The Bull Rider Read online

  This could be her toughest assignment yet

  Having witnessed her father’s death in a race-car crash, Joanna Dace can’t imagine getting close to anyone who risks his life for sport. But she can write about them. Keeping her professional distance lets her get inside anyone’s head without letting that person into her heart. Until she meets her latest subject—professional bull rider Tom Cameron. Tom has a quiet cowboy charm and a darkness beneath his rugged surface. It’s difficult to remember all the reasons she should keep her distance, but Jo has to try...unless it’s already too late.

  Finally it was Tom Cameron’s turn.

  He eased down into one of the chutes near Jo’s seat, this time facing her. She could see his intense concentration as he wrapped the rope around his hand and settled his mouthpiece. The bull stood still as a statue except for its mule ears waving like antennae.

  A slight nod and the gate swung wide. Gunslinger erupted into the arena with all four feet off the ground, changing direction in midair. Cameron still clung to the bull’s back, but off center so that the next spin shot him off like a rock out of a slingshot. He struck the metal panel directly below Jo’s section with a crash and lay still. The eight-second buzzer sounded.

  Madison Square Garden went dead quiet. Someone’s cell phone brayed, harsh in the silence. Two men from the sports medicine team and one of the bullfighters ran to the spot where Cameron lay. Jo heard someone say, “Hey, Tom—can you hear me?” An indistinct response. “You want to walk out?” A grunt of assent and Cameron climbed to his feet. The crowd cheered as he left the arena supported by two of the medics.

  Jo sank back in her seat.

  Dear Reader,

  Thanks for joining me for the second book in the Cameron’s Pride series. I hope you’ll enjoy reading about Tom Cameron and his trials and triumphs both in and out of the professional bull-riding arena. I’ve done my best to take you into the heart of the competition along with journalist Jo Dace as she profiles an athlete involved in the most dangerous eight seconds in sports.

  I’d love to hear from you if you enjoy The Bull Rider or if the story piques your curiosity about professional bull riding. Feel free to contact me at [email protected]. Enjoy the ride!

  Helen DePrima

  The Bull Rider

  Helen DePrima

  Helen DePrima grew up on horseback on her grandfather’s farm near Louisville, Kentucky. After spending a week on a dude ranch in Colorado when she was twelve, Helen fell in love with all things Western.

  She spent wonderful weeks on the same ranch during her high school summers. After graduation she headed for the University of Colorado to meet the cowboy of her dreams and live happily ever after in a home on the range. Instead she fell in love with a Jersey boy bound for vet school. She earned her degree in nursing and spent four years as a visiting nurse in northern Colorado while her husband attended Colorado State University.

  After her husband graduated, they settled in New Hampshire, where Helen worked first in nursing and then rehabilitating injured and orphaned wildlife. After retirement, she turned again to earlier passions: writing and the West, particularly professional bull riding.

  Books by Helen DePrima

  Harlequin Heartwarming

  Into the Storm

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  To my husband for keeping my eye on the prize.

  Acknowledgments

  To my agent, Stephany Evans, for her encouragement and hand-holding.

  To Dana Grimaldi for her deft editorial touch.

  To my First Reader, Melissa Maupin, for her enthusiastic involvement and feedback.

  To Earlene Fowler for her prayers and sanity.

  To Will Georgantas for his interest and timely gift.

  To Carrie Weir of Tennessee Children’s Services for the valuable information she provided regarding adoption procedures in her state.

  And especially to everyone involved with the Professional Bull Riders who make this series a labor of love.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  EXCERPT FROM THE BRIDAL BOUQUET BY TARA RANDEL

  CHAPTER ONE

  MADISON SQUARE GARDEN had gone cowboy crazy this Sunday in January, with wall-to-wall boots and jeans, denim jackets and wide-brimmed hats. Joanna Dace reflected with wry amusement that her black turtleneck, leggings and ankle boots marked her as a newcomer to the sport of professional bull riding.

  A plump blonde wriggled into the third-row seat next to Jo’s and smoothed the fringes on her red satin shirt. “Aren’t these great seats? My husband says get the best you can buy—that’s your Christmas present.” She patted the knee of the burly man seated next to her.

  “Whatever makes you happy, babe,” he said with a grin.

  “So who’s your favorite rider?” she asked Jo.

  “Well, I...”

  “Me too—I love ’em all. I hope you don’t mind if I jump around and yell—I wait all year for this. Just kick me if I get too noisy.”

  A raucous horn sounded while Warning flashed on the advertising banner boards.

  Her new friend tapped her arm. “You’d better cover your ears now if you don’t like it loud.”

  Jo obeyed as the lights went down. Men with fuel cans traced a pattern in front of the bucking chutes and then darted away. Jets of fire shot up accompanied by ear-splitting explosions as flames spelled out letters in the dirt. More pyrotechnics and then the announcer’s shout: “Hello, New York City! This is the one and only PBR!”

  * * *

  “HEY, TOM—A GAL grabbed me up on the concourse. She wants to meet you.” Deke Harkens fished in his shirt pocket. “She gave me her card.”

  Tom Cameron buckled on his plain blue chaps without looking at the card. Women often sent bull riders phone numbers and hotel keys, sometimes underwear. He wasn’t interested—not now, not like that, never again.

  “Wrong Cameron,” he said. “Luke’s the bunny wrangler.”

  “Nope, she said Tom Cameron. And this one’s no buckle bunny—at least she’s not dressed like one.”

  “She say what she wants?”

  Deke shook his head. “Just she’d like to meet you. You want to grab a look? Brown hair, late twenties, I guess—third row, right next to the chutes.”

  Not the cheap seats. Tom adjusted his belt and stuck the card in his pocket. “Maybe after the event.” Bad luck to plan beyond his next ride.

  A claxon sounded in the arena. He settled a black Stetson over his brows. “Showtime.”

  He followed the other cowboys through the echoing corridors under the Garden and mounted metal stairs in darkness to the center pedestal above the bucking chutes. When the spotlight blinded him, he raised his hat to the sold-out arena as the announcer intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, the current number-one bull rider in the world—Tom Cameron!”

  He stood in place during the introduction of the bullfighters, including his brother, Luke; the invocation imploring protection for the riders and the bulls; and then the national anthem sung by an army sergeant with a powerful baritone. When the lights came up, he climbed down and headed toward the locker room, stopping when a woman’s voice called his name.

  “You’re leading in the event, Tom.” The color commentator thrust a microphone in his face. “Will you pick Gunslinger again in the championship round?”

  “I guess I’ll decide when the time comes,” he said. Lisa was a good sort, but he wasn’t big on being interviewed—he’d rather let his riding speak for him. She understood he wasn’t much of a talker and let him go with good wishes for his next ride.

  He continued
to the locker room while the first bulls were run into the chutes; shed his hat and chaps; and switched from boots to sneakers before making his way to a deserted space behind the bulls’ pens. He closed his eyes for a moment and then began to stretch and strike almost in slow motion, the movements becoming faster and stronger until sweat soaked his collar. He finished the kata and dropped back to cool-down mode until his pulse steadied. At every venue, he managed to find a hidden corner like this, not because he minded the ribbing from the other riders but because it interfered with his concentration. The exercises improved his balance during the ride, and he was able to land on his feet more often than not.

  As they always did, the exercises left him feeling loose and peaceful. He’d keep moving until it was his turn to ride, wandering through the maze of pens and chutes holding the bulls for the afternoon’s competition. They were undemanding company, some moving restlessly in their pens, others relaxing in the sawdust bedding. A massive cream-colored Brahman sidled over to the fence and poked his wet muzzle between the metal rails.

  Tom scratched behind one floppy ear. “Gunslinger, you’re a phony,” he said. “Some tough guy.” The fence creaked as the bull leaned into the caress. Tom had straddled this bull three times already, always coming up short. No shame in that—no one had made the eight seconds on Gunslinger.

  “How about it, buddy?” He tugged on the bull’s ear. “You want to dance again today?”

  Tom returned to the locker room and was pulling on his boots when Arlie Johnson’s bull rope with its bell attached crashed against the metal lockers. The tall blond Arkansas cowboy followed and kicked the trashcan twice before dropping to a bench with his head in his hands.

  “Son-of-a-gun blew up when he was supposed to spin,” he said. “That’s the last time I ask an owner how his bull bucks.”

  Tom listened with halfhearted sympathy. Arlie was new to the big time. He’d learn a lot of hard lessons before he got much further, like not trying to second-guess more than half a ton of muscle and meanness.

  “You’ve got two good scores for the weekend,” he said. “That’ll probably get you into the championship round.”

  “Yeah, and get stuck with a bull nobody else wants, like Gunslinger.” Arlie’s glower smoothed out. “Say, these New York gals sure like cowboys. I was swatting them off like flies in Times Square last night.”

  “You just keep swatting ’em, sonny,” Nick Ducharme said; his soft drawl bespoke Cajun country. He’d made the eight seconds on his bull. “Or you’ll go home with a souvenir you can’t show your mama. Besides, the girls you were hanging with in Times Square are a bunch of tourists just like you.”

  Tom tightened the thong around the wrist of his riding glove and shrugged into his safety vest. “Don’t worry about picking Gunslinger,” he said. “He’s mine.”

  * * *

  BY THE TIME she heard Tom Cameron’s name announced, Jo Dace was half-deafened by the racket in the Garden and stupefied by the raw violence of the sport.

  Her new friend elbowed her. “Don’t you just love Tom Cameron? He makes riding bulls look so easy. And you watch his brother during the ride—he hovers like a mother hen.”

  Jo could see only Cameron’s back as he climbed down into the bucking chute, but the giant overhead screen showed him wrapping the rope over and around his hand and then sliding forward to a seat directly over his fist. A shiver of apprehension trickled down her spine. One cowboy had already been carried from the arena on a stretcher. What if—

  The gate flew open and the big brindled bull shot forward, covering at least a dozen feet in one jump and snapping Cameron’s head back so that his hat brim almost touched the animal’s rump. Next a vertical leap followed by a feint to the left slung his rider far to the outside of the spin. Jo closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to watch Cameron slammed to the dirt. The buzzer sounded, almost drowned out by cheers, and she opened her eyes in time to see Cameron sail through the air to land on his feet. The bullfighters wove between the rider and the bull that scampered through the exit gate with a final flourish of its heels.

  The announcer’s voice boomed. “How about that ride, folks? Tom Cameron’s gonna be pretty happy with his score—89 points! That should give him first pick for the championship round.”

  Cameron raised his hat to the crowd. As he passed her seat, she saw a thin scar running from his right cheekbone to the point of his chin.

  The next three riders bucked off; two more made the buzzer but with scores lower than Cameron’s, ending the round.

  “What’s happening now?” Jo asked Cindy—by now Jo and Satin Shirt were on a first-name basis—as men set up ramps to the circular steel structure in the middle of the arena. The shark cage, Cindy had called it earlier.

  “The fifteen riders with the most points for the weekend get to pick their bulls for the championship round. Now you’ll see some real bucking.”

  Tom Cameron climbed the ramp first. He said “Gunslinger” into the microphone, and the crowd roared with approval. The next thirteen riders chose from the diminishing list, leaving a bull named Booger-Butt for the luckless fifteenth.

  When the action resumed, Jo understood what Cindy meant by real bucking. These bulls appeared to have studied at some elite school for mayhem—some kicked so high their backs went almost vertical, others spun so fast her own head swam. Most put their riders in the dirt in only a few seconds. Finally one cowboy hung on for eight seconds, but the announcer commented, “That won’t be much of a score, folks—Whirligig had an off day.”

  And finally it was Tom Cameron’s turn. Again he eased down into one of the chutes near Jo’s seat, this time facing her. She could see his expression of intense concentration as he wrapped the rope around his hand and settled his mouthpiece. The bull stood still as a statue except for its mule-like ears waving like antennae.

  “I knew he’d pick Gunslinger,” Cindy said, leaning forward. She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Ride him, Tom!” Her husband chuckled.

  A slight nod from Cameron and the gate swung wide. Gunslinger erupted into the arena with all four feet off the ground, changing direction in midair. Cameron still clung to the bull’s back, but off center so that the next spin shot him off like a rock out of a slingshot. He struck the metal panel directly below Jo’s section with a crash and lay still. The eight-second buzzer sounded.

  Madison Square Garden went dead quiet. Someone’s cell phone brayed, harsh in the silence. Two men from the Sports Medicine team and one of the bullfighters ran to the spot where Cameron lay. Jo heard someone say, “Hey, Tom—can you hear me?” An indistinct response. “You want to walk out?” A grunt of assent and Cameron climbed to his feet. The crowd cheered as he left the arena supported by two of the medics.

  The announcer said, “Folks, Tom’s gonna be just fine. Doc Barnett will check him out, but you can see he’s up and walking. That makes the score 4–0 in Gunslinger’s favor.” Jo sank back in her seat. She’d gotten more than her money’s worth for today’s ticket, and she’d seen enough to believe that bull riding was indeed the Toughest Sport on Earth. Other rodeo competitions like riding broncos and roping made sense—they were cowboy skills carried to a professional level, but this... What use was riding a bull? Still, the magnificent foolishness fascinated her. Too bad Tom Cameron had been injured. She would have to revise her plan.

  She was exchanging social media information with her new friend (“Maybe we’ll see you at another event—there’s one in Allentown this fall”) when she heard someone call her name. The cowboy to whom she’d given her card hailed her from the arena floor.

  “Miss Dace? Joanna Dace? Tom said he’ll be out in a few minutes if you want to wait.”

  He had to be joking. “Won’t he be going to the emergency room?” she asked. “He could barely walk.”

  The cowboy hooted. “Naw, he’s okay. If you’ll follow me...” He showed her where to climb down at the end of the aisle and led her through the clanging confusion of the pens and chutes being dismantled. The last bulls were disappearing toward the stock trucks waiting outside the Garden when her guide stopped outside the locker room.