Quicksand

Book 3: Champions

by Janet Dailey

Genres: Western Romance; Siblings

Synopsis

Determined to keep their legacy bull-rearing operation strong, the Champion sisters go head-to-head—and heart to heart—with some of the toughest men on the rodeo circuit—and walk away victorious in love …
Tess Champion knows better than to trust Brock Tolman, the rancher who once swindled her late father in a land deal. But with the Alamo Canyon Ranch in foreclosure, Tess is forced to accept Brock’s offer of a partnership. Brock claims he
only wants to breed the Champion bloodline into his own herd. In exchange, he offers Tess one of his own young bulls. Soon enough, Quicksand is the rising star of the rodeo circuit, which only proves Tess is better at picking bulls than she is
men. Because she’s way too tempted to surrender to her attraction to Brock, despite her certainty he’s only out to steal her family ranch …
It’s not until the tycoon’s private plane crashes in the wilderness, stranding him with Tess, that the truth of their relationship will come out. The Champion family’s future is on the line, but it’s Tess’s heart that will take the hit if she’s fallen for the wrong man …

Release date: August 30, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Southern Arizona, March

AS THE SUN CLIMBED TOWARD MIDMORNING, A GOLDEN EAGLE ROSE from its perch atop a hundred-year-old saguaro. Its beating wings, wider than a man’s reach, lifted the bird skyward, where it soared and circled on the updrafts, its golden eyes scanning the desert for prey.

Brock Tolman shaded his eyes to follow the eagle’s flight. He felt a certain kinship with the great bird—both of them apex predators, both of them powerful. But the eagle’s power came from its wings. Brock’s came from his ambition.

As the eagle rose, its moving shadow passed over foothills painted with the bright gold of flowering brittlebush. Crimson-tipped spears of ocotillo and lemony clouds of blooming paloverde dotted the landscape with the colors of Sonoran spring.

In the weeks ahead, blossoming cactuses would blaze with hues of rusty yellow, pink, and magenta. Then white blooms would crown the giant saguaros that stood like guardians over the desert. Finally, the women of the Tohono O’odham who called the desert home would come with their long poles and harvest the seedy red fruit.

Brock had made enough money with his investments to live anywhere he wanted. But he had chosen this place, in the foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains outside Tucson, to build his private kingdom. The Tolman Ranch was a patchwork of pristine desert and fenced pastureland where genetically bred bucking bulls—close to 100 of them not counting the cows and calves, along with a herd of Angus beef steers—grazed on native grass watered by mountain springs. The ranch’s setting was beautiful, and Brock was not immune to beauty—whether admiring it, coveting it, or possessing it.

Today, as Brock sat astride his big sorrel gelding and watched Miss Tess Champion ride out across the pasture, Brock reflected that most men would be satisfied with what he had. But for him, it wasn’t enough. To Brock’s way of thinking, enough didn’t exist. There was always more to want, always more to get.

And more to lose.

Brock shifted in the saddle, feeling the crackle of the folded envelope he’d stuffed into his hip pocket. It had arrived in yesterday’s mail, but he hadn’t opened it until this morning. What he’d found inside had jerked a noose around his heart. He’d recognized the yellowed newspaper clipping at once; but what did it mean? Was it some kind of warning? Maybe an attempt at blackmail? Was his whole perfectly ordered world about to come crashing down around him?

He’d been reading the text when Tess’s truck had pulled up outside. There’d been no time to do anything but replace the clipping in the envelope, fold it, and stuff it into the deep hip pocket of his Wranglers, where it wouldn’t be seen by any eyes but his. He would worry about it later. Right now, he had more pressing matters on his mind.

A few months earlier, he’d bailed Tess’s family’s ranch out of foreclosure and forced a reluctant Tess to take him on as a business partner. He might have had other ideas for Tess—like getting her into his bed. But if there was one thing he’d learned in life, it was that mixing business with pleasure was a recipe for disaster.

So, for as long as they were partners, the rule would be hands off. And that was a damned shame, Brock mused, admiring the way her slender body sat the horse and the way the wind played with the long dark hair that fell loose below her hat. Tess was well past girlhood, but she was a beautiful, smart, sexy woman. The fact that she was the most stubborn, muleheaded, prickly female he’d ever known only sweetened the challenge.

But Brock knew better than to cross that line. He was a man who made his own rules and played by them. With Tess, for now at least, the rule was strictly business.

This morning Tess was here to choose the bull he’d offered her in exchange for Whiplash, the rank bucker who’d been ruled too dangerous for the arena. Brock had long dreamed of breeding a world champion bull. It was his hope that Whiplash’s fiery bloodline might make the magic happen.

In return, Tess had been given her choice from among Brock’s three- and four-year-old bulls, who were just starting their careers in the rodeo arena. There were twenty-three of them in this pasture, all trained, tested, and ready for the big time.

Tess had a keen eye for bulls. She would no doubt pick one of his best. Brock was fine with that. As her partner, he would retain part ownership of any bull she chose. He had nothing to lose.

But curse the woman, why had she insisted on riding out alone to inspect the herd? Brock had saddled up, planning to go with her. However, after declaring that she wanted to view the bulls without the distraction of his company, she’d ridden off and left him fuming at the pasture gate.

Something told Brock that chasing after her would only add to his humiliation. He would let her go. But he couldn’t help worrying. Tess was an expert rider, and she knew her way around bulls. But if anything were to go wrong, she’d be unprotected out there.

He would keep his distance, Brock resolved. But he wasn’t about to let the woman get too far ahead of him.

Tess paused her mount to scan the pasture. The grassy expanse, scattered with creosote, ironwood trees, and clumps of sage, seemed to go on forever. But why should she let that surprise her? Everything Brock Tolman owned was too large, too grand, and too fine for ordinary folk. Even the horse he’d lent her, a registered Appaloosa, was probably the most superb animal she’d ever ridden.

Not that she was impressed. Brock was a show-off who lived for the power and possessions his money could buy. Tess couldn’t abide the man. What was more, she didn’t trust him.

True, he’d saved her family’s Alamo Canyon Ranch from foreclosure, but he hadn’t done it out of kindness. He wanted the ranch for himself. And now that he had a foot in the door as her partner, he wasn’t about to back off.

Right now, she knew that Brock was watching her. If she were to look back—not that she’d give him the satisfaction—she would see him sitting his horse like John Wayne, just as big and rugged as the late actor—except that Brock was no movie hero. He was more like a scheming, avaricious villain.

But she wasn’t here to judge him. She was here to pick out a promising bull—one that would dominate in the arena and strengthen her family’s own small herd with his bloodline. The future of the Alamo Canyon Ranch could be riding on the choice she was about to make.

She could see the bulls now, loosely scattered at the far end of the pasture. Brock had shown her the stud book at the house, but looking through it had scarcely been worth her time. The young bulls appeared to have solid pedigrees and had been tested in the bucking pen. Any one of them could earn his keep in the PBR or PRCA rodeos. But would any of them have that fiery spark—the spark she’d witnessed in Whiplash before fate had led the big brindle to kill an intruder on the ranch?

Brock’s intervention had saved the bull’s life and given him a home. But Whiplash, so strong and full of promise, would never compete again.

The young bulls had caught her scent. They’d raised their heads and turned in her direction, watching her approach. Tess held the horse to a measured walk. She’d been dealing with cattle all her life, and she knew better than to alarm them, especially bulls.

She also knew better than to get off her horse for a closer look. Here, as on her own ranch, bulls in the pasture were handled on horseback or from sturdy vehicles. They were accustomed to mounted riders. But a human approaching on foot would be asking for trouble.

At a distance of about thirty yards, she paused again to study the bulls. They were splendid animals, sleek and muscular, their horn tips newly blunted for the arena. Green metal ID tags, inscribed with numbers, dangled like jewelry from their ears. Most of the bulls were a solid color, ranging from fawn to red to dark chocolate. Two of the bulls were pale cream speckled with black. One bull, the biggest of the herd, was as black as sin with a white slash, like a lightning bolt, running down his face. His left horn was missing—likely due to injury or infection. The other horn, even blunted, was long enough to do plenty of damage.

As Tess ventured closer, the bulls tightened their ranks, snorting and lowing in a way that clearly meant, That’s far enough, stranger. The big black lowered his head and scraped at the grass with his single horn—a clear threat.

Tess backed off a few steps, keeping an eye on the bull who’d already captured her interest. It was too soon to make a decision. But her instincts were calling for a closer look at this tough brute.

“You’re certainly no beauty.” She spoke in a soothing voice. “But then, this isn’t a beauty contest, is it, big boy?”

She should at least look at the others—and of course, she’d want to see some of them buck. It would be rash to make an on-the-spot decision. She needed time—days, even weeks, to choose the right animal.

The black bull tossed his head and pawed the ground. Tess didn’t believe he’d charge, but just to be sure, she backed the horse farther away, onto the low, brushy rise where she’d stopped earlier. The Appaloosa responded to her lightest touch.

The bull stood his ground, eyeing her suspiciously. “It’s all right, big boy,” she said. “I’m not coming any—”

A sinister buzzing sound from the high grass chilled her blood. Her pulse lurched; but before she could act, the horse leaped straight up and twisted to one side, flinging her out of the saddle like a marble from a slingshot.

Tess hit the ground so hard that the wind whooshed out of her lungs. As she gasped for breath, struggling onto her side, she came almost eye to eye with the snake. The six-foot diamondback, its thick body coiling to strike, was only a few steps from her face. She could see its delicate forked tongue, testing the air. Testing her.

Terror fueled her reflexes. With no time to scramble to her feet or even get her breath, she tumbled backward and rolled like a log, letting her momentum carry her partway down the rough slope. Her back crushed something sharp. Pain shot through her ribs, but she didn’t stop until she was out of striking distance.

Shaken, scratched, and sore, she forced herself to sit up. Glancing back, she could see no sign of the rattler. As she hugged her knees and took deep, gasping breaths, she recalled the words of Ruben Diego, an elder of the Tohono O’odham tribe and the longtime foreman of the Alamo Canyon Ranch.

“The rattlesnake doesn’t want to kill you. He only wants to live. That is why he gives a warning. Let him go in peace.”

After testing her limbs, Tess pushed to her feet. The horse had bolted and was gone. She was feeling some pain, but as long as her legs worked, she should be able to walk back to the gate, where she’d told Brock to wait for her.

Her hat lay nearby. She picked it up and jammed it onto her head. Only then, as she looked around, did she realize that she had another problem.

The bulls had moved in closer. They were staring in her direction, snorting, lowing, and tossing their horns. The black brute, standing in front like the lead tough in a street gang, scraped the ground with his horn, tossing up clumps of dirt and grass. If the bulls were to charge, she wouldn’t have a chance.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Tess backed away a few steps. If she could duck out of sight behind a nearby sagebrush clump, the bulls might calm down—but the snake could be there, and there was nothing else close enough to serve as a hiding place.

“It’s all right, boys. I’m not here to make trouble.” As she inched backward, she spoke in a low tone—not so much to calm the bulls as to soothe her own nerves. Her heart was pounding. Bulls weren’t stupid animals. They could sense fear.

The black bull bellowed and lunged, then stopped—another threat, nothing more. But there was no way she could outrun a real charge. For now, all she could do was retreat, step by step, making no sudden moves.

A memory flickered in her mind—tales of the old-time cattle drives and the cowboy songs that would calm the herd when it was time for them to bed down. Driven by desperation, she began to sing.

“‘Down in the valley . . . the valley so low . . . Hang your head over . . . hear the wind blow . . .’”

Tess had never been a singer. Her untrained alto was off-key, her voice unsteady. The bulls didn’t seem to like her song. They continued to snort, blow, and follow her as she tried to widen the distance between them. She wasn’t making much progress. The pasture gate was still a long way off.

Coming out here alone had been a bad decision, made in a moment of pride—as if to show Brock she could manage without him. He’d probably been amused. He was probably laughing behind her back.

With her gaze fixed on the bulls, she started another stanza of the old song.

“‘If you don’t love me . . . love whom you please . . .’”

Step by step, her feet carried her backward over the uneven ground. A raven flapped out of the sky and perched on a stump, watching her with curious eyes. Even to the bird, she probably looked like a fool.

One more step, then another. Suddenly her boot heel caught in a tangled root. Stumbling backward, she lost her balance and went down hard on her rump.

That was when she heard a voice behind her—a deep voice, edged with amusement. Brock, on his big red horse, was perhaps a dozen yards behind her. “Don’t stop,” he said. “I was enjoying the entertainment.”

Blazing with humiliation, she scrambled to her feet. “How long have you been there?”

“Not that long. When your horse came back, I figured you might need some help. I was riding to your rescue, but when I saw the show you were putting on, I couldn’t resist watching. I should’ve known you could take care of yourself.”

The man was gloating. He didn’t care that she could’ve been snake-bitten or trampled. If he’d been within reach, Tess would’ve punched him.

As he looked her up and down, taking in her scratched, dirt-smeared face and hands, his sardonic smile faded. “Are you all right, Tess?”

“I’m fine. How’s the horse?”

“Just spooked. We need to put some salve on those scratches. Come on, I’ll take you back to the house. You can tell me what happened on the way.”

He leaned down from the saddle and offered a hand. Tess took it and let him swing her up behind the saddle. The bulls watched but made no more aggressive moves as Brock turned the big sorrel back toward the gate.

To keep from sliding off, Tess had to grip Brock’s waist. He was rock solid beneath the denim shirt he wore. The aromas of man sweat and sagebrush teased her senses, stirring tugs and tingles in forbidden places. Not good. She cleared her throat.

“You wanted me to tell you what happened. The horse spooked at a rattler. By the time I came to my senses, the snake was gone and so was the horse. The bulls kept moving toward me—maybe just curious, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“So you decided to serenade them. Good thinking.” He chuckled. Tess could feel the vibrations through her fingertips.

“I can’t say much for my voice,” she said. “I probably scared the poor things.”

“So, did you see a bull you liked out there?”

“Maybe.” Tess didn’t want to sound too eager.

“If you want to see any of them buck, I’ll have the boys set them up in the chutes.”

“You know I don’t want to make a hasty decision. But I wouldn’t mind seeing that big black one.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze following the contrail of a military jet streaking across the sky. “The black one, eh? I had a feeling that son of a gun would catch your eye.”

“Is something wrong with him—besides the missing horn?”

“There’s nothing wrong with him. But if you were to take him, you’d have your hands full.” Brock opened the steel-railed pasture gate with the remote control in his pocket. It closed behind the horse as they rode through. “When they say a bucking bull is rank, it’s usually a compliment. But that black bastard—he’s RANK, in capital letters—smart, unpredictable, and full of the devil. Just when you think you’ve got everything under control, he’ll take you down—like stepping in quicksand when you don’t know it’s there.”

“Quicksand.” Tess rolled the word off her tongue, liking the sound of it and the way it fit the bull. “You like him, don’t you?”

Brock’s breath caught. Then the laughter exploded out of him, rumbling through his body. “Like him? You’re damn right I do. He reminds me of me at my worst. But believe me, you don’t want to choose that bull.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Tess said. “At least I want to see him buck, along with a couple of others. You can decide which ones to show me.”

“You’ve got it. I’ll alert the boys to get them ready for the chutes. It’ll take about thirty minutes to set up. Meanwhile we’ll get those scratches doctored and maybe have something cold to drink.” He spoke into the walkie-talkie he carried in a leather holster clipped to his belt. “There, it’s taken care of. Now let’s get you up to the house.”

Brock’s home was an imposing cube of glass, stone, and timber, with a broad, covered porch that offered a panorama of the ranch and the desert beyond. As far as Tess knew, he lived here alone with only a retired range cook to prepare meals and keep the house in order. If there was a woman in his life, Tess wasn’t aware of it, but Brock was a private person. Apart from the side he chose to show her, she knew very little about the man.

All the more reason not to trust him, she reminded herself as he helped her dismount and turned the horse over to a waiting stable hand, a good-looking young man with blond curls and hazel eyes.

Sharing the yard with the house were two guest cottages, a bunkhouse, barns, pens, and sheds, and a small arena equipped with bucking chutes. Somewhere beyond the pastures was an airstrip with a hangar where Brock stored the airplane he piloted himself.

Everything about the place was spare and simple, but constructed with the finest materials and workmanship money could buy. Knowing Brock, Tess wouldn’t have expected anything less.

Walking beside him, she could feel the soreness from the fall she’d taken. As she took the first of the broad steps to the porch, her knee buckled.

“Take it easy.” He caught her arm, saving her from a stumble. “You just got thrown from a horse. You’re lucky to be walking. Let’s get you to a chair.”

In a move to steady her, he laid a hand at the small of her back. Tess yelped as the contact shot pain up her spine.

“What the devil—?” He moved behind her. “You must’ve tangled with a prickly pear. You’ve got a nasty spine stuck right through your shirt. You’re bleeding. Come on in. We’ll have you patched up in no time.”

Inside, the house was sleek and immaculate, with tile floors and heavy wooden vigas supporting the ceiling. Plants in giant Talavera pots stood here and there. Massive leather furniture pieces were grouped on a thick alpaca rug. Touches of art enlivened the space—a genuine Charles Russell painting above the stone fireplace, a Frederic Remington bronze of stampeding buffalo on a sideboard.

“Impressive,” she murmured, forgetting her pain for the moment.

“Thanks. I draw the line at mounted animal heads,” he said. “Have a seat on the sofa.”

“You said I was bleeding.” She lowered herself carefully to the edge of the cushioned leather seat.

“You’re fine. But it might help to drink something before we get started. We’ve got cold Coronas, or if you need something stronger, there’s some good Kentucky bourbon in the cabinet.”

“A Coke would be nice if you’ve got some,” Tess said. “I wouldn’t mind a beer, but with my sister a recovering alcoholic, I’m doing my best to support her. That includes following her rules—with no cheating, even when I’m away from home.”

“Coke it is. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

He returned a few moments later with two Coke cans and a large red cooler—some kind of medical kit. Opening the cooler, he took out a dispenser of antibacterial handwipes and handed one to her. Taking her cue from him, she cleansed her hands. The scrapes and cuts from the fall stung when the alcohol touched them. “We’ll put some salve on those after I get that spine out of your back.”

He popped one of the Coke cans and handed it to her. “Drink up. When you’re ready, lean over the arm of the sofa. Getting the barb out is going to sting pretty bad. Can you handle that?”

“You’d be surprised what I can handle.” Tess took a deep swig of Coke and put the can on the glass-topped coffee table. “As a kid, I was always getting stuck. My dad pulled the spines out with pliers. It hurt like hell, and he didn’t hold with girls crying.”

Brock would remember her late father, of course. Years ago, after Bert Champion had arranged to buy a desirable piece of land, Brock had bought it out from under him by offering the owner more money. The Champion family had needed that land for their cattle. They hated Brock to this day. Even in light of the new partnership, that hadn’t changed.

THE CACTUS SPINE, ITS TIP BARBED LIKE A FISHHOOK, HAD PASSED through Tess’s thin white shirt to become imbedded in the flesh of her back. Her struggles after the fall from her horse had driven it deeper. Brock knew that a too-hasty pull on the shirt would break the spine and leave the barb, leading to more pain and a nasty infection.

“How does it look?” Tess was leaning over the rounded arm of the sofa to better expose her back. Brock would have to peel her shirt up until he could see where the spine had pierced her skin.

This was not the way he’d imagined undressing her.

“It’ll take some care,” he said. “You’ll have to hold very still.”

“I know. Get it over with.”

Brock turned on the reading lamp above the sofa for more light and pulled up the ottoman to give him a low seat next to her. The slight crackle as he sat reminded him of the envelope he’d stuffed into his pocket with the clipping inside. If its arrival meant what he feared it might, everything he’d worked for could be at risk.

But he would have to deal with that later.

He used an alcohol wipe to sterilize the tweezers from the kit. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Her body tensed as he pulled the hem of her shirt loose from her jeans and eased it upward to expose the cactus spine. Tess’s face, neck, and arms were golden brown from years of working in the sun. But the skin on her back was soft ivory, glistening with sweat. The urge to see the rest of her triggered a stab of arousal. But he forced it away as he plied the sharp-tipped tweezers.

“You mentioned your sister,” he said, making small talk. “How is Val doing?”

“All right. Now that Casey’s back on the circuit, she’s home again. She’s been urging him to quit bullfighting and get a different job, maybe as a trainer. But you know Casey. He loves being where the action is.”

“So they haven’t set a wedding date?”

“Casey would marry her tomorrow. But Val’s still gun-shy. Whatever’s going on in her head, she isn’t telling me about it.”

“And Lexie?” Brock probed around the imbedded cactus spine, checking the angle of the barb.

“Her baby’s due in May. It’s a boy. She and Shane are over the moon.”

“Tell them I’m over the moon for them.”

Shane Tully, who’d lived on Brock’s ranch since his teens, was one more source of conflict between him and the Champions. Brock had offered the young man a brilliant future as his manager and eventual . . .