Shotgun Surrender. B.J. Daniels

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      If he was right, he didn’t want to get caught out here. The whole thing had been nagging him for days. Finally tonight, he’d left the bar when it closed, climbed into his pickup and headed out of Antelope Flats. It wasn’t far to the ranch but he’d had to make a stop to get a six-pack of beer for the road.

      Tonight he was going to prove himself wrong—or right—he thought as he awkwardly climbed the fence and eased down the other side. His eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the dark. Wisps of clouds drifted low across the black canvas stretched on the horizon. A few stars twinkled millions of miles away, and a slim silver crescent moon peeked in and out.

      Clayton started across the small pasture, picking his way. Just over the rise, he froze as he made out the shape of the bull dead ahead.

      Devil’s Tornado was a Braford brindle-horned, one-ton bull—a breeder’s Molotov cocktail of Brahma and Hereford. The mix didn’t always turn out good bucking bulls, but it often did. The breed had ended more than a few cowboys’ careers, his included.

      He stared at the huge dark shape standing just yards from him, remembering how the bull had damn near killed the rider at the Billings rodeo a few days before.

      The problem was, Clayton thought he recognized the bull, not from Billings but from a town in Texas some years before. Thought he not only recognized the bull, but knew it intimately—the way only a bull rider gets to know a bull.

      Unless he was losing his mind, he’d ridden this brindle down in Texas four years ago. It had been one of his last rides.

      Only back then, the bull had been called Little Joe. And Little Joe had been less than an exciting ride. No tricks. Too nice to place deep on and make any prize money on.

      The other bulls in the roughstock contractor’s bag hadn’t had any magic, either—the kiss of death for the roughstock contractor. Last Clayton had heard the roughstock outfit had gone belly-up.

      Earlier tonight, he’d finally remembered the roughstock contractor’s name. Rasmussen. The same last name as the young man who’d showed up a few weeks ago with a handful of bulls he was subcontracting out to Monte Edgewood.

      If Clayton was right—and that was what he was here to find out—then Little Joe and Devil’s Tornado were one and the same.

      Except that the bull at the Billings rodeo had been a hot-tempered son-of-a-bucker who stood on its nose, hopped, skipped and spun like a top, quickly unseating the rider and nearly killing him. Nothing like the bull he’d ridden in Texas.

      But Clayton was convinced this bull was Little Joe. Only with a definite personality change.

      “Hey, boy,” he called softly as he advanced. “Easy, boy.”

      The bull didn’t move, seemed almost mesmerized as Clayton drew closer and closer until he could see the whites of the bull’s enormous eyes.

      “Hello, Little Joe.” Clayton chuckled. Damned if he hadn’t been right. Same notched ears, same crook in the tail, same brindle pattern. Little Joe was Devil’s Tornado.

      Clayton stared at the docile bull, trying to make sense of it. How could one bull be so different, not only from years ago but also from just days ago?

      A sliver of worry burrowed under Clayton’s skull. He definitely didn’t like what he was thinking because if he was right…

      He reached back to rub his neck only an instant before he realized he was no longer alone. He hadn’t heard anyone approach from behind him, didn’t even sense the presence until it was too late.

      The first blow to the back of his head stunned him, dropping him to his knees next to the bull.

      He flopped over onto his back and looked up. All he could make out was a dark shape standing over him and something long and black in a gloved hand.

      Clayton didn’t even get a chance to raise an arm toward off the second blow with the tire iron. The last thing he saw was the bull standing over him, the silver sickle moon reflected in the bull’s dull eyes.

      Chapter One

      Antelope Flats, Montana

       County Rodeo Grounds

      As the last cowboy picked himself up from the dirt, Dusty McCall climbed the side of the bucking horse chute.

      “I want to ride,” she said quietly to the elderly cowboy running this morning’s bucking horse clinic.

      Lou Whitman lifted a brow as he glanced down at the only horse left in the chute, a huge saddle bronc called The Undertaker, then back up at her.

      He looked as if he was about to mention that she wasn’t signed up for this clinic. Or that The Undertaker was his rankest bucking bronc. Or that her father, Asa McCall, or one of her four brothers, would have his behind if they found out he’d let her ride. Not when she was supposed to be helping “teach” this clinic—not ride.

      But he must have seen something in her expression, heard it in her tone, that changed his mind.

      He smiled and, nodding slowly, handed her the chest protector and helmet. “We got one more,” he called to his crew.

      She smiled her thanks at Lou as she took off her western straw hat and tossed it to one of the cowboys nearby. Slipping into the vest, she snugged down the helmet as Lou readied The Undertaker.

      Swallowing any second thoughts, she lowered herself onto the saddle bronc in the chute.

      None of the cowboys today had gone the required eight seconds for what was considered a legal rodeo ride.

      She knew there was little chance of her being the first. Especially on the biggest, buckingest horse of the day.

      She just hoped she could stay on long enough so that she wouldn’t embarrass herself. Even better, that she wouldn’t get killed!

      “What’s Dusty doing in there?” one of the cowboys along the corral fence wanted to know. “Dammit, she’s just trying to show us up.”

      She ignored the men hanging on the fence as she readied herself. Bucking horses were big, often part draft horse and raised to buck. This one was huge, and she knew she was in for the ride of her life.

      Not that she hadn’t ridden saddle broncs before. She’d secretly taken Lou Whitman’s clinic and ridden several saddle broncs just to show her brothers. Being the youngest McCall—and a girl on top of it—she’d spent her first twenty-one years proving she could do anything her brothers could—and oftentimes ended up in the dirt.

      She doubted today would be any different. While she no longer felt the need to prove anything to herself and could care less about what her four older brothers thought, she had to do this.

      And for all the wrong reasons.

      “Easy, boy,” she said as the horse banged around in the chute. She’d seen this horse throw some darned good cowboys in the past.

      But she was going to ride him. One way or another. At least for a little while.

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