“You’re in love with that man,” Claudia said in an accusing tone, “which can only lead to further ruin.”
Her mother sounded like some scolding Victorian matron. Dallas deserved Elizabeth to be completely truthful, not to hide him in the darkness as she’d hidden herself.
She couldn’t know whether she and Dallas would work out, or if all he’d meant by “something more” was to share some responsibility for their baby, but she knew one thing for sure. She did love him, and she had the perfect opportunity, perhaps never to be repeated, to declare her independence from her mother. Maybe to shock her a little too.
“Yes,” she finally murmured, “I am.” She ignored the stunned, ever-disappointed-in-her look on her mother’s face. From nearby, she heard the roar of the crowd. The kids’ events had begun, and Elizabeth wanted to see for herself that Jordan was really okay. But right now she had to face what she’d been fearing for too long. She wouldn’t care about whatever outcry there might be in town when this news reached Bernice, then the rest of the local busybodies. Elizabeth had done her time in the stocks of public humiliation. She had nothing to feel ashamed about. She did, however, have an announcement to make to this audience of one. “Brace yourself, Claudia Monroe,” she began. “You’ll need to—because, actually, that’s not all. I’m expecting again. Dallas Maguire and I are having a Valentine’s Day baby.”
Ms. Perfect was no more. Let the gossip begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY
GAME ON.
Like most—if not all—bull riders, Dallas had a clock in his head. In the instant the blocky Angus broke from the chute, it twisted to the left, and the last pangs of nausea deserted Dallas. One second, he began counting. Alert to the slightest shift of the bull’s body, he corrected his balance. One arm high in the air, he settled deeper into his seat, his bull rope wrapped tight around his other, riding hand.
Dallas had drawn a good ride. This bull belonged to the Sutherland ranch, where Nell Ransom had suggested they keep the young animal for breeding stock. It was no rodeo bull—but, man, Gorgeous had gotten the hang of this. Two, ticked his inner clock. Few people, other than bull riders, could appreciate how long the full eight-second count could seem to a man on board.
As he got jerked around in a half circle, Dallas’s gaze caught a glimpse of Nell, her expression half-delighted yet worried, as Lizzie might be, but she was nowhere in sight. Had she gone home? Her kids were still here, so she must be somewhere on the grounds. Maybe not watching him, though, as the bull bucked hard. Gorgeous wasn’t Greased Lightning, Dallas’s nemesis, but he was naturally talented enough for this local event. If Dallas didn’t need to stay focused on his ride, he’d smile. Instead, he gritted his teeth and held on. Three seconds. If Lizzie couldn’t bear to see him risk life and limb, she must care. He’d like to prove to her that he could do this and survive in one piece. Before he’d cowboyed up and the chute opened, he’d noted that his parents were seated in the front row of the bleachers. His mom had a hand to her throat and high color in her cheeks. His dad was shouting, his voice raw. “Ride ’im!”
Four. Halfway now through the allotted time.
“Go, Dallas!” someone yelled. He and the bull flashed by little Seth at the rail. His mouth open, Jordan stood fixed in place, speechless as he took in Dallas’s every move, the ribbon he’d won affixed to the boy’s chest. And—what do you know?—beside the boys, Stella was jumping up and down next to Nell, who hadn’t competed after all.
Determined to knock Dallas to the ground, the young bull spun to the right this time, and Dallas swore under his breath. Not gonna happen. It wasn’t over yet. His new local friends had already ridden, but a few of Dallas’s professional rodeo pals remained still to compete, and Finn, the local sheriff, who’d never ridden a bull before, had scored surprisingly well. Dallas needed to keep his focus.
Five. People were now pounding the boards under their feet in the grandstand. Jordan, like Dallas’s father, had yelled himself hoarse—but still, Dallas saw no Lizzie. He wouldn’t let his disappointment ruin his ride. Or get himself hurt again and destroy his chances with her.
Dallas was in his element here, the bull his to command—until Gorgeous suddenly whirled on his hocks like some barrel racer’s horse. Dallas’s hand was so tightly wrapped in his bull rope, the resin so sticky, that if he fell, he’d get hung up, then helplessly dragged around the arena, his arm caught in his rigging, in clear sight of Lizzie’s children, his parents...and her?
His molars ground together. All the muscles in his arms, legs and abdomen rigid, he fought the bull with every bit of strength he had left. Six! The veins in his temples, his throat, must be standing out like those in his forearm, and a thought crossed his mind as it always did in these last seconds—Hang on, cowboy. Set an example here. Otherwise, he’d be on his back in the dirt, hurting. Humiliated like Lizzie by all the gossip she’d suffered.
His memory of Lubbock, his time in the hospital then rehab, kept him on this bull’s back. So did the promise he’d made to stay safe. Jordan had already proved that he could. Now it was up to Dallas. His hip might ache
