Her Montana Cowboy. Valerie Hansen

the chutes was all it took to make him smile and hesitate. Julie was back!

      She waved her arm wildly and grinned. “Hi!”

      Acknowledging her with a nod, Ryan stood astride the chute fences, holding his weight off the animal while friends pulled his rigging tight for him and he rubbed his rosined gloves along the braided poly-and-manila rope. He slipped his glove through the handhold, laid the braid across his palm and took his wrap. Then he pounded his stiff fingers tighter with his free hand and eased himself down onto the bull’s back.

      This brindle had a hump like a Brahma cross and horns big enough to reach out and touch a guy if he wasn’t careful.

      Ryan pulled his feet off the rails. Nodded to signal the gate man. Held his breath. Raised his free hand over his head and tensed, ready for anything—he hoped.

      The bull turned toward the arena, leaped into the air, landed stiff legged and was airborne again before even one second had passed.

      There was no way to calculate the time or plan ahead. All Ryan could do was keep his balance, bend at the hips to stay out over the shoulders of the snorting, slobbering, lurching animal and hang on.

      The crowd went wild, screeches, hoots and cheers buoying him up.

      Focused so intently on the bull, Ryan barely heard anything beyond the animal’s growls and the roar of the spectators in the stands.

      * * *

      Julie was perched on the top rung of the arena fence, shouting, “Go, go, go! Yes!”

      An air horn sounded. The eight seconds were up. He’d made it!

      “Yay!” Her heart was already pounding from the excitement when she saw Ryan reaching for his rope to loosen it.

      “Oh, no! His balance is off,” she yelled to nobody in particular. He was slipping to one side. And the bull was still bucking just as hard as it had before.

      Julie gasped and held her breath. The crowd reacted the same way. The din behind her changed to a more muted reverberation. Tension was palpable.

      Bullfighters in clown makeup and baggy clothes dashed into the fray. One headed straight for the bull, reaching out as if planning to touch its forehead between the curved horns.

      Ryan finally pulled his hand free. He leaped, landing in the dirt and rolling aside, barely escaping the pounding cloven hoofs of the immense animal.

      Julie screamed. Men were shouting.

      Ryan clambered to his feet, raised his arms over his head and bounced on his toes like a prizefighter after scoring a knockout.

      She caught his eye almost immediately and watched his elated grin broaden even more. By the time he’d scooped up his hat and been handed his discarded rigging, he was almost to the fence where she’d been waiting.

      “Great ride!”

      He beamed. “Thanks.”

      “Lousy dismount, though. I thought you were a goner for sure.”

      “Nah, he missed me by a mile.”

      “Try a few inches. Why don’t you at least wear a helmet like so many of the other riders do?”

      “Can’t see well enough through the face mask,” Ryan replied. “Besides, it throws off my balance.”

      “It’s still better than getting your head stomped flat. Do you have any idea how close you came just now?”

      “He missed, didn’t he?” One eyebrow arched. “Well?”

      She gave him an exaggerated pouting look. “Yes. This time he did. What about the next time? Or the time after that?”

      “Worried? Careful, or folks will think you care.”

      “I do.”

      “What about all that talk of praying for me?”

      “I did. I was. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still get hurt.”

      “Then why bother?”

      Although he seemed nonchalant and carefree about it, Julie sensed an underlying sense of seriousness, as if he wanted an honest answer.

      “Sometimes I wonder about that myself,” she confessed. “But I keep in mind that the Bible says to pray without ceasing and to ask for anything we want.”

      “Sounds like a kid writing to Santa.”

      Sobering, she shook her head. “Not at all. It’s a connection with our faith, with God and Jesus, that helps me all the time, no matter what answers I get.”

      “Really?”

      His arched eyebrows and evident skepticism were disturbing but not enough to dissuade her. “Yes, really. As a believer, if I trust God to do what’s best for me and try to listen and stay in His will, then I’ll know what to pray for and He’ll help me achieve it.”

      “If you say so.”

      “I do.” Forcing a smile, she looped her hand around his elbow and fell into step beside him. “I know where they stashed the leftovers from the picnic. Are you hungry now that your rides are over for the day?”