Page 10 of Knox
As he stood at the window, his hand had gone to his cheek, where she’d kissed it. Safe. He was safe, and maybe he didn’t mind that label so much.
But a small part of him wanted to addyoungand just a littledangerous.
Like Tate.
Except he didn’t have Tate’s charisma or Wyatt’s superstar grin, Ford’s die-hard warrior drive, not even Reuben’s sheer courage.
He’d been gifted with the Marshall family brains. The wisdom to recognize a bull with the right genes to breed buckers. The steel-spine grit to negotiate a contract.
Shoot, he’d turned into his father. No, worse. At least his father had once been a hotshot, fighting wildfires in Montana.
Every one of you were put here for a reason. Find it. Live it.
His dad, in his head again, but this time alongside his own thoughts.
Old. Safe.
Please, let this not be his legacy.
“Good ride,” said a voice, and he turned as Rafe Noble came up next to him.
Tall, rangy, and handsome, the former GetRowdy Bull Riding champion had once graced Times Square’s glittering billboards with his whiskered face, when the bull-riding event landed at Madison Square Garden. Rafe then married a hotel heiress, moved to Texas, and started his own cattle ranch, following in the family business. He’d spent the past few years announcing for the PBR. He’d joined NBR-X on the board of directors, one of the founding organizers.
When Rafe reached out to Knox through his brother Reuben to contract Hot Pete, Knox hadn’t wanted to mention the fact that once upon a time he’d wanted to be like Rafe. In fact, Rafe was only a few years older than Knox, and in his youth, Knox had dreamed of competing against the champion.
Rafe was referring to the young buck who’d just lasted 4.3 seconds on Windwhipper, a Brahma bull with a wicked body roll. The cowboy landed in the dirt and skedaddled to the rail while the cowboy clowns released the bull rope and directed the animal into the exit chute.
“Reminds me of PeeWee, the bull that killed my best friend,” Rafe said quietly. He took a sip of his coffee. “They get a thirst for hurt and go after a cowboy.”
“Hot Pete isn’t that kind of bull. He isn’t a killer. He just knows how to buck,” Knox said.
“This is a family event, but we do want the best,” Rafe said. “It’s a fine line—thrilling the crowd but keeping our cowboys safe.”
“Bull riding is hardly safe,” Knox said. “But Hot Pete won’t run a rider down.”
Hopefully. Gordo had been that perfect mix of bull—feisty in the ring but amiable when the strap came off. “Hot Pete has a 4.52 average buckoff time and so far is unridden. That gives the audience enough of a thrill but keeps the stakes high. He’s a hard bucker, often spins to the inside, but has a wicked back kick and will even twist. And he scores points for the riders—he’s got an average of 41.5. The cowboys like him. But even more than that, he’s smart. He can almost read a rider, know how to throw him.”
Rafe was nodding, his gaze on the red 1,750-pound Braford bull as he lined up in the chute.
Massive, with a white stripe down his face and black eyes, the bull knew how to inspire terror.
Give a show.
Knox had raised him from a bottle. Trained him with a bucker and even once ridden him, back in the early days.
When he was younger, of course.
He was a good animal, and right now he might earn Knox enough cash to invest in a breeder cow named Calamity Jane that he had his eye on. He needed more champions if he wanted to…what? Grow the ranch?
Maybe.
Yes.
Because he’d been bequeathed the family legacy, and he had a responsibility.
The cowboy climbed into the chute. Next to Knox, Rafe drew in his breath.
Perhaps, like Knox, he was lost in history. Remembering winding the rope, sticky with resin, around the beast, of winding the rope around his wrist, knocking his fist tight, then wedging himself up against his bull rope. Knox had always slammed his free fist into his protective vest, just a couple times before breathing in and out hard, three successive breaths.