First scene excerpt for Rafe
Prologue
Rafe Noble, two-time world champion bull rider and current king of the gold buckle, had never met a bull that he feared. Oh, sure, he knew well the tension before a ride that buzzed his nerves and slicked his hand inside his taped-tight leather glove. But normally he shook it off the second he wound the bull rope, sticky with rosin, around the animal’s chest and wedged it into his grip. Then the adrenaline, the heat, took over.
And for eight long, harrowing seconds, it was just man against beast.
In Rafe’s world, man usually won.
However, as Rafe straddled the champion bull known as PeeWee, which had to be some sort of joke because the bull was the biggest, orneriest creature Rafe had ever ridden, coldness rushed through him. Something foreign and overwhelming ignited a tremble from deep within his bones.
For the first time since he was thirteen he felt . . . terror.
Maybe it was just the residual agony of watching one of his fellow bull riders being carried out on a stretcher only minutes earlier. Maybe it was the roar of the crowd hammering at the raging headache he’d nursed most of the day. It could be the fact he rode in pain, that he’d had to tape his hand, wear his knee brace, and the sports medicine doctor had reminded him that one more fracture to his neck would land him in a wheelchair permanently.
Or perhaps it was just the eerie feeling that hung in the air, along with the smells of animal sweat and popcorn and leather and dirt, a surreal sense that tragedy lurked right outside the arena of spectators.
Whatever the reason, as Rafe worked his rope around his hand, through his pinkie, then pounded his fist with his other hand to lock it in place, he couldn’t shake the bone-deep feeling that tonight someone would die.
Even the bullfighters, the men who distracted the bull as the riders scrambled to safety, seemed jumpy. Manuel Rodriguez caught Rafe’s gaze. Dressed in a blue and red vest, black cowboy hat, long shorts, and cleats, Manuel had agility that kept him ahead of horns and made the crowd gasp. He’d saved Rafe’s hide on more than a few occasions.
Manuel nodded, and despite the distance between them, the roar of the crowd, the announcer, and the advice from fellow riders as Rafe settled into his riding position, he could hear Manuel’s mouthed words—“Get ’er done.”
Rafe returned the slightest nod and refrained from searching for Manuel’s eight-year-old son, Manny, and pretty wife, Lucia, in the audience. Rafe had arranged their tickets and trip up from Mexico to see Manuel perform under the big lights of the GetRowdy Bull Riding World Championship in Las Vegas.
“You’re my favorite bull rider,” little Manny had said as he handed Rafe his hat to sign at the pre-event celebrity showcase.
Behind Manny, a leggy blonde with a black T-shirt emblazoned with the GetRowdy Bull Riding logo gave Rafe a loaded smile.
Rafe winked at her and turned his attention back to Manny. “Are you going to be a bullfighter like your daddy when you get big?” he asked, signing the brim.
“Oh no. I wanna be just like you,” Manny had said, his hero-worshipping gaze fixed on him.
Rafe chuckled and plopped the hat back on Manny’s head.
“Our next bull rider, two-time world champion and overall leader going into the short round . . .”
The announcer brought Rafe’s attention back to the snorting animal he straddled. Clearly, his mind wasn’t in the game tonight. Which probably gave credence to the voice inside. He scooted up tight against his bull rope, blew out several short breaths, and banged his protective vest with his free hand. His biceps tightened against the sleeve of his rolled-up shirt, and he pulled up his fringed black and red chaps at the knees before he set his legs straddle of the bull, ready to dig in with his spurs.
And right then, the fear rushed him, poured through every cell. Right behind it, words or perhaps an impression.
Don’t ride.
What was wrong with him? Nerves, maybe. After all, his title hung on this ride.
“All the way from eastern Montana, riding the champion bull PeeWee . . . ,” the announcer droned on.
Some men prayed before they got on a bull. Rafe had known plenty of cowboys to shoot up prayers afterward, while stretched out on the ground as a furious animal tried to trample their brains. But not Rafe. He hadn’t prayed since . . . well, God had stopped listening to him years ago. Rafe wouldn’t waste his breath.
Instead, Rafe reached deep, past the fear to the grit he’d been born with, and wrapped his free hand around the smooth top rail of the metal chute.
His sister, Stefanie, never understood why he rode. Couldn’t grasp the fact that sometimes it just needed to be him against animal. That when he rode the bull for those full eight seconds, he felt, just for a fraction of time, the king of the world. Invincible.
He’d never even tried to explain it to Nick. His big brother wouldn’t have a clue what it might feel like to always feel . . . less.
Don’t ride.
The voice crept up his spine as the bull shifted beneath him. He took a deep breath, focused on the ride.
This is for you, Mom.
“Go.” Rafe nodded.
The chute opened, and the bull lunged into the arena. Everything inside Rafe went silent. Heat seared his wrist, his arms, his legs. PeeWee writhed in fury as he landed on his forelegs.
Rafe fought for balance while the bull rocked him forward. He barely missed cracking his nose on bone, being speared. The animal bucked again, and Rafe stiffened his arm, realigned his spur position, hooking with his left spur, trying to pull himself back into position and dig himself out of a fall.
PeeWee snorted, throwing back his head.
Rafe’s grip jarred, but he kept his seat. C’mon, bull, fight me.
He not only needed an eight-second ride, but PeeWee needed to fight him hard to up his points and keep Rafe ahead of a feisty rider from Brazil on the leader board. The bull stretched out into the air, landing with a jerk that rattled Rafe’s teeth.
The roar of the crowd filled his ears.
PeeWee’s hindquarters changed direction. Rafe knew the bull had won.
Rafe grabbed with his spurs, fought to make the eight-second whistle. His bicep spasmed.
The bull bucked again. And then Rafe was off. Only not quite. Hung up by the bull rope, the cow bell thrashing on the opposite side, Rafe flopped like a rag doll as he fought to free his hand.
The bull flipped him.
The crowd went eerily silent.
Manuel blurred past Rafe as the bull took him round and round. His shoulder burned, the muscle ripping deep inside, maybe his rotator cuff or his shoulder dislocating. Hopefully he wouldn’t hit his head or snap a c-bone in his neck. He lunged again at his rope. Please.
Manuel snared it. Rafe fell free. He landed in the dirt, dazed, and threw his arms over his head. The bull’s hooves exploded the dirt beside him.
Get up! But his wind had snuffed out. Darkness edged his sight.
“Rafe!” He heard Manuel’s voice, felt hands grabbing his vest.
Rafe looked up, past Manuel’s dark expression. Everything turned black and white.
Don’t ride.
Rafe saw the bull’s hooves crashing down over him and knew fear had spoken the truth.
Tonight someone would die.
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