Page 13 of Rainbow Rodeo

“Dab has done this a thousand times. You just have to keep your seat.”

“I can do that.” He would lose his Texas ID if he got thrown.

“Well, duh.” She winked at him. “Get your jeans on, cowboy. They’re fixin’ to start.”

“Right.” He politely turned his back, but he had nowhere else to shuck off and put his jeans on. Lousy little arena.

“Sister, we have a mare back here with hoof rot.” Dustin’s voice rang out. “I’ve switched her out, but I need you to look at her.”

“You got it. Which one?”

Tank glanced up to find Dalton, still on horseback, watching him.

Those blue eyes just burned, staring like Tank was the hottest thing since sliced bread.

Tank’s cheeks heated, and he hitched up his jeans, getting them fastened. “Ready to ride,” he said.

“Load up, Mr. Tank.” Dustin held the reins, and Tank prayed he could mount without going ass over teakettle.

He took a deep breath, got one foot up in the stirrup, and vaulted off his bad leg. He made it just fine. In fact, he almost shot right over the chestnut’s back. Adrenaline.

Dustin caught his leg, settling him, then handed him the reins. “Here you go.”

“Thanks. Lord, it’s been a while. I ought to come out to your folks’ place and ride some.” Tank didn’t have a spread of his own since he was never home. He had a tiny townhouse in Georgetown, but it was mainly storage. He didn’t even have time for a damn dog.

“Sure. You know everyone’d love to see you.”

“Cool.” Not that he would go without calling Miss Linda first. No, sir. She’d pull off his ears and feed them to him. He settled on Dab’s back, rocking his butt down between horn and cantle. Someone had been kind, choosing a saddle he could get his butt into.

“You got this?” Dustin almost waited for his nod before he ran back to work.

He pressed his heels into Dab’s sides, heading for the group of cowboys lining up for the grand entry. It was just like falling off a bicycle. A man remembered quick how to do something he’d done so much as a kid.

Dalton rode in front of the procession, then curled around to the back to ride next to him.

“Hey.” Tank grinned over. “I’m riding.” That was a good thing. Shit, he knew roughstock guys who had no idea how to ride a saddle-broke horse.

“You are. You almost don’t look worried too.”

“I’ll settle. Dab here is a good guy.”

“Retired trail horse,” Dalton murmured. “That’s why we use him for the entry.”

“God, I feel old now.”

“Not all that much.”

“Not much? You whippersnapper,” he teased, but he watched Dalton closely to make sure the joke didn’t dig too hard.

“Uh-huh. That’s me. You ready to wave, man?”

“I am.” He heard his name called, and Tank stood in the stirrups, waving left and right. Not as big a cheer as he would get in Texas, but it was gratifying to hear people hooting and hollering.

Then they all lined for the anthem and the prayers, every cowboy’s hat off. Tank looked to the sky, thanking the Lord for letting him have this.

He needed it. Needed to heal—body and soul.

Sometimes a man had to admit his limitations, even if it made him feel weaker.

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