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  JANET DAILEY

  WHIRLWIND

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  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Revocable Trust Created by Jimmy Dean Dailey and Mary Sue Dailey Dated December 22, 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2020935628

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2735-0

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: September 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2741-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2741-X (ebook)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kingman, Arizona

  Summer

  LEXIE CHAMPION PULLED OFF HER SUNGLASSES, WIPED THE LENSES on the hem of her rumpled denim shirt, and slipped them into her pocket. Her eyes were gritty from the dusty desert wind that swept across the rodeo grounds, picking up the odors of manure, barbecue, popcorn, tobacco smoke, and diesel fumes—a mélange that, to Lexie, was as familiar as any air she’d ever breathed.

  From the midway beyond the bleachers, her ears caught the music of a carousel. It blended with the bawl of cattle and the blare of the rodeo announcer’s voice as the rodeo’s opening ceremony began.

  They’d driven most of the night to get here—she and the foreman, Ruben Diego, with four bucking bulls in the long gooseneck trailer. They’d arrived at the Mohave County Fairgrounds late last night and loosed the bulls down the chute into one of the holding pens. After giving their charges water and bull chow in rubber feed tubs, the two of them had crashed across the front and back seats of the heavy-duty pickup for a few hours of sleep.

  Now it was late in the day. The strains of the national anthem from the arena told her that the Kingsmen Pro Rodeo, was about to get underway. The bull riding event would be last on the two-hour program. Before then, there should be time to relax, get some barbecue, maybe even change the clothes she’d driven and slept in. But Lexie was too wired to rest. All she wanted was to be right here, with her bulls. After the threatening message she’d received last week, she needed to know that the precious animals were safe.

  Ruben had gone off to the midway for food and sodas. She’d told him there was no need to bring her anything, but he probably would. Ruben, a full-blooded member of the Tohono O’odham tribe, might be an employee of the Alamo Canyon Ranch, but he treated Lexie and her sister Tess as if they were his own daughters.

  Alone for the moment, she leaned against the six-foot portable steel fence, resting a boot on one of the lower rungs as she gazed across the complex of pens and gates. Here the rodeo bulls, trucked in by stock contractors like the Champion family, waited to be herded through the maze of chutes, rigged with a flank strap and bull rope, mounted, and set loose to buck.

  Until the instant a rider’s weight settled onto their backs, most of the animals were calm. They were bred and raised to do one job—buck that annoying cowboy off into the dust. They knew what to expect and what to do. But at up to a ton in weight, with the agility of star athletes, they were amazingly powerful, incredibly dangerous. And in the arena, at any adrenaline-charged moment, the most amiable bull could turn murderous.

  Nobody knew that better than Lexie.

  Her thoughts flew back to the cryptic note she’d found tucked beneath the truck’s windshield when she’d driven into Ajo for groceries last week. Written in crude block letters on a page torn from a yellow pad, it had been there when she’d come out of the store. Its simple message had sent a chill up her spine.

  YOUR FAMILY OWES ME. IT’S PAYBACK TIME.

  Even the memory made her shiver. Had the message been a prank? Her first impulse had been to scan the parking lot for someone who might have left it. But she’d seen no one, not even a familiar vehicle. Impulsively, she’d crumpled the page and tossed it into a trash receptacle. If anybody was watching, she wanted them to know she wasn’t scared.

  Later, after realizing she’d destroyed evidence, Lexie had regretted the act. But nothing could erase the image of that message from her mind—the letters pressed hard into the yellow paper, as if in pure hatred. Why did this person think her family owed him—or her? And what did they mean by payback?

  She’d told no one yet. Not Tess or their stepmother, Callie; not even Ruben. Why cause worry over what was bound to be an empty threat? But she wasn’t about to leave her bulls if there was any chance someone might harm them.

  “Well, lookee here! Howdy, honey!” The slurring voice made Lexie jump. The cowhand who’d crept up behind her was dirty, unshaven, and, as her late father would’ve said, as big as a barn door. His clothes and breath reeked of cheap whiskey.

  “You’re a purty little thing with that long yellow hair.” He loomed over her. “I was thinkin’ maybe you’re one o’ them buckle bunnies. I got a buckle right here if you want to see it.” His dirty hand tugged at the ordinary Western-style belt buckle and unfastened it. “You’ll like what I got underneath it even better.”

  Until now, Lexie had merely been annoyed. She’d dealt with drunks at other rodeos. But now a cold fear crept over her. She was alone out here, where nobody could hear her scream over the sounds of the rodeo. The man had her backed against the fence, and he was big enough to easily overpower her. There was a pistol under the front seat of the truck, but it was parked in the lot reserved for rigs, too far away to be of any use.

  She glared up at the big man, trying not to show fear. “I’m not a buckle bunny,” she said. “And you’re drunk. I don’t like drunks. Neither does my boyfriend. If you’re smart, you’ll leave before he gets back here.”

  The boyfriend part was a lie, but it was the only defense she had. Unfortunately, the way the man’s yellow-toothed grin widened told her it wasn’t enough. She’d told Ruben to take his time getting back; but even if he were to show up now, the 1
50-pound foreman was pushing sixty. Without a weapon, he’d be no match for the hulking brute, and there was no one else in sight. Lexie was on her own.

  Crouching against the steel fence, she prepared to defend herself. The big man was staggering drunk and appeared slow. A strike in a vital spot—his groin or his eyes—might disable him long enough for her to get away.

  “C’mon, honey. You’ll like it once we git started.” He lunged for her, the move fast but awkward. Lexie had been poised to spring at him, boots kicking, fingers clawing, but her instincts took over. She dodged to one side as he lurched forward, stumbled over his own feet and crashed full force into the tubular steel rails of the fence. Stunned, he grunted and staggered backward, blood flowing from his nose. His legs folded beneath him as he collapsed in the dust.

  As the man curled onto his side, moaning and cradling his bloodied nose, Lexie whipped out her cell phone. She didn’t have the number for fairground security, but a 9-1-1 call should get some kind of help.

  She was about to punch in the number when, from a short distance behind her, came the sound of . . . clapping.

  Startled, she turned to see the rangy figure of a man striding toward her from around the far end of the fence. Moving fast, he came within speaking distance. “That was some show. Remind me never to tangle with Miss Lexie Champion.”

  It startled her again, hearing her name. But she wasn’t about to lower her guard. “I could’ve used some help,” she said, glaring up at him. He was a shade under six feet tall, compactly muscled, and dressed in weathered cowboy clothes. The only distinguishing feature of his outfit was the silver PBR prize buckle that fastened his belt. The man was a bull rider, evidently a good one, and he looked the part.

  His grin widened. “If I’d shown up thirty seconds sooner, I’d have decked the bastard for you. But by the time I saw you, there was no need. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.” He swept off his battered Resistol hat and extended a hand. “Shane Tully. I took a chance on finding you here. It looks like I arrived just in time. If that jerk hadn’t fallen against the fence, you’d have needed some help.”

  Lexie accepted the confident handshake. His palm was cool against her own, the skin as tough as boot leather. Shane Tully. The name rang a bell in her memory, albeit a faint one. He was a regular on the PBR circuit, his rank just moving into the top twenty. This year he was a serious contender for the finals in Las Vegas.

  The man on the ground moaned and stirred. “Broke my friggin’ nose,” he muttered. “Need help . . .”

  “Let’s get you on your feet, pal.” Handing Lexie his hat, Tully crouched behind him and worked his hands under the big man’s arms. Some pushing and lifting got the drunk upright. Tully took a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket and laid it on the man’s bleeding nose. “Keep it,” he said. “This’ll teach you not to make unwelcome advances to ladies. There’s a first-aid station on the midway, by the Ferris wheel. Can you make it that far on your own, or should we call security?”

  The man swore under his breath and shuffled off, one hand clutching the handkerchief to his nose. Lexie kept her eyes on him until he’d gained a safe distance. Only then did she turn to face the bull rider.

  She knew he probably wasn’t here to compete. This rodeo was sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, or PRCA. The cowboys coming here would compete in bronc riding, calf roping, and other events including bull riding. In 1992, the leading bull riders had broken away from the PRCA and formed their own elite organization, the Professional Bull Riders, or PBR. Only the best could compete in their hugely popular events around the country. Membership, for both riders and bucking bulls, was by invitation.

  Which might have something to do with the reason Shane Tully had come to find her.

  “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here, Mr. Tully,” she said, handing him the hat.

  “It’s Shane, and I can’t say you’ve given me much of a chance.”

  He smiled with his mouth. His features struck Lexie as more rugged than handsome—deep-set brown eyes, a long jaw ending in a square chin, and a scar, like a thin slash with two stitch marks, running down his left cheek.

  He had the look of a man who’d been through some rough times, but Lexie guessed that he wasn’t much older than twenty-five or twenty-six. With a few notable exceptions, bull riding was a young man’s sport. Older bodies couldn’t take the punishment.

  “I’m giving you a chance to tell me now.” She folded her arms, waiting.

  His gaze flickered past her, into the holding pen where the four bulls milled like star athletes loosening up for the big game. Then his eyes, warmer now with flecks of copper, met hers again. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said, “and I thought I’d stop by and check out your bull, see how he bucks—maybe give myself an edge if I happen to draw him later.”

  Lexie didn’t have to ask which bull he was talking about. That would be Whirlwind, the rankest bull the Alamo Canyon Ranch had ever produced—the bull that, after twenty-three times out of the chute, had yet to be ridden to the eight-second whistle—the bull that had just been selected to join the PBR circuit.

  * * *

  “So let’s see you pick him out of the lineup.”

  Lexie Champion challenged Shane with her words, her voice, and her no-nonsense expression. She was pretty without being a glamour girl—lean and tanned, with cornflower eyes and sun-streaked blond hair, swept back into a single braid. Shane liked her looks, and he enjoyed a challenge. It might be interesting to see how far around the bases he could get with her. But one thing at a time. Right now, he was here to check out a bull for his boss and, if the animal looked good, to pass on an offer.

  He’d done his homework, but he stalled on purpose, taking his time as he studied the four bulls in the sawdust-floored holding pen. They were fine animals—descended, like all rodeo bulls, from Brahma and longhorn crosses, to produce a distinct breed—the American Bucking Bull—with massive bodies and the typical hump above the shoulders. Matching yellow I.D. tags hung from their ears. Their horns had been blunted at the ends to lessen any injury to the rider. But Shane knew firsthand how much damage even blunted horns could do.

  One of the bulls was speckled white, one a deeper color, almost silver, with mottling around the neck and shoulders. One was a dark brindle, and one coal black except for a white streak down his face. For a dozen years, the Champion family had been breeding PRCA rodeo bulls. Their stock carried the bloodline of Oscar, the great bucking bull of the 1970’s who’d passed on his traits to his many descendants.

  When it came to bucking bulls, bloodline was everything—that’s what Brock Tolman, Shane’s boss and mentor, always said. That truth hit home as Shane studied the four superb animals. They were well-proportioned and in prime condition. But only one of them had that extra edge, the spark to kindle the fire of greatness.

  Even if he hadn’t seen the photographs, Shane could have picked Whirlwind from out of a hundred bulls. But he was playing a game with the uppity Miss Lexie Champion—and he was enjoying it.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Can you point him out?”

  “Care to make a wager?” he asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. Clearly, she wasn’t ready to trust him. “What kind of wager?”

  “How about this? There’s going to be a dirt dance in the arena after the rodeo tonight. If I guess right the first time, you’ll promise to go with me.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “That’s up to you. I could buy you dinner.”

  “Forget it. Either way, I’ll be too tired to dance or eat. And I’ll be busy after the rodeo, loading the bulls for the drive home.”

  “Then I’ll make it easy for you. If I can pick Whirlwind on the first guess, you’ll give me twenty minutes of your time—just to talk to you.”

  “And if you lose?”

  “Whatever you want. Your call.”

  “Fine. If you guess wrong, you can shovel out the
trailer before we load the bulls for the drive home.”

  Shane laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, lady.”

  A smile dimpled her cheek. “You said it was my call. So knock yourself out.”

  Shane made a show of studying the bulls, taking his time. “That black one’s a standout. He’s massive. Plenty of power. With that white blaze down his face, he reminds me of Chicken on a Chain. Ever see that monster bull buck? He was meaner than hell, both in and out of the arena.”

  “Only on TV, a few years ago. He was a powerhouse. So do you think the black one is Whirlwind?”

  “Nope.” Shane kept looking. “And the brindle—he’s sharp. Great conformation. But no, it’s not him either.”

  That left the white and gray bulls, their patterns similar, as if their hides had been randomly spattered with black paint. The larger, whiter, one—with a bit of fat on him—was chewing cud, swishing at a fly with his tail. The gray bull, slightly smaller but just as powerful, was alert and restless, ears pricking toward the sounds in the arena, legs shifting, dancing, almost catlike in their precision. His body, a mass of muscle as thick and solid as a tree trunk, strained against the gate, as if he couldn’t wait to get out there and buck.

  “Hello, Whirlwind,” Shane said, grinning as he pointed. “I can hardly wait to ride you.” And not just you, Shane thought, then gave himself a mental slap. He was out of line, even if it was only in his mind.

  “The clock is running on your twenty minutes,” Lexie said. So get talking.”

  Shane took a deep breath, feeling awkward as hell. “First of all, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your brother. I knew Jack—not well, but everybody was his friend. He was the best kind of cowboy and the best kind of man.”