Wyoming Rodeo Rescue
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Carol Ross
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18,1K
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21
CHAPTER ONE
“LYING SNAKE,” Summer Davies whispered, the chill of betrayal spreading through her and turning her blood to ice. “This cannot be happening...” With her fingers numb and trembling, she tapped the play arrow on her phone’s display as if watching the video again would somehow change the outcome.
Later, much later, after the shock had subsided, Summer would marvel at how the entire calamity that followed could have been avoided if only she’d received the video at a different time. Seriously, at any other point during the day, things would have gone exponentially better. That morning, for example, before riding practice, when her back wasn’t screaming in pain, would have been ideal. But any time during would have been suitable because even though she wouldn’t have checked her phone until afterward, she would have had time to process, calm down, think and then devise a plan before she saw Braden. With a clearer head and her feet encased in sensible shoes, she wouldn’t have acted so rashly. Or, at least, not quite so...publicly.
Instead, she received the video via text message while standing in the foyer of Chauncey’s, one of Louisville’s chicest restaurants, waiting for the hostess to show her to the table where Braden was already seated. She’d been contemplating setting off to find him on her own, but part of Chauncey’s charm was the historic venue, a grand mansion chock-full of nooks and crannies and halls and stairs and balconies. He could be anywhere, and she was in no condition for a hike. Then again, she wasn’t thrilled about an evening out at all.
What she really wanted was to get off her feet, kick back with her tiny, perfectly imperfect terrier turned rescue dog, Nugget, and stream a few episodes of Baking Bad, her new favorite cooking show. But because Braden was already prickly about her bailing on their last two dates, she’d forged ahead. She’d only worn the three-inch heels because Braden had requested she show up tonight “to the nines,” his not-so-subtle way of reminding Summer to swap her riding gear for a dress. Since the shoes had been a gift he’d brought her from a recent trip to Milan—that she’d yet to wear—she knew the gesture would make him happy. She was sincerely regretting the impulsive attempt at relationship compromise.
It was slightly annoying how Braden felt the need to make such a wardrobe request at all. Sure, she might frequent the occasional social outing straight from practice. Mostly gatherings with fellow equestrians, though, and rarely anything important where she’d be “seen.” Braden, on the other hand, would never take the chance of being caught anywhere looking anything less than perfect. Then again, Braden liked being seen. Made a point of it, which, she had to admit, was a bonus when it came to landing—and keeping—the big-dollar sponsors.
That, along with his model-worthy looks, dashing charm and edge-of-reckless riding style, made him one of the most popular personalities in the world of professional equestrian sports. Everyone loved Braden Keene.
Summer, on the other hand, not so much. As her coach and friend Theo kindly put it, she didn’t have the patience for publicity or a natural flair for networking. She was embarrassingly unphotogenic; her focus, nerves and intensity translated through the lens as grumpy, snobby—or worse. Fortunately, her innate talent, hard work and devotion to her horse, Sacha, resulted in a consistently high ranking. She had to work at the rest. Thankfully, her biggest sponsors like Juniper Saddle & Leather, Bundy Jump Co. and Matilda Specialty Motorcoach were all very specific to her sport, where her performance mattered more than her persona.
This was why she and Braden were so good together. Being seen with Braden boosted Summer’s social cachet. While for Braden, being paired with Summer elevated the professional regard he received. They were a match made in Louisville, as her father, Roland Davies, liked to say. A concept that advertisers had noticed, too, and one that would secure her a comfortable existence for the next year while they publicly played out their engagement and subsequent wedding plans. A massive ad campaign was being designed around it. Just the notion of living so blatantly in the spotlight caused her chest to constrict to a lung-crushing degree, although Braden, Roland and her agent, Ingrid, kept reassuring her it would all be fine.
They weren’t even engaged yet, and speculation was already raging about their relationship. When was the wedding? Where would it be held? How big was the ring? What will the merging of two such powerful equine families do to the sport? Can you imagine what their stables are going to look like? Won’t their kids be cute?
Summer didn’t want to think about any of that right now, or for the next several weeks, for that matter. They’d agreed to put all wedding talk on hold until after the Meadows Cup next month. That’s when they were scheduled to “officially” announce their engagement and begin the photo shoots, appearances and filming. Even now, not thinking about it had her thinking, which sent her head spinning—a perfect example of why she needed to stay focused. This would be the most important competition of her life to date.
As teammates, Braden Keene and Summer Davies were predicted to place high. But Summer’s secret hope lay with the individual eventing title. A championship at Meadows would cement her standing in the international circuit. More prize money coupled with higher-dollar endorsements of her own were the key to her financial independence, something she absolutely needed to achieve. Not only for her sake, but for her father’s, too. That’s what she was thinking about when her phone chimed.
Expecting a text from an impatient Braden, she was surprised to see a number she didn’t recognize. The message read:
You deserve to know the truth. He’s not who you think he is.
Tension shot through her, her mind going straight to her father, to the issues he’d been having—another massive source of stress that had lately been taking a toll. Squinting at the blurry, frozen image of a man and woman on the screen, Summer quickly realized the man’s hair wasn’t nearly dark enough to be her dad’s. His was darker blond, thick and wavy, too. Like Braden’s.
Wait, was it Braden? One thing she was certain of: the woman was not her.
Curious now, she stepped outside to a discreet smoking patio shared by the lounge. No one was there, so she leaned against the wall and hit the play button.
Now she realized the man was indeed Braden. Shirtless and in the arms of a strange woman. No, that wasn’t accurate. He was the aggressor, for lack of a better term. The woman was in his arms. Not that she wasn’t amenable because her hands were all over him, too, threading through his hair, gripping his neck and finally settling around his shoulders until... They were equally in each other’s arms. Both...armed? She nearly chuckled, but the feeling passed quickly because soon they were both shirtless, too, which wasn’t at all funny. And then they were kissing and...
More. So much more. More than enough to get the idea of where things were headed. Finally, the video ended with a merciful, albeit predictable, cliff-hanger.
A knifelike spasm clenched her lower back, stealing her breath with its depth and intensity. Bending at the waist, she placed her hands on her knees and inhaled deeply until the worst of it passed. She straightened, steadying herself with one hand by gripping a concrete ashtray-planter-thing. And then, inexplicably, she watched the video again.
This time, she examined the footage more carefully, watching for signs that it was fake or that the man wasn’t truly Braden. The brief flash of his tattooed shoulder confirmed the worst as he’d gotten the tattoo shortly after they’d started dating. When it ended, she continued to stare numbly at the screen, struggling to land on an emotion—humiliation, disappointment, anger, despair...
Seconds passed until another text from the same number appeared:
I’m sorry. But I thought you should know before.
Summer glanced around, suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed. Was she being watched? What did the before refer to? Before what? This evening’s date? The Meadows Cup? Just the thought of receiving this video on the eve of a competition vaulted anger straight to the top of her tumbling heap of emotions.
A text from Braden followed a few seconds later:
Hey, beautiful. Where are you? I thought you’d already arrived. Are you OK? I miss you. I ordered that cheesy crab appetizer you like. But you have to promise not to eat it all because I want you looking extra hot for next weekend’s party. ;)
“Ha, ha, ha,” she cackled. “He misses me? Somehow, I do not believe that is true.” Not that it was at all funny. Nope, and the near-evil edge in her tone probably should have served as a warning that she needed to take some time to process what she’d seen. But it didn’t. Not even a little bit.
Stepping back inside the foyer, she was immediately accosted by the hostess.
“Oh, Ms. Davies, there you are! Thank goodness! Mr. Keene was getting concerned, and that had me worried. My name is Gwen. I’ll show you to your table. Right this way.” Without waiting for a response, the woman took off at a hurried clip.
Easy for her to do in her practical, comfortable ballet flats, Summer acknowledged as she followed, her own condition requiring a more measured pace and a dedicated effort not to limp.
“New shoes,” Summer explained when she caught up to Galloping Gwen, who’d stopped to wait for her at the first intersection.
“I understand! Isn’t that the worst?” she gushed, her face a mask of sympathy as she eyed the sparkly heels. “They are gorgeous, though.”
Gwen slowed her pace but kept tossing worried glances over her shoulder. Glances, Summer knew, that had everything to do with not disappointing Braden Keene and very little to do with Summer’s well-being. They trekked through the large dining area, down a long hall, up a set of stairs and onto a landing where they hung a left into the Emory Ballroom.
Summer couldn’t help but pause because the space was magnificent. Most of the entire wall opened on to a vast expanse of balcony with small tables skillfully arranged to provide privacy. Twinkle lights and the glow from tabletop candles evoked romance, as did the subtle strains of orchestral music emanating from well-placed speakers. Summer knew these were the best tables in the house, reserved weeks in advance.
Gwen herded her to the far corner on the balcony’s edge, which delivered a stunning view of the lake below. And yet, even with all of these clues, Summer still did not anticipate what was coming, distracted as she was by the cheating video looping through her brain.
Then suddenly, there he was, the star of the show. Braden. Picture-perfect in a black suit with an ice-blue tie that complemented the shade of his eyes. His dark blond hair was stylishly gel-ruffled, and when he caught sight of Summer, his face lit with an electric smile.
That smile. An alluring mix of sincerity, mischief and mystery, it consistently earned him admirers of every variety. The moneymaker, his agent dubbed it because it not only landed him sponsorships but also lucrative ads and magazine covers. Summer preferred the term rakish, often teasing him about both its appeal and its dark power.
Always courteous, the consummate gentleman, he stood as she approached the table.
“Summer.” Her name whooshed out with an eager, relieved breath. “There you are.” Glancing at the hostess, he cooed, “Thanks so much, Gwen. You’re an angel.” She departed with a blush and a brilliant smile.
“You look spectacular,” he said to Summer, dipping his head to brush a kiss to her cheek. Drawing back an inch, he added a whispered, “Thank you for dressing up for me. You won’t regret it. And the shoes, too. I’m... Wow.”
“Yeah,” Summer replied flatly and took a step back. “Huge mistake all the way around.”
“What?” A furrow appeared between his eyebrows but was quickly squelched when he grinned. “I know you don’t like heels, but trust me, your legs look fabulous. You can thank me later.”
“Doubtful. Can I please sit now? We need to talk.”
“Yes, we do need to talk,” he responded eagerly. “But, um... Hold on one more second, okay? Stay there.” He glanced over her shoulder, and if the circumstances hadn’t been what they were, she would have seen that for the signal that it was, too. So many missed hints and overlooked clues.
“Braden, I—”
“Summer,” he interrupted softly, the magic of his smile now aimed at her. “I love you. I think you’re the most incredible, talented, dedicated woman I’ve ever known...”
He went on, but Summer quit listening. It was too late. She’d missed her chance at avoiding an altercation because as he stood before her, expression radiating affection and tenderness, he looked so perfect. He looked like a man in love. When she knew it was all a lie. He was a lie.
A lying snake. Why did he think she needed to hear his lies, too? The video said it all.
It was all too much. Really, it would be too much for anyone to take, right? Okay, maybe not anyone, but Summer had certainly reached her breaking point.
“Braden—”
He dropped to one knee. “Summer Francesca Davies.”
Oh. No. He. Is. Not.
One arm swept forward, hand cradling a small blue velvet box.
But he was. And that’s when things went more than a little sideways.
“MOLLY!” LEVI BLACKWELL SHOUTED into the empty space of his office. “This cannot be happening,” he then muttered, rereading the email as if that would help. As if the words would somehow rearrange themselves and not spell disaster.
He tried again, “Molly? Are you still here?” As if she could help even if she was.
“Where else would I be?” Molly answered, gliding through the doorway of what she’d dubbed the “command center” of the Eagle Springs rodeo grounds. For a woman of seventy-four years, she could flat out move. And toss hay bales like a man half her age. Standing before him, she heaved a sigh that could rival his ten-year-old daughter Isla’s on the woe-is-me scale. “When you have me working overtime every single day.”
Usually, Levi found Molly’s antics entertaining, but he was currently too keyed up to remind her that her work was voluntary. And not only was she a volunteer, but she’d also invented her own job title and position as executive assistant and publicity supervisor. Not that he wasn’t grateful for her help every single day in the last couple of months since he’d taken on the project of rebooting the town’s iconic rodeo. Truthfully, he didn’t know how he’d have made it this far without her. And the notion that after all their hard work, it was now crashing down around them was unbearable.
Molly was one of his gran’s best friends, which was why she’d initially insinuated herself into this project. Years ago, his grandmother, Delaney Blackwell, or Denny as she was more commonly known, had been instrumental in establishing the rodeo. The annual event had helped earn Eagle Springs, Wyoming, its very own dot on the map. For decades, it had been a vital part of the town’s identity—one that had grown into a crucial slice of its economy.
All that was before a respiratory ailment had devastated the local equine population, contributing to the rodeo’s closure and ravaging Denny’s ranch, the Flying Spur, too. When this calamity of circumstances had left Gran short of cash, a loan against the property had proven the solution. Until she’d gotten sick.
As kidney disease wreaked havoc with her body, medical bills piled up fast, infection struck her livestock, and just when things seemed like they couldn’t get worse, the bank decided to call in the loan. Aggravating the situation, as well as Gran’s nerves, was the ambitious developer Xavier Howard, a man with deep pockets and pie-in-the-sky plans waiting on the sidelines to gobble up the ranch.
Levi felt that now-familiar rush of distress at the thought of anything happening to his gran, or the Flying Spur, his childhood home, while she could still walk its fields. His four siblings felt the same, and three of them, Corliss, Nash and Wyatt, currently called the ranch home. He and his sister Adele both had homes in Eagle Springs, but the Flying Spur would always own their hearts.
This was why the siblings had agreed to come to Gran’s aid and divide the debt into five pieces—a task that sounded much simpler than it was, especially when none of them was exactly flush with cash.
Levi was arguably the worst off of them all. The rapid decline of his financial position was a similar, albeit less life-threatening, complement of his grandmother’s—new home, divorce, accident, unemployment—in that exact and unfortunately quick order. Resurrecting the rodeo had seemed like the perfect solution to all his financial problems.
The profits from the rodeo would go toward his share of the Flying Spur debt. At the same time, a successful outcome would segue into his new business of expanding the property into a multiuse event venue. After settling on terms with the property owner, Curtis Holloway, he’d then poured a good chunk of his remaining savings and energy into the endeavor. With only two months to plan the event, he’d had no choice if he wanted to put on the best rodeo the town had ever seen.
Now this wrecking ball had landed in his inbox, smashing his plans to smithereens.
“Have you seen this email from Trace Baylor’s assistant?”
“Well,” Molly replied wryly, “you’re going to have to be a little more specific. We’ve received approximately three thousand emails from Trace Baylor’s people. Quite frankly, I think his assistant has a crush on me.”
“He’s canceling.” Levi glanced up at her and then back down at the screen. “Correction—he canceled.” Then he read, “‘Dear Mr. Blackwell, It is with sincere regret that I write to inform you that Trace has suffered an accident and the injuries he’s incurred will prevent him from hosting and performing at the Eagle Springs Rodeo.’” He paused. “It goes on, but that’s the important bit.”
“Oh dear,” Molly said, finally absorbing the seriousness of the situation. Shifting her reading glasses into place, she moved around the table where she could view his laptop screen. “Let me take a peek.”
Levi was pretty sure Molly read it twice, too. Or possibly three times, before she responded with a flatly toned, “Huh.”
“Huh?” Levi repeated. “That’s all you’ve got?” Molly was never short on commentary or opinions.
“What do you suppose that man was doing riding a dang bull?” The email also briefly explained how the injury had occurred.
“He was a bull rider.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks for that breaking news bulletin, Scoop. Was being the operative word. I mean, I thought he was retired.”
“So did I.”
It was a good point. As far as Levi knew, Baylor hadn’t competed for several years and now enjoyed a successful career as a stand-up comedian with a Western flair. He’d found his niche performing at rodeos, fairs and other similar events. Getting him to agree to a gig in Eagle Springs had been a major coup. More than that, Levi had staked the event’s success on Trace’s performance. Tension crept upward from the base of his skull, tendrils branching rapidly, threatening a headache. This was a nightmare.
Apparently, Molly needed more time to register the extent of the catastrophe they were facing because she was still stuck on the how. “What was he thinking? A good rodeo rider knows when to quit, and wiser words have never been spoken.”
“Oh, yeah? Who said them?”
“I did. Didn’t you hear me? You quit, didn’t you?”
Levi tried to smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. “I appreciate that, Molly, but let’s try and focus here. This is an unmitigated disaster. It is the absolute worst thing that could have happened right now. I don’t—”
“Whoa there, Shakespeare,” Molly interrupted, clapping him on the shoulder. “That’s a respectable amount of drama, but I’m not sure words like unmitigated and absolute apply here.”
Levi noted Molly’s casual demeanor. Was she purposely underreacting to counter his reaction? Trying to keep him calm? The notion was endearing—or would be if he wasn’t already freaking out.
“I know what you’re doing, Molly, and I appreciate it. I do the same thing to Isla, but it won’t work. This is the end. We’re done. We’ve sold tickets based solely on Trace’s appearance. His stand-up show is sold out, too. We will have to issue a statement, offer refunds and appease angry fans.
“There’s no way we can find someone willing to host the event, knowing that people were expecting to be entertained by Trace. Not to mention the damage to my credibility, to my future business of event hosting. It’s not like we can just pull the next name from our vast waiting list of interested celebrities who are dying to come to Eagle Springs, Wyoming, with only three weeks’ notice.”
