Page 4 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

Part of him would always know he found purpose there. And if he won tonight, he could leave being the best. And that was what he wanted more than anything. Quit while he was on top. Quit while he could still love the rodeo with all that he had, all that he was. To leave it wanting more. To leave himself wanting more. Because what the hell was worse than overstaying your welcome?

He couldn’t think of much.

He’d set out to prove himself, and he was doing it.

So he rode, and he rode perfectly. And when that eight seconds was up, he jumped off the bull. He wasn’t unseated.

And the roar of the crowd was everything he could have asked for. Except the one thing he really wanted. So he let it be everything. He let that moment be everything.

Nobody was going to outride him. Not tonight.

He was number one on the leaderboard and he stayed there, for the whole rest of the night, and damned if he didn’t give the people kind of a boring show. Because nobody could touch his score, and he loved that.

In the rodeo, Daniel Stevens was second.

And hell, for Daniel that was probably enough. With the Carsons, all except Boone, moved out of the way, that was a damned high ranking for Daniel.

But Boone felt mean about it. Because he was number one, while Daniel was number two, and if Boone couldn’t have the other man’s wife, then it seemed like a pretty good alternative prize.

There was no question about going to the bar after, because the mood was celebratory, and the women were ready to party, and Boone figured it was just the right night to find himself a pretty blonde dressed in pink, one that would make the fantasy easy. He would lay her down in that bed he’d slept in last night, and he’d find himself back in that dream, make it feel real.

He didn’t feel guilty about the fantasies anymore.

He’d been doing it for too long.

But when Daniel came up to him just outside the barn and clapped him on the back, he felt a little bit of guilt. Just a little.

“Hell of a ride,” said Daniel. “You made that bull your bitch.”

He frowned. “I don’t work against him. I work with him.”

“Whatever. Seems to work for you.”

“It does.”

One of the other riders, Hank Matthews, sidled up to both of them as they made their way into the bar. “Does that thing weigh you down?” Hank asked, pointing toward Daniel’s ring.

“Oh, hell no,” said Daniel, holding his hand up. “If anything, there’s a certain kind of woman who likes it.”

Boone let his lip curl when he looked at his friend. “Is that so?”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” said Daniel. “Just having a little fun.”

And after that, the intensity of the excited crowd broke up their group. Fans, male and female alike, were all over the place, and this was their moment of glory. There wasn’t a medal ceremony, instead, they were showered with praise in the form of Jack Daniel’s and Jesus. Free shots and a whole lot of glory to God.

It was normally the sort of thing he loved, but he was still distracted. That dream was in his head, and then what Daniel said about the wedding ring had gotten under his skin and stuck there.

He hadn’t seen Wendy tonight, and it was kind of odd, because it was a championship ride, although they were pretty far off from their home base.

Still. He would’ve thought she might show up.

And there were women all over her husband.

Normally, Boone would be determinedly paying attention to his own prospects. Not tonight.

There were two women on either side of Daniel, both of them touching him far too intimately for Boone’s liking. And then Daniel turned his head and kissed one of them, and Boone saw red. He was halfway across the bar, on his way to do God knows what, when a car alarm cut through the sound of the crowd and the music in the bar. The door opened and some guy came running in like the town crier. “Some bitch is going crazy out there on a pickup truck.”

That was enough to send half the bar patrons pouring out into the night. And when a loud smashing sound transcended the noise of the alarm, Boone found himself moving out there as well.

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