The Bull Rider's Secret (Rodeo Rebels, 2, Band 1364) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Award winning author Marin Thomas writes western romances for Harlequin and Tule Publishing Group as well as women's fiction for Berkley Books. She graduated from the University of Arizona and she and her husband live in Phoenix. When not writing she spends her free time junk hunting and researching ghost tours. Learn more about Marin's books at www.authormarinthomas.com 

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The thunder of motorcycles roaring down Main Street threatened to deafen Brody Murphy as he used the pay phone outside the Silver Dollar Saloon in Bandera, Texas.

"Ma'am." Brody tipped his hat to a wannabe cowgirl who sashayed by, leaving a scented cloud of expensive perfume in her wake.

"What's that god-awful noise?" Brody's buddy, Drew Rawlins, shouted through the phone connection.

"The Hell's Angels are in town."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in Bandera."

"Bandera? You were supposed to be here—" meaning Drew's ranch, Dry Creek Acres "—three hours ago."

Brody ignored his friend's rant as he studied his choices for lunch across the street—Southern Comfort Bakery, Mi Pueblo, Busbee's Bar-B-Que and Bandera Saloon & Grill.

"Hey!" Drew snagged Brody's attention. "What are you doing in Bandera?"

Hell if Brody knew. He scanned the area, willing the answer to pop up in front of him. His gaze landed on a flyer attached to the saloon's oversize red door.

Bandera, Texas

Cowboy Capital of the World

Wild Hog Explosion

Saturday March 20th at Mansfield Park

"Think I'll enter the Wild Hog Explosion." Whatever the heck that was.

"You're kidding, right?"

Maybe. Brody was down to twenty bucks in his wallet and half a tank of gas. Speaking of fuel, Brody gagged on fumes as a second pack of motorcycles drove past him.

"I offered you a job," Drew said.

Turning his back to the busy road, Brody rested his arm atop the pay phone. This wasn't the first time Drew suggested Brody quit the rodeo circuit and work for him as a ranch hand. Brody had been a ranch hand most of his adult life—punching cows in Montana where he'd been born and raised. Hell, he loved—make that had loved—working cattle and horses, wide-open spaces and the soul-searching loneliness of riding the proverbial range. Two years ago Brody had quit his job at the Black Stone Ranch and now he lived one day and one bull ride at a time.

There was a part of Brody that yearned to hang up his bull rope. He was tired. Lonely. Downright lost. But working for Drew would be like walking around all day with a red-hot poker stuck in his eye.

His buddy understood the demons chasing Brody. He was the only person Brody had confided in about his past. Even so, Brody didn't care to witness the former bronc rider's happiness. Drew had retired from rodeo this past December after he'd scratched at the National Finals Rodeo in Vegas. He'd given up a world title for love and a chance to be a father to a son he hadn't known existed until recently.

Drew was happy. Brody was miserable. It would only be a matter of time before Brody's unhappiness ruined their friendship. If that wasn't enough to deter him from accepting a job at Dry Creek Acres, then taking charity from a friend was. Drew had offered the job, not because he needed help, but because he felt sorry for Brody.

"Thanks, but I've got a ride coming up," Brody lied.

"When are you gonna admit you aren't a bull rider?"

Never. "I'll be in touch."

"The job's yours anytime you want it."

"Thanks." Brody hung up and eyed the advertisement on the saloon door. What the hell. He'd head to Mansfield Park and check out the exploding pigs.

As Brody drove along the main drag, he did a double take at the horse hitched outside the Dairy Queen. Any town that allowed horses on the street was okay with him. He followed the signs to the park, mulling over his options. Bandera didn't have a rodeo until Memorial Day weekend, so there was no sense hanging around after today.

The past few months Brody had fought to maintain his enthusiasm for bull riding. Although he hadn't had much success in the sport, he'd basked in the thrill of the challenge and had enjoyed the camaraderie of his competitors. Then Drew had left the circuit and suddenly Brody's excitement for rodeo had spiraled downward. Quitting wasn't an option. His survival depended on never remaining in one place long enough for his past to catch up with him.

Yesterday he'd turned thirty-one, but he'd woken feeling fifty. He doubted his body could withstand the physical abuse of the sport much longer. In the two years he'd competed, he'd suffered eleven fractures. It wouldn't be long before the next broken bone refused to heal. Not a day went by that he didn't wish he had the courage to pull off this never-ending road to nowhere.

The gravel lot at Mansfield Park was crowded but Brody found a spot and parked. The smell of hickory and barbecue permeated the air and his stomach growled. Signs advertising a Pork Rib Cook-Off, Bicycle Rodeo, Piggy Pictures, Arts and Crafts, and Wild Hog Explosion were staked in the ground everywhere.

Brody observed a makeshift corral in the distance and made his way through the crowd. A banner proclaiming a five-hundred-dollar jackpot hung across the sign-up table—more than enough money to fill the gas tank, his belly and pay his next entry fee. There was just one problem—Brody needed a partner for the hog-catching contest.

He searched the crowd for loners who might be willing to team up with him. A teenager stood by himself near the boar pen. The kid was skinny, which hopefully meant he was quick on his feet. Brody would rather the teen chase the pig in circles than himself. "You lookin' for a partner, kid?"

The boy jumped inside his skin and stepped back. His blue eyes widened with apprehension.

"What's the matter?" With Brody's luck the teen was on the run from the law. "You in trouble?"

The kid's posture stiffened. "I'm not in any trouble."

"You here by yourself?"

"Yeah, so what?"

Nice chip on the ol' shoulder. Brody studied the kid. Olive-colored skin, black hair and startling blue eyes—a mix of Caucasian and Hispanic.

"I need a partner for the hog-catching contest. What do you say we team up? I'll give you a hundred bucks if we win."

The kid scoffed. "The jackpot's five hundred."

"How about one-fifty."

The boy stared at Brody's lace-up cowboy boots with a spur ridge on the heal. "You a rodeo cowboy?"

"Bull rider." Brody puffed out his chest.

"You any good?"

"Sometimes." Mostly not.

"How come you wanna catch a hog?"

"You sure do ask a lot of questions."

"Okay, I'll be your partner."

Brody motioned over his shoulder. "Let's sign in and pay the entry fee."

"I don't have any money."

"I'll cover you." Brody grinned. "If we win, you get a hundred-forty dollars."

"Gee, thanks." The kid trailed Brody, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sagging jeans.

"How old are you?" Brody asked when they reached the table. "Thirteen."

The kid looked older—probably due to his lanky build and height. Brody wasn't a tall man. He stood five-feet-ten inches without his boots on and the boy almost looked him in the eye.

"You got a name?"

"Ricky Sovo."

"Brody Murphy." They shook hands, then signed a release form and paid the entry fee. They were told to wait until their names were called.

"You ever catch a hog before, Ricky?" Brody asked.

"Nope. You?"

"Nope."

They watched the pair inside the corral trip over themselves attempting to corner the pig. The buzzer rang and Ricky asked, "You got a plan on how we're gonna bag our hog?"

"You chase the bacon in circles until the oinker's too dizzy to run, then I toss the burlap sack over its head."

Ricky's jaw sagged. "Pigs don't get tired and we've only got three minutes to catch one."

"How fast can you run?"

"Real fast."

"Then my plan should work."

A half hour later their names were called. They entered the corral and Brody walked to the far side of the pen with the burlap bag. Ricky stood by the chute that held the female boar.

The announcer introduced Brody and Ricky, then the gate opened, and the hog bolted for freedom. The teen hadn't joked when he'd bragged he could run—he was lightning fast. The crowd's cheers grew more enthusiastic, most...