Breathless

  It was the second day of the rodeo and Kent stood looking into the pen holding the bull he’d be riding in less than an hour. The animal was an enormous doe-brown, longhorn named Bushwhacker.

  “Weighs over a thousand pounds,” said a cowboy eyeing the brute, too. His name was Cody and like Kent he’d qualified the day before to ride in the finals. “It killed a man at a rodeo up in Wyoming last year.” Upon leaving Kent with that, he walked away.

  Kent didn’t know if the tale was true or not. Cowboys were known for lying, especially during a contest. Putting a scare in your competition could increase your chances of claiming the prize money, which in this case was fifty dollars, not a small sum. However, Cody’s estimation of the bull’s weight looked to be right and tip to tip the width of the horns had to be a good five feet or more. A bull of that size could very easily kill a man.

  Standing beside Kent, Rhine asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Kent was admittedly having second thoughts. He’d no idea the animal would be so massive. “My name’s on the list. I back out now, people might think I’m scared.”

  “As opposed to thinking you have good sense?”

  Still focused on the bull, Kent shrugged. “It’s the cowboy life. This is how it works.”

  “I’ll put that on your headstone.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once Kent got his fill of seeing what he might be in for, he and Rhine went back to the main gathering. “Do you know where our ladies are?” His father and Sylvia were with Regan. Ruth was with James.

  “I always look for Eddy around the food,” Rhine said. “No idea where Portia might be though.”

  “Let’s find Eddy—maybe she knows.”

  The crowd was even larger than the day before and trying to move through all the people took some time. The spicy aromas of the food tempted him mightily but Kent knew better than to eat before a ride. He’d get something after the competition, if he survived.

  They found both women setting out cakes on one of the long tables. Rhine went over to speak to his wife.

  Portia was arranging the desserts at the other end of the table. When she looked up and saw him approaching, her welcoming smile made him momentarily forget about Bushwhacker until she asked, “Did you see the bull?”

  “Yes and Rhine thinks I should take my name off the entry sheet.”

  She stopped. “Why?”

  “The bull’s one of the biggest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Do you think you can ride it?”

  “I do.” And that was the truth. He just wasn’t sure if he could for the eight seconds required.

  “No one will think less of you if you back out,” Portia pointed out gently.

  “But I’ll think less of myself.” Male pride was driving him, and be it brainless or not, he wanted to win. That pride also made him want to show off for the woman he loved. “Are these cakes for sale?”

  “No for auction. Our Good Works Society does this every year as a fund-raiser. Do you have a sweet tooth?”

  “I do.”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “Portia’s.”

  She laughed and he nodded polite greetings to the other women adding cakes to the line. While they worked they kept taking peeks at him, making him wonder if they knew he and Portia were getting married.

  “Matt won the pie eating contest a little while ago,” she told him.

  “Really?” he replied with a laugh.

  “Who knew that rail-thin body could hold so much. Of course he was pretty sick afterwards, but he gets bragging rights for the year.”

  Kent was sorry he missed it. “Do you know where he is now?”

  “He was with Doc Finney. She has a tent over on the other side of the bunkhouse.”

  “He wanted to help out during the competition, but I think I’ll just let him nurse his pie hangover.”

  “That might be best.”

  Cal Grissom walked up. “You ready, Kent?”

  Cal volunteered to help out, too. He’d done a bit of bull riding in his younger days.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Portia came out from behind the table. “I don’t have a bandana for you to wear, so this will have to do.” She gave him a slow sweet kiss more potent than a hundred bandanas. “Good luck, cowboy.”

  Sitting on the top rung of the corral waiting for his turn, Kent watched Bushwhacker shed the first two riders as if they weighed no more than roosters. None of them lasted three seconds, let alone the required eight. A raucous crowd filled the risers fanned out around the oval. He spotted Portia seated with her family and his. Her kiss had been a pleasant surprise. He had no idea why she’d suddenly dropped her no kissing in public rule but he was glad she had. He’d be needing all the luck he could find.

  Cody, the cowboy who’d spoken to him earlier, was up next. The previous contestant had been bucked off in less than a second, leaving the crowd so disappointed they couldn’t decide whether to laugh or rain down cat calls, so they did both.

  Kent hadn’t seen Cody’s qualifying rides but now, watching him, Kent noted confidence and expertise in the way he sat the bull and wrapped the braided rope around his gloved hand.

  “He’s ridden a bull or two,” Kent said to Cal.

  “Or five or ten.”

  Kent grinned.

  And that experience showed when the bull shot out of the chute and went to work. Cody rode him well. The rules prohibited the rider from touching the bull with anything other than the hand cinched to the animal’s back, so the free hand was kept high in the air. As the bull did its best to unseat the cowboy, Kent focused on both man and bull, committing to memory how low the animal dropped its thick neck and head when it bucked and how high the hind legs rose when it kicked and spun. For such a big animal Bushwhacker was nimble and agile. The crowd chanted a countdown of the seconds. When it reached eight, Cody was still in control. Grudgingly impressed, Kent wondered how much longer he’d stay on. The bull must have been asking itself the same question because it executed a move that seemed to throw its body in every direction at once. The crowd roared. Cody lost his grip and hit the ground. Scrambling, he ran like hell to the fence and cleared it two steps ahead of the charging bull.

  Kent was next.

  Seated on the broad back of the restless bull, Kent carefully cinched his gloved hand to the connecting rope and concentrated on pulling in deep calming breaths.

  “Let’s hope he’s tired,” Cal cracked.

  The bull’s owner, an old rancher from Texas, grinned. “This bull can do eight—nine runs a day. He’s probably more mad than anything else.”

  That wasn’t what Kent wanted to hear.

  “Are you ready?” Cal asked.

  Kent nodded.

  The owner crowed, “Then get ready for the ride of your life! Good luck!”

  The bull cleared the fence and Kent was thrown up and down. He felt the jolt in his ribs, spine, and the bones in his legs. Keeping his free hand high and hoping his head didn’t fly off, he let the bull do its best to put him on the ground. He had a vague sense of the screaming crowd but didn’t dare let his concentration slip. The bull was tricky and strong. At past events, he’d always been able to count off the number of seconds in his head. Not this time. Between trying to stay upright and make it look effortless for the style points the judges added to the scores, he had no idea how long he’d been riding. Kent felt the animal gathering its strength and knew he was in for the move that had unseated Cody. Sure enough the powerful contortion made him lose his grip. He hit the ground, hastily found his feet, and ran for the fence. With the bull right behind him, he scrambled over the top rung, then leaned forward to catch his breath. Every bone in his body ached. Dropping to his knees, he decided, win or lose, his bull riding career was over. Next he knew, he was surrounded by his giddy family and friends.

  “Fifteen seconds!” Cal yelled, joyously slapping him repeatedly on his throbbing spine. “You won!”
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  All Kent wanted to do was go home and lie in his big soft bed but Portia was kissing his cheek, Regan was hugging him and squealing, and his father was grinning from ear to ear, which made all the pain worth it.

  That evening, Kent was still sore, but getting gussied up to escort Portia to the dance had overridden the aches and pains. They’d just come off the dance floor after a lively reel, and the happiness on her face filled his heart.

  Suddenly, Rhine and Eddy were in the center of floor. Kent and Portia along with everyone else stared curiously.

  Rhine’s voice rang out. “May I have your attention please?”

  The musicians stopped playing.

  “My wife, Eddy, and I would like to announce that our niece Portia Carmichael has agreed to become the wife of our long-time friend and champion bull rider Kenton Randolph.”

  After a moment of shocked silence, the barn exploded with cheers and applause. Rhine beckoned Kent and Portia to join him, and Portia said under her breath, “If I didn’t need him to give me away, I would shoot him for this.” Kent knew she didn’t like being the center of attention, but she was smiling. An amused Kent took her hand and they walked out to stand with Eddy and Rhine. They were welcomed with another avalanche of applause.

  Rhine said, “The wedding will be in ten days and you’re all invited. How about something special from the musicians?”

  Portia looked like she really wanted to shoot Rhine then, but when the musicians began to play a slow Mexican waltz and Kent led her slowly and expertly around the floor, the love shining in her eyes was for him alone.

  After the dance, the crowd lined up to offer personal congratulations. Some even teased Portia for being so sure she’d never marry, but she took the gentle ribbing with the good spirit in which it was given.

  But when Darian Day, overdressed in the same black long-tailed evening coat he’d worn to Rhine and Eddy’s anniversary dinner, stepped in front of them, she had trouble hiding her dislike.

  “So,” he said. “I suppose I won’t be getting that spot on your dance card you promised me.”

  “I don’t recall promising you anything.”

  His eyes swung to Kent. “You’re a lucky man.”

  “I know.”

  “Too bad she married so far down.” He sniffed.

  Portia replied, “Not as far down as I am speaking with you now.”

  His face twisted with anger.

  “Move along,” Kent said. “You’re holding up the line.”

  He stalked away and Portia said, “I really should be allowed to shoot him, you know.”

  “I know, darlin’. Maybe next time.”

  On the ride home, she was cuddled into his side. “Tell me something about yourself I don’t know.”

  He paused and thought. “I was in a Mexican prison for three years.”

  She stiffened and looked up. “What? Why?”

  “I was caught in bed with a don’s wife.”

  “Really?” There was such a marked inflection in the word, he began to worry if maybe he should’ve offered up something simpler like how strawberries gave him hives.

  “You knew she was married?”

  “I did.” Anxious to know what she was thinking, he waited for her to say more, all the while hoping she wouldn’t demand he stop the buggy and tell him the wedding was off. Granted, he probably should have said something about it earlier, but it never came up.

  “Are you going to be unfaithful to me at some point, Kent?”

  There was such seriousness in her tone it broke his heart. He felt like he’d failed her in a deep and profound way even though he hadn’t known he’d be in love with her someday. “No, Duchess. Never. I was young and stupid back then. Did all my thinking below the waist instead of above my shoulders. I love you too much to hurt you that way.”

  As if attempting to discern the truth she studied him for a bit longer. When she finally resettled herself against him he let out an unconsciously held breath.

  “I guess I should be thankful you were truthful and that her husband didn’t shoot you dead.”

  “I certainly am.”

  “What happened to the wife?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.” Rumor had it that the don purchased her a new carriage and enough jewelry to outfit a queen as a way of atoning for neglecting her while he spent his nights with his various mistresses, but Kent didn’t know if it was true or not. “Now, your turn. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

  “Had I a gun yesterday, I would’ve shot Edward Salt dead.”

  Concern flared and he pulled back on the reins to stop the horses. “Explain.”

  So she did, and when she was done, parts of him smiled at her humorous description of Salt rolling on the ground in misery, but others, the parts that loved her and needed to protect her wanted to find the bastard and kick his ass into next month. “If he even looks at you again, he’ll have me to answer to.”

  “And if I ever catch you in bed with another woman you’ll have me to answer to.”

  Keeping his smile hidden he replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kent, Rhine, and Matt set out at dawn to meet up with David Neal and the other members of the newly formed posse at the Blanchard place. As they rode, Rhine told Kent his lawyers had successful squashed Charlie Landry’s bogus claim of ownership. “So if you still want the land, it’s yours.”

  “I do. Oliver tells me I have an inheritance coming so hopefully it will be enough to meet your price.”

  “There won’t be a price.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Eddy and I have decided to give the land to you and Portia as our wedding gift.”

  Kent stopped his horse. “Why?”

  “Because we can.”

  Kent met Rhine’s eyes and tried to make sense of the startling offer. “But what about your wanting to own that land?”

  “I’d rather give it to you and Portia.”

  “But—”

  “Do you want the damn land or not, Kent?”

  “I do.”

  “Then say, ‘Thank you, Fontaine.’”

  Kent dropped his head. When he raised it again, he complied. “Thank you, Fontaine.”

  “Good, now let’s get moving before Neal thinks we’re not coming.”

  When they reached the Blanchard place, the blackened stone foundations of the ranch house and the bunkhouse were all that remained. Waiting with David Neal were six riders. Kent knew Howard Lane, but not the others. Neal made the introductions. A few had been at the rodeo’s barn dance and congratulated Kent on his upcoming marriage, but because the posse was there for a grim purpose, not much time was spent on small talk. It was agreed that since they were sure Parnell wasn’t holed up in town, they’d spend the day searching some of the abandoned shacks close by. If that proved fruitless they’d discuss other options. It wasn’t much of a plan, Kent decided, but it beat doing nothing.

  So they set out, and the search gave Kent a broader look at the place he’d chosen to be his home. Once again he marveled at the magnificence of the countryside with its mountains, washes, and waterfalls. The landscape varied, too. One moment they were riding through desert and saguaro and the next through stands of thick pines and carpets of wildflowers. At one point they were so high in the mountain range he had a remarkable view of Tucson and the valley spread out below. By the time they stopped to rest themselves and their mounts beside a fast-running stream, they’d searched many of the abandoned homesteads but were no closer to finding signs of Parnell and his cohorts then they were at dawn.

  Rhine asked Neal, “Isn’t the old Silverfish Mine nearby?”

  “Yes. About five or six miles east. Do you want to ride over and take a look around before we head back?”

  The men agreed and so they remounted and rode east.

  They found a body just inside the mine’s shaft. The corpse had been preyed upon by carnivores, most likely big cats or bears, but what remained bore the signs of ba
dly burned flesh and remnants of a scorched black leather vest with silver buckles.

  “That’s Parnell’s vest,” Matt said with authority. “Or what’s left of it.”

  The stench of the corpse forced them back outside into the sunlight where they drew in breaths of fresh air.

  Kent told the others, “When Matt and I first got to the fire that day there was a strong smell of kerosene in the air.”

  Neal shook his head. “Dumb bastard must’ve accidentally splashed some on his clothing as he was pouring it around the buildings. When he lit the fire, he went up in flames, too.”

  Kent thought that was probably a pretty good guess. There was no way of knowing if Parnell had been badly burned and still clinging to life or already dead when his companions left him at the mine, but it no longer mattered. Justice, in a warped and twisted way, had been served. Buck and Farley could rest in peace.

  “I’ll let Sheriff O’Hara know what we found,” David Neal added. “He can decide if he wants to continue the search for the men who were with Parnell or not, but I don’t see how he can.”

  Kent didn’t either. Buck had only identified Parnell.

  Leaving what was left of the body to the mountain, the posse set out for home.

  Portia spent the day discussing the initial details of her wedding with Regan, Eddy, Sylvie, and Ruth and wondering how Kent and her uncle were faring in the search for Parnell. She hoped they’d find some evidence the sheriff could use to bring justice to the two men whose lives had been taken so ruthlessly.

  “I will be making the cake,” Eddy stated firmly. “None of this, ‘sit back and enjoy the day’ business.”

  Portia chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.” Although Portia had managed to wrest control from Eddy for the anniversary celebration, she knew she’d never win this battle so she didn’t even try.

  Regan asked, “Do you want to get married at the church or here at home?”

  “Here, please, I don’t want to spend the day traveling back and forth. The guests probably won’t either.”