Whiplash

Book 2: Champions

by Janet Dailey

Genres: Women's Fiction; Western Romance

Synopsis

From New York Times bestselling author Janet Dailey comes the latest Champions novel, set on the Alamo Canyon Ranch, where a legacy bull rearing operation is run by three sisters—women who aren’t afraid to compete in a
man’s world, or to take on something as wild as love—and win.
When Val Champion returns to the family ranch, she’s ready to put her past behind her. Her dreams of a Hollywood acting career have become a nightmare of fear. But once she sees rodeo man Casey Bozeman facing down a bull in the
arena, she knows she’s no safer at home. Face to face with her first and only true love, Val can’t deny her still powerful feelings for Casey. Feelings she can never act on again …
Val’s the one who got away, the woman who broke his heart so hard he still feels the sting. But there’s no denying Casey’s still drawn to the fiery beauty. And there’s no way he can stand by when the high stakes Professional Bull Riding finals
in Vegas bring out the danger Val’s been running from. Suddenly the rugged cowboy is willing to risk it all for her once more, even if it means facing down those secrets lurking in her unforgettable eyes ….

Release date: August 31, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

CASEY BOZEMAN PLANTED HIS FEET IN THE THICK DIRT THAT COVERED the floor of the vast T-Mobile Arena. As he waited for the first chute to swing open, he willed himself to ignore the lights, the noise, the TV camera crews, and the crowd of nearly 20,000 people who’d come to watch the World Finals of the Professional Bull Riders. His mind was laser focused on one job—protecting the rider who would explode out of the gate astride 1,900 pounds of bucking bull.

A glance to either side confirmed that his teammates, Joel Hatcher and Marcus Jefferson, were in place. Like Casey, they were dressed in loose-fitting athletic gear. Underneath baggy shirts they wore padded vests covered with a rigid shell of high-impact plastic. Another layer of padding was worn under their shorts. The team of bullfighters, as they were called, had worked together for the past five PBR seasons. They trusted each other with their lives. But it was a given that, whatever the cost, the rider’s safety always came first.

Farther out in the arena, a mounted roper waited with his lasso ready. If a riderless bull got out of control, it would be his job to rope the animal and herd it back to the exit gate.

The announcer’s voice blared over the public address system, introducing the first rider and bull, in sync with the images that flashed onto the huge display screens. In the gated chute, wearing a safety helmet, twenty-year-old Cody Woodbine, ranked fifth in the world standings, was lowering his body onto Cactus Jack, a surly, white-faced behemoth with blunted horns as wide as the front end of a ’69 Cadillac.

Casey had faced Cactus Jack before. Some bulls, the good ones, just wanted to dump the cowboy and head back to the pen. Others had murder on their minds. Cactus Jack was one of the second kind.

Inside the chute, the bull was body-slamming the thick steel bars, a move that could break a rider’s leg. One of the men, perched on the chute’s side rail, shoved a wooden wedge down next to the huge animal to hold him in place. Others pulled the bull rope tight around the animal’s body, just behind the shoulders. Cody Woodbine thrust his gloved left hand, fingers up, into the rope handle and wrapped the rope around the handle’s base. Casey shifted and danced to keep his muscles loose. His teammates did the same. They had to be ready for anything.

The rules were always the same. At the rider’s nod, the gate man would pull a rope to open the chute. When the bull’s shoulders cleared the gate, the clock would start. With one hand gripping the rope handle and the other hand in the air, the rider had to stay on the bull for a full eight seconds. For a successful ride, both the bull and the rider would be scored on the basis of fifty points each. For a buck-off, only the bull would be scored.

It was a simple system, but fraught with dangerous surprises.

All eyes were on Cody Woodbine as he hitched forward on the bull until he was sitting almost over his hand. At his nod, the gate swung open, freeing a ton of raw fury.

Streaming snot and manure, Cactus Jack leaped and twisted, then went into a bucking spin to the right—bad for a left-handed rider—but the young cowboy hung on as the digital clock ran up the time, displaying each second by hundredths.

From the back of a bull, eight seconds could seem like forever.

The three bullfighters circled the kicking, spinning bull, ready for a dismount or a buck-off. Casey could see that Woodbine was losing his seat, leaning too far right as he struggled to outlast the clock. But the determined cowboy hung on.

The eight-second whistle blasted. Woodbine had done it. But the young rider was in trouble. As he tumbled off to the right, his left hand twisted under the rope handle and caught fast. Trapped, he flopped like a helpless rag doll against the side of the kicking, spinning bull.

Casey flung himself at the bull, his left arm supporting Woodbine, his right hand clawing at the twisted rope. Joel and Marcus darted in to slow the beast, getting in the bull’s face, even grabbing a horn.

Seconds of spinning, jolting terror crawled past before Casey felt the glove loosen. He pulled Woodbine’s hand free. The cowboy tumbled aside and rolled clear of the pounding hooves. Dragged away by Marcus and Joel, he was safe. But Casey had gone down with him, and Cactus Jack was looking for somebody to hurt.

As Casey struggled to rise, the massive head filled his vision. He tried to roll to one side, but the horns caught his padded vest with enough force to toss him high over the broad back. As the roper closed in, Casey’s body glanced off the bull’s side and crashed to earth.

Watching the event alone, on closed circuit TV, Val Champion swallowed a scream. She pressed her hands to her face to block her view of the screen, but she could still hear the announcer’s voice over the cheers of the crowd.

“It’s 87.5 points for Cody Woodbine on Cactus Jack. But he’s going to need that shoulder checked. From here, it looks like it might be dislocated.” There was a pause. “And Casey Bozeman is back on his feet, shaken but ready to go. Those bullfighters are tough hombres. They’ve saved a lot of lives. And now, let’s take a look at our next ride.”

Lowering her hands, Val sank onto one of the two beds in her room at the Park MGM Hotel. Casey was all right. He would live to face the next bull. And the next. But she wouldn’t be watching. She couldn’t stand it.

She and Casey were ancient history. She wasn’t supposed to care about him anymore. But heaven help her, she did. And caring hurt. It hurt so much that she never wanted to care again.

She needed a drink. She needed more than a drink. But she’d been clean and sober for the five months she’d been out of rehab. She had vowed to stay that way. Besides, her sister Tess would kill her if she smelled the faintest whiff of alcohol on her breath.

The Champion family had come to Vegas bringing two bulls from their Arizona ranch—Whirlwind, a rising star in the rankings, and his younger brother, Whiplash, here as a last-minute reride alternate.

Val’s family—big sister, Tess, and adorably pregnant little sister, Lexie, with her wheelchair-bound husband, Shane, were down in the arena watching the event live. Val had tickets, too. But she’d gotten cold feet. Pleading a headache, she’d locked herself in the room she shared with Tess and opted to watch round one on the big-screen TV.

She’d told herself she could handle this. But eight seconds of watching Casey almost die had been enough to convince her she’d misjudged. She’d be smart to sell her tickets for the remaining four nights and spend the money on a flight back to Tucson, with a long Uber ride to the family’s remote mountain ranch.

Standing, she switched off the TV, turned off the lights, and walked to the window. The darkened room offered a view of the nearby T-Mobile Arena, lit up like the Fourth of July. Northward, as far as Val’s eyes could see, Las Vegas glittered like an endless dumping ground for used Christmas lights and gaudy costume jewelry.

Tacky but strangely beautiful, it called to her with a siren’s seductive voice. The hotels and casinos, which she knew by sight, whispered names that resonated like islands in a tale from Sinbad the Sailor. Bellagio . . . Mirage . . . Aria . . . Paris . . . Venetian . . . Mandalay Bay . . .

Val turned away from the window. Out there, beyond the glass, was everything she’d left behind, everything she’d run away from to save her body and soul. Four months ago, she’d come home to her family and the ranch, hoping they could make her whole again. She was doing better now. But something was missing. She’d realized it the moment she saw Casey on TV.

Casey. Her first love.

The man she could never be with again.

She’d meant to stay in the room, but her innate restlessness was eating her alive. It wouldn’t hurt to take the elevator down to the street and go for a little walk. She didn’t have enough money to get into trouble. She’d locked her credit card in the room safe, and she barely had enough cash on her to buy a candy bar or drop a few coins in a cheap slot machine.

She slipped on a flannel-lined denim jacket, twisted up her long red hair with a clip, and covered it with a battered Stetson. For a moment she debated wearing her sunglasses. But it was night outside. Besides, she wanted to blend in with the cowboys and rodeo fans who had swarmed into Vegas for the PBR finals. The movie-star glasses would be out of place.

Deciding to leave her purse, she slipped the key card into the hip pocket of her jeans, put her cell phone in her jacket pocket, and left the room. Tess wouldn’t be back here for at least an hour. If she needed to get in touch, she could always call.

Stepping out of the jammed elevator was like plunging into an ocean of noise. People shouted to each other across the crowded lobby and at the registration desk, their voices raised to be heard above the din. From the nearby casino the relentless ding of the slots mingled with the calls of the dealers and occasional whoops from lucky winners. In the bar off the lobby, a country western singer was belting out old Merle Haggard songs.

In the old days, Val could’ve wandered into the bar and bought herself a free drink with a smile and an empty promise. But those times were behind her. Tonight, she would settle for fresh air.

Zigzagging through the crowd, she made her way out the main entrance to the busy sidewalk. There were signs everywhere welcoming PBR fans and inviting them to come on in and spend their money. People in western gear wandered past, taking in the sights. Ticket hawkers, most of them scammers, waved their wares in front of unwary customers. Girls in skin-tight denim skirts and low-cut blouses prowled the edges of the sidewalk, smiling when a man made eye contact. Val couldn’t help feeling sorry for them. She’d known desperate times herself—but never that desperate, thank God.

As she left the shelter of the hotel entrance and launched herself up the Strip, she took a moment to check her surroundings and scan the crowd for anyone who might seem a bit too interested. Old habits died hard. But Val knew there was no need for caution. Nobody was going to recognize her and ask for her autograph. Not that many ever had.

She’d tried the Hollywood thing and had gotten a few small movie parts. But she’d never made it past the bottom third of the credit list. At the time, she’d rationalized that it was because she wouldn’t go the casting couch route. But Val knew better. She knew what real talent was. She’d seen it in women like Meryl Streep, Laura Dern, and Cate Blanchett—and she knew she didn’t have it. She was merely pretty. And in Hollywood, pretty girls were a dime a dozen.

She’d made a few TV commercials and done some modeling. Between gigs, she’d waited tables to make rent on a one-room studio with roaches in the walls and the bathroom down the hall.

Then she’d met Lenny Fortunato.

The blinking signal at the corner crosswalk ended Val’s musings. The light was changing, and she’d already stepped off the curb.

For an instant she hesitated, torn between stepping back and making a dash ahead of the heavy Las Vegas traffic. It was just enough time for a black limo with darkened windows to come barreling around the corner, heading straight toward her.

Val jumped out of the way as it hurtled past, swerving just enough to miss her by an inch.

Pulse slamming, she watched the vehicle merge with the traffic and vanish from sight. A few people glanced at her as they passed, as if curious to see what kind of idiot would step off the curb in front of a moving vehicle. She could just imagine the limo driver cursing the fool woman who’d almost gotten herself killed, which would have caused a major inconvenience for his passengers and probably cut into his tip.

No damage done, except that she’d drawn attention to herself, something she never liked to do. But the walk she’d set out to enjoy was spoiled. It was time to head back to her hotel and wait for Tess to return.

But as she turned around and wove her way back through the crowds, a feeling crept over her—sickening in its familiarity. It was the vague, prickling sense that something was wrong.

The close brush with the limo couldn’t have been anything but a coincidence. No one could have known she’d be at that corner, and if anyone inside the vehicle had meant her any harm, the driver wouldn’t have swerved.

Maybe she was imagining things. But the chill that crawled along her nerves was too real to be ignored. She should never have left the hotel alone.

Correction—she should’ve known better than to come to Las Vegas in the first place.

Resisting the urge to rush, she entered the hotel and crossed the lobby to the elevator. A tired-looking couple with two whiny children rode up to her floor and got off with her. Val followed them down the corridor, continuing on after they stopped at their room. Would that have been her life if she’d followed a different path and married Casey? Would it have been enough?

But there was no point in thinking about that now.

Her hand shook as she used the key card to open the door. When she went inside and double locked it behind her, she could feel a headache coming on—maybe karma for lying to Tess earlier. In her purse, she found a bottle of ibuprofen, shook a couple of tablets into her hand, and swallowed them with tap water. There was an ice dispenser and a soda vending machine at the end of the hall, but she didn’t want to go out again.

Kicking off her boots, she picked up the TV remote. She wasn’t up to watching the PBR finals, but maybe she could find a good movie to pass the time.

As she flipped through channels, she found just the thing—Voyage to the Black Hole, a low-budget sci-fi film she’d made years ago with a crew of barely known actors. She’d played a member of a spaceship crew, her single spoken line: “No damage to report, sir.”

Watching it now might at least be good for a few laughs.

She propped a couple of pillows against the headboard and settled back to watch. She’d known the movie was bad, but until now she hadn’t realized what a stinker it really was.

She was chuckling over a dramatic battle scene when the room telephone on the nightstand rang. Val reached for it, then hesitated as the phone rang again, then again. Tess or Lexie would call her cell, not the room number. But what if there was some emergency? Or some question at the front desk? With the phone still ringing, Val picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

There was no reply.

“Hello?” Her pulse quickened slightly.

Again, there was silence, followed by a faint click and the hum of the dial tone. Nothing more.

INSIDE THE ARENA, THE LAST RIDE OF THE NIGHT HAD ENDED IN A buck-off. As the fans began filing along the rows and pouring toward the exits, Tess slipped out of her seat and made her way down to the press box. Lexie’s husband, Shane Tully, had been a great rider before a fall under a bucking bull had crushed his spine and cost him the use of his legs. Now he was doing color commentary for the PBR finals. Lexie, as always, was at his side.

“So, how did it go?” Tess asked, although their beaming faces had already answered her question.

“Shane did great,” Lexie said. “He’s already a pro. I was so proud of him.”

“And this lady even got in some comments from a wife’s point of view,” Shane said. “I’d say we were a hit.”

Lexie rose from her seat, the curve of her rounded belly just showing beneath her shirt. “I have something else to be happy about, Tess. Before the event, some of the riders’ wives came up and introduced themselves. They were so nice; they have a group that gets together at events and stays in touch online. They told me I was already included. It’s like I’ve made all these new friends. They invited me to lunch, and they’re even talking about giving me a baby shower.”

“That’s great.” Tess had never needed much of a social life, but she knew how much the support of these women would mean to Lexie. “I’m on my way to check on our bulls,” she said. “Are you two going back to the hotel now?”

Shane, darkly handsome, grinned. “We’d planned to go out and kick up our heels. But we’re both beat. So, yes, we’re going back to our room. Is there something you need, Tess?”

“If you don’t mind, could you stop by and see how Val’s doing? She seemed a little off when I left her tonight. She said she had a headache. But you know Val. She tends to make excuses when something’s bothering her.”

“I think what’s bothering her is Casey,” Lexie said. “Remember last summer when she made us promise not to tell him she was at the ranch? When I asked her why, she said it was water under the bridge. I think she’s worried about running into him.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing if she did,” Shane said. “It’s been—what? Ten years since they broke up?”

“Nine. But they didn’t break up,” Lexie said. “She just left without telling him anything. That had to hurt. He got married a few years ago, but it didn’t last long.”

“Has she ever said why she left?”

“Not to any of us. Casey’s such a great guy. I can’t help thinking how much happier both their lives would’ve been if she’d stayed and married him.”

“Maybe it’s not too late,” Shane said. “Maybe they could at least be friends.”

“No, leave it alone, both of you,” Tess said. “Whatever Val did, she had her reasons, and she doesn’t owe any of us an explanation. Pushing her to see Casey again would only open old wounds.”

“But you still want us to check on her, don’t you?” Lexie asked.

“Yes, but only to make sure she’s okay. If there’s a problem, call my cell, and I’ll come right back.”

“Got it, big sister.” Shane backed his lightweight power chair away from the press table. Tess stepped aside to clear a path to the exit ramp. Lexie walked at his side, her hand brushing his shoulder. He managed his disability well and rarely complained. But Tess suspected that the cheerful face he put on was mostly for his wife’s sake. Before his tragic accident, Shane had lived for the thrill and challenge of riding bulls. He’d been a sure contender for the PBR World Finals. By right, he should be out in that arena competing for the big money. But he would never ride a bull again.

Tess stood for a moment, watching as they disappeared in the milling crowd. She would do anything to protect what was left of her little family, a family that had already known too many losses—her mother decades ago, her brother, Jack, at last year’s National Rodeo Finals, her father shortly after that, and her beloved stepmother, murdered by a neighbor this past summer. Only her father’s death, from cancer, had been a natural one.

Add to that toll the death of her fiancé, Mitch, who’d died in Afghanistan weeks before the wedding they’d planned. Tess had been even younger than Lexie. Now, at thirty, she still hadn’t found anyone else to love. And Val doubtless had her own secret sorrows. The Champions drew tragedy the way some families seemed to draw wealth or scandal.

Turning away, she headed toward the doors at the rear exit of the arena, where the steel-barred complex of pens, chutes, and gates had been set up for the bulls.

She was about to go outside when a voice called her name.

“Tess! Wait up!” Casey, still in protective gear, was striding to catch up with her. Turning back, she greeted him with a smile. Casey, who’d been her brother’s best friend, as well as Val’s first love, was almost family. Tess was happy to see him, but cautious. If he were to ask her about Val, she would have to choose between lying and breaking the promise she’d made to her sister.

He grinned. A handsome man with George Clooney looks, sandy hair and warm brown eyes, he was huskier than most bullfighters. But it was his strength that had supported Cody Woodbine and kept the young rider’s arm from being jerked out of its socket while he was hanging on the side of the bull.

Tess stepped closer, anticipating a brotherly hug, but he put up a warning hand.

“You might want to keep your distance,” he said. “I smell like a bull’s rear end. I won’t be fit for human company till I’ve had a shower.”

“You’re fine.” Tess gave him a brief hug, remembering how he’d come to the ranch last year to help bury Jack’s casket on a lonely bluff overlooking the pastures. He’d been working the arena when Jack had died under the crushing hooves of a 2,000-pound bull named Train Wreck. Casey would never forgive himself for not being able to save his best friend.

Val had sent a lavish bouquet for Jack’s funeral. But even her brother’s death hadn’t been enough to bring her home. For their father’s service, two months later, she’d sent nothing. And she hadn’t known about the death of their stepmother, Callie, until she arrived home.

“So how’ve you been, Tess?” Casey asked.

“The same. Just running the ranch. You know how that goes.”

“I ran into Lexie a couple of times over the summer. She told me you were doing a fine job.”

“I have good help. Shane’s taken over most of the business end, which gives me more time for the animals. Ruben’s still there as foreman, of course, watching over us all. And we’ve brought his son-in-law, Pedro, on full time. He’s a good worker, and his wife, Ruben’s daughter, is a fine cook. We still miss Callie, but things could be worse.”

You should come for a visit, Tess had almost said. But that wouldn’t do. Not with Val wanting to avoid him. “But you grew up on a ranch,” she said. “You know how it is. Never enough water. Never enough money. Never enough rest.”

Casey nodded. “I know. When my dad lost our ranch because he couldn’t pay off the loan, it broke his heart. He didn’t live long after that. If things had been different, I’d probably be ranching today instead of living out of a suitcase and getting knocked around by bulls.”

“Speaking of bulls,” Tess said, “I need to go. I was just on my way out back to check on the pair we brought.”

“Is it okay if I tag along?” Casey asked. “I’ve seen Whirlwind buck, but I’m curious about his brother.”

She hesitated. The more time she spent with Casey, the more likely he was to bring up Val. But how could she say no? She gave him a nod. “Sure. Come on.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay downwind of you.” Casey fell into step behind her.

They passed through the huge rear doors and into the covered complex of pens and chutes that housed the bulls for the event. Having Casey with her wouldn’t be a problem, Tess told herself. If he hadn’t asked about Val by now, he probably didn’t plan to.

The softly lit space was equipped with armed guards and security cameras. The animals here were worth big money. The least of them would likely bring more than $50,000 at auction. A world champion bull, like Sweet Pro’s Bruiser or Smooth Operator, could be worth as much as half a million—some in prize money, more in future breeding fees.

The smells of manure and warm animal bodies filled the air, along with the peaceful sounds of bulls snoring, snorting, chewing, passing gas, and stirring in their sleep. Some were penned alone, others with their companions.

Tess led Casey through the maze of pens and walkways, toward the far corner of the complex. Ninety-se. . .