One Rodeo Season. Sarah M. Anderson

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      He did the same back.

      Not that it mattered. She wasn’t here for Ian. She was here for the bulls. She followed Chicken back to make sure he made it into the pens without a problem, but she didn’t have to worry. The old bull wanted some water and hay.

      Part of her thought she should watch the rest of the rides, but part of her wanted to stay back here with the bulls. When she was with the bulls, she didn’t have to worry about sending the “wrong” signals or defending herself or any of that crap. She had to make sure they didn’t step on her. It was easy in its simplicity. Don’t make a mistake. Don’t get crushed.

      Rattler was going tomorrow. She hoped like hell he had a good ride. They needed another three-hundred-and-some-odd points before she could start negotiating with the promoters for appearances at the Challenger level.

      She climbed into her truck. She had a good view of her trailer and the pen where her bulls were held. She should probably eat dinner. She knew she’d eaten breakfast—the hotel had served doughnuts and coffee, that sort of thing. But she wasn’t sure she’d eaten lunch.

      She had the feeling that, if her mom were still alive, she’d give Lacy that look and say, “Honey, I know you can do better than this.” It was Mom’s favorite phrase, one she deployed equally for underwhelming grades or a messy room. And then Dad would say, “Linda, go easy on the girl. She’ll get it next time—won’t you, honey?” And Lacy would nod and promise that next time, she’d do better.

      As an only child, Lacy had often thought it was unfair that her mom expected her to be so perfect all the time. But now that Lacy knew the truth...

      How much of that prodding had been Mom hedging against Lacy’s true nature?

      What was Lacy’s true nature?

      The answers were in the box. The box that Lacy couldn’t bring herself to look into again.

      She couldn’t ignore that box for the rest of her life. At the very least, she needed to get back into Dad’s office, sort through the bills that were way past due, pull the stock contracts out—that sort of thing. She couldn’t let the box loom over her.

      She wouldn’t. Tomorrow, the bulls would buck and she’d load them up and drive home. And this week, she promised herself, she’d go into the office and face the box again.

      She would do better. She knew she could.

      * * *

      TAP, TAP, TAP.

      “Lacy?”

      She started awake—wait—when had she fallen asleep? She blinked groggily as she tried to remember where she was.

      Knocking, again. “Lacy?” the voice repeated, more concerned this time.

      She swung her head to the left and saw him. He stood there like some sort of dream—although this time, he wasn’t in a T-shirt, wet or otherwise. He was in a bright blue button-up shirt with white buttons. The sleeves were cuffed, revealing his massive forearms. He had a brown leather strap around one wrist and a brown felt cowboy hat on his head. He looked good, she thought dimly. He’d look better naked, though.

      Wait—had that been real?

      She rolled down the window and, to her horror, heard herself say, “I liked the wet T-shirt better.” Which was shortly followed by, “Oh, hell—did I say that out loud?”

      Ian blinked. “If you did,” he said, giving her an easy out, “I didn’t hear it. You’re not sleeping in this truck alone, are you?”

      “I wasn’t sleeping,” she lied. “And I have a gun.”

      He gave her a look that was probably supposed to be stern, but didn’t quite make it. “Is it still in the glove box?”

      “Maybe.” The cobwebs started to clear out of her head.

      “Where are you sleeping tonight?” he asked. She didn’t much care for his tone. It was too much like the way she’d always imagined big brothers talking to their irritating little sisters.

      At least he hadn’t made it sound as if she should be sleeping with him. Even if she might have been dreaming about doing just that. Even though it hadn’t been real, none of it, an image of his mouth closing around her nipple flashed back through her mind. She shuddered. “I have a hotel room.”

      He nodded. “Have you eaten today?”

      “Yes.” She wasn’t quite sure when. “I know I had breakfast. Doughnuts.”

      That got her another irritated big-brother look. “I’ll buy you dinner.”

      “No,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to.” Dinner after the rodeo was something she’d always done with her dad. They’d make sure the bulls were secure for the night, and then hit a local diner or something. Lacy had always spent so much time with her mom, going to and from school, that those times with her dad had been special.

      As nice as it was of Ian to offer, she didn’t want to replace Dad in that ritual.

      Not that Ian knew that. “I know I don’t. But I want to.”

      She didn’t like the sound of that. “Another time?” she said, because that seemed like something her dad would say.

      Ian gave her a long look then, one she couldn’t hide from. Most people looked past her. She wasn’t a pretty woman—never had been, never would be. And she didn’t fit into anyone’s neat little box about how a woman should think or act. As a result, most people ignored her, which suited her fine.

      But Ian? He did not ignore her. He didn’t look through her.

      He saw her. God, it was unnerving.

      Finally, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

      “That’d be good.” She realized she meant it. She wanted to see him tomorrow. To see what he’d do in the arena, to see if he’d tip his hat in respect to her.

      It had nothing to do with the dream.

      “I’ll help you load the bulls up after the rodeo. That’s our deal,” he added before she could protest. “I keep my word.”

      “You know that’s not normal?” The words were out before she could think better of them. She must not be as awake as she’d thought she was. “Most people don’t.”

      Up until that moment, he’d kept a reasonable distance between him and the truck. He was fond of leaning against the driver’s-side mirror, she noted.

      But when she said that, he leaned forward, his hands on her door, his face where the window would have been if it’d been rolled up.

      For the first time, he entered her space. Not because he wanted to shake her hand and seal the deal, and not because she was in between him and a man who had it coming.

      This wasn’t incidental. This was intentional. They were close enough to touch.

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