LITMIR.BIZ

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stung his eyes, and the muscles in his legs and arms felt as if they were on fire. But Pete was confident that, if necessary, he could ride that bronc all night. Through the roar in his ears, he heard the buzzer sound, signaling the end of his eight-second ride. Cheers rose from the stands, and the grin that was as much a part of Pete’s features as his Roman-shaped nose quickly spread to his ears.

      Working his gloved fingers loose in the rigging, he glanced to his left, looking for the pickup man. Just as he did, the roan spun sharply, slamming Pete’s right leg up hard against the arena wall. He heard the collective gasp that rose from the stands even as the pain shot from his knee and up his thigh like a bolt of white-hot lightning, making his stomach churn and his head swim. Clenching his teeth against the dizziness, he made a grab for the arena wall and hung on, letting the roan run out from beneath him.

      Gasping, nearly blinded by pain, he glanced up at the faces peering down at him from over the top rail that framed the box seats. His gaze struck a pair of green eyes centered on his. The eyes, filled with concern, were achingly familiar.

      Carol?

      It couldn’t be, he told himself. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in over two years. He closed his eyes and gave his head a shake, sure that he was hallucinating, a result of the pain. When he opened them, she was gone.

      “Eighty-nine points!” the rodeo announcer called out. “Let’s hear it for Pete Dugan, rodeo fans. This cowboy’s just broken the record for the highest score ever made in the bronc riding event at the Mesquite Rodeo.”

      Loosening his grip on the wall, Pete dropped to the ground, hopping three steps until he was sure his right knee was going to take his weight. When he was sure he wasn’t going to crumple like a rag doll and humiliate himself in front of over a thousand rodeo fans, he planted both boots firmly in the dirt and ripped off his hat. With a loud whoop, he sailed it high in the air and punched the air with his fists.

      The audience went wild.

      Grinning, Pete stooped to pick up his hat, then waved it over his head in a salute to the crowd before settling it back over his sweat-creased hair and limping his way back to the chutes.

      “You okay?”

      Pete waved away the medic. “Yeah, I’m all right.” To prove it, he planted a boot on the fence rail and hauled himself to the top, then swung a leg over and dropped down on the other side. He landed beside his traveling buddy, Troy Jacobs.

      “Helluva ride,” Troy said with a nod toward the giant screen where the ride was being replayed.

      “Yep,” Pete agreed. “That Diablo sure knows how to raise some dust.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the computerized scoreboard and added, “But Ty Murrey’s up next. We’ll have to wait and see if my score will hold.”

      “He’ll give you a run for the money. No doubt about that. But your score’ll hold,” Troy assured him, watching the screen as the chute swung open for Ty Murrey’s ride.

      Pete turned his back on the rodeo arena and the giant screen that offered the rodeo fans a live and up-close view of the action going on in the arena. The same as every other cowboy on the circuit, Pete had his superstitions and rituals that he adhered to religiously, and one of them was to never, ever watch the next competitor out of the box after his own ride. Instead, he caught between his teeth the strip of leather that bound his wrist and gave it a tug, loosening it as he glanced back up at the section of box seats where he thought he’d seen Carol. As he pulled off his glove, he swept his gaze across the sea of faces, looking for a woman with flaming red hair and green eyes.

      Telling himself he was a fool for even looking, he started to turn away but whipped back when the crowd shifted, revealing the woman he’d seen while hanging from the arena wall. Her gaze met his, and he froze, his heart freezing, too.

      Carol. It was Carol.

      With his heart a dead, aching weight in his chest, he tucked his glove into the belt of his chaps and started toward the rail, his gaze locked on hers. He hadn’t taken more than two steps when she bolted from her seat and fled up the ramp, disappearing into the crowd.

      Pete stared, anger pulsing through him. He debated his chances of finding her in the crowd, then whirled away, ripping off his hat. Swearing, he slapped it against his chaps, making dust fly.

      He wouldn’t chase after her. Not Pete Dugan. Not when she’d left him high and dry more than two years before.

      Haunted by the image of Carol, but determined not to waste his time thinking about her, Pete strode straight for the bar, his spurs jingling on the planked wood floor. “Beer’s on me!” he yelled and dropped his duffel bag with his bronc riding gear at his feet.

      Upon hearing the call for free beer, cowboys crowded up behind him.

      Pete slapped a hand on the bar. “Line ’em up, bartender.” He swelled his chest a bit and gave it a smug rub, grinning. “We’ve got us some celebrating to do.”

      Pitchers were quickly filled and placed on the bar, thick white foam spilling over their sides and pooling on the bar’s scarred surface.

      “What are you celebrating, cowboy?”

      Pete glanced over at the woman who pressed herself against his side, and gave her a slow, appreciative look up and down. A smile built as he decided that this little buckle bunny might be just the distraction he needed to take his mind off Carol. “Well, darlin’—” But before he could tell her about the bronc riding record he’d just broken, one of the cowboys picked up a pitcher of beer and dumped it over Pete’s head while the other men looking on cheered and hooted.

      Pete yelped as the icy beer sluiced over the brim of his hat and down his back, then gave a loud whoop and ripped off his hat, tossing it high in the air. “Let the good times roll!”

      Grabbing the woman around the waist, he danced her a fast waltz around the room, keeping time with the country song currently blaring from the jukebox. He stumbled to a stop when a wide hand closed over his shoulder from behind.

      “Pete?”

      Dragging a sleeve across his eyes to swipe at the beer that still dripped from his forehead, he turned to find Troy standing behind him. He shrugged off his friend’s hand. “Not now, Troy. Can’t you see I’m busy? Me and—” he peered down at the woman, frowning “—what did you say your name was, darlin’?”

      She smiled up at him and sidled closer, rubbing her abdomen against his belt buckle. “Cheyenne.”

      Pete grinned and did some belt polishing of his own as he told Troy, “Me and Cheyenne are dancing.”

      “Clayton left.”

      Pete whipped his head around, his eyebrows snapping together over his brow, his grin disappearing. “Left? Where’d he go?”

      “Rena called.”

      Noticing for the first time the worried look on his buddy’s face, Pete dropped a quick, if distracted, kiss on the woman’s mouth. “Stay right there, darlin’. This won’t take but a minute.” Taking Troy by the elbow, he herded his friend toward the empty hall where the restrooms were located and the noise level was somewhat less. “What’s the problem?”

      “She’s gone.”

      Confused, Pete furrowed his brow. “Rena?”

      “Yeah,” Troy confirmed with a sigh. “She’s left Clayton. Packed up the kids and went to her mother’s.”

      “Oh, man,” Pete said, swiping a shaky hand across his forehead. “That’s a shame. When did this happen?”

      “About an hour ago. She called and left a message on his cell phone. He’s already gone. Hitched a ride with one of the boys who was headed for Austin. Said he needed to check on the ranch and pick up his truck. He wants you and me to take care of his ranch while he’s gone.” Troy sighed again, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Problem

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