-rotted tree swing, some wood that needs chopping, a few goofy goats, and some trash-burning barrels that them damn goats keep knocking over. I look back to Mama, who’s still pointing at my leg. “You got a hitch in your giddyup.”