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  Cowboy Up

  Last Stand Saloon

  Kameron Claire

  Copyright © 2021 by Kameron Claire

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously based upon freely provided by fan submission. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Please respect the author and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials that would violate the author’s rights.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Next in the Last Stand Saloon series

  Also by Kameron Claire

  Exclusives and Sneak Peeks

  About the Author

  1

  Troy

  “Hey, Troy, come into my office.” Max calls as I pass by his open door.

  “What’s up, boss?” I walk into his office as I put my earpiece in place. It’s Saturday evening, just a little before eight pm, but the only crowd gathering this early are the dancers over fifty and a few underage adults who hope to learn how to two-step before they get kicked out at nine pm.

  “You noticed the construction on the side of the building?” Max looks up from a stack of paperwork on his desk.

  “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it, but you’ve been busy.” I lean against the doorjamb and stuff my hands in my pockets.

  Max runs a hand down his face and stifles a yawn. He’s a new dad and is burning the candle at both ends between his daytime family and nighttime business. We all know it, but no one tells Max he’s tired. I understand, because I’m the same way, and would do the same thing given his position.

  “Yeah, well, I took your advice.”

  That gets my attention, and I perk up a bit. “Which advice would that be?”

  “We’re getting a mechanical bull.” Max leans back in his chair and pins me with his no nonsense stare. “And I want you to oversee its installation and operation.”

  I grin, feeling like a kid on Christmas. “When?”

  Max chuckles and lumbers to his feet, motioning for me to move my ass out of the doorway. “Let’s go check it out.”

  We walk together to the south-facing wall and Max unlocks the door that leads to a previously unused patio and outdoor area. They’ve built an overhead shelter and walls, closing in the eighty by forty concrete slab. It’s rustic and unfinished, but I can clearly see where the bullpen will be set up. “It’ll only be operational until ten pm at the latest on the nights we run it. I’m thinking of Thursday and Friday. I can’t have a bunch of drunk fucks trying to climb on the damn thing and getting hurt.”

  “I wouldn’t let that happen.” I say.

  “I know you wouldn’t.” Max rubs his hair and glances around before continuing. “The bull will be delivered Tuesday morning. Testing and training will be Tuesday afternoon. We’ll play on Wednesday and then go live on Thursday. So, I need you to work a couple days next week. Can you swing it?”

  I work as a part-time ranch hand at the Ransom Olsen Ranch up north a couple days a week, but they’re flexible with my time. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “There’s one more thing.”

  The tone of Max’s voice has me eying him warily. “Yeah?”

  “We had an anonymous donor leave a few pieces of art for the walls, and after stewing over it the last few days, I think they’re a good idea.”

  He doesn’t have to continue, because I already know what’s coming. And he’s right, PBR posters and old PRCA marketing materials would be the perfect decor for a mechanical bullpen given my history and reputation. “Let me guess. Wiry old guy, hunched over, looks and sounds like he’s ninety-years-old, even though something told you he’s only fifty-something?”

  Max narrows his eyes. “That’s the guy. He was quite insistent and the materials are good.”

  “Yeah. That’s what happens to a guy who doesn’t quit before he breaks over a dozen bones in his body… twice.” I shake my head, leaving out the part that this guy is also my biological father, not that we have much of a relationship. He was chasing the dream across the country most of the year, every year, and when he came home, he wasn’t much of a father, although I will give him and his brother, my uncle, credit for instilling within me a deep love of the sport.

  In four years I achieved what my father never could in twenty-five years on the circuit—several PBR Touring Pro championships and a top five World ranking two years in a row. I had sponsors and did well financially—well enough that I work because I want to, not because I have to—but I only had to land in the hospital one time with “potentially life-altering” injuries to know I was ready to retire. My father never learned that lesson and beat his body to shit, which led to substance abuse, which led to continued abuse to his body.

  Honestly, the fact he can still hobble around on the cane he uses makes him the luckiest son-of-a-bitch to ever live.

  “What do you think, Troy? I know you don’t have to be here, but by now you are family, and I don’t want to lose you. So if this will cause you to walk, I won’t use it.”

  I’ve done a damn good job of falling into obscurity after announcing my retirement two years ago. Nowadays, I go by Troy versus TJ, as they knew me on the circuit. I killed all social media accounts, fired my PR agent, and changed my phone number—all within days of being discharged from the hospital. I didn’t move back to Texas, as everyone would have expected, and I severed my association with PRCA in every way—a feat that most guys don’t do. I also didn’t buy a three-hundred acre ranch like I want to, ensuring I didn’t pop up on anyone’s radar until I was ready.

  Sure, I was in my prime when I called it quits, and while a professional bull rider’s career is typically only five or six years long anyway, I still had a few good years left in me according to the experts. I loved it, and I miss the hell out of it, but I don’t miss the injuries, or being in pain, or the relentless travel. I guess after growing up without a father; I wanted more stability in my life for my future family.

  Not that I’ve been on a date in the last two years. So, what I’m chasing stability for, I’m unsure.

  I rub at the perpetual scruff I now wear on my jaw, whereas as a rodeo star I was always clean shaven. “How about we throw up the marketing materials, but we don’t point out that the guy running the bull is the guy in the posters?”

  Max raises his brow. “Someone will figure it out.”

  “Yeah, and word of mouth will spread quick enough around town. I’ll deal with that as it comes up, but I’d rather not have my name on a billboard, if you know what I mean.”

  “I can honor that.” Max shrugs and offers me his hand.

  We shake hands, and I glance around the space. “This is going to be awesome. What’s my new schedule look like?”

  “I’m interviewing a couple guys this week so I can backfill the security team. I got big changes on the horizon, and honestly, I can’t keep working nights.”

  I grin. “I’m glad you’ve realized that.”

  “Shut up.” Max grumbles and hands me a set of keys. “Until we’re ready to reveal this area, the door stays locked.”

  “Got it.” I pocket the keys.

  Max leaves me alone in the space as I look around, excitement b
uilding in my belly. Although I’ve been in the area for over a year, I still haven’t settled in and claimed it as my home. I own my truck, rent a room on the outskirts of town, and work as a ranch hand to get my cowboying fix. Nothing better than saddling up a horse and going for a long ride, working cattle, and pitching in however necessary. I grew up doing it, so it’s nothing more than a routine I miss from time to time. Hell, all the time. My goal is to own a ranch and breed world champion horses, but considering I don’t know where I want to do that, I haven’t made a move in that direction.

  I figured I’d pick a location based upon the woman I eventually settled down with, but as time goes by the woman seems non-existent, and I’m thinking that staying local is the best plan. I have good friends here, and as Max pointed out, we’re like family.

  Besides, there’s only been one woman I ever thought twice about getting serious with, but unfortunately, I ended up unconscious and, in the hospital, before we could go out on our third date. And considering she had her own rodeo career to think about, it did not surprise me when I woke up four days later and she’d left on tour with her team.

  Don’t think too badly of her, though. She’d stayed by my side almost twenty-four hours before the doctors told her they couldn’t guarantee when I would wake up. And she’d left a beautifully written note asking me to call the second I came to so she could head my way.

  Only, I never called.

  2

  AnnaRose

  I’m running late.

  I hate being late, especially on my first day with a new client.

  And I don’t even have a great excuse. Just another sleepless night caused by the same recurring nightmare I’ve had for over the last two years. Like I always do, I woke up in a sweat with my pulse racing as visions of TJ wrecking during his dismount off Prince Charming replayed in my subconscious. He’d landed head first and his body bounced lifelessly against the dirt floor, and that was before Prince Charming got his hooves on him, breaking his collarbone, fracturing multiple ribs, and partially collapsing his left lung. It all happened in less than three-seconds, but the damage was substantial, and they’d carted TJ off the arena floor on a stretcher.

  I’d completed my event earlier, so I climbed into the truck with his father and uncle and chased the ambulance to the hospital. We waited for hours while he underwent examination and imaging, and while by some miracle he hadn’t required surgery, his head injury left him in a coma for four days. The doctors couldn’t guarantee if or when he’d wake up. He’d had a spinal sprain and a severe concussion, but it was the sight of him hooked up to all the tubes and wires, the sounds of the machines beeping in a steady rhythm, that plague my dreams.

  I hadn’t wanted to leave his side, but my team was heading out to Tulsa with or without me, and there was nothing I could do for him from the hospital waiting room.

  Besides, we’d only been out on two dates and had known each other less than a week, so it made sense to no one why I was so worked up over his injuries. Sure, you never want to see one of your brethren injured in the arena, but TJ’s accident hit me hard, and that’s when I knew I was falling for him.

  If he had called me when he woke up, I would have dropped everything to be by his side.

  Only he never called, and once I got word, he was awake and discharged from the hospital; I called him to get a this number has been disconnected recording. Within days, he’d given his retirement notice to PRCA and PBR and dropped off the face of the earth. Admittedly, I didn’t search long or hard, because I can take a hint. No call and no message mean my feelings were one-sided.

  After waking to that dream at two in the morning, I took a long walk to shake off the ghosts that plague me before coming back to my hotel room. I’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, missing my alarm and the text messages from the installation team. Only when David called did I wake up, notice the time, and went into full freak out mode. I skipped breakfast and told them to head to the Last Stand Saloon and wait for me in the parking lot. I took the quickest shower, braided my hair, and jumped into my rental car. I’m only fifteen minutes behind them. Nevertheless, I hate being late.

  I pull up next to the installation truck, which is parked next to a flatbed truck. The guys are standing around, coffee cups in hand, bullshitting with a man I don’t recognize. Considering I’d knew the installation team and met the delivery driver last night at dinner, I figure this unknown man was Max, the owner of the Last Stand Saloon. We’ve been talking on the phone for two weeks now, and as of last week, he said everything was ready. Concrete and anchors are in place, and they ran and tested the electrical. We handle everything else, and worse case will troubleshoot electrical, too, if we have to.

  You might wonder what a former professional barrel racing competitor is doing as a project manager for a mechanical bull organization. I’ve often wondered that myself, and while I would never admit it out loud, it was TJ’s injury that sealed the deal. I’d seen too many people get hurt in the few years I competed, and while I love riding, love competing, something changed in me that day on a subconscious level. I became tentative, cautious, which resulted in me making more and more errors until I became a hazard to myself and my horse. Eventually I had to admit that my heart was no longer in it, and I had resigned to returning home and going to college. But then this sponsor approached me with the opportunity to still work on the fringe of the rodeo without competing. I started in marketing, and then I moved into sales, and next thing I know, I’m a project manager who does a bit of everything, starting with sales and ending with operational delivery.

  And I like it. I get to travel around the country and meet new people, but I’m not away from home for so long that I have time to miss it. Sometimes I travel with the company to different arenas, setting up mechanical bullpens outside as training demonstrations. Sometimes I go to state and county fairs, running the bull for kids. And then there are times like this, where I sell to a private owner.

  “There she is.” David says, tipping his hat my way.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I adjust my pink PRCA baseball cap and walk straight toward Max with my hand extended. “I promise my tardiness is no reflection on the quality—”

  The words hang in my throat when he turns to face me, and although his cheeks have filled out and he rocks a sexy beard, and his body has bulked up with twenty pounds of pure muscle, there is no mistaking the dark bourbon gaze swinging my way.

  “AnnaRose?” He says, his jaw slack as his gaze travels the length of my body like I’m a specter from his past.

  Words escape me as I stare back at him. He disappeared two years ago—not just from my life, but from everything and everyone. Articles have been written and speculation ran rampant for a full year after he retired.

  What happened to the Bronco kid, TJ Turner?

  I blink, and continue to stare at him, emotions swirling as the memories of the last time I saw him assault my brain. I’m not sure if I want to hug him or punch him in the face. Both. I definitely have a desire to do both. One right after the other.

  “AnnaRose?” David chucks me on the arm, waking me from my stupor. “You okay?”

  I blink again and swing my gaze over to my technical lead. “Yeah.” I swing my gaze back over to TJ. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m meeting the installation team from Mechanical Bulls Are Us.” He motions to the team. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m the project manager.”

  “No shit?” TJ stands with the cool confidence he perfected in the arena, but I know him well enough to catch the nervous flick of his thumb against his leg. “Well, let’s go inside and you can check out the space.”

  “Yeah, sounds good.” David says, and the rest of the guys nod, a few of them murmuring things I probably don’t want to hear. I’m sure they’re wondering what my deal is, and by lunch they’ll have a list of rumors spreading between them. I swear, they are worse than a bunch of housewives with nothing better to do t
han gossip.

  “Yeah, let me grab my clipboard.” I turn on my booted heel and head back to my car, taking the twenty steps to pull my shit together. Right now, I need to focus on the job. Tonight, I will deal with the resurrection of the one man I thought I once loved, TJ Turner.

  3

  Troy

  My heart is in my throat as I lead the team to the construction area. David and AnnaRose compare notes as two of the guys go to the electrical panel and check out the wiring. The other two guys go with the driver to the flatbed truck and dismount the forklift strapped to the end. I’m standing here trying not to stare at the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. She’s just as pretty, if not prettier, than when we meet two years ago.

  Long and dark auburn hair worn in that girl next door style that makes every country boy go wild. Her eyes are light brown, almost golden, and she has long dark eyelashes that give her an exotic look despite her lack of makeup. I’d say her eyes were the first thing I noticed about her, but then she’d flashed me an innocent smile, melting my insides into molten puddles of desire. She’s all of five-three in her cowboy boots, and back when we were competing, she was thin, although deceptively strong. Now, she’s still fit, but I’d say she fills out her jeans a lot better judging by my cock’s reaction to her. That she’s wearing a form fitted tank top under her feminine cut flannel shirt isn’t helping as the blood rushes south from my brain.

  I can’t believe, of all the women to walk into the Last Stand Saloon, that it’s her.

  I don’t believe in coincidences, but I do believe in fate. And what could be more fated than the woman of my dreams walking into the one place outside of the circuit that has ever felt like home to me.