the highway, he rubbed the thick knot of skin along the side of his face. The accident had happened eighteen years ago.
Accident. His wound hadn’t been an accident, but calling it anything else was too painful.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Stampede Park in beautiful sunny Cody, Wyoming! We’re expecting record-breaking temperatures this first week of July, so be sure you’re drinking plenty of water. If you’re looking for a seat in the shade, we still have a few available under the Buzzard Roost.”
The grandstand took up one side, the rough stock and cowboys the other. The scent of greasy burgers, popcorn, cigarettes and sweaty bodies permeated the air until you got close to the chutes. Then the heavy stink of nervous bucking stock and the stuff that comes out of their back ends stole your breath—unless you were immune to it as Vic was.
Garth Brooks’s song “Rodeo” blasted through the loudspeakers for a few seconds. Then the announcer continued his spiel. “It’s been a wild start to Cowboy Christmas here in the cowboy state. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the term Cowboy Christmas...”
Vic paced behind the chute, where Snake Oil Willie waited patiently for him. Why did every damned rodeo announcer feel compelled to explain Cowboy Christmas to the fans? People wanted to see cowboys go head-to-head with the bucking stock—they didn’t care that this was the time of year cowboys ramped up their earnings to help them qualify for the National Finals Rodeo in December. Only the top fifteen cowboys made it to Vegas, and Vic intended to be one of them.
He was bone tired after his midnight ride in the Greeley Independence Stampede in Colorado, four hundred fifty miles away. He’d driven all night to get to Cody, and the five days before that he’d been in Pecos, Texas. As soon as he competed today, he was back in his truck heading to Red Lodge, Montana, sixty miles up the interstate where he was due to ride at three. Then he had to make it to the Round Top Rodeo in Livingston, one hundred twenty-three miles farther down the road, for his last go-round of the day. He’d taken first place in Greeley, and if he finished in the top three in his last two rodeos of the day, he could earn close to five thousand dollars.
“We’re fortunate to have a superstar among our competitors today. Victor Vicario is currently ranked twelve in the PRCA standings. He started off the year on a high note, taking first place at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo back in March.”
The din increased and Vic slipped farther into the shadows of the cowboy ready area. He didn’t care for all the attention that came with winning. As soon as he claimed a national title, he intended to disappear from the rodeo scene. If he never rode another bronc the rest of his life, that would be fine with him.
“Last year Vicario ended his season in fourth place at the NFR in Vegas and you can bet he’s aiming to return for another chance to win the title.”
Once the crowd quieted, the announcer mentioned other cowboys competing today. Vic blocked out the noise and drew his thoughts inward as he prepared for his ride. He recalled his best ride, which happened to be last year in Vegas. He imagined every detail right down to the smells of the bucking chute, the heat coming off Sun River Bay’s back and the sound of the gelding’s snorts. Once Vic completed the ride in his head, he opened his eyes.
He was first out of the gate in his event—fine by him. He intended to set the bar high and intimidate his competition. He could thank the barrio in Albuquerque for his cutthroat attitude. Vic hadn’t grown up on a farm or a ranch like most rodeo cowboys. He hadn’t shown a cow or a pig in the local 4-H fair. Instead, he’d spent his free time tagging public property, stealing sodas and candy from convenience stores, skipping school and pledging gangs.
“Vicario will be coming out of chute two on Snake Oil Willie. This bronc can two-step like nobody’s business.”
When the rodeo helper signaled him, Vic stepped into the open. No one wished him good luck on his walk to the chute. He was good at busting broncs, but the scar on his face and his brooding personality kept anyone from trying to be his friend. Sometimes the loneliness got to him, but it was a fitting penance considering his high school pal Cruz Rivera had spent twelve years behind bars because of Vic.
He climbed the rails and straddled the bronc. Snake Oil Willie’s muscles bunched beneath Vic’s weight, but the horse behaved. Vic had never ridden the gelding in competition and had heard rumors that good ol’ Willie was full of tricks once he escaped the chute.
Vic adjusted his grip on the thick rein attached to the horse’s halter, took a deep breath, then nodded to the gate man and braced himself for liftoff. As soon as the chute opened, Snake Oil Willie rocketed into the air. Instinct took over and Vic placed his spurs against the points of the horse’s shoulders then marked out. With his left arm high in the air, he squeezed the bronc’s withers and spurred front to back, keeping his toes pointing outward. The first few bucks were smooth and controlled, but then the bronc tensed beneath him and Vic relaxed his hold on the rein, trying to avoid a spin.
Not a chance—Snake Oil Willie was too smart. The trickster spun right, forcing Vic to move with him in the saddle or get thrown off. When the bronc straightened out, Vic waited for another buck, but the horse reared and he slid backward. With a surge of strength he clung to the saddle; then the gelding’s front hooves hit the dirt, jarring Vic’s spine. The bronc managed to buck twice more before the buzzer sounded. Vic waited for an opening to dismount. When he saw his chance, he dove for the ground and rolled away from the clashing hooves.
The pickup men escorted Snake Oil Willie out of the arena and Vic plucked his hat from the dirt. His gaze scanned the crowd on his way back to the chutes and he caught a flash of red. Tanya McGee. What was she doing here?
Maybe she came to watch you.
No way. He hadn’t run into her on the circuit since that stormy night outside Houston when he rebuffed her offer to have coffee at the truck stop. He made eye contact and nodded.
“There you have it, folks,” the announcer said. “Victor Vicario scored an eighty-nine and got the best of Snake Oil Willie!”
Vic retrieved his duffel and stuffed his gear inside. He swung the bag over his shoulder and headed to the nearest concession stand to buy a corn dog for the road. He had two and a half hours before his next ride in Red Lodge.
“Victor.”
Tanya. He stopped walking and waited until she caught up with him.
“Great ride.”
He nodded, tongue-tied. Why did the spitfire barrel racer shove him off balance with just a smile?
“I wanted to thank you again for changing the flat on my trailer,” she said. “Couldn’t have been an easy feat in that downpour.”
“Glad to help.” He rubbed the ache in his left shoulder. He’d clipped it coming out of the chute.
She shuffled her black boots, then zeroed in on his face. Maybe it was the glare from the sun, but her eyes appeared bluer than he’d remembered.
“Did you compete today?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m giving Slingshot a rest, hoping it will improve his disposition.”
Vic grinned before he remembered the action stretched the scar across his face, twisting the puckered flesh. “Slingshot is a handful.”
“I’m well aware everyone believes my horse would be put to better use making glue.”
Vic quirked an eyebrow.
“But I’m not giving up on him.”
He understood how difficult it was to throw in the towel and admit defeat. He’d been hauling around twelve years of I-don’t-give-up on his back. Tanya didn’t appear in a hurry, but he was at a loss for something to say. He wasn’t used to talking to women he respected. He only had experience with