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  Copyright © 2016 by Kari Lynn Dell

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Craig White

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  A Sneak Peek at Tangled Up in Texas

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  A Sneak Peek at Nicole Helm’s True-Blue Cowboy Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  This book is for the stock contractors, committees, sponsors, and contract personnel who make rodeos happen. Without you, we would have nowhere to compete. It is no accident that the hero of this story shares a name with Joe Baumgartner, who changed rodeo bullfighting forever, and provided inspiration for this book in so many ways.

  Chapter 1

  It was Labor Day weekend and the night was tailor-made for rodeo. Overhead the sky had darkened to blue velvet, and underfoot the West Texas dirt was groomed to perfection. Music pounded and the wooden bleachers were jammed with every live body within fifty miles, plus a decent number of tourists who’d been lured off the bleak stretch of Highway 20 between Odessa and El Paso by the promise of cold beer, hot barbecue, and a chance to get western.

  Violet Jacobs maneuvered her horse, Cadillac, into position, mirroring her cousin on the opposite end of the bucking chutes. She and Cole both wore the Jacobs Livestock pickup rider uniform—a royal blue shirt to match stiff, padded royal-blue-and-white chaps to protect against the banging around and occasional kick that came with the job. Tension prickled through Violet’s muscles as they waited for the next cowboy to nod his head.

  She and Cole were supposed to be emergency backup during the bull riding, charging in only if the bullfighters—the so-called cowboy lifesavers—failed to get the rider and themselves out of danger. Trouble was, the odds of failure got higher every day. For a bullfighter, speed was key, and if Red got any slower they’d have to set out stakes to tell if he was moving. He’d worn out his last legs two weeks back. What he had left was held together with athletic tape, titanium braces, and sheer stubbornness. At some point, it wasn’t going to be enough.

  Violet’s gaze swung to the younger of the pair of bullfighters. Hank vibrated like a bowstring as the bull rider took his wrap and used his free hand to pound his fist shut around the flat-braided rope. The kid was quicksilver to Red’s molasses, as green as Red was wily. If he would just listen, work with Red instead of trying to do it all…

  The gate swung wide and the bull blasted out with long, lunging jumps. Red lumbered after him like the Tin Man with rusty hinges. The bull dropped its head and swapped ends, blowing the rider’s feet back, flipping the cowboy straight off over his horns. He landed in a pile right under the bull’s nose. Hank jumped in from the right, Red from the left, and the two of them got tangled up. When Red stumbled, the Brahma caught his shoulder with one blunt horn and tossed him in the air like he weighed nothing.

  Cole already had his rope up and swinging. Violet was three strides behind. The instant Red hit the ground, the bull was on top of him, grinding him into the dirt. When Hank scrambled to his partner’s rescue, the bull slung its head and caught the kid under the chin with his other horn, laying him out straight as a poker.

  Cole’s loop sailed through the air, whipped around the bull’s horns, and came tight. He took two quick wraps around the saddle horn with the tail of the rope and spurred his horse, Dozer, into a bounding lope. The big sorrel jerked the bull around and away before it could inflict any more damage. Violet rode in behind shouting, “Hyah! Hyah!” and slapping the bull’s hip with her rope. He caught sight of the catch pen gate and stopped fighting to trot out of the arena toward feed and water. Violet wheeled Cadillac around, heart in her throat as she counted bodies. The breath rushed out of her lungs when she saw everyone was mostly upright.

  The bull rider leaned over Hank, a hand on his shoulder as a medic knelt in the dirt next to him, attempting to stanch the blood dripping from his chin. A second medic supervised while two cowboys hoisted Red to his feet. He tried a ginger, limping step. Then another. By the third, Violet knew it would take a lot more than a can of oil and a roll of duct tape to fix the Tin Man this time.

  * * *

  The Jacobs family gathered in the rodeo office after the show for an emergency staff meeting. The five of them filled the room—her father, Steve, was six-and-a-half feet of stereotypical Texas cowboy in a silver belly hat that matched his hair, and Cole, a younger, darker model cast from the same mold. Even Violet stood five ten in her socks, and none of them were what you’d call a beanpole. It was just as well she’d never set her heart on being the delicate, willowy type. She wasn’t bred for it. Her five-year-old son, Beni, had tucked himself into the corner with his video game. Her mother, Iris, was a Shetland pony in a herd of Clydesdales, but could bring them all to heel with a few well-chosen words in that certain tone of voice.

  Now she shook her head, tsking sadly. “Did y’all see that knee? Looks like five pounds of walnuts stuffed into a two-pound bag.”

  “He won’t be back this year,” Violet said.

  Her dad hmphffed, but no one argued. E
ven if Red wanted to try, they couldn’t put him back out there for the three weeks that were left of the season. It wasn’t safe for Red or for the cowboys he was supposed to protect. It was sad to lose one of the old campaigners, but he’d had a good, long run—clear back to the days when the guys who fought bulls were called rodeo clowns, wore face paint and baggy Wranglers, and were expected to tell jokes and put on comedy acts. Nowadays, bullfighters were all about the serious business of saving cowboys’ necks. Leave the costumes and the standup comedy to the modern day clowns, pure entertainers who steered well clear of the bulls.

  “Saves us havin’ to tell Red it’s time to hang up the cleats,” Cole said, blunt as always. “Who we gonna get to replace him?”

  Steve sighed, pulling off his hat to run a hand through his flattened hair. “Violet can make some calls. Maybe Donny can finish out the year.”

  Oh, come on. Donny was even older than Red, if slightly better preserved. Violet opened her mouth to argue, but her mother cut her off.

  “It’ll have to wait until morning.” Iris began stacking paperwork and filing it in plastic boxes. “Y’all go get your stock put up. We’ve got a date for drinks with the committee president.”

  And Violet had a date with her smartphone. Fate and Red’s bad knees had handed her an opportunity to breathe fresh life into Jacobs Livestock. She just had to persuade the rest of the family to go along.

  * * *

  Once the stock was settled for the night, Violet herded Beni to their trailer and got them both showered and into pajamas. She tucked him into his bunk with a stuffed penguin under one arm—a souvenir from a trip to the Calgary Zoo with his dad earlier in the summer.

  “Can I call Daddy?” he asked.

  She kissed his downy-soft forehead. Lord, he was a beautiful child—not that she could take any credit. The jet-black hair and tawny skin, eyes as dark as bittersweet chocolate…that was all his daddy. “Not tonight, bub. The time is two hours different in Washington, so he’s not done riding yet.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Beni heaved a sigh that was equal parts yawn. “He’s still coming home next week, right?”

  “He’ll meet us at the rodeo on Sunday.”

  He’d promised, and while Violet wouldn’t recommend getting knocked up on a one-night stand, at least she’d had the sense to get drunk and stupid with a really good man. He would not let his son down, especially after he’d been on the road for almost a month in the Pacific Northwest at a run of rich fall rodeos. The rodeos that mattered.

  She heaved a sigh of her own. Of course her rodeos mattered—to the small towns, the local folks, they were a chance to hoot and holler and shake off their troubles for a night. The contestants might be mostly weekend cowboys with jobs that kept them close to home, but they left just as big a piece of their heart in the arena as any of the top-level pros. Still, the yearning spiraled through Violet like barbed wire, coiling around her heart and digging in. It cut deep, that yearning. Nights like this were worst of all, in the quiet after the rodeo, when there was nothing left to do but think. Imagine.

  At legendary rodeos like Ellensburg, Puyallup, and Lewiston, the best cowboys in North America were going head to head, world championships on the line. Meanwhile, Violet had successfully wrapped up the forty-third annual Puckett County Homesteader Days. Jacobs Livestock had been part of twenty-nine of them. If her dad had his way, they’d continue until the rodeo arena crumbled into the powder-dry West Texas dirt, her mother and Cole trailing contentedly along behind.

  How could Violet be the only one who wanted more?

  “Night, Mommy.” Beni rolled over, tucked the penguin under his chin, and was instantly asleep.

  Violet tugged the blanket up to his shoulders, then pulled shut the curtain that separated his bunk from the rest of the trailer. Finally time for dinner. She slicked her dark hair behind her ears, the damp ends brushing her shoulders as she built a sandwich of sliced ham on one of her mother’s fat homemade rolls, a dollop of coleslaw on the plate alongside it. Before settling in at the table, she turned the radio on low. The singer’s throaty twang vibrated clear down to her heartstrings, reminding her that the only man in her life had yet to hit kindergarten, but it muted the tick-tick-tick of another rodeo season winding down with Violet in the exact same place.

  She prodded her coleslaw with a fork, brooding. Red had been operating on pure guts for weeks, so she’d made a point of researching every card-carrying professional bullfighter in their price range. Was her prime candidate still available? She opened the Internet browser on her phone and clicked a link to a Facebook page. Shorty Edwards. Gunnison, Colorado. His status hadn’t changed since the last time she checked. Good news! Doc says I can get back to work. Any of you out there needing a bullfighter for fall rodeos, give me a call.

  Shorty was exactly what they needed. Young enough to be the bullfighter of their future, but experienced enough to knock Hank into line. Good luck persuading her dad to bring in a complete stranger, though—and not even a Texan, Lord save her. She might as well suggest they hire the devil himself. Violet drummed agitated fingers on the table, staring at Shorty’s action photo. Jacobs Livestock needed new blood, an infusion of energy. Fans and committees loved a good bullfighter.

  Her dad had said she should make some calls. As business manager for Jacobs Livestock, she would write up the contract and sign the paycheck, so why not get a jump on the process? She could discuss it with her parents before making a commitment.

  Her heart commenced a low bass beat that echoed in her ears as she dialed his number. He answered. Her voice squeaked when she introduced herself, and she had to clear her throat before explaining their situation.

  “Three rodeos?” he asked. “Guaranteed?”

  “Uh…yeah.”

  “And you can give me a firm commitment right now?”

  “I…uh…”

  “I’ve got an offer in Nevada for one rodeo. If you can give me three, I’ll come to Texas, but I promised them an answer by morning.”

  Violet’s mouth was so dry her lips stuck to her teeth. She’d never hired anyone without her dad’s approval. But it wasn’t permanent. Just three rodeos. Sort of like a test-drive. If Shorty turned out to be a lemon, they could just send him back.

  “Well?”

  “Three rodeos, guaranteed,” she blurted.

  “Great. Sign me up.”

  She ironed out the details then hung up the phone, folded her arms on the table, and buried her face in them. When the first wave of panic subsided, she sat up, pressing her palms on the table when her head spun. Chill, Violet. She was twenty-eight years old and her dad was always saying the best way to get more responsibility was to show she could handle it. They had a problem. She’d solved it. Once the rest of them saw Shorty in action, they’d have to admit she’d made the right choice.

  Because you have such an excellent track record when it comes to picking men…

  Violet slapped that demon back into its hidey-hole. This was different. This was business. She was good at business. As long as Shorty Edwards was exactly as advertised, she was golden.

  Chapter 2

  The last Brahma to buck at the Puyallup, Washington, rodeo was a huge red brindle named Cyberbully. Three jumps out of the chute he launched his rider into the clear blue sky. The cowboy thumped into the dirt like a hundred-and-forty-pound sack of mud and stayed there, motionless, while the bull whipped around, looking to add injury to insult.

  Joe Cassidy stepped between them and tapped Cyberbully’s fat nose. “Hey, Cy. This way.”

  The bull took the bait. Joe hauled ass, circling away from the fallen cowboy with the Brahma a scant inch behind. The big son of a bitch was fast. Caught out in the middle of the arena, Joe couldn’t outrun him, so he opted to let Cy give him a boost. With a slight hesitation and a perfectly timed hop, he momentarily took a seat between the bull’s stubby
horns. Startled, Cy threw up his head and Joe pushed off. As he was thrown free, he saw a flash of neon yellow—his partner sprinting in from the opposite direction. “C’mere, Cy, you ugly bastard!”

  The bull hesitated, then went after Wyatt. Joe landed on his feet and spun around to see Wyatt vault up and onto the fence next to the exit gate with a stride to spare. The bull feinted at him, then trotted out.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, give a hand to our bullfighters, Joe Cassidy and Wyatt Darrington!” the rodeo announcer shouted. “That’s why these two are the best team in professional rodeo.”

  The air vibrated, fans whistling and stomping their appreciation as Joe jogged over to check on the cowboy, who had rolled into a seated position.

  “You okay, Rowdy?” Joe asked, extending a hand to help him up.

  “Yep. Thanks, guys.” Rowdy swiped at the dirt on his chaps and strolled to the chutes, unscathed and unfazed.

  Wyatt folded his arms, glaring. “We should let the bulls have the ones that are too dumb to get up and run.”

  Joe snorted. That’d be the day. Wyatt was hardwired to save the world—even the parts that didn’t want saving.

  “That wraps up our rodeo for this year, folks!” the announcer declared. “If you have a hankering for more top-of-the-line professional rodeo action, come on out to Pendleton, Oregon, next week for the world-famous Roundup…”

  One more rodeo, then six weeks off. Seven days from now, after Pendleton, he was headed home. Fall was Joe’s favorite time of year in the high desert of eastern Oregon, weaning this year’s crop of colts and calves under the clear, crisp sky.

  He twisted around, checking the spot where the bull had tagged his ribs. Not even a flesh wound thanks to his Kevlar vest, but the big bastard had ripped a hole in his long-sleeved jersey. “Damn. That’s the third one this month.”

  Wyatt took off his cowboy hat and wiped sweat from his forehead with a shirtsleeve. “You’re gettin’ old and slow, pardner.”

  “Five years less old and slow than you.”

  “Yeah, but I take better care of myself.”