Never Kiss a Cowgirl

Chapter One
 “Bo the Third!” The announcer said the name as if Bo needed to last a full thirty seconds, and the people in the stands should be awed to be in his presence. Asher Evans couldn’t blame the old guy, considering the bull kicking the shit out of the chute he was locked in was an impressive beast. He was big, strong, and angry at the world.
 Asher sat on the top rail waiting as the crowd stomped their boots on the old metal stands. The noise seemed to enrage the bull she’d drawn to ride, and she laughed at his building frantic behavior. Bo kicked both legs back, rattling the structure hard enough to make her momentarily lose her balance. She was grateful for all the upper body work she did, since her arm strength kept her upright. The crowd started chanting the bull’s name, and even through the din, she had no problem hearing Bo snorting as he started to paw the ground as if readying himself for blood—hers specifically.
 “Trying to make your great-great-granddaddy proud, big man.” She laughed when he shook his head and kicked back again as if he’d understood every word and found them insulting. With his light yellow coat, short downturned horns, and mean disposition, Bo really was the spitting image of the famous Bodacious, a bull that had been inducted into the ProRodeo Hall of Fame. Some bulls were more famous than the fools who voluntarily climbed on their backs to ride them.
 Bodacious had been one of those bulls, and his grandson a few generations removed was trying to surpass his fame. The problem was, Asher wasn’t intimidated by his shenanigans, as her mentor would’ve said. And this time around, his rider had more name recognition than him, since there was only one woman ranked in the top ten of professional rodeo, and it was Bo’s bad luck that’s who was about to meet his rage with her own. Bo was the most dangerous bull to ride on the circuit at the moment, and she wasn’t about to fall before she was ready to get off.
 The thrill of eight seconds on a bucking bull had cost her plenty in scars, both mental and physical, but there was no quitting. There was no giving up until she was the best, with the belt buckle to prove it. She owed her success to the man who’d voluntarily taken on the task of raising her and taught her everything he knew about rodeo, ranching, and—basically—life.
 “There’s your opening, Asher.” The rodeo worker yelled even though he was right beside her. “This is one mean son of a bitch, so careful.”
 She threw one leg over Bo’s back, and that move made the animal lose his shit, but she had the guy working the chute pull the rope around the bull’s chest taut as she moved into position. Once the rope lost the slack, she ran her gloved hand up and down its length her customary ten times, tightening as she went. All the while she paid attention to Bo since any unexpected move on his part would smash her legs into the sides of the chute. With an animal this big, that would be an invitation to the emergency room with a season-ending injury.
 She tightened her thighs to keep herself in place and put her hand into the grip of the rope, going with Bo when he kicked back again. Her last step was sliding forward so her hand was even with her crotch and her legs were in front of the rope. The chute guy pushed her hat down to keep it in place, and she nodded her thanks. Her anticipation built like rising water behind a weak dam. When the chute door opened, that’s exactly what it would feel like—millions of gallons of water bursting out with the intent to destroy everything in its path, her included, and taking her on the wildest ride she could ever conceive of.
 “Ready, rider?”
 Asher took a deep breath, nodded, and the chute door opened. The first buck came close to giving her whiplash, but she tightened her legs, threw her free hand up, and hung on. She gave the judges and the crowd what they’d come to see. Bull riding was way more than just staying on the bull’s back. It was the art of how you kept your body in control and your free arm in the air never touching the rope or animal, and the rhythm you got into with the bull you were riding. She always thought of it as a violent ballet of sorts.
 All that accounted for a possible fifty points, but the bull’s performance accounted for the other fifty points. So to get the high scores it was important to draw a bull that moved with speed and with a talent for unseating anyone who dared ride them. She’d lucked out with Bo since he never stopped whipping from one side to the other, trying to get her the hell off him.
 This would be her last ride for four months, and she had to make it count. Winning tonight with ninety points or more would move her into second place, giving her a cushion in the standings for the rest of the season. So far the judges hadn’t given anything higher than eighty-two.
 There was a moment where the adrenaline zapped the sound out of her head and all she could feel was the thrumming of her blood rushing through her veins. This was a test of wills, and she thrilled at it every single time. The clarity triggered by exhilaration brought every lesson Silas Wilson taught her to the forefront of her mind, and she paid attention to her form as she moved with the bull.
 The buzzer was what brought her back to the present, and the cheering along with Bo’s indignant snorting cut through the bubble in an instant. All she