Roping the Rodeo Queen (All-American Men #2)

Chapter OneDust and Determination

What a beautiful day for a rodeo in the beautiful city of Tampa, Florida.

I'm standing beside my trusty mount, Black Thunder, a horse who has more sense than half the cowboys I know.

While I push the curry comb through his coat, it releases any dirt and loose hair.

Can't have my big buddy looking shabby. Then I switch to the dandy brush to create a sleek shine that will look outstanding in the arena.

With every stroke of the brush, I fall into a rhythm that's as familiar as the lines on my palm.

"Looking sharp, Thunder." I pat him on the rump. "Nobody's more handsome than you. All the mares and fillies told me so."

The big guy nickers in response, as if he agrees with my statement.

We've been through enough rodeos to know the drill.

His coat gleams in the sun, and his muscles ripple beneath his skin as I lead him away from our trailer.

But it's not our turn in the ring yet. So, I turn my attention to my tack.

Three years ago, I spent a long time and a tidy sum to find the perfect saddle.

It is a fine piece of craftsmanship, for sure.

Lately, my dad has started to signal that he thinks I should buy a new saddle.

But the slightly worn leather suits me perfectly, like a well-loved pair of boots.

I glide my hands over the seat, checking for any wear and tear, my fingers as nimble as a pickpocket at a county fair.

I slide my fingers down the stirrups too, checking for any wear and tear. Satisfied, I pat the saddle.

"Couldn't do this without you, buddy. You're my secret weapon, right?" I chuckle at my own words, giving the saddle a final pat before moving on to the reins. They're sturdy and reliable---a lot like me---or so I've been told by ladies who appreciate a man who knows his way around a lasso.

"Every loop, every knot, has gotta be perfect," I remind myself, because when you're hurtling through the dirt at breakneck speed, perfection isn't just for show, it's survival.

And let's face it, second place is just the first loser.

"Clay McKendrick ain't in the business of losing. Not today, not ever."

Okay, most people think I'm weird for chatting to my horse the way I do. Who cares? Thunder isn't just a horse. He's my best friend.

As I loop the reins over Thunder's neck, I tune out most of the cacophony around me here at the Tampa Rodeo and Family Festival.

The noise of the crowd swells like a distant ocean, punctuated by the occasional bellow from the loudspeaker---a sponsor's spiel about chewy jerky or the latest in cowboy boot fashion.

It's all white noise to me, just another layer of the rodeo soundscape that fades into the background.

But the chatter of a couple cowboys breaks through my Zen zone.

"Hey, did you hear about that new barrel racer girl?" one guy asks his buddy. "They say she's fire in the ring but ice everywhere else. No time for dating. She just eats, sleeps, and breathes rodeo."

His cohort snorts, almost like a horse. "Yeah, she's uppity for sure. I waved hi to her earlier, and she totally froze me out. What a bitch."

I can't help but smirk, my eyes rolling skyward like I'm searching for divine patience.

Seems like every year there's a fresh face with the same old story about some girl who didn't go for his so-called charms. You'd think these guys had never seen a woman who's determined to win before.

Not that I'm one to gossip. I reckon my horse chats more than I do on competition days.

Thunder loves to nicker at the cute mares.

"Focus, Clay," I mutter under my breath, checking the cinch one last time, making sure it's snug against Thunder's belly without pinching. Old habits die hard, and the itch for perfection keeps me sharp---even if the idle banter of those cowboys annoys me.

The first guy pipes up again. "That filly is probably too high maintenance, anyway."

"More like too busy kicking your ass to care," I retort quietly, only half-joking.

There's nothing quite like a bit of friendly competition to get the blood pumping.

But today, I've got my own race to run, and no amount of hot gossip is going to throw me off course.

Not by a long shot. Took me years to work my way up to the pro circuit---the PRCA, or Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association. Cowgirls compete here too.

The din of the crowd swells like waves in an Olympic swimming pool.

But it's just background noise to me. I've got my eyes on the prize and my mind set on the tight turns and the clock that doesn't care about anyone's drama.

The boys can yak all they want about the latest queen of the barrels, but my focus is sharper than the spurs on my boots.

"Clayton McKendrick, you're here to ride, not gossip," I remind myself, a grin tugging at my lips. Lord knows my old man would have my hide if he caught me getting distracted by anything less than a bull with a vendetta.

I give Thunder a final pat, the solid muscle beneath his shiny coat a reassuring feeling, and I raise my head to survey the arena.

And that's when I see her ---Jolene Callahan.

I've heard she prefers to be called Jo, but I can't deny I like her full name.

It sounds like a challenge, something wild and untamed.

She stands across the arena, a good stone's throw away, but distance ain't nothing when someone like the former rodeo queen commands the space.

She swiftly wrangles that long, auburn hair into a neat ponytail, lacing her fingers through the strands with the kind of intent I reserve for tying down a calf. Her expression is stoic as she studies the entire arena, even checking out the folks in the crowd. Now that's determination.

"Steady there, cowboy," I whisper, but it's not Thunder needing the reminder.

It's me. I can't resist tracking Jo's every move, the way she rolls her shoulders back and lifts her chin slightly.

Jolene Callahan is no delicate flower waiting to be plucked.

She's the storm you chase on the horizon, knowing full well you might get swept up in it.

Focus, Clay. I remind myself in my head, trying to stamp out the spark of interest that flares up unwelcome. You've got a job to do, so stick to it. But even as I think those words, I feel an itch beneath my skin that has nothing to do with saddle sores or the dust of the arena.

Jo is no ordinary girl. She's the kind who can swat away a man's advances with one finger and who probably thinks men like me are simply barrels getting in her way.

But damn if that doesn't make her all the more intriguing.

Miss Callahan has the kind of body any man would love to explore for hours, under the sheets.

I'd love to be the one to tame her wild instincts and rein her in for a night---or maybe longer.

She has the best tits in the rodeo world, not to mention those slender yet strong thighs.

To have my dick between them, pushing inside her body.

..Shit, I'm already getting hot just thinking about it.

"McKendrick?"

I blink several times, and it's only then do I realize I'm not alone. One of the event organizers, Jake Walsh, stands beside me. He holds a clipboard, seeming equal parts curious and impatient.

"Sorry, Jake," I reply with a tip of my hat. "Just admiring the competition."

"Right," he drawls, clearly unconvinced. "So that's what they call it these days when a cowboy sees something he likes."

He winks, his gaze drifting to Jo Callahan briefly. "Better saddle up, Clay."

"Right," I agree, but I'm not really talking to anyone.

I'm speaking to myself, to the part of me that can't seem to look away from Jolene Callahan---the barrel racer who's probably more dangerous than any bronc I'm about to ride.

I'm here to make my mark and earn enough money to pay my dad's medical bills.

Jake saunters away without glancing back.

Okay, enough dawdling. I turn back to Thunder, my loyal companion, who's as impatient as a child before Christmas morning---or so his hoof-stomping tells me.

With a firm grip, I hoist the saddle onto Thunder's back, ensuring the straps are tightened to perfection. Can't have any slip-ups now, not with so much at stake.

"Alrighty, time for one last check," I say, more to myself than to Thunder, who seems to understand the assignment without being told. With s thorough check, a twist here, a tug there, we're golden---or at least, as golden as a man can be when he's about to jump into a team roping event.

"Hey there, Clay!" someone shouts from behind, but I don't bother turning. If they've got legs, they can come find me on their own.

"Kinda busy, pal," I call out, not unkindly but with the tone of a man who's got bigger fish to fry---or rather, bigger animals to wrangle. I can't deny, there's a certain poetry to roping, a rhythm that gets my blood pumping just right.

I glance across the arena one more time, where Jo is now adjusting her gloves, a focused furrow etched between her brows. She's all business, for sure. But I reckon there's a fire inside her, the kind that could make a cowboy want to know what ignites her.

"Knock it off, McKendrick," I chide myself, shaking my head. There's no room for musing over barrel racers, no matter how intriguing or, well, fetching they might be.

I pat Thunder's neck. "Let's show 'em how it's done, hey?"

He snorts, and I swear he's agreeing with me. Or maybe I've just spent too much time around horses.

No, that's impossible.

I step into the stirrup and hoist myself up and onto the saddle.

The leather softly creaks beneath my thighs, a sure sign I'm ready to go.

This is where I belong, where all the chatter and gossip fades away, leaving only the timeless dance of man and beast, the roar of the crowd, and the sweet, sweet scent of competition in the air. I love the poetry of the rodeo.

"Alrighty, let's do this," I tell Thunder, who grunts his approval and shakes his head once.

Suddenly, the distinctive voice of Buck "Silver Tongue" Hawkins crackles over the PA system, announcing the next event. I'd know that gravelly drawl anywhere, even if I were deaf in one ear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the arena for our next event. Team roping is about to begin, and we've got some of the finest cowboys in the PRCA ready to show you what real coordination looks like!"

Yee-haw! Now the fun really starts.