Cheyenne stood there stunned, her own words ringing through her head.
Even she’d been able to hear the truth in her tone.
She really was okay.
Chapter Nineteen
Two Shots bolted out of the bathroom, still tugging his black T-shirt over his head. There were only two bulls to buck between him and Quickdraw, and he wanted to see how he and Dead did.
That, and he had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach being separated from Cheyenne right now. She’d seen Tarik. She’d gone white as a sheet and been staring right at the ghost in the middle of the arena. He had to know she was all right.
He jogged down the dirty alley toward the chutes. He could see her up behind Quickdraw’s chute. She’d been there making sure no one fucked with him before he bucked. God, he loved her. She was this caring, beautiful woman, but a savage guard dog to anyone who messed with them.
She would’ve made one helluva shifter.
She tossed a glance over her shoulder, worry in her soft brown eyes, but when her gaze landed on him, her whole face lit up with relief.
He did that to a woman. Him. Gnarly, gritty, foul-mouthed, punch-first-ask-questions-later bull shifter about seven levels below her league, but she was looking at him like he hung the moon. He didn’t know what he’d done in his past lives to deserve a girl like her, but he was gonna make sure he earned her care in this life, too.
“Hey, Dalton.”
Two Shots Down skidded to a stop at the sound of his dad’s raspy voice. He’d never forgotten what it sounded like.
“Looks like he’s about ready to go…” The commentator announced. “Quickdraw Slow Burn versus the one and only Roddy Brander!”
Two Shots huffed out a breath and turned slowly, his fists clenched at his side. “Only friends and family call me Dalton, and you ain’t either. You can call me Two Shots if you ever have cause to call me anything.”
“Now, come on, son—”
“I’m not your son. My dad is sitting by the TV with my mom right now. He’s doing the same thing they’ve done my whole career. Wearin’ their lucky Team Two shirts. He’s probably got his arm thrown around her, he’s made her all her favorite foods, and he’s probably refilling her glass of red wine right now because she gets hella nervous when I buck or when someone is close to taking my rank. My dad’s watching the other bulls right now and writing down our scores on a piece of paper, wishing to hell he could afford to take my mom to every event I bucked in. My dad’s name is Brick Stevens, not Denim Dodger. You know why? Because any man can make a baby and call himself a dad, but he ain’t. The man isn’t a dad until he’s a good one. Until he earns that name. You didn’t earn it. Brick did. He took me in when I was a little shit, spinning out of control, managing a growing bull in me. And you know what he did? He treated my momma good. He taught me how to treat a mate good. He showed me how to be a man, and he helped train the monster you put in me,” Two shots gritted out, pounding his fist against his chest twice. “A human man came in and taught me how to be a good bull shifter. Don’t that beat all? That’s a dad.”
Denim clenched his teeth and ran his hands through his graying hair, shook his head and growled out, “It was a long time ago.”
“Not long enough.” Two Shots tipped an imaginary hat. “You have a good day, stranger.”
“I’m proud of you,” Denim called after him.
Without turning around, Two Shots said, “You haven’t talked to me in two decades. You’re only proud of me because you think I’m worth a damn now. Go get your attention somewhere else.” Two Shots turned and walked backward a few steps so Denim could see the honesty in his eyes when he said, “Next time you approach me, I’ll lay you the fuck out. That’s your only warning.”
Past behind him…future ahead of him. He left Denim there looking after him in a dirt alleyway and made his way toward the woman who had stood on the fence for him in more ways than one.
Her cheeks were all rosy and she was celebrating, cheering her head off. She saw him and came barreling at him. “Oh, my God! Did you see it on the big screen? Did you see Quickdraw?” He scooped her up, the little cannonball, before she barreled them both over.
“Nah, I had something to take care of.”
Her frown was instant, drawing down her dark, delicate eyebrows. “Someone was messing with you? A rider?” She gasped. “Your dad? I’ll kill him. I’ll string him up by his boots and—”
He chuckled and kissed her fast to bring back her smile. And the answering grin as she slowly opened her eyes and looked up at him loosened something in his soul. Who cared about his dad and whatever intentions he had? He was ghost of his past, just like Tarik. Everything he needed was right here. “Come on, lil Pitbull.” He grabbed her hand and jogged with her to the elevated platform behind the chutes so they could see Quickdraw’s score when it came up. The massive brown and white bull was the titan of the arena, charging at all the bull fighters and cowboys on horseback. Monster.
Two Shots snorted when he slammed into a barrel with a bull fighter tucked into it. The thing went sailing and rolled all the way to the other side of the arena to the cheers of the crowd. Quickdraw sure knew how to put on a show. He always tried to fight everyone after a buck. And before a buck. Even when he was supposed to just be relaxing.
Two Shots kinda liked that about him, but he wouldn’t ever say that out loud.
Two cowboys on big barrel-chested horses had to rope Quickdraw’s neck and drag him through the gates so the next bull could buck.
“Up next is one of them South Dakota bulls. You know, we haven’t met a bull shifter out of South Dakota that hasn’t made a name for himself in this circuit. That state just produces tough-as-leather, power-house buckers,” one of the commentators announced.
“Buck yeah, it does!” the other joined in. “Now that we’re starting to get a little more interested in these shifters, we’re being handed new information. This bull is a rank one to watch with a career record of 372 attempts and only twelve eight-second rides.”
“Twelve?” the other asked.
“Twelve. A dozen. Hailing from a trailer park right outside of Deadwood, Dead of Winter is the son of a half Brahman, half Texas Longhorn bull shifter, and his mother is…wait for it…”
“What, Randy? His mother is what?”
“A human! That’s right ladies and gents! This bull is only half shifter, but he’s all brawn.”
“What in the hell?” Two Shots murmured under his breath.
“But he doesn’t like humans,” Cheyenne said, looking just as shocked as he felt.
He helped her up on the platform and gripped the top metal rail of Dead’s chute. He was still as a statue. Mayday. Oh, he was hurting. Two Shots could smell the pain wafting from him. It made the air all bitter tasting.
“Keep us together,” Cheyenne told him softly. “You hear me?”
Dead of Winter was staring straight ahead as Jack Tethers was adjusting himself on his back. The flankmen needed more space to work the rope around his waist, but Dead wasn’t fighting at all. Shit.
“Hey!” Two Shots yelled over the side.