Cowgirl Up by Deirdre O'Dare
www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/CowgirlUp.html
Blurb:
Tough tomboy Tabitha Conrad rides bulls and bareback broncs like a champ. In only her second rodeo season, she’s headed for the finals. An over-protective older brother and his buddy sometimes take care of her a little too well. She’s having trouble living up to the bold, bawdy reputation most cowgirls enjoy.
Excerpt:
Tab stood wide-legged, one booted foot braced on each side of the chute. The black-brown back between her heels twitched as one of the other riders fished the end of her rope beneath the bull and poked it up to Tab's waiting hand. She grasped the end and slid it through the loop, drawing the rope tight. The bell gave a harsh clang as the bull shifted.
They called this one Big Trouble. He fit the name, more Brahma than Angus in spite of the dark color of his loose hide. He moved restively, knowing, just as she did, what came next. Slowly she eased down until her butt met the wide back. She gripped the rope tightly with her rosined glove and nodded. As ready as I'm gonna be.
"Cowgirl up," someone said.
She listened with half an ear to the announcer's chatter, not believing most of it.
"Glue your eyeballs on chute six, ladies and gentlemen. Tab Conrad is about to make a grand entrance on Big Trouble. This little package of dynamite is a rider to watch, the new kid on the block with Super Glue in her Wranglers. A good ride today will have her in the top ten for the year, and a good ride is what you're likely to see."
Big Trouble's normal pattern had him clear the chute with one prodigious leap before he went into a hard, tight spin. Only trouble was, he didn't always do the normal thing. She had to be ready for normal, but also for any other trick he might try. The gate swung wide. With a grunting roar, the bull erupted out of the chute. He came down hard on his forefeet, swinging massive hindquarters in a wide arc that had his spine twisting like a wet hemp rope.
Tab rocked with his motions, gripping with her upper thighs, while she managed to inscribe the required arcs with her spurs, shoulder to flank and back again. She waved her free hand high, so the judge could see she wasn't grabbing anything. Even through her heavy leather glove, the rope bit into her palm as she gripped, holding tight to the only thing between her and a wild flight to the arena's muddy surface.
Her hat went flying, a pink Frisbee spinning away on the momentum of the bull's next jump. He made four more of them before he went into his trademark spin. Gaze fixed on the flexing muscles in his massive neck and shoulders, Tab forecast his actions instants before he moved.
When he launched into the spin, she was ready, leaning into it just enough to fight the drag of centrifugal force. Each time his forelegs hit the ground, the blow ricocheted upward through her body. It felt like riding a jack hammer. Her butt and thighs would be bruised tomorrow, even though she didn't really bounce. She bit down hard on the mouth guard, feeling her head jerk on her neck from the power of the bull's wild leaps.
The ride took forever. At last, as if from a great distance, she heard the whistle. She let her free arm drop, grabbing the rope with her second hand, too. It was time to bail off, but where was anyone to decoy him away?
Then she remembered. Even with his blunted horns, the black bull was dangerous. Half the clowns were scared of him. He'd even bowled over a couple of horses when some of the ropers and arena men had tried to chivvy him out of the way a couple of rodeos ago. He was one tough customer.
I'm on my own. Wait, no, not quite. There's Wes.
Baggy pants flapping, the lanky clown darted in front of the bull, waved an oversized bandana in front of the beast then dodged away. Lowering his massive head, Big Trouble eyed the darting man. The bull paused for an instant, pawed the ground with one huge hoof, slinging dirt behind him.
She read his actions as her signal to break free. She eased her grip, feeling the rope slide through first her hand and then the loop, dragged by the weight of the bell. When it dropped, her one handle was gone. She pushed down hard with both hands on the bull's hump to launch clear.
With Trouble's next leap, she sailed off, briefly floating, only to fall hard on the one patch of arena the plow gang had missed. Feels like cement or maybe cast iron. Breath rushed out of her in a whoosh. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw a bright flash as Wes zigzagged past, drawing the bull's attention from her until she could get up. Gasping and gagging, she scrambled in a desperate effort to get her feet under her.
Fighting nausea and a million aches, she staggered upright to make a stumbling dash for the nearest side of the arena. The crowd's roaring applause reached her, a boosting wave of enthusiasm. She'd made a good ride and she knew it, but right now she just wanted to sit on something still, preferably soft. She needed a minute to pull herself together.
Willing hands helped her through the rails. She sank onto the end of a bleacher, blinking back a reddish haze that wanted to swallow her whole.
"Ms. Conrad, care to comment on your ride?"
She glanced up at the voice, wanting to growl a curse. Why couldn't the confounded reporters leave her be? There were a few other women competing in the riding events now. It wasn't as if she was the first or the only one. She might be the smallest and the youngest, but that didn't mean diddly squat to the bulls and broncs. So why did it matter to anyone else?
Hell, I'm just a straggly little tomboy, not a gorgeous chick like most of the barrel racers, the rodeo queens. What makes me newsworthy, for God's sake? She caught her breath enough to speak. "I've done better a few times, but he didn't dump me. I'm the first one at this rodeo to ride him to the whistle. See what the judges say."
Gid came up to her then, frowning like a thunder cloud. He stepped between her and the reporters, the microphones. "G'wan, you vultures. Can't you see she's shook up?"
For once, her brother's protective attitude didn't bother her. He might scare off potential dates she wished he'd leave alone, but when he played guard dog with the reporters, she couldn't complain. As the newshounds backed away, he turned to her.
"You okay, Tabby? You hit mighty hard out there."
She nodded. The ache in her chest had eased as she caught her breath and the dizzy red cloud was fading fast. "Yeah, I'm all right. I just had to light on the one hard spot in the whole mucky arena is all. Trouble prob'ly planned it, the mean, ole bastard."
"You gave 'im one heck of a ride anyway. If I heard right, the judges scored you 82, 87 and 89. Not too shabby, kid."
By then the last rider had been dumped, not three jumps out of the chute. The arena cleared to prepare for the next event. Wiggling his lean body through the rails, Wes loped over to join them. Tab glanced up at him, seeing the gentleness in his eyes behind the garish grease paint on his angular face.
Lifting his floppy straw hat to swipe the sweat off his brow, he shook his head. "Had me worried, Little Bit. I thought you were going to drive into that ground like a fence post. Wasn't sure Trouble would follow me long enough to let you dig out. You oughta quit this crazy business, go home and have babies."
She summoned a glare. It was an old argument they had every time she rode, especially the bulls. Of course Wes had seen his dad and his big brother die in the arena, both killed by bulls. Those tragedies probably colored his thinking some, but he wouldn't hassle her if she was a boy. Not the way he did anyway.
Tab glowered at him. "You know there ain't no way in Hades I'm going home. Pa would have me in chains until he married me off to one of the ole widowers in his church. Anyway, you're in just as much danger out there playing picador, and you don't have a chance at the big purses."
He shrugged. "Ain't in it for the money, Little Bit. I've just gotta get bulls off a few more riders until the day I quit seeing Dad getting trampled and Todd gored."
The stark pain visible in his eyes for an instant was almost more than she could bear. She liked Wes–a lot. Everybody did. He was just an all-around nice guy, as well as one of Gid's best friends. If things were different, she could more than like him, but as long as he kept bugging her about riding, she didn't think they'd ever get together. Anyway, he was Gid's buddy. And she told the utter truth when she said she'd never go home.
Her dad was a hellfire ranting preacher in a little two-bit church down in the agricultural valley south of River Bend. He ranched on the side since preaching didn't pay too well. He also insisted his kids serve as living examples of everything he preached a person ought to be. That meant no dancing, no drinking, and no dating. Damn near no nothing–except work. Always plenty of work. When she turned eighteen, she'd lost no time leaving home.
Since big brother Gideon had chosen the rodeo circuit, she did the same. They'd both learned to ride taming half-wild horses and burros they caught out in the hills, chasing raggedy-assed cattle out of the mesquite thickets and doing the rest of the slave labor required to keep the ranch going while Pa wrote his sermons and counseled his parishioners. He managed to keep Ma pregnant about three-fourths of the time, too, so there were plenty more Conrad kids coming along to replace Gid and Tab.
She reckoned there would be more on the circuit, too, as soon as they turned eighteen. The twins'll be next. Let's see, gosh, they're sixteen now, going on seventeen.
Levi and Leah both took after Ma's side of the family. Ma had a good bit of Indian blood, and it showed. The twins were dark instead of blond, like her and Gid. She grinned. An ornery, sassy pair they are, too. Bet Pa's had to wear out quite a few straps to keep Levi in line. Maybe even a few on Leah.
"You coming, Tab?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure."
Gid's words recalled her to the present. She got to her feet, dusted off the seat of her pink jeans, then hurried after him and Wes. Both men were over six feet tall. Their long legs ate up the ground so fast she almost had to run to keep up. Sometimes she really hated being only five-four.
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