Chapter Two
A s he left the rodeo arena, Drew fought the urge to look back over his shoulder to make sure the Buckin’ Babes had indeed left the catwalk above the bucking chutes. He needed to trust Alec to see that Red Rum was safely sent through to the holding pen, unridden. And he did trust Alec. Ever since he’d begun his career as a competitive bull rider, the youngest of the Neisson siblings had shown a newfound maturity. A maturity that had no doubt contributed to Alec’s success so far.
Drew determinedly headed through the exit gate left open for the competitors taking advantage of the time between the slack competitions and the highlighted nightly rodeo to practice or just warm up. Before he turned toward where the sports medicine custom fifth wheel was parked though, he glanced back at the catwalk. A near lifetime of worrying about the welfare of others was a hard habit to break. Not that he had any intention of breaking it. Thankfully, the two cowgirls were making their way to the stairs leading down from the catwalk, and their camera crew was nowhere to be seen. Alec was in the process of encouraging Red Rum to pass through the chutes toward the holding pen.
Drew blew out a breath and willed his shoulders to relax. Something he doubted he’d achieve until he made it to the sports medicine trailer where he was already supposed to be, unpacking and putting away supplies.
He picked up his pace to a jog as he neared the vibrant red trailer with the words Rodeo Sports Medicine in bold black lettering and white accents. Once he reached the trailer, he’d finish the restocking of the medical supplies that he’d been in the midst of doing when he’d been interrupted by a call for help from a cowboy with his foot stuck through his stirrup and his ankle twisted. It had been easier for Drew to go to the arena than for them to carry the injured cowboy and his attached saddle to the trailer. Drew had assumed he’d be back and be able to finish restocking before his boss arrived. Thanks to the unexpected Buckin’ Babes delay, he was definitely pushing it.
Drew vaulted up the steps to the side door and burst into the trailer that was custom fitted to serve as a mobile medical clinic. Pulled by a matching dually truck, they took it to the rodeos in the circuit they had contracts with throughout the spring to fall seasons.
Dr. Steven Tracer, orthopedic surgeon and Drew’s supervising physician, was standing at the supply cabinet restocking the chemical ice packs they seemed to go through like saddle oil and looking more like a cowhand than one of the best bone docs in the region. Drew smiled. Old Doc Tracer wouldn’t be old Doc Tracer without his Wranglers, stripped flannel shirt, and beat-up tan cowboy hat.
Doc Tracer and Drew’s grandfather had begun their perspective careers at the same time, coming up through the rodeo circuit together. Thomas Wright provided the rodeo rough stock that broke the cowboys, and Doc put them back together again. As soon as Drew made known his desire to go into medicine, his grandfather had introduced Drew to Doc Tracer. And now Drew hoped to take over the running of the Rodeo Sports Medicine program from the older physician so the man could finally retire.
The last thing Doc should be doing was restocking ice packs, Drew thought. Yanking his cowboy hat from his head, he rushed forward, skirting the exam table where he dropped his hat. “I’ve got that, Doc.”
Doc Tracer waved him off. “I’m not so old and infirm I can’t bend at the waist and lift ice packs out of a box.”
“I know full well you are a country mile from infirm. I saw you the other day at the ranch trying out one of Ian and Jessie’s cutting horses.”
“That pretty sister-in-law of yours sure knows how to train a good cutter.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” Drew reached into the box and tried to subtly grab as many of the white plastic encased chemical ice packs as he could. “Who knew FBI agents had such a way with quarter horses?”
“Just like old bone docs, right?”
Drew glanced up in time to catch Doc’s wink.
“Just trying to do my job, Doc.”
“About that.”
Drew froze in the process of filling his arms with ice packs. There was nothing in this world that meant more to him than providing medical care to the rodeo community here in the sports medicine trailer. Other than his family, that is.
Dr. Tracer continued in the tone of voice he reserved for telling lifelong rodeo folk that they could never compete again. “I have a new job for you, Drew. Well, let’s call it a new assignment.”
Drew straightened slowly, clutching a wad of the squishy packs to his chest. “What sort of assignment?”
“I need you to watch over one of the saddle bronc riders here for the duration of this rodeo as well as the next three, which we happen to already be contracted for.”
Watch over? Drew tucked his chin. “Who?”
“One Peyton Halliday.”
Drew frowned in thought. He didn’t recognize the name. He used the time it took him to stack the ice packs he held within the storage cabinet to search his memory, but still came up empty. “I don’t know who that is.”
“No reason you should. Unless you trade in oil futures.”
Now, Drew was really confused. “Haven’t gotten around to it yet. But sure, I can keep an eye on this Holiday person.”
“Halliday,” Doc corrected with an amused smirk that further creased his sun-weathered face. “Peyton Halliday.”
“Halliday. Sorry. I’ll have this Peyton Halliday drop by here once a day, and I’ll check him over. Make sure he’s good to go.” Simple enough.
“No. That won’t cut it.” Doc turned away from the now empty box and went to the small computer desk at the front of the trailer and took a seat on the backless wheeled stool.
“What do you mean?”
“When I say watch over, I mean watch over . As in follow around . Hold hands, if it’ll help. I need you to keep Peyton very safe. Basically, provide immediate medical care if needed. But the impression I got was they’d prefer if none is needed. The Hallidays are a very, very wealthy, philanthropic Texas oil family with an apparently newfound soft spot for rodeo folk.”
Before Drew could say so what , having come from a very, very wealthy, philanthropic family himself, Doc continued.
“The Hallidays have offered a substantial chunk of change, which we need”—Doc waved an expansive hand at the outdated but nonetheless pristine white and chrome interior of the trailer—“in exchange.”
Everything in the clinic was more than adequate, but the rodeo community they served deserved more than adequate.
“They are offering enough to update the whole shebang and keep it going for a hot minute independent of the rodeo contracts.”
“A substantial chunk?” Drew asked, knowing only deep pockets could pay for the state-of-the-art equipment and fixtures Doc had been talking about needing for the trailer.
“Very substantial. Enough for the entire Sports Medicine program. The clinic. And the endless supplies we get.” He gestured toward the now empty box. “And our salaries,” he emphasized the last. “A chunk we will lose if you don’t keep Peyton Halliday safe and sound.”
“A bronc rider,” Drew said flatly, mystified by how they expected him to keep someone competing in the second most dangerous event in rodeo, eclipsed only by bull riding, safe and sound.
Doc shrugged in a what can you do way.
“You said they have a newfound soft spot for rodeo people,” Drew said. “So, they aren’t themselves rodeo people?”
“From what I gather, they own what I’d characterize as a hobby ranch where the family mostly live, but at the end of the day, they’re oil people, not rodeo.”
“Meaning their new rodeo philanthropy is primarily aimed at providing immediate care to their bronc rider.”
“That would be my guess. But seeing as it will benefit everyone competing out in our neck of the woods, I choose not to question the Hallidays’ motivation.”
Doc was right. The clinic provided a very real, necessary benefit to every competitor at the rodeos held here at the High Desert Rodeo grounds and all the other rodeos in the circuit he and Doc were contracted with.
Doc continued, “We get by, for sure, but when Brian Halliday called me last week and offered us more than enough for a serious upgrade as well as additional operating capital for nothing more than keeping a close eye on a single rider with a habit of going rogue…” Doc trailed off with another shrug.
Drew nodded. And he was more than willing to do what was necessary to improve and maintain the traveling clinic he aspired to eventually take over. “Then sign me up for Peyton Halliday babysitting duty,” he said.
Turning back to the desktop computer and moving the mouse to wake the monitor, Doc said, “Already done, son.”
Drew snorted and began breaking down the box the ice packs had been delivered in. He certainly didn’t begrudge Doc for preemptively committing Drew to something that would protect the future of the traveling sports medicine clinic. The rodeo program had been Doc’s life’s work, after all. A life Drew hoped to emulate.
Folding the collapsed cardboard box into a manageable size, Drew said, “If you don’t need me, I think I’ll go find this precious Peyton before the start of the first round of the saddle broncs. If he’s drawn one of Liam’s horses, I’ll see if I can finagle a trade for a less rank horse. That should go a long way toward keeping him safe and sound .”
Doc used his cowboy booted heel to spin the stool to face Drew. “See, I knew I had the right man for the job. And don’t worry about me. I’ll hold down the fort. It’s more important for you to stay with Halliday than be here at the clinic or hanging on the rail with me. Go, and good luck.” He gave the brim of his well-worn cowboy hat a small tug in farewell then turned back to the computer.
Drew tucked the cardboard under one arm and snagged his hat off the exam table on his way out the same door he’d entered through. He deposited the cardboard in the recycle bin tucked beneath the elevated hitch of the fifth wheel and headed toward the arena.
The official rodeo wasn’t set to start for at least thirty minutes, so Drew took the time to pause, pull his phone from his jeans pocket and send a text to Liam asking which of his bucking broncs he’d brought the short distance from the Wright Ranch to compete in this rodeo and which of them were the least likely to make its rider eat dirt. Drew already knew his brother would respond with something along the lines of all of his horses served up a mouthful of dirt to their riders, but Drew had to try.
Drew was just sliding his phone back into his pocket when a cheer from the stands reached him. While nowhere near as loud as the roar generated by the crowd that typically filled the stands to watch the rodeos hosted by the High Desert Rodeo grounds, the ruckus was notable for its enthusiasm. Something was clearly happening within the arena before the official start of the rodeo. Probably the introduction of the rodeo court. Or the equestrian flag team starting one of their intricate routines. Nothing like an American flag held by a pretty girl atop a well-trained horse to get the crowd cheering.
Then, as Drew wove his way past the bull and bronc pens, his eyes peeled for both his brother Liam and any cowboy wearing the tell-tale bronc rider neck padding that kept the inevitable whiplash to a minimum, the deep, booming voice of the rodeo announcer reached him over the public address system.
“All right! That’s what I call a High Desert welcome to the ladies of Buckin’ TV ! Now, it’s time to put your hands together for our first exhibition bronc rider. Coming to us all the way from deep in the heart of Texas, Peyton Halliday, going seat to saddle against Karen From Finance!”
Drew stopped in his tracks, trying to process what he’d just heard, but the roar of approval from the steadily growing crowd propelled him into action. He ran for the nearest arena fencing. The moment he reached it, he scrambled up onto the metal tube railing just as the bucking chute gate was pulled open. A huge paint mare erupted out into the arena with a very petite, very pretty redhead on her back. The same redhead who’d been foolish enough to accept a dare to climb on a bucking bull’s back, if even for just a second.
Oh hell no.
A wave of sickening dread nearly knocked Drew off the railing. Karen From Finance was arguably Liam’s rankest bucking bronc—had been for years—growing ornerier with each passing rodeo season. What had Liam been thinking allowing a horse like that to be used in a women’s bronc riding exhibition?
True to form, the draft horse crossbreed had broken explosively from the chute with her head low to the ground, making it difficult for her rider to stay back in the saddle and pulling the thick, braided bronc rein taut. With one hand holding the rein and the other gripping the saddle horn as allowed in the women’s circuit, the redhead, who Drew finally grasped was Peyton Halliday, looked impossibly small atop the huge horse. Yet she tenaciously maintained her seat, her long red hair flying wild beneath her cowboy hat and her chin determinedly tucked down.
After a couple of quick, teeth rattling stiff-legged hops, big Karen started to buck her rear hooves impossibly high with a twisting, lunging motion that never settled into any sort of predictable rhythm. The horse sent the loose, loamy soil and strings of spit flying with each grunting, heaving kick.
Certain he was watching an unfolding disaster, Drew gripped the top rail of the arena fence tight, anticipating the moment when Peyton Halliday would be flung to the dirt with bone-breaking violence, possibly stepped on by twelve hundred pounds of horse and in immediate need of medical aid. He prepared to launch himself over the railing and hit the ground inside the arena running.
But Peyton stayed on, something few male saddle bronc riders could do thanks to Karen’s size, strength, and unpredictability.
To Drew, it felt more as if eight hours had passed, not eight seconds, before the buzzer sounded and signaled the end of the ride. Peyton Halliday had just joined a very exclusive, not to mention very male, group of bronc riders to successfully stick to Karen From Finance for the full required time.
Even though Peyton was only riding for exhibition purposes, successfully covering a horse like big Karen would significantly up her cache back on the women’s saddle bronc riding circuit in Texas. Not to mention satisfying the woman in charge of the television crew following the cowgirls around the rodeo.
Drew reflexively glanced toward the catwalk above the chute Karen From Finance had rocketed from and, sure enough, immediately spotted the camera crew appearing to be raptly recording Peyton’s ride. A small cluster of chaps and wide brim hat-wearing women—her fellow bronc riders, including the tall blonde—stood near, clapping and whooping. With the uneasy thought that keeping Peyton from harm might not be a simple thing with that bunch egging her on, not to mention Doc’s going rogue comment, Drew returned his attention to the horse and woman being pursued by the pickup riders.
Not caring that the buzzer had sounded, only that a rider remained on her back, Karen kept bucking, so Drew couldn’t relax his grip on the metal tube fencing until both pickup riders had pinned Karen between their mounts so one of them could pluck the petite Peyton from her saddle and veer away from the threat of the slowly settling bronc’s hooves.
And it wasn’t until the pickup rider helped Peyton slide safely to the dirt and she took several steps, waving her hat and grinning broadly at the cheering crowd, that Drew was able to fill his lungs with a calming breath.
He and Doc Tracer had treated more bronc riders than he could count who had suffered serious injuries without ever losing their seat. But judging from the victorious glow on her pretty face as she trotted back toward the chutes, shaking her beautiful, long red hair back so she could return her light brown cowboy hat to her head, Peyton had escaped injury.
This time.
Drew’s grip tightened on the fence rail again. There was no way he could guarantee her safety during her stay in Pineville if she continued to do foolish things like climbing aboard broncs like Karen From Finance. Or any bronc, for that matter.
Drew jumped to the ground and began making his way toward the back of the chutes. There was no time like the present to tell Peyton Halliday her exhibition riding, at least at the High Desert Rodeo and the rest of his and Doc’s circuit, was over.
*
Peyton felt as if she were walking on air, not trudging through the ankle-deep soft loam of a rodeo arena, her heavy chaps slapping against her shins, after successfully covering the horse she’d traded one of her less adventurous fellow riders for. She’d just ridden the infamous Karen From Finance!
Euphoria bubbled up within her until she virtually floated over to the arena fencing near the base of the metal stairs that would take her back up to the catwalk where the other girls were prepping for their own rides. While she hadn’t been riding with them long and they were all competitors, they counted on each other to help make sure their mounts were saddled properly and to get them on the broncs safely until they could nod for the gate to be pulled open.
And they celebrated with each other. She couldn’t wait to share this incredible moment with them.
Once over the arena railing, having ignored the solicitous offers of help from nearby cowboys who’d paused in their preparations for the upcoming events to watch the spectacle of women saddle bronc riders, Peyton stripped off her leather gloves and tucked them in her back jeans pocket and headed for the stairs.
She was a step away from the base of the stairs, close enough to reach for the handrail, when a tall, broad-shouldered cowboy stepped in her path. Pulling up short, she opened her mouth to excuse herself, intending to push past him as politely as she could, when her gaze finally landed on his face. The very handsome face that she’d thought about way more than she should have ever since he’d pretty much chewed her out for accepting Sammie’s dare to climb on a bull’s back.
Earlier, when she’d been balanced over the big red bull’s back and he’d stood in the arena on the other side of the bucking chute gate, she hadn’t realized he was so tall. Granted, pretty much everyone seemed tall to her. One of the few tangible effects of the part of her childhood she thought of as the dark days.
But the heat she had noticed before behind his ice-blue eyes had intensified, and the line of his full mouth was definitely hard.
“Well, hello,” she said when he continued to simply stare down at her, blocking her way.
“Peyton Halliday?” His voice was deeper than she remembered.
“Yes. Though we weren’t formally introduced, were we?” She stuck out her hand and gave him her best smile. “You are?”
He looked down at her offered hand long enough that she was about to tuck it behind her, certain he was refusing it. But then he exhaled noisily through his nose and captured her hand in his, completely engulfing her much, much smaller hand within his big, warm one.
“Drew Neisson.” He gave her hand one firm, yet gentle, shake before releasing it.
“Nice to meet you, Drew Neisson.”
He didn’t look as if he considered formally meeting her a pleasure. “I need to talk to you,” he stated ominously.
She held up her hands. “Hey, I didn’t hurt your family’s bull. No harm, no foul, right? And in case you missed it”—she pointed toward the arena she’d just left—“I just proved I can stick to the rankest of the rank broncs—”
“That happens to belong to my family, also. The fact that you would even consider trying to ride Karen From Finance explains a lot.”
She stilled. The judgment in his tone sounded an alarm in her head. “Explains a lot about what?”
He planted his hands on his lean, jeans-clad hips, further blocking her access to the stairs to the catwalk. “It explains why I have been assigned the task of keeping you safe. Which means no more bronc riding, especially on horses like Karen From Finance. Or anything else risky, for that matter.”
She didn’t have to ask who was behind this so-called assignment of his. The simmering frustration she’d lived with for so long, the constant itch just below her skin that she could only escape when doing something heart pumping, and yes, risky, flamed hot and prickly. But she’d had years of practice hiding her anger because letting it fly hadn’t helped. At all.
And refusing to be told what she could or couldn’t do ever again, Peyton simply laughed in his handsome face, pushed her way past him like she had her brothers a million times, and started up the metal stairs to the bucking chute catwalk to help her fellow riders.