Mort tried to shut the door in Travis’s face. Tried, and failed.
“You are not letting her on the circuit.” Travis slammed the door behind him. The piece of crap bounced right back open again, but he was too hot to care. “She does not belong here.”
“Travis, please.” Mort settled his sweaty bulk into the folding chair. “I don’t have a choice. If it were up to me, she’d be out of here—”
“Why isn’t it up to you? Ain’t you the boss around here?”
“She had a clean ride. She’s got her TCB permit—”
“She’s got her what?” How the hell had she gotten that?
Mort shuffled the papers on the folding card table. “Here—see? What can I do?”
“J. Spotted Elk,” the photocopy of the Total Championship Bulls membership card said. “Permit status.”
“J.!” That might work for lady writers, but it wouldn’t work here. It couldn’t. “You’re going to let that girl ride on a technicality?”
“Travis, I don’t know what you expect me to do. She even brought a copy of the application form—nowhere does it say ‘men only.’ She had a clean ride, her membership is in good standing and if I don’t let her ride, her uncle...” He let the sentence trail off as he fished out his bandanna and wiped off his forehead. “I’ve got to let her ride.”
“This is how he calls it in? What the hell did he do to make you let a girl ride on our circuit?”
Mort’s face went scarlet as his mouth opened and shut several times. “I— It— He— Look, Travis, this is just the way it is!”
“So that’s it? She rides next week in Texas because some guy pulled your fat from the fire?” Travis had spent two years clawing his way back to the break-even point, putting his body on the line every single weekend—and some pretty little thing was just going to waltz her way into the show on a wink and a favor? Hell, no. Not on his watch.
This had nothing to do with the “pretty” part, either. That’s what Travis told himself. He’d hate to see that face—or that body—messed up by one bad landing, though. One landing was all it took. Nobody knew that better than he did.
Finally, Mort managed to look like he had a spine. “Listen, Younkin, no one said you had to ride with her. Feel free to hobble off into the sunset like you should’ve done in the first place. You can try to talk her out of it, but I doubt you’ll have much luck—just like normal.”
Maybe it was a good thing Travis had hit his weak shoulder tonight, because the fact that he didn’t think he could get off a solid swing was the only thing holding him back. “You rat bastard—”
Mort threw up his hands to ward off the verbal blow. “Be reasonable, man! Didn’t you see the way those women flocked to her like she was a superstar?”
“So?”
“Think about it from my point of view! Don’t you remember that woman race-car driver? She ain’t even the best one out there, and she’s pulling them in!” Mort waved his arms like he was welcoming the women of the world into his office.
This wasn’t about applications or permits or even bull riding. And Mort just confirmed that fact as he went on. “All of a sudden, there’s a woman who rides with the men, and the wives and mothers and daughters are buying tickets to the show, buying pink girl-power T-shirts with her name on them, buying posters that she’ll autograph—”
“You’re going to let her kill herself for money?” Who was he kidding? Of course Mort would. He’d throw his own mother—walker and all—into the ring if he thought he could make a dime off it.
“Have you met the girl? I’m not gonna let her do anything.” Mort snorted. “Look. Either she’ll break a nail and go home, or she’ll do well. And if she does well, she could add to the gate.”
A percentage of the gate went to the take-home pay for the riders every night. That was why most of the guys here had chosen the TCB circuit as opposed to the rival rodeo outfit where calf roping and bronco busting were part of the competition. Here, a man could just ride a bull, and bigger crowds meant bigger checks.
If Mort explained it in those terms to the guys...well, most of them needed the money. Travis was one of the few who had a steady sponsorship and earned enough most weekends to make a living. As it stood now, he was nearing the money cutoff for the pro circuit. Not so for most of the other guys. They drove all night to get back to their jobs or ranches, worked all week and then did this every weekend. Sort of like playing Russian roulette as a hobby.
Travis wasn’t going to win this battle, not with Mort and probably not with the other guys— especially not with the Preacher and Mitch out there making her feel at home.
He was going to have to take this to the source.
“Fine. You believe she’s going to be your gravy train. But I’m warning you,” he said, grabbing the edges of the card table and shoving it hard enough that it bounced off Mort’s considerable girth, “if anything happens to her, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
The door still wouldn’t slam when Travis stalked out of the broom closet, but he gave it his best effort.
“Well?” Randy seemed to be speaking for the group of guys nervously milling around. “What’d he say?”
Travis tried not to snarl. They’d heard every word, no doubt. “I’m going to go talk to her.”
A few eyebrows went up.
“You guys agree that this isn’t a safe place for a woman, right?”
“Sure,” Randy said as heads halfheartedly nodded. “We don’t want her to get hurt, but...” Standing behind him, Garth, another rider, elbowed him in the ribs. “Is it true, what Mort said about the gate?”
Travis could feel the last of his cool slipping away. “We all know that she’s not going to make us rich, Randy. I don’t want her blood on my hands.”
Randy looked doubtful. “So you’re going to talk her out of it?”
Someone in the back snorted. “Good luck with that!”
“I’ll handle it,” Travis said with more force. “You guys go on and have a good time tonight. Watch out for the buckle bunnies, okay? They can be brutal in this town.” He knew that from personal experience. That had been a long time ago—must be almost seven years now.
Seven years ago, he’d been a green rider with a lot of promise, just like some of these guys. He hadn’t been too crazy his first year, but he’d drunk most of his winnings and woke up in plenty of strange beds with stranger women.
That hadn’t happened in a great while. No one wanted a man who looked like Frankenstein. Especially not pretty women who could ride bulls.
Wait—where the hell had that thought come from? He shook it away. He had a job to do here, one that did not involve female bull riders in a state of undress.
The remaining guys began to place bets on who would go home with which bunny and who could drink who under the table. Just kids, he reminded himself as they headed back toward the collection of secondhand cars and trucks parked in the back. Normally, he’d shadow along, keep an eye out for trouble, make sure whoever got the drunkest got somewhere safe to sleep. But not tonight.
He had to go looking for trouble. And her name was June.
He headed back out to the parking lot. Calm down, he told himself. If he lost his head, he might do something stupid, like grab her again, and this time, without bystanders, she might break his arm.
And if she broke his arm, then he’d never get the chance