Lauren Danners leaned against one of the five wooden columns that supported the rodeo’s announcer’s stand and tried not to hyperventilate. In front of her—a mere two feet away—a young steer tried to jump out of a rodeo chute. A flurry of voices called, “Watch out, watch out,” around her, but she didn’t look away. She had eyes only for the young boy intending to sit atop the steer—her ten-year-old son.

Please, God. Don’t let him get hurt.

“You know you could always watch from the grandstands,” said a man wearing a black cowboy hat and a commiserating smile. “You could put your head between your legs up there if you feel like you’re gonna vomit.”

She pulled herself out from beneath a haze of panic to note the man had a gold star pinned to the front of his polo shirt, one with the word Sheriff clearly etched into the metal.

“Bren,” someone said, another cowboy, this one older and with a bushy gray mustache that matched the hair beneath his ratty old cowboy hat. “I would have thought for sure you’d be helping out.” He nodded toward the bucking chutes.

“Nah. They’ve got things under control.”

The man beside her sounded like a cartoon character of a Texas lawman. Low drawl. Deep voice. Slow words. But they were in Via Del Caballo, California. A long ways away from Texas.

“You new around here?” asked Bren.

She could barely see Kyle between the half dozen men helping him mount his first rodeo steer. Her son hadn’t looked once in her direction. Not once. She didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved because clearly he’d decided to focus on the task at hand. That was good, because if he’d glanced at her with fear on his face and terror in his eyes, she would have run over to him and ripped him off the dang cow...or steer...or whatever it was called.

“Just moved here,” she admitted, recognizing the words for what they were. A lifeline. A way to distract her from the fact that her son was about to do something she really didn’t want him to do but that his uncle thought would be “good for him.” And now her brother was the one up in the grandstands watching from a distance while she was the one about to throw up.

“He’ll be okay,” said the man next to her. “The steers aren’t half as bad as bulls. That’s why they use them for the junior rodeos. The most they’ll do is buck a few times and maybe run off.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. Run off. With her son strapped to his back. Good Lord, she didn’t need that visual.

“Look, Officer...”

“Sheriff Connelly,” he said, holding out his hand. “Brennan Connelly.”

“Lauren Danners.” She took the hand, and she wasn’t so preoccupied that she didn’t notice how firm his grip was. And that his tan arms had tight cords of muscle running along the length of them, and that dark hair spotted the surface, the ends bleached blond from the sun. Good-looking didn’t even begin to describe him.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Danners.” He tipped his hat, something she’d only ever seen men do in movies.

“Same here.” She smiled as brightly as she could. “But please don’t take this wrong. I appreciate your friendliness, I really do, but talking means I have to open my mouth and I really am afraid I might spontaneously vomit all over the front of you and that would only add insult to injury where this day is concerned.”

His smile grew. A couple feet away, the steer Kyle tried to mount had settled down and the sudden quiet made her stomach turn even more. She’d been hoping they’d let the steer go. That he’d get to try riding another one, a calmer one. Maybe one that was so old it could barely get out of the gate. Obviously not. She stood on a raised wooden dais, one that allowed spectators to peer down into the rodeo chutes, and against her better judgment she took a few steps forward, bringing her so close she could smell the steer and the sweat of the men around her.

“Easy there, Sparky.” Bren placed a hand on her shoulder. She barely noticed. The rodeo announcer told everyone to put their hands together because a local kid new to riding steers was about to make his debut, which meant...

The gate opened.

Kyle.

Her son, her baby boy, shot through the air. He didn’t ride for one second, much less eight, arms akimbo, limbs splayed as he landed on his backside. She knew this because she’d jammed herself up against the edge of the chute without even realizing it, her son in a heap practically at her feet. Then and only then did he look around for her, his eyes catching her own, the grin beneath the metal face guard attached to his helmet unmistakable.

“That was great!”

She turned around and the man behind her caught her. She struggled for a moment because she really did think she would be sick, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Don’t ruin this for him,” he said softly. “Just breathe. The sickness will go away. He’s all right.”

She clung to him even though she’d just met him, even though a part of her felt outrage that he wouldn’t let her go, even though it took all her strength to do as he asked and breathe.

“Look. He’s getting up.”

She turned. Sure enough, Kyle slowly stood, his beige protective vest, his green shirt and his jeans all covered in mud. In the arena, the steer had already left through the exit gate. Her son waved to the crowd, who applauded in response, and she could swear she heard her brother yell, “Attaboy, Kyle!” all the way from the grandstands.

“I don’t think I can do this again,” she СКАЧАТЬ

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