And your job fighting bulls is so much safer?

Hank blinked. It’d been a long time since he’d thought of Celia’s old argument. Did she resent them for making her quit the sport? Especially after Lainie agreed that they treated her like a child?

The barrel racers were milling about on their horses. Hank limbered up as he watched. He half heard the announcement of the last competitor, CeCe Murray from outside Rawlins, Wyoming. The home-state girl raced to the best time and finished in first place with a damned impressive ride.

As the barrels were pulled, Hank, Strand, and Peck waited across the arena from the chutes for their names to be called. National honors and winning bullfighting competitions were touted as each bullfighter made his way across the dirt. When the announcer boomed the standard, “Who’s ready to see some bull ridin’?” that same lackluster crowd went wild.

Hank was oblivious to everything but the rider on the back of the bull. Not many of them lasted. One rider had gotten hung up in the rope and was taken for a ride before Hank freed the wrap.

Kyle was up next. He’d drawn White Lightning Kiss, a Charolais /Brahman cross with a reputation for trying to pulverize riders into meat. According to the stats, White Lightning Kiss had been ridden only two times on thirty-two outs. Both those rides had scored ninety-three points.

Come on, buddy. Stay on.

After a last-minute adjustment on the bull’s back, Kyle nodded to the gatekeeper. Hank was right there. Close enough to the rider to offer immediate assistance if need be; far enough away from the bull to let the ride progress unimpeded. He didn’t watch the ride as much as think what could go wrong with it.

Luckily, nothing did. Kyle hung on for the full eight seconds. After the buzzer sounded, Kyle released his rope. He sailed into the air and landed on his hands and knees before booking it to the fence.

The boot stamping and clapping signaled the spectators’ opinion of Kyle’s ride. The announcers filled the time waiting for the judge’s decision. Finally the announcement came. “Ladies and gentlemen, how about a . . . ninety-one?”

Whistles, more clapping.

“Our leader from last night proved it ain’t no fluke he’s on the top of the board. Only eight riders to go. Let’s see if the Wyoming cowboy can hang on to the top spot.”

The rest of the rides went quickly as only one guy managed to cover his bull. Folks began to leave—which boggled Hank’s mind. Didn’t matter where the rodeo was held, few spectators stuck around for the award ceremony. Some people claimed handing out the money was less interesting than a rodeo participant getting handed his ass. But Hank believed that since most folks in attendance were ranchers, they just wanted to get on home. Since Kyle had finished big, Hank hung around for the presentations.

Bareback and saddle bronc winners were announced first. Kyle bumped fists with a guy named Breck. Then team roping, tie-down roping, and steer wrestling. Barrel racing and bull riding winners were named last, in rapid succession.

The strangest thing happened when CeCe Murray walked up to claim her Black Hills Gold belt buckle and her check. Kyle went rigid, then grabbed the woman by the arm and hauled her up to the tips of her ropers.

Shit.

The Breck guy intervened long enough for Kyle to get his buckle. Afterward Kyle continued to berate the poor woman with the misfortune of standing next to him in the awards line.

Hank leaped the fence and raced across the arena to calm Kyle down. But when he arrived, he understood Kyle’s behavior. He barked the first thing that popped into his head: “Jesus Christ, Celia. What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Holy f**king shit . . . this tarted-up woman was his baby sister? His plain-Jane baby sister? Who wore castoff men’s flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and the same damn ugly pair of work boots every damn day? Who was this beauty with the perfectly made-up face? The artfully braided hair? The skintight shirt that shimmered with beads and metallic thread and showed off her cle**age? Not to mention the rainbow-colored rhinestone belt and painted-on jeans that highlighted the curve of her hips? She was an absolute f**king knockout.

And he’d knock out any man who looked at her. Lay him out cold. His eyes scanned the other winners, but the only guy paying attention to the outburst was Breck. His gaze was firmly glued on Celia’s ass.

Hank stepped forward, between Breck and his sister’s butt. “What the f**k you looking at?”

“Her.” Breck’s arms stayed crossed over his chest. “ ’Cause, hot damn, is she ever mighty fine. She yours?”

“Yes, she’s mine; she’s my f**kin’ sister, ass**le.”

“Hank, knock it off,” Kyle snapped. “Breck, thanks for sticking around, but we’ve got this under control.”

Breck sidestepped Kyle, addressing Celia. “Damn fine ridin’ tonight, sugar pie. Any time you wanna get a beer or something, let me know.”

“How about right now?” Celia asked through clenched teeth.

He laughed. “Oh, I like to flirt with danger, believe me, but I ain’t getting in the middle of this. Later.” Breck winked at Celia and ambled off.

“I really like your friends, Kyle,” Celia cooed.

“You didn’t answer Hank,” Kyle reminded her sharply. “What in God’s name are you doin’ competing in barrel racing? Far as I know, sugar pie, you were banned for life from this activity.”

“Not by any official organization, just my overprotective brothers. When I turned eighteen I made my own decision about what I wanted to do with my life and my time.” Her defiant chin kicked up a notch. “I get that you’re surprised—”