A Cowboy Christmas Carol
Autore
Melinda Curtis
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PROLOGUE
“NO PRESSURE. No pressure. No pressure.”
“Steady now, Tate,” Ryan Oakley told his muttering twin while guiding his fidgety mount, Suzie, into the heeling side of the team roping box.
How Ryan heard Tate amid the noise of the rodeo was a mystery only explained by the twin bond.
“Next up in the team roping competition are the Oakley brothers.” The announcer’s voice boomed in the covered arena.
Tate muttered about pressure again.
Ryan reminded him to be steady again.
And the announcer carried on. “Riding the header side is Tate, leaving the heeling to Ryan. These two are each in the running for third place in the Prairie Circuit and have an opportunity to beat out the Cole brothers. It all comes down to this last run.”
Yep. It did. Ryan and Tate had never gotten this far before. They were hungry for a place in the top three. Third place in the Prairie Circuit meant there’d be a national postseason, big purses and high-paying endorsement opportunities.
“No pressure. No pressure.”
“Steady now,” Ryan repeated in a soothing voice. He eased back on the reins with his left hand, flexing his grip on the throwing rope in his right.
“You boys ready?” Chet, the chute worker, asked Ryan, his white handlebar mustache twitching.
At Ryan’s nod, Chet released the steer with a clank of the gate.
Out bolted several hundred pounds of compact Corrientes bovine intent upon hightailing it to the other side of the arena without being roped by horns or heels.
“Yaw!” Ryan kicked his horse into action. And even though Suzie leaped forward, the world slowed for Ryan.
In a few strides, Ryan and Suzie were almost ahead of Tate, which wasn’t good. Tate needed to be leading. And the steer was veering to the right, into Ryan’s path. Not good either.
Add half a second. Maybe more.
Neither one of them could afford more than that. Ryan couldn’t throw his rope around the steer’s heels until Tate landed his around its horns. They may call the competition team roping but they each were timed separately.
Ryan reined in his mount slightly, adjusting his speed to Tate’s pace.
The steer adopted a drunken weave.
Ryan and Tate closed ranks around him, straightening his path.
Throw the rope, Tate.
Too many seconds were ticking past. They were thundering toward the arena’s midline.
Throw the rope, Tate.
Finally, his brother gave it a toss. The lasso fell perfectly around both of the steer’s horns.
Ryan was aware of Tate tying off, backing off, slowing the steer. But his body was switching to instinctive mode, feeling, not thinking—the twirl of his rope, the rhythm of the steer’s heels, his lungs filling with air, his muscles bunching, gathering strength.
Ryan let the rope fly.
It was a good throw. A perfect throw.
And yet he knew...
He knew like he knew the sun was going to rise tomorrow.
They’d taken too long. They’d both come in fourth. Again.
