Cowboy, Take Me Away. Kathleen Eagle

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      “You were taking pictures of me.” His eyes hinted at some amusement, but no uncertainty. “Are you a professional or a fan?”

      Skyler’s brain cartwheeled over her other body parts and took charge.

      “I don’t know you, but I know horse sense when I see it, and I like to take pictures.” She smiled. His face complemented his body—long, slender, neatly groomed, ready for a close-up. “I wouldn’t mind getting paid to do it, but at the moment, it’s merely my pleasure.”

      “Taking pictures of … horse sense.”

      She turned the camera on, pressed a button and turned the display his way. “Would you like to see?”

      He clicked through her pictures. “You’ve got a powerful zoom there. Look at that.” He stepped closer and shared a peek. “You can see where I nicked myself shaving this morning.”

      “I don’t see anything.”

      “Luckily, it’s just my face. No harm done to the horse sense.”

      “It’s a valuable asset.” She nodded toward the picture on the camera display. Commanding Cowboy on a Collected Mount. “Do you have an interest in this horse?”

      “I might buy him.” He studied the picture, considering. “If the price is right. This guy’s trying to take him in the wrong direction. He’s not a roping horse. He’s small and he’s quick.” Their fingers touched as he handed the camera back. She bit back an apology and a cliché about cold hands. His warmth reached his eyes. “Make a nice cuttin’ horse.”

      “You’re a trainer?” Obviously.

      “I’m a bronc rider. Got no sense at all.” He tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. “You coming to the show tonight? “

      “I haven’t decided.” She was committed to watching the ropers in the afternoon slack, which moments ago had seemed like enough rodeo for one day.

      “You’d get some good pictures.”

      “I’m not your Rodeo Sports News kind of photographer. And I’m really not interested in the kind of ride that only lasts eight seconds.”

      “Only?” He laughed. “That’s eight real seconds. You know you’re alive when every second really means something. How many seconds like that can you stand, one right after another?”

      “I feel very much alive on the back of a horse. I could go all day.”

      He took her point with a nod, eyes dancing. “They say when you meet your match, time stands still. You believe that?”

      “I think your idea of the perfect match is different from mine.”

      “What do you look for?”

      “A great ride.”

      “Same here. You say girth and I say cinch, but, hell, we’re both horse people. If you’re thirsty, I know a good watering hole that’s probably pretty quiet this time of day. First round’s on me.”

      “That’s very tempting, but I have to …” Not really. There was nothing she had to do in Sheridan, Wyoming. If she’d come on her own, she could watch the afternoon calf roping and go home, where she always had things to do. “Are you competing in the rodeo tonight?” He nodded. “Which event?”

      “Bareback.” He pushed his right hand deep into his jeans pocket. “I’ve got an extra ticket. One is all I’ve got, so if you’re with somebody …”

      “No, I’m …” But she took the ticket he handed her and inspected it as though she hadn’t seen one before. “I mean, I haven’t decided. I wouldn’t want this to go to waste.”

      She looked up to find him grinning as he backed away. “You should see my horse sense in a pair of chaps. Bring your camera.”

      She met his grin with a smile. “You cowboys are all alike.”

      “I won’t ask how many you know. You can tell me tonight when you come by the chutes to wish me luck.”

      “I don’t even know your name.”

      “It’ll be on the program.” Safely out of returning-the-ticket distance, he paused. “You gonna tell me yours? “

      “I haven’t decided. And I’m not on the program.”

      Trace wasn’t holding his breath. The woman was as intriguing as she was beautiful, and her showing up behind the chutes or even in the stands was a long shot, which was what made the bet interesting. Surprise was the spice of Trace Wolf Track’s life.

      He hadn’t always seen it that way, but he’d lived and he’d learned. Life was full of surprises, people were totally unpredictable and a guy could either try to buck the system or enjoy the ride. Sure, he searched the crowd for that pretty face once or twice, and he turned his head to the sound of a female voice just before he lowered himself into the chute and took hold of his bareback rigging.

      And then he cursed himself for losing his concentration when he should have been calling for the gate. He’d drawn a chute fighter. No screwing around, cowboy. I’m outta here, with or without you.

      Trace made the whistle, but his signature dismount turned ugly in the face of a flying hoof. He didn’t mind getting clipped in the head, but mentally he took points off his score for stumbling and losing his hat. Winning a go-round wasn’t everything. He scanned the bleachers as he acknowledged the applause with a wave of the errant hat. He had no idea where to look for the seat he’d given her, but did a double take at the sight of a pretty woman in the front row jumping to her feet.

      He had to laugh at himself when the woman reached across the aisle and took a toddler from somebody’s arms. Not his ticket holder. The hair was too yellow, the hips were too broad and the kid appeared to be hers. He’d been thinking about his green-eyed photographer with the reddish-blond hair all afternoon, recalling her sweet scent, guessing her name and making up her story. It didn’t include kids.

      Trace unbuckled his chaps as he ambled back to the chutes. He wiped his head with his shirtsleeve. Sure enough, the hoof had drawn blood, which he didn’t mind getting on his shirt, but he hated like hell messing up the sponsor’s patch on the sleeve. He’d sold his right arm to promote cigarettes. Took the money and quit smoking, thanks to the bloody patch.

      He put his hat back on for a dignified departure. Exiting the arena on the heels of a good score required cowboy reserve. Win or lose, the slight swagger in his step came from years of forking a horse nearly every day. Ordinarily he would have been mentally downshifting now that his workday was over—one man’s eight seconds was another’s eight hours—and it was time to celebrate, whether he felt like it or not.

      “Nice ride,” said saddle bronc rider Larry Moss-brucker as he caught up with Trace on the way to the medic’s van. “Where’s the party tonight?”

      “Haven’t heard.”

      “It’s your call, man. First round’s on the winner.” Larry clapped a beefy hand on Trace’s shoulder.

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