Dancing With Danger: Book 8: Dancing Moon Ranch Series (22 page)

DESCRIPTION
: Cutting the ties for Jeremy Hansen meant taking a job three hundred miles from the Dancing Moon Ranch, where he could be his own man, but when he meets Billy Bree Fitzsimmons, his perfect mate, a woman whose passion for raising bucking bulls matches Jeremy's passion for riding them, Jeremy also finds himself drawn into circumstances in which cutting the ties takes on a whole new meaning when he's forced to choose between his family, and the woman he loves and never seeing his family again.

PROLOGUE
: BUCKING THE ODDS

Crane Butte Rodeo – Harney County, Southeast Oregon

Okay, so he got the
unluck
of the draw, Jeremy Hansen conceded, as he prepared to ride a bull that was ironically named Wild Card. He'd seen the bull in the sorting pen earlier and the thing looked about as wild as an old sheepdog. Still, something about the name sounded familiar, though he couldn't place it.

"Hansen, you're up next," someone said, while rapping him on the shoulder.

Without glancing back, Jeremy slipped on his glove, and holding one end of a leather tie-string in his teeth, started the wrap that would tie his glove in position. After rubbing rosin on its leather palm for a good grip, he climbed the rails.

As he stood on the rungs over the bull, chute men swarmed around him. One fed the bullrope beneath the bull. Another pulled the rope straight up so Jeremy could rub his gloved palm up and down on it to make his bind before setting his hand. Another fed the flank strap under the bull to the stock contractor.
Most bulls became restless at this point, raking their horns against the rails or trying to jump out of the chute, but this bull stood like he was half asleep. Jeremy glanced back as the stock contractor adjusted the strap. The man was small, and he wondered who he was, but when the man glanced up to see if he was ready, Jeremy looked into a pair of hazel eyes fringed in long dark lashes.

"I guess we meet again, cowboy," Billy Bree Fitzsimmons said.

In an instant, Jeremy was back at a buckout and an encounter with a woman he'd pegged as a buckle bunny, who turned out to be a stock contractor. She'd let him have it after his derogatory comment about a
flat
bull he'd ridden, a bull that just happened to belong to her…

"I've got a bull named Wild Card that's ranker than any bull you've ever ridden, who comes spinning out of the chute like a cyclone…"
she'd said that day.

Jeremy let out a snort of irony. Wild Card better wake up fast. He also realized why the bull's name hadn't registered before. Billy Bree Fitzsimmons had sidetracked him with her looks, just as she did moments before, but he'd better start focusing fast or he could find himself stomped into the dirt or tossed straight to cowboy heaven.

Lowering himself onto a bull that remained immobile, Jeremy felt another wave of irritation. He was confident about sticking on for the eight seconds, but there was no way this bull could bring a high enough bull score to boost Jeremy's average for a chance at the national finals.

Shoving that unsettling thought aside, he planted his hand against the bull's back, and a chute helper laid the bull rope across his palm. Closing his fist around it, he worked each finger to make a tight fist, then punched his fist to stick the rope to his palm.

Things moved fast after that and in a matter of seconds he situated himself squarely on the bull, shoved his feet and legs forward, scooted his hips close to the handhold and tucked his chin to his chest. Raising his free arm into the air, he nodded for the woman to tighten the flank strap.

An instant later the gate opened… and Wild Card shot out of the chute like a cannonball and immediately went down in front, launching his hind legs straight up in the air, sending Jeremy sharply forward by the force behind the kick. At once, the bull turned back, starting a whirlwind of jumps and whips and spins while Jeremy hung on with all his strength, completely blindsided by the rankness of the bull. Determined to conquer this pack of bovine dynamite, he lightly spurred the bull on one side, then the other, sending a mixed message.
Turn this way, boy… No this way… I'm over here now…
each kick a whisper to 1800 pounds of bucking rage. But Wild Card ignored those spurred whispers, maintaining the offensive.

Three seconds into the ride Wild Card launched all four feet off the ground, sunfished and reversed directions, and with one last upward thrust, sent Jeremy catapulting off his right flank and landing in the dirt.

"There you have it,"
the announcer called out.
"No score for Jeremy Hansen."

While attempting to swallow his humiliation, Jeremy picked himself up out of the dirt and jogged toward the fence, all the while eyeing the big red bull, who appeared to be making a victory lap around the arena before heading for the exit chute.

Harney, County, Southeast Oregon

Jeremy pulled his truck to a halt in front of a century-old stock barn where, on its weathered siding, a signboard bearing a string of hand-painted words read:
BILLY BREE'S BUCKING BULLS. FOUR TIMES THE BAIL, BUCK, BLITZ AND BELLIGERENCE IN EVERY BULL.

He clamped his jaws together. Not only was he still pissed over his failed attempt to ride a bull he'd seriously underestimated, but it set him back in his run for the national finals, and now he wanted another crack at that bull.

When Billy Bree Fitzsimmons told him she had a bull that was ranker than any bull he'd ever ridden, she wasn't just tooting her horn. Wild Card was one of those
once-in-every-once-in-a-while
kind of bulls, the kind that could make it to the National Finals Rodeo. In the two months since the Crane Butte Rodeo fiasco the bull had bucked in rodeos around the region with a 100% buckoff record while earning pro-quality bull scores, along with acquiring a string of pro bull riders just itching to take the challenge. Yet, bulls like Wild Card didn't just appear from out of nowhere, but as far as he could determine, Crane Butte was the bull's first out.

Climbing out of the truck, he scanned the bull pen and spotted the dark red bull, who stared at him in curiosity.
He was an impressive bull, stout in the shoulders where his power needed to come from, and of a size that could handle a big man, yet agile enough to buck high and spin fast. If it wasn't for the asymmetrical horns, he'd be a perfect poster bull.

Then he
reminded himself that he wasn't there to size up a bull or try to negotiate a practice ride on him—though that idea was fixed firmly in his mind—but the reason he
was
there wasn't likely to get him any closer to accomplishing that ride.

Turning, he looked toward a small building with a sign sticking out from its weathered siding that read, OFFICE, then he noticed another sign over the door that read, THE BUCK STARTS HERE. Maybe it did with Wild Card, but the bulls he'd ridden during the buckout there a few months back didn't come close to that rank bull. The thing was an anomaly.

Catching sight of some movement in his peripheral vision, he looked toward the stock barn and saw an older man with a scraggly beard and unkempt hair standing in the entrance, staring at him. It was the same man who'd been there the day of the buckout a few months back, so he assumed the man worked there. Strolling over to where he stood, he said while approaching, "I'm looking for Billy Bree Fitzsimmons. Is she here?"

The man eyed him closely, like he was sizing him up, and replied, "If you're here to ride bulls, Wednesday's buckout night."

Jeremy shook his head. "I'm here on other business."

Again the man looked at him closely, so closely Jeremy felt uncomfortable. It was the man's eyes. Intense. And aware. Not the dull look of an aging, uneducated wrangler.

Pointing with his thumb toward the house, the man said, "Billy's inside. Keep your distance from the Rottweiler though."

Jeremy glanced toward a house that looked barely habitable. He also noted the busted boards and rotted gates of the old bucking chutes. He made a mental note to address that issue too, as he crossed the dusty grounds toward the house. Stepping onto a porch that sloped downward, he rapped on the front door, prompting some skirmishing inside followed by a series of hostile barks.
A couple of seconds later the door opened and Billy Bree Fitzsimmons appeared, her hand clasping the leather collar of a Rottweiler that stood well over two feet at the shoulders and no doubt topped the scales at 130 pounds. She released the dog's collar and said, "Diesel, sit."

The dog promptly planted his butt on the floor and stared at Jeremy who, deciding he didn't want to challenge this dog by staring back, shifted his gaze to a pair of scuffed western boots and work-worn leather chaps, and made his way up a shapely female form clad in faded jeans and a snug western shirt, to a face framed by a tangle of chestnut hair with golden highlights,
and focused on a pair of hazel eyes darkened with annoyance.

Billy Bree Fitzsimmons let her gaze drift downward, and focusing on his belt buckle, said with irony, "Looks like someone else went home with the Crane Butte Rodeo buckle." Raising her eyes, she added, "If you've come to try your hand at Wild Card again, cowboy, he's not available for practice rides."

Ignoring her reference to an event he wanted scratched from the record, as well as from his memory, Jeremy said, "Cattle have been reported missing from the Red Rim Ranch and I'm checking the area to see if strays have wandered onto neighboring ranches. Horses aren't missing, but I need to see the ownership papers for all your cattle."

Bracing her hands on her hips, Billy said,
"You can't just come barreling in here demanding to see papers for my stock. Who do you think you are you anyway?"

"Jeremy Hansen, in case you forgot the name," Jeremy replied, all the while trying to keep his eyes from drifting downward to where the woman's shirt lay open a few snaps to reveal a sweat-dampened chest and the hint of cleavage.

"I don't keep track of bull rider's names," Billy said, "so why should I remember yours?"

"No reason in particular, but you might want to remember it now," Jeremy replied, flashing his ID card. "I'm the Harney County brand inspector. I need to see the papers on your stock."

The woman looked unnerved, and some of the spitfire was gone when she said, "I have to dig them out of my files. Do you need them now?"

"If you want to square this away, yes," Jeremy replied.

"What happens if I can't find them today?"

"Then I'll be back. One way or another you have to prove ownership, whether it's bills of sale, registration papers, out-of-state brand inspection papers or affidavits," Jeremy said. "Are your animals branded?"

"Brands aren't required in Oregon," Billy clipped.

"True, but it helps prove ownership," Jeremy said. "I noticed your stock trailer has South Dakota plates, and since Oregon law requires a permit for all livestock entering the state, I'll need to see transportation certificates."

The woman's eyes widened, like she was caught by surprise, which made Jeremy suspicious. In fact, the whole exchange seemed fishy.

"We just moved here a few months ago and things are still in boxes and the papers are not accessible right now," Billy said in a softly feminine voice that sounded distinctly like a woman trying to talk a highway patrolman out of a ticket.

"Okay then, I'll need to take a look at your stock," Jeremy said.

"What for?" Billy asked.

"To check breed, sex, ear and flesh marks, and old brands."

The woman attempted a smile he knew was feigned, and said in the same sugary tone, "Determining sex is easy. My bulls are in the bull pens and my cows are behind the barn in the cow pen. They're all cross breeds, they don't have any ear or flesh marks, and like I said before, they don't have brands, but they all have ear tags."

"Anyone can attach ear tags, but they don't mean anything without papers." Jeremy started off for the bull pen.

"
You can't just go over there and start looking at my bulls
," Billy yelled after him.

"Actually, I can," Jeremy called back. "If papers aren't produced, brand inspectors have the authority to enter any premise for the purpose of examining animals for brands, marks, or other evidence of ownership."

Billy marched across the grounds, with the Rottweiler ambling along beside, and catching up with Jeremy, said in an assertive voice, "Those are bucking bulls. You can't climb in there and start fooling around with them."

"You've got cattle chutes, and those animals have been handled," Jeremy said.

Climbing the steel tubing of a livestock panel, he hiked his leg over and landed inside a bull pen with four young bulls whose ages he pegged at around two years old. As he figured it would be, the young bulls looked at him curiously and did nothing. Approaching them slowly, he separated the first from the others and herded it into the chute where he checked it over. Although it had an ear tag, there were no markings or signs of a brand, so he released it and herded the next. After checking the other two, he climbed into the next bull pen. As with the younger ones, the five bulls in the pen, which he judged to be three and four-year-olds, stared at him but did nothing.

He decided to leave Wild Card for last because he wanted to inspect him thoroughly. There was something suspicious about the whole setup. A bull of that caliber could have been stolen and moved across several states to be used for breeding, and Harney County, being remote and sparsely populated, would be a good place to set up a base of operations.

When he released the fourth of the five older bulls and was walking toward Wild Card, Billy called out, "Wild Card acts docile but he can be mean so you might want to skip him. And I do have papers."

"I don't see them," Jeremy called back, "so I'll be checking this bull." He glanced over at the woman, who looked worried, which again had him wondering.

After herding Wild Card into the chute, he inspected his right side for a brand. Finding none, he reached over the bull's back, but on placing his hand on the bull's side he felt the grisly hard formation of a brand. Climbing over the chute, he took a closer look, which verified it. "You want to explain this?" he asked, while noting the characters of the brand.

"Sure," Billy replied. "He was injured. It's a scar."

"In the shape of a B43? Why did you claim this bull wasn't branded?"

"Brands aren't required in Oregon so I didn't think it was any of your business whether my stock was branded or not," Billy replied. "Besides, he's the only one of my stock with a brand."

"Then I'll give you five days to locate his papers and the papers for the rest of the stock. In the meantime, I'll check the brand and find out who the owner is." Jeremy realized he was not only questioning Billy Bree Fitzsimmon's credibility, but in an indirect way he was accusing her of cattle rustling.

After returning to his truck for his camera and clipboard, he studied the brand more closely, noting a rise in the middle of the B, like it had been altered from a P. He took photos and drew a diagram of the brand on a form, then turned Wild Card back into the pen and went behind the barn to check the cows. After herding each of nine cows into the cattle chute and finding no brands or marks on any of them, he documented the numbers on their ear tags, left the cow pen and headed for the bucking arena.

As it was when he was there for the buckout before, the bucking chutes were a maze of loose, warped, and rotted boards in danger of splintering and injuring a bull or rider while in the chute. He also noted that the chute doors were more askew than before. Grabbing his clipboard, he filled in an animal facility form then walked over to where Billy stood glaring at him, her fingers rapping against her folded arms, the Rottweiler on full alert at her side, and said, "You've got some animal facility violations that need to be corrected. Since your buckouts are open to the public, the gates and all the side boards in the bucking chutes need to be replaced."

"I'm aware of all the repairs needed but I can't afford them so they'll have to wait," Billy replied, "so if you're finished, I want to get back to what I was doing."

"I guess I didn't make myself clear," Jeremy said. "You don't have a choice about the chutes. I'm also the livestock and animal facility inspector and that's the law." When he ripped the form from the pad and thrust his hand out, the hackles on the Rottweiler's back went up, the dog curled his lips back and bared his teeth, and low growls rumbled in his throat.

Eyeing the dog with uncertainty, Jeremy said, "You might want to contain that dog. I don't think you want a citation for having a vicious dog not properly controlled."

"He's controlled," Billy said. "He won't attack unless I give the command. Besides, you're not the animal control officer."

"Wrong." Jeremy slipped another ID out of his billfold and flashed it in front of her. "I assume you have the dog licensed in Harney County. He's not wearing a tag."

"He's licensed but he lost his tag," Billy replied.

"Then you'll need proof of licensing or you'll have to buy another tag."

Looking at him, dubiously, Billy said, "I want to take a closer look at your IDs. It seems fishy that you could be that many inspectors. With cattle missing from a neighboring ranch, you could be sizing up my place to come take my stock too."

Jeremy was mildly amused at her attempt to negate things by pointing a finger him. Pulling his ID cards from his billfold he handed them to her, and while she was scanning them, he said, "Harney County doesn't have funds for three inspectors so they combine the jobs. I'm authentic. You have five days to tag the dog and come up with transportation certificates and ownership papers for your stock, and two weeks to complete the work on the chutes."

"What if I don't do any of that," Billy challenged.

"Then the place will be shut down and the animals impounded until it is done," Jeremy said. He indicated the man with the beard. "Is he your only ranch hand?"

Billy nodded. "He's all I can afford right now."

Jeremy took another look at the man. He was old and wiry, and in general looked pretty unfit for a ranch hand. Still, the repairs didn't require that much work. Returning his gaze to Billy, he said, "Those old bucking chutes are so weathered your man should be able to kick the boards loose, and replacing them with new boards shouldn't take more than a couple of days."