Chapter 1

1

Late spring

Gila, New Mexico

Carlos Casanuevo, “Casa” to his friends, eased down on the big Brahma’s back. He wrapped the rope around his hand, drawing it as tight as he could. It still wanted to slip. He rosined his glove again and tried a second time. The bull swayed, bobbing its massive head. Casa recognized the big gray had been in the chutes many times before. Old Smokey knew the drill. Other cowboys had told him the bull was usually pretty docile, until the gate swung open. Then, he burst out like a rocket fired for the moon, though not moving in a straight line, but a zigzagging pattern as he bucked and twisted. Not a lot of cowboys managed to stick on him for the required eight seconds. Casa believed he could.

He recalled when he’d done this all season long, at least a couple of times every weekend. That was back when he and his best buddies, Stace Johnson and Spark Diamond, were rodeoing together. They’d decided to quit about six years ago, while they were still more or less in one piece. Riding bulls and broncs was a tough business. They were all good, but they’d recognized they were not world championship good. Since they were really not into the buckle bunnies, the other benefits were not that great. Partying got old, and flying or driving all over the country became real tedious. It was time for a career change.

About the same time, they met a man a few years older, a man with an idea. Jason Longford wanted to open a guest ranch that catered especially to gay men. When he pitched the idea to the three of them and offered them head wrangler positions, they’d jumped at the chance. Five years into that stint, they were still having a good time and loving their work. Besides the usual dude wrangling tasks, they had the job of catering to the special guests. These were high roller types who paid an additional fee for a chance to enjoy not only the outdoor and western adventures, but also some amorous ones with a hunky cowboy. Casa, Stace, and Spark made sure each guest got his money’s worth. For them it was almost a special perk instead of a duty.

Along with other entertainment such as trail rides, big game hunts and scenic photography, the ranch held a rodeo at least once a quarter. They got a good stock contractor to supply the rough stock, and invited locals to come and participate. The event had become a favored tradition in the southwestern corner of New Mexico. Tourists came to watch and local wannabe cowboys to compete. Many guests made a point of scheduling their visits at rodeo time.

The three cowboys always proved they had not lost their touch. If one of them did not win an event, another did, and usually they vied for the all-around-cowboy points each time.

Now satisfied with the feel of his rope, Casa gave a final squirm as if to glue his dusty jeans to the gray back. Then he nodded. When the gate swung open, Smokey erupted into the well-plowed arena, bellowing as he bucked.

The smallest man of the three at about five-foot-ten, Casa knew his lower center of gravity gave him a slight advantage or at least made up for his lesser weight and raw strength compared to his buds. He counted seconds in the back of his mind as he swayed and rocked atop the turning, twisting cyclone of bovine savagery. This old bull made it look harder than it was. Together, they put on a good show. The crowd’s enthusiastic roar confirmed he was making a good ride.

Ready when the whistle blew, he made sure to stick another second or two before he let the rope slide from his hand and pushed down on the bull’s hump to vault free. He lit without falling, although he staggered a few steps as the three local cowboys who served as bull fighters—the guys who used to be called rodeo clowns—to protect grounded riders, hazed the massive critter off to the alley. Casa threw his hat Frisbee style like some of the Pro Bull Rider cowboys did and gave a whoop. If his ride wasn’t worth day money, he’d retrieve that hat and eat a big bite out of the brim! Feeling cocky, he climbed up on the rails to watch the rest of the riders. Spark and Stace sometimes rode bulls, but preferred saddle broncs. Several locals had signed up for the bulls, though.

Casa did a double-take when he looked down the row of chutes. Holy shit! Is that Jason? Is he going to ride? Hell, he’s too old to risk it. Must be pushing forty! Now what the fuck does he think he’s going to prove?

He wanted to go grab his boss by the neck of the heavy protective vest and jerk him out of there. Jason must’ve gone totally loco.