Page 23

There was a little bull rider who was looking hard, but Dalton didn’t give him the time of day. In fact, every so often, when he looked, those eyes were on him.

That warmed him in the pit of his belly, and he stopped with one beer, because he didn’t need alcohol to make him stupid. More stupid. Whatever.

The last thing the kid needed was a clumsy drunk cowboy groping the hell out of—

A wildly revving engine sounded, and then a shot rang out, the sound splitting the air. The cowboys scattered, hitting the dirt. Dalton ran for his trailer, ducked into the little door.

Tank turned, trying to make out the danger. He wasn’t scared of an asshole with a truck.

Dalton popped out through the door with a shotgun in hand, looking like an Old West sheriff. He jacked the round into the chamber, and Tank shouted as loud as he could.

“Stay down!”

“Boy! White Ford!” Denver was armed too, eyes still sharp as eagles.

Good.

Tank dove out of the way as the big truck came tearing through, taking out the grill. Shit and Shinola. The fool was gonna blow them all up.

Dalton took aim and blew the windshield out of the truck, and then he cocked the shotgun again.

The squeal of the truck turning sounded huge, but Tank was up and running, ready to jump in the back.

“I called 911!” He wasn’t sure who screamed that, but he knew who blew out one of the truck’s back tires.

“Tank, get your ass out of the way!” Denver shouted. “There’s three of them! Where are my ropers?”

Tank did what he was told. A bullfighter had to trust his arena boss.

The guys started to run, and Dustin traded Dalton shotgun for rope. That loop flew, the action natural as breathing, and the driver went down, held tight as a steer in a roping event.

Tank took one of the guys down with a haymaker. Might as well, since the guy was running by like a startled chicken.

“Two down, one to go.” Dustin stepped up and popped number three with a shot to the chin with the stock. Bang.

“Someone call the damn cops,” Denver snapped.

“Ben did it, Daddy.” Deb hogtied the driver, the gal still about as pale as milk. Lord love a cowgirl.

“Good man. Sound off. Anyone hurt?”

Tank helped tie off the one he’d taken down, then began moving through the crowd, checking for injuries.

“Boss! Boss, Little Sammy is hit!”

Tank looked up, expecting Denver to go running, but it was Dalton who moved fast, bootheels slamming on the dust.

“Someone get a damned first aid kit!” Dalton snarled.

Tank ran to Dalton’s trailer, knowing every Jakoby kept one of those in the bathroom.

He zipped through and dug it out from under the sink. He got back out, barely catching sight of Dustin kicking the shit out of the asshole on the ground. Damn, those cops best hurry or there was fixin’ to be some cowboy justice.

Sirens sounded, and he sprinted to Dalton to hand over the kit. “He bad?”

“Just a graze on his arm. He’ll live, right?”

The eighteen-year-old was green around the gills, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”