Page 47 of Big Daddy Bull Riders

If they all worked together, everyone would get out of there alive. In theory, at least.

“I’ve done this before, remember?” Slater said with a grin.

“Don’t make me?—”

Slater assume he was threatening to spank his butt yet again, but the roar of the crowd drowned out whatever he’d said. Evidently, the announcer had stirred them up in anticipation of his ride, and the atmosphere was primed and ready for action.

“Ten seconds,” the chute boss called out.

Slater counted them down in his mind. Then, he looked at the boss, nodded, and waited.

A second later, the buzzer sounded and the gate opened.

The bull charged out like a demon fleeing hell.

Slater would have yelled, “Oh, shit!” or something to that effect, but he couldn’t even speak. He held on tight to the rope, for that was all he had. The animal kicked its back legs. It huffed and snorted before turning two frenzied circles. It stamped forward and then stopped, bucking five hard times in rapid succession.

The arena flew by in a dizzying blur. Slater knew that somewhere, his sweet little girl was watching. He prayed she wasn’t too scared. Maybe she’d even enjoy it. Perhaps she’d think of him as a hero.

That’s what every cowboy wanted, right? They did this to chase fame and glory. They all harbored dreams of being legends.

And they were just plumb crazy, he figured.

But he couldn’t worry about any of that right now. All that mattered was staying on. The rest could be sorted out later.

Slater lost track of how many times the bull turned. Somehow, though, he stayed on for longer than he’d anticipated. Of course, there was a chance that it was only two or three seconds, but in its intensity, it seemed like forever. He didn’t think so, though. He’d done this enough to know he’d most likely bumped eight seconds or was darn near it.

Had the buzzer gone off? He didn’t remember hearing it. But then again, thanks to the helmet he wore, the sound of the bull snorting and thrashing, and the cheering of the elated crowd, he couldn’t hear much.

Then, he felt his grip starting to loosen. His hand hurt and his fingers ached. Weakness set in and he knew he was about to fall. One of the first rules of bull riding was to exit on your own terms, if it all possible.

So, he let go, threw himself free, and despite the torquing, hulking animal, managed to land gracefully on his feet.

The pickup men and clowns rushed into action, and a moment later, the bull was being herded back toward the pin.

Slater put his hands on his knees, bent down, and took deep breaths to fill his lungs with precious air. A sheen of sweat glazed his forehead and he wanted that damn helmet off.

The crowd, though, was going wild, everyone on their feet, whooping and hollering, cowboys and cowgirls alike waving their hats in the air.

That’s when he looked at the clock.

9.3 seconds.

Damn.

Slater grinned.

“I still got it!” he said as Jackson ran up to him. “Damnit, brother, I still got it!”

The men hugged.

Slater still had it indeed.

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

It was a nearly four-hour drive from Guthrie back to Big Cedar, and the trio completed it just after eleven the following morning.

“Can I write a story about your big ride, Daddy? Please?” Mina asked as she hopped out of the truck in front of the newspaper office. “It’s huge news and, combined with the way you stopped Rampage, everyone will love it!”

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