Hatchet was digging his sharp spurs into Two Shots Down’s sides again. They were tightening the rope, but it had his balls. That wasn’t how they usually did it. He bucked in the chute again, rammed the front with his horns. Quickdraw’s gnarly brown and white bull was in the chute in front of him, and he kicked back hard. The metal clanged hard enough to rattle his brain.
Yeah, get ’em, Quickdraw.
Of course, his dad would show up when he made top three bulls. He didn’t care about Two Shots. Didn’t care at all. When was the last time he even talked to him? He got a birthday card on his eleventh birthday with five dollars in it. Meanwhile, Mom was left to support him on her own.
He rammed the gate again. He was going to kill Dodger.
Hatchet and his yes-men were yelling, and above him, Cheyenne was yelling right back. It was chaos in the chute. Feisty girl. His girl.
Hatchet was tightening his rope around his gloved hand now. So tight. Open the gate, open the gate, open the gate!
He slammed his head to the side and kicked up his back legs just to mess with Hatchett. This rider was good at quick changes in pace, but Two Shots had a plan for him. Two Shots always had a plan.
It’s me and you. That’s what Cheyenne had said. It’s me and you.
Blowing breath, he gave one last look through the metal bars to his father. This wouldn’t be about him anymore. Not after tonight.
Now he would buck for Cheyenne.
“Ready?” the gateman called from his position on the other side of the gate, legs splayed in the arena dirt, fear in his eyes, hands on the rope that would open Two Shots’ gate and release the monster.
On his back, Two Shots could feel it—Hatchet’s nod.
“Buck him!” Cheyenne screamed.
The gate swung open and, inside, Two Shots smiled.
Anything you want…
Chapter Eighteen
Cheyenne cheered at the top of her lungs as Two Shots Down exploded out of the gate. Arena dust went flying as his front hooves slammed onto the ground and his hips went into the air with a twist. His back hooves slammed backward and then blasted into the earth. Another explosion of dirt, and Cheyenne stood on the chute fence, cupped her hands to her mouth, and yelled, “Do it, Two Shots!”
Hatchet had a good seat, a good grip, was on balance, and she could see the determination in his eyes, but Two Shots was twisting violently with his movement. He kicked off the ground and went air born, and holy shit! Bulls could fly.
Higher and higher he went, and time dragged. Camera flashes were blinding all over the arena, and at the peak of his buck, he kicked and twisted the opposite way, landed hard on his front end. Hatchet pitched forward and, before he could recover, Two Shots was already kicking off the ground again. Hatchet was jerked sideways.
Cameras flashing, cameras flashing. This was the buck of his career. Two Shots was airborne again, this time lower in the air, but using his power to spin hard to the right. Hatchet was holding on for dear life, but his legs were barely over Two Shots’ back anymore. He was on his way down.
Milliseconds were ticking off.
Buck him, buck him, buck him!
Her heart was in her throat.
Two Shots slammed to the earth again in an explosion of dust, twisted hard, and Hatchet was jerked to the side before he could re-balance himself. He yelled as he went flying through the air.
Cheyenne couldn’t drag her eyes fast enough to the stopped clock hanging above the crowd. 4.2 seconds. The clock had stopped at 4.2.
She threw her hands in the air and yelled as loud as her heart wished. The crowd was going crazy with cheering and booing. The arena was deafening, the camera flashes blinding, and Two Shots was still bucking.
A man on a huge black horse charged up beside him and released the rope from his waist. He gave a few last bucks before he trotted around the arena, head held high and proud. As he passed where his father was leaning on the rail, he charged it at the last second and slammed into the gate, bending the metal and knocking his father backward. He looked furious, eyes solid black as he straightened his spine and glared at his son.
Two Shots backed up a few powerful steps, then dragged his hoof through the dirt, kicking it up in a cloud across his ribs.
Oh, God, he could get over that fence so easily. He could jump it. The high bucks had proved that, and his idiot father was challenging him. He could hurt everyone sitting around his dad just to get to him. He would to. She could tell the rage had him swollen with power. He would never forgive himself.
I’ll protect you quietly, just the same. You get in a spot? You call me by my real name. Just one word. Say the word, and I’ll stop whatever is happening.
The bull was tensed, the cowboy on the black horse was speeding for him, rope swinging above his head. Another cowboy was right behind him, also racing for Two Shots. Yep, they saw what she saw. The risk. The fury.
Say the word, and I’ll stop whatever is happening.
Heart hammering, she gripped the railing she was sitting on and screamed, “Dalton!”
His head was down, ready to go right through that fence, but Two Shots snorted and jerked his head to her. The second their eyes locked, she knew it would be okay. There was understanding there. “Don’t,” she murmured, shaking her head. “He’s not worth it.”
She didn’t know how good a bull shifter’s hearing was, or if he could hear her over the roar of the crowed. Around the echo of the commentators announcing Two Shots’ score. Around the screams of panic from the spectators fleeing the seats around Denim Dodger. But he understood.
He jerked at the last second, and the rope loop missed his head by an inch. He bolted away and did his lap. Fear and excitement trilled through the air, and she smiled at her Two Shots. He was magnificent.
Something flickered in the center of the arena, and she squinted as a familiar form came into focus. “Tarik?” she whispered to herself.
She scrambled down the fencing into the chute, took a tentative step out of the open gate. “Tarik?” she asked louder as he stood still in the middle, just staring at her. He was wearing the clothes he’d died in. Same blue plaid shirt, same black cowboy hat, same Wranglers, same dirt-covered boots, same protective riding vest.
He couldn’t be here. Couldn’t be.
The crowd was screaming something. Screaming, but she couldn’t understand the words over the white noise roaring in her ears.
Beside her, Quickdraw was slamming against the gate, and down the chutes, Dead of Winter was doing the same.
A massive form trotted in front of her, so close she could feel the power roiling off of Two Shots.
She should be scared, but she wasn’t. He was hers and she was his. He wouldn’t hurt her. He paced in front of her, eyes on Tarik.
Tarik looked from Two Shots Down to Cheyenne. “I’m sorry.”
She could hear it so clearly in her head—his apology.
Her face crumpled, and her eyes burned with tears. “It’s okay.” She swallowed hard and glanced at Two Shots who was trotting protectively back and forth in front of her. “I’m okay.”
When Tarik nodded, Two Shots charged him. Ran straight for him, and Cheyenne gasped as he went right through the ghost, tossing his head.
Tarik faded in a cloud of blue on contact and then disappeared like he’d never existed there at all.