His Christmas Gift, page 19
About half the other corrals were empty, which meant there’d be a lot of arrivals later this afternoon and into the evening. He checked his watch as he walked back to his truck. He should probably unhitch and park his trailer in the lot set aside for competitors, then head out to the ranch. Get the big homecoming out of the way.
Instead, he veered off toward the stockyard. He’d been assigned one of the newer broncs in the competition in the draw yesterday, and he was keen to check the animal out.
He made his way to the nearest corral and rested his forearms on the top rail. He could see the tour’s vet busy inspecting bulls in one of the distant pens, checking the animals for injuries and health, part of the rodeo’s strict rules around animal welfare. Major would get a going-over, too, before being cleared for tomorrow’s exertions, as would all the other competitors’ horses.
He was looking for the distinctive gray and white coat of Buckmaster, the bronc he’d drawn, when movement drew his gaze to a cowboy leaning against a corral further along the run. He started to lift his hand in greeting, assuming it was someone he knew, when the cowboy shifted and he realized it was a she, not a he, the generous curves of her hips and chest giving the game away now that she was facing him. She flicked a glance his way, catching him with his hand midair, and he felt more than a little foolish. He changed the gesture into a casual adjustment of the brim of his hat, but he wasn’t sure he’d gotten away with it.
He hadn’t seen her around before. She wasn’t staff, and she definitely wasn’t one of the barrel-racing competitors—after months of touring together, he was more than familiar with all the regular faces. Maybe she was with one of the rough-stock suppliers? Or just a curious local?
He told himself it was none of his business, either way, and went back to looking for Buckmaster. Still, he was conscious of her pushing away from the rail and heading in his direction, and he couldn’t resist the impulse to check her out again. She was tall for a woman, with an athletic, long-legged stride. Despite her curves, she had the toned physique of the very fit, her thigh muscles visible through the soft denim of her jeans, her shoulders broad and strong. A thick, dark ponytail hung down her back, and her black straw cowboy hat cast her face in shadows, revealing only a stubborn-looking chin and a full-lipped mouth.
She lifted her chin as she moved closer and their eyes locked. Hers were dark brown and steady on his. She nodded her head in silent acknowledgment. He nodded in return.
“Afternoon,” he said.
She drew abreast of him, and just as she was about to pass by, there was a small hitch in her stride, and she stopped and turned on her heel.
“Excuse me. I don’t suppose you could tell me which one of these broncs is Hellion Boy?” she asked.
“In theory. Not sure where they’ve put him, though…” Jesse turned to scan the corrals, spotting the gelding in question after a few seconds. “There he is. Back corner, chestnut with the irregular blaze.”
She followed his pointing finger, eyes narrowed. “Thanks.”
She started to move off.
“You with the stock contractor?” he asked, turning to face her more fully. She was almost as tall as him, and up close he could see she had a light scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks beneath her tan. She was pretty rather than beautiful, but there was something about the way she held herself and her steady gaze that spoke to him.
“I’m a contestant,” she said.
“Yeah? You’ll have your work cut out for you, catching up with Lena Martinez, coming in late on the tour like this. She’s really racking up the points this year,” he said.
Her gaze slipped over his shoulder, focusing, he guessed, on the horse he’d just pointed out to her.
“Yeah, I heard the barrel racing was competitive this year,” she said, and there was something about the way she said it and the way she seemed to be distancing herself from him while still standing in front of him that piqued his curiosity.
That, and the way she filled out her jeans.
“So—”
“Carmody. Not wasting any time, are you?”
Jesse glanced over his shoulder to see a trio of cowboys approaching, all three his competitors in steer roping and saddle bronc. The speaker, Dean, was wearing a shit-eating grin, his gaze traveling up and down the woman in front of Jesse like she was on sale in a shop window.
Subtlety wasn’t exactly Dean’s strong suit, with women or life in general. In his mid-twenties, he was pretty boy good-looking and full of swagger, with a reputation for partying hard.
“Did you boys just get in?” Jesse asked easily, shaking the hand Dean offered him, along with a slap on the shoulder.
“Came in yesterday. Just about to head into town and meet up with some of the boys. You in?” Dean asked.
“Probably gonna head out to the ranch,” Jesse said.
“That’s right. Forgot Marietta is home for you.” Dean’s gaze shifted away from Jesse. “Going to introduce us to your friend here?”
Jesse glanced at the woman. “We hadn’t gotten to names yet.”
The moment the words were out his mouth he realized how they sounded—as though he’d had a whole plan of attack where she was concerned.
“I take it back, Carmody—you are wasting time.” Dean turned up the dial on his smile. “Name’s Dean Maynard. Pleased to meet you.”
He offered the woman his hand.
“CJ Cooper,” she said.
“CJ. That short for something?” Dean asked.
“Cassidy Jane.”
“Cassidy Jane. That’s real pretty.” Dean waved a hand at Jesse and the other riders. “This dumb lug here is Jesse Carmody, and these two are Billy and Bobby Miller.”
CJ smiled politely. “Nice to meet you all.”
“So, CJ. You a local girl?” Dean asked, his big, easy grin inviting CJ to confess her sins so he could reward her for them.
Jesse had seen Dean turn on the charm like this in too many cities to count, but his gut told him the other man was about to crash and burn, big-time. Jesse had only known CJ Cooper for two minutes, but there was a determined set to her jaw and a challenging glint in her eye he was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining. Crossing his arms over his chest, Jesse leaned back against the rail.
This was going to be good.
“I’m not a local. I’m a contestant,” CJ said.
“Yeah? You joining the tour with us, huh?” Dean said, clearly pleased by the prospect. He hooked his thumbs into the front belt loops on his jeans, playing the cowboy to the hilt. “Lot of competition in the barrel racing this year. Hope you’re a good rider, sweetheart.”
Billy and Bobby both smirked at the clumsy double entendre.
“I’m not competing in the barrel racing,” CJ said. “I’m riding saddle bronc.”
Dean cocked his head, a frown pleating his forehead. “They doing some kind of exhibition program for the ladies this time around?”
“Nope. I’ll be competing with the men. Against you guys, actually. You all ride saddle bronc, don’t you? I recognize your names.” Her gaze took them all in, direct and quietly confident, and Jesse wondered if his surprise showed on his face.
“You can’t ride in the men’s comp,” Dean said, letting out an incredulous crack of laughter. “That ain’t gonna work, sweetheart.”
“It’s worked okay so far, well enough for me to qualify for my pro ticket,” CJ said with a modest shrug.
Jesse swept a gaze down her body again, seeing her athletic build in a new light. Strength-to-weight ratio was important in saddle bronc, but flexibility and having a low center of gravity played a part, too.
Theoretically there was no reason a woman wouldn’t be as good as a man. In fact, she might even have an advantage when it came to flexibility—if she had the guts to get on the back of a wild, bucking animal who was determined to throw her off.
“This is a men’s competition,” Dean said. “Always has been, always will be.”
“I’m not the only female saddle bronc rider. Kaila Mussell’s been riding broncs for years now,” CJ pointed out.
Dean’s face flushed an ugly red and he took a step closer to CJ, anger in every line of his wiry body. Jesse pushed away from the rail, surprised by the heat of the other man’s reaction and how quickly things had escalated.
“You listen here, sweetheart,” Dean said, turning the endearment into an insult. “You women might think you own the world now, but some things are sacred. Some kind of mistake has been made, and I’m gonna go sort it out right now.”
He swiveled on his heel, stalking off in the direction of the office, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. It took a moment for Jesse’s brain to catch up with events. One second Dean had been laughing, turning on the charm, hoping to get lucky, the next he’d been snarling like a cornered dog.
Jesse had never seen the other man so riled before.
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure,” CJ said, her dry tone at odds with her words. Then she headed around the back of the bleachers, head high, shoulders back.
“Je-sus,” Bobby Miller said the moment she was out of earshot. “Thought Dean was gonna burst a vessel for a moment there.”
“He’s right, though. This ain’t no women’s sport. They got no business letting one into the comp without running it past the rest of us,” Billy said.
Jesse threw the other man a look. “Come on, Billy. You really want to get into a situation where competitors can blackball new blood?”
“But she’s not just new blood. She’s a woman,” Billy said, as if that fact alone was enough to make his point for him.
Jesse shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, if she qualified like the rest of us, then she should be able to compete. Unless you guys are scared of going up against a woman?”
“Fuck off, Carmody,” Bobby said, half annoyed, half amused. “I bet she doesn’t even make it out of the chute. I bet this is just some bullshit PR stunt they’re pulling to try to get some media attention.”
“She must have placed or won plenty of times to get the prize money to qualify,” Jesse pointed out. “Pretty sure they didn’t bend the rules for her.”
“Want to bet?” Billy said darkly.
Jesse shook his head again. “Don’t go starting any stupid conspiracy theories, for God’s sake.”
Billy frowned at him. “You telling me you’re really cool with this?” His tone said he thought Jesse was mad, as well as some kind of traitor to his gender.
“I don’t care what a rider’s got between his or her legs—if they can last eight seconds, I’ll compete against ’em,” Jesse said. “It’s as simple as that.”
“You got rocks in your head, man,” Bobby said, looking genuinely bewildered by Jesse’s take.
Jesse made a rude noise. If this conversation lasted much longer, he was going to say something he’d regret. Like it or not, he spent a lot of time with these men. “I’ve got to get out to the ranch, see my family. I’ll catch you boys later.”
He didn’t hang around to wait for their response.
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About the Author
Sarah Mayberry is the award winning, best selling author of more than 30 books. She lives by the bay in Melbourne with her husband and a small, furry Cavoodle called Max. When she isn’t writing romance, Sarah writes scripts for television as well as working on other film and TV projects. She loves to cook, knows she should tend to her garden more, and considers curling up with a good book the height of luxury.
Visit her website at www.sarahmayberry.com
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Sarah Mayberry, His Christmas Gift
