Reclaiming Nick (35 page)

TAMING RAFE

R
AFE
N
OBLE, TWO-TIME
world champion bull rider and current king of the gold buckle, had never met a bull he feared. Oh, sure, he’d been afraid before, that sort of nervous tension before a ride that buzzed every nerve ending and slicked his hand inside his taped-tight leather glove. But normally he shook it off the second he wound the bull rope, sticky with rosin, around the animal’s chest and wedged it around his grip. Then the adrenaline, the heat, took over.

And for eight long, harrowing seconds, it was just man against beast.

With rare exception, man won.

However, as Rafe now straddled the champion bull known as Doc, coldness rushed through him. Something foreign and overwhelming ignited a tremble from deep within his bones.

For the first time since he was thirteen he felt . . . terror.

Maybe it was just the residual agony of watching one of his fellow bull riders being carried out on a stretcher only minutes
earlier. Maybe it was the roar of the crowd hammering at the raging headache he’d nursed most of the day. It could be the fact that he rode in pain, that he’d had to tape his hand, wear his knee brace, and the sports medicine doctor had reminded him that one more fracture to his neck would land him in a wheelchair permanently.

Or perhaps it was just the eerie feeling that hung in the air tonight, along with the smells of animal sweat and popcorn and leather and dirt, a surreal sense that tragedy hovered right outside the ring of spectators.

Whatever the reason, as Rafe worked his rope around his hand, through his index finger, then hit his grip with his fist to tighten it, he couldn’t shake the bone-deep feeling that tonight someone would die.

Even the bullfighters, the brave men who distracted the bull as the thrown or triumphant riders scrambled to safety, seemed jumpy. Rafe caught eyes with his pal Manuel. Dressed in his blue-and-red vest, a black cowboy hat, and long shorts and cleats, the man had agility that kept him ahead of horns and made the crowd gasp. And he’d saved Rafe’s hide on more than a few occasions.

Manuel nodded, and despite the distance between them, the roar of the crowd, the announcer, and the advice from fellow cowboys as Rafe settled into his mount, he could hear Manuel’s mouthed words: “Get ’er done.”

Rafe returned the slightest nod and refrained from searching for Manuel’s six-year-old son and pretty wife, Lucia, in the audience. Rafe had arranged their tickets and trip up from New Mexico to see Manuel perform under the big lights of the PBR World Championship in Las Vegas.

“You’re my favorite bull rider,” little Manny had said as he handed Rafe his hat to sign at the pre-event celebrity showcase.

Behind Manny, a leggy blonde cowgirl with a black T-shirt emblazoned with the Professional Bull Riding logo gave him a loaded smile.

Rafe winked at her and returned his attention to Manny. “Are you going to be a bullfighter like your daddy when you get big?” he asked, signing the brim.

“Oh no. I wanna be just like you,” Manny had said.

Rafe gave a half chuckle and plopped the hat back on Manny’s head, but the kid’s words and his shiny, dark, hero-worshiping gaze made his gut twist. The feeling came too often these days.

“Our next bull rider, two-time world champion and overall leader going into the short round . . .”

The announcer brought Rafe’s attention back to the snorting animal he straddled. He blew out several short breaths and banged his protective vest with his free hand. His biceps tightened against the sleeve of his rolled-up shirt, and he set his feet into the spur position under his fringed black chaps, scooting up tight against his grip.

“Don’t ride tonight, Rafe.”

He heard the voice deep inside. Soft yet clear. Clenching his teeth, he refused to listen to Fear’s whispers. Besides, he had no choice. He’d never had a choice really, but tonight his title was on the line.

“All the way from eastern Montana, riding the champion bull Doc Holiday . . . ,” the announcer droned on.

Some men prayed before they got on a bull. Rafe had known plenty of cowboys to pray afterward, stretched out on the ground
as a furious animal tried to trample their brains. But not Rafe. He hadn’t prayed since . . . well, what good did it do to pray to a God who had turned His back on those who needed Him? No, worse. God had responded to Rafe’s desperate prayers with breath-stopping brutality. Yes, the Almighty had ripped his life out from under his feet, much like his brother, Nick, had done to the steers in his roping tournaments. Rafe wouldn’t waste his breath.

Instead, Rafe found his strength in the anger that always seemed to whir inside him.

He snugged his hat down on his head and wrapped his free hand around the smooth top rail of the metal chute.

His sister, Stefanie, never understood why he rode. Couldn’t grasp the fact that sometimes it just needed to be him against animal. That when he rode the bull for those full eight seconds, he felt, just for a fraction of time, alive.

The king of the world.

Invincible.

And he’d never even tried to explain it to Nick. His big brother wouldn’t have a clue what it might feel like to always feel . . . less.

“Don’t ride tonight, Rafe.”

The voice crept up his spine as the bull shifted beneath him. He tightened his grip on the rail, took a deep breath, focused on the ride.

For you, Mom. This is for you.

Rafe nodded, and the chute opened.

The bull launched into the ring, and everything went silent as the world closed in around him. Heat seared his wrist, his arms, his legs, as the animal twisted. Rafe fought to keep his arm up as the bull threw him forward dangerously close to those killer horns.
He barely missed cracking his nose on bone or lowering his hand for protection. The animal threw him again, and Rafe stiffened his arm, realigned his spur position, digging in.

Doc writhed, snorting, throwing back his head. Rafe’s grip jarred, and pain spiked up his arm, but he kept his seat.
C’mon, bull, fight me.

He’d not only have to stay on the bull, but Doc would need to give him a good ride to keep Rafe ahead of a feisty cowboy from Brazil. The two-man judging seemed to be favoring the international riders tonight—Aussies and Brazilians and Mexicans.

The bull seemed to hear him and stretched out into the air, landing with a jerk that rattled Rafe’s teeth.

Suddenly, as if washed with cold water, Rafe heard the roar of the crowd.

The bull jerked his head, and his hindquarters changed direction.

Right then Rafe knew.

The bull had won.

Rafe tightened his spurs, but he could feel himself sliding. His bicep spasmed.

The bull bucked again.

And then he was off. Only not quite. Bound up by the bull rope, the rounded cow bell thrashing against him, Rafe flopped like a rag doll, fighting to free his hand as the bull flipped him.

The screams from the crowd branded him, made him wince. A hung-up bull rider terrified a crowd as they watched bones break, their admiration morphing to pity in a split second.

Manuel blurred past Rafe as the bull took him around and around. Something tore, probably his rotator cuff or his shoulder dislocating from the socket, and pain blinded him. For sure he’d
broken at least one finger. Hopefully he wouldn’t hit his head or snap a c-bone in his neck.

He thrashed again at the rope.
Please.

He snared it. And just like that he fell free. He landed in the dirt, dazed. He barely managed to cover his head as the bull’s lethal hooves landed beside him.

He had to find his feet. But the wind had left him, and darkness edged his sight.

“Rafe!” He heard Manuel’s voice, felt hands grab his vest.

He looked up, past Manuel’s dark expression, and in that moment everything went quiet, turned black and white. Then the voice.
“Don’t ride tonight, Rafe.”

And, as he saw the bull’s hooves crashing down over him, he knew Fear had spoken the truth.

Tonight someone would die.