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A Rodeo Man's Promise
Marin Thomas


Winning dominated Riley Fitzgerald's mind…until the day he met Maria Alvarez. Now, all the rodeo champ can think about is winning Maria's heart—a task that may be tougher than busting broncs. As a struggling teacher of at-risk teens in an impoverished, gang-infested neighborhood, Maria doesn't trust the affections of a rich, hot-shot cowboy, especially one who's ten years her junior.But she can't deny the attraction between them—and luckily, Riley's never been one to back down from a challenge. There's only one thing that's more important to Riley than earning another world title, and that's earning Maria's trust. He's got one chance to prove to Maria that he's all the man she'll ever need, and she's the only woman he'll ever want.










Hot, Young Cowboy…

Winning dominated Riley Fitzgerald’s mind...until the day he met Maria Alvarez. Now, all the rodeo champ can think about is winning Maria’s heart—a task that may be tougher than busting broncs.

Beautiful, Older Teacher…

As a struggling teacher of at-risk teens in an impoverished, gang-infested neighborhood, Maria doesn’t trust the affections of a rich, hot-shot cowboy, especially one who’s ten years her junior. But she can’t deny the attraction between them—and luckily, Riley’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

Is She Out Of Her Mind?

There’s only one thing that’s more important to Riley than earning another world title, and that’s earning Maria’s trust. He’s got one chance to prove to Maria that he’s all the man she’ll ever need, and she’s the only woman he’ll ever want.


The cockpit door opened and the sexiest man Maria had ever laid eyes on stepped into view.

He tipped his cowboy hat. “Howdy, ma’am. Sorry about the mess I made. I’ll cover the damages.”

When he grinned Maria swore her heart flipped upside down in her chest. “Who are you?” Maria tried to squelch the fluttering in her stomach; she was too old to swoon over a man.

Riley stepped closer and spread his arms wide, grinning. “I’m a cowboy.”

“Aren’t they all,” Maria said, rolling her eyes.

Amused, Riley tapped a finger against his belt buckle. “Standing before you, ma’am, is a bonafide world champion bronc-buster.”

“Don’t call me that.” Maria’s brown eyes flashed with warning.

“Call you what?”

“Ma’am.”

Riley winked at her. Leaning in, he whispered, “Everything else that comes to mind would make you blush.”


Dear Reader,

What woman wouldn’t be thrilled to have the attention and admiration of a younger man? The older woman/younger man relationship is becoming more and more accepted in today’s society. There are countless studies attesting to the compatibility of couples with an age difference of ten or more years. But age isn’t the only roadblock standing in Riley and Maria’s way of a happily-ever-after.

Living in the trenches of Albuquerque, Maria has devoted her life to helping at-risk teens avoid gangs and succeed in school. Maria is street smart and savvy—except when it comes to sexy young cowboys. She’s flustered and beside herself when the reigning world champion bronc bustin’ cowboy sets his sights on her. Riley sees no problem with him being wealthy and Maria barely getting by. Him being Caucasian and she being Hispanic. Him flying his own plane and she driving a beat-up station wagon. If Maria listens to her heart and not the demons undermining her confidence, she might see that aside from his young, sexy, adventurous spirit, Riley is the man who holds the key to her heart and a brighter future—hers and the teens’ she’s trying to help. I hope you enjoy watching Riley and Maria struggle to make their May-December romance official!

For information on other books in my Rodeo Rebels series and to sign up for my monthly newsletter, please visit www.marinthomas.com.

Cowboy up!

Marin


Marin Thomas

A Rodeo Man’s Promise










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marin Thomas grew up in Janesville, Wisconsin. She attended the University of Arizona in Tucson on a Division I basketball scholarship. In 1986, she graduated with a B.A. in radio-television and married her college sweetheart in a five-minute ceremony in Las Vegas. Marin was inducted in May 2005 into the Janesville Sports Hall of Fame for her basketball accomplishments. Even though she now calls Chicago home, she’s a living testament to the old adage “You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl.” Marin’s heart still lies in small-town life, which she loves to write about in her books.


To Kevin—husband and best friend.

This past May we celebrated twenty-five years of wedded bliss! Who would have predicted a few stolen kisses in a dorm stairwell would lead to getting hitched in Vegas and settling into our first home in Phoenix. We didn’t stay put long…off we went to The Golden State. Along the way we added two kids and a dog. Then we headed to the Garden State for a couple of years before migrating west again to the Centennial State. From there we planted roots in the Lone Star State, added two more dogs and Taz the hamster to our family before packing up and moving to the Prairie State. This year we finally made it back to the place we began our life together…the Grand Canyon State. What an amazing ride it’s been and one I wouldn’t trade for the world! But I’m tired. I vote we stay put the next twenty-five years, find us a couple of rocking chairs, kick back and watch our kids navigate life, marriage and children while we grow old together.

I love you, GB!


Contents

Chapter One (#u6b759839-808c-5cdb-81fd-c9f5b5354f27)

Chapter Two (#u04ce4b5b-f499-5c18-a77b-47cc01aafbba)

Chapter Three (#u5efeed30-e825-5960-a109-52437f0c157a)

Chapter Four (#u1e70b7a2-ea03-5e85-adcf-a304908d51d6)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Friday afternoon, Riley Fitzgerald climbed out of a green Chevy cab in front of the Fremont County fairgrounds in Canon City, Colorado. The late-August sun slipped behind a puffy white cloud, casting a shadow over the livestock buildings. He offered the driver a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change, Rosalinda.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Fitzgerald.” The owner of Canon City Cab was old enough to be Riley’s grandmother and just as dependable. On his approach to the Fremont County Airport, he’d radioed the control tower to arrange a cab ride for him to the Royal Gorge Rodeo. “Good luck today.” Rosalinda waved then drove off.

Riley slung his gear bag over his shoulder and cut across the parking lot.

“Hey, Riley!” A petite blonde sashayed toward him, her perky breasts bouncing beneath a hot pink T-shirt with the words Cowgirls Ride Better printed in black lettering across the front.

Sugar waited tables at Dirty Lil’s—a roadhouse where cowboys hung out and swapped eight-second stories. Their one and only lusty kiss three years ago had been a bust, but they’d remained good friends. “Did you miss me?” Riley asked.

“Heck yeah, I missed my biggest tipper.” She slipped her arm through his and walked with him to the cowboy-ready area. “You’re comin’ to the bar later, right?”

“You bet.” Maintaining his championship swagger had become increasingly difficult when he hadn’t hit a top-three finish since his July 4th win in South Dakota seven weeks ago.

“Hey, Fitzgerald!” Billy Stover waved his cowboy hat. The bronc rider occupied first place in the standings. “Showin’ up kind of late in the day, aren’t you?” Stover eyed Sugar while Riley signed in for his event.

“Couldn’t catch a tailwind with the Cessna.” Riley felt a zap of satisfaction at the smack-down. No matter how great Stover became at bronc-bustin’, the cowboy would never earn the amount of money Riley had at his disposal on a day-to-day basis.

No sense trying to downplay his wealth when the media made sure Riley’s competitors and rodeo fans knew the Fitzgeralds of Lexington, Kentucky, were rolling in dough. He’d heard the whispers behind the chutes—spoiled rich kid had nothing better to do with his time than play cowboy.

After graduating from college with a marketing degree, he’d bypassed the family business—Kentucky Derby horses and a century-old bourbon distillery—and had hit the rodeo circuit, living off his trust fund. Other than sharing a love for the sport, he didn’t have a whole lot in common with the average rodeo cowboy. He knew horseflesh—the racing kind—but next to nothing about punching cows, which was what most rodeo contenders did to earn money between rides.

“Forgot you flew your own plane,” Stover said.

“You’d forget your brain if it wasn’t trapped inside your skull.”

Stover spit tobacco juice, the glob landing inches from the toe of Riley’s boot. “A win tonight ain’t gonna put you back in the running.” Listening to the man’s crap would be a lot less painful if Riley lasted eight seconds in the saddle. His dismal performance the past month fueled personal attacks and provided fodder for the media.

“Worry about yourself, Stover. Your luck might run out tonight.”

“Doubt it.” Stover disappeared into the crowd. The sports world was having a field day debating whether or not Riley deserved last year’s championship title. Riley’s first year on the circuit, he ended the season ranked seventh in the standings. The second year he’d won the title—by default—when Drew Rawlins had scratched his final ride. This year Riley intended to prove the naysayers wrong. He’d had a hell of a run during Cowboy Christmas, but he’d been slipping downhill since then.

“Ignore him.” Sugar glared at Stover’s retreating back. “Win or lose, you’re the hottest cowboy on the circuit.”

Too bad Riley’s pretty face couldn’t keep his butt glued to the saddle.

“Grab a seat, folks, and hang on to your hats.” The rodeo announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “The saddle-bronc competition is about to begin.”

“Go get ’em, cowboy.” Sugar kissed Riley’s cheek then disappeared into the stands.

Rummaging through his gear bag, Riley found his chaps and gloves. He’d put his spurs on during the cab ride to the arena.

“Riley Fitzgerald from Lexington, Kentucky, is up first.”

An ear-splitting din echoed through the stands as the crowd stomped their boots on the aluminum bleachers. His confidence might have abandoned Riley but at least his fans hadn’t.

“Fitzgerald’s about to tangle with one of the orneriest broncs on the circuit.”

Riley had ridden Peanut earlier in the season at the Coors Pro Rodeo in Gillette, Wyoming, and the stallion had been hell on hooves. The gelding had practically thrown Riley into the rails. He shoved his Stetson on his head—not that he expected the hat to stay on. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. Large, industrial air vents circulated the smell of horseflesh, urine-soaked hay and sweaty cowboys through the air.

Gotta make it to eight.

He scaled the chute rails and slouched low in the saddle then worked the buck rein around his hand until the rope felt comfortable. As with most notorious broncs Peanut didn’t flinch or twitch a muscle—he was every cowboy’s best friend until the gate opened.

“You folks may not know that three years ago Fitzgerald won the National Intercollegiate Rodeo Association Championship in saddle-bronc riding his senior year at UNLV. One might recall the story behind that ride…”

The facts surrounding his infamous ride had been embellished through the years until no one believed the truth—sheer luck and not skill had kept Riley in the saddle when Lucky Strike swapped ends—jumped into the air and turned 180 degrees before touching the ground. The ride had vaulted Riley into instant stardom and earned him sponsorship offers from Wrangler, Justin boots and Dodge trucks.

“Hang on, folks. The flagman’s signaling a problem with the clock,” the announcer said.

A sequence of slow-motion action shots played inside Riley’s head as he envisioned his ride. First, he marked out the bronc—touching both heels above the horse’s shoulders as the animal exploded from the chute. Peanut bucked, spun and back-jumped. Riley held on, his body moving in sync with the horse while spurring. The image abruptly vanished when loud music blasted through the arena.

“Fitzgerald dropped out of the standings this month. If he’s gonna defend his title he’s gotta win on the big buckers like Peanut.”

Win—exactly what Riley intended to do.

“Clocks have been fixed. Let’s see if Fitzgerald can stay in the saddle.”

A final squeeze of the rein then Riley signaled the gate man. The chute door swung open and Peanut leapt into the arena. Riley spurred the gelding, goading it to buck harder—the feistier the bronc, the higher the score. But his efforts were in vain. Peanut whirled right, left, then back to the right, but without much vigor.

Son of a bitch. Peanut was acting like a dink—a bucker with no buck.

The buzzer sounded and Riley leapt to the ground, resisting the urge to smack the bronc on the rump as he walked to the chute.

“Don’t rightly know what was wrong with Peanut tonight. He sure didn’t do Fitzgerald any favors. An eighty isn’t good enough for a win. Better luck next time, cowboy.”

“Tough draw,” Ed Parker said.

Too pissed to speak, Riley opened his gear bag and stowed his rigging. Parker was one of the nicer competitors on the circuit and didn’t deserve Riley’s cold shoulder; but better to keep his mouth shut than spout statements that would make the morning papers and sully the Fitzgerald name.

Riley’s great-great-grandfather Doyle Fitzpatrick had purchased the family’s first thoroughbred horse in Ireland and brought the stallion with him when he’d immigrated to America. He sold Duke of Devonshire and used the money to buy Belle Farms—the burned-out shell of a pre-civil war estate on the outskirts of Lexington. Doyle then opened a local bourbon distillery, using the profits to renovate Belle Farms and invest in the world’s finest horseflesh.

“You headin’ over to Lil’s?” Parker asked.

“Yeah.” Riley would drink a beer and pretend he didn’t give a rat’s ass about losing when he did. After socializing he’d phone Rosalinda to fetch him from the bar then he’d fly to his next rodeo in Payson, Arizona.

“I’ll give you a lift after my ride,” Parker said.

“Appreciate that.” Riley headed for the food vendors, where he purchased two hot dogs, fries and a Coke. He sat in the stands and ignored the buckle bunnies with big hair, big boobs and big rhinestone belts, batting their eyelashes at him. Riley’s wealth combined with his dark good looks garnered him more than his fair share of female interest. Most of the time, he enjoyed being fussed over but his recent losing streak put him on edge and he didn’t appreciate all the female distractions.

He heard the announcer call Parker’s name. A few seconds after the gate opened the cowboy sailed over the bronc’s head. Parker was out of the running, too. Riley returned to the cowboy-ready area and followed Parker to his truck.

Dirty Lil’s was a hop, skip and a jump from the rodeo grounds. They parked behind the building, near a grassy area where bikers threw horseshoes and played poker at picnic tables.

“You ever think about hanging up your spurs?” Parker asked.

Plenty of times. “Never.” That’s what champions were supposed to say. “Why do you ask?” Riley didn’t know much about Parker’s personal life other than his father was the foreman of a corporate-owned cattle ranch north of Albuquerque.

“I’ve been doing this for eight years and all I’ve gotten for my time and effort is a handful of broken bones and a divorce.”

At age twenty-five, marriage wasn’t a topic that came to Riley’s mind often. His biggest concern was figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. Until then, he didn’t dare quit rodeo or his father would demand he return to Lexington and help run Belle Farms. “You have any kids?” he asked Parker.

“A daughter. Shelly’s four. I missed her birthday last week because I was in Texas.”

Parker was only a few years older than Riley but already a father. Riley figured he’d have kids one day but he couldn’t picture himself as a dad anytime soon.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a cold one,” Parker said, hopping out of the truck.

A wooden bust of a woman from an ancient sailing ship hung above the entrance to Dirty Lil’s. A sign dangled from her neck, reminding customers that Friday night was ladies’ mud wrestling.

As far as roadhouses went, Lil’s was top-of-the-line and plenty big enough for the cowboy ego. A decent-size dance floor occupied the rear of the establishment, where a stage had been constructed for local bands. In the middle of the room sat a twenty-by-twenty-foot inflated kiddie pool filled with mud. A garden hose hooked up to a spigot behind the bar rested on the floor next to the man-made mud bog.

Waitresses dressed as saloon wenches carried drink trays and flirted with the cowboys. “Hey, fellas.” Sugar smiled behind the bar. “Don’t stand there gawkin’. Sit down and have a drink.”

“Two Coors.” Riley fished his wallet from his back pocket. “When did you start pouring drinks?”

“Melanie’s on break.” Sugar leaned over the bar and whispered in Riley’s ear. “Heard about your ride. You’ll win next time.”

Or the next time. Or the time after that.

As soon as Sugar walked off, Riley chugged his beer, then spent the following hour dancing with a handful of women. He bought a round for the house then caught up with Parker and challenged him to a game of darts—and lost a hundred-buck wager.

“You did that on purpose,” Parker accused.

“Did what?”

“Gave the game away.”

“You’re nuts.” Riley swallowed a sip of warm beer. He’d been nursing his second longneck for over an hour. “What?” he asked when Parker stared at him.

“You strut around…a big shot with the women.” Parker pointed at Riley’s waist. “Flashing your world-champion belt buckle and pilot’s license. Buying rounds of beer with hundred-dollar bills.”

No sense refuting Parker’s charges. Riley was set for life. He was aware most rodeo cowboys shared motel rooms, slept in their trucks and skipped meals to scrape together enough cash to pay their entry fees and fill their gas tanks. A few guys even set their own broken bones because they didn’t have the money to pay for an E.R. visit.

Riley had never experienced sacrifice—that set him apart from the other cowboys on the circuit. In return, his rivals had no idea how it felt to live with the pressure and responsibility attached to the Fitzgerald name.

When Riley refused to debate his privileged life with Parker, the cowboy muttered, “Thanks for the gas money.”

“You beat me fair and square.” Riley had believed Parker was one of the few cowboys who’d ignored Riley’s wealth. If he’d known otherwise, he wouldn’t have played darts with one eye closed—his good eye. He couldn’t have hit the bull’s-eye if he’d been standing five feet in front of the board. He set his beer bottle on the bar.

“You’re not stayin’ for the mud wrestling?” Parker motioned to the pit behind Riley. Two women wearing string bikinis—pink-and-white polka dot and cherry-red—taunted each other while drooling cowpokes placed bets.

Both blondes were pretty and not shy about flaunting their centerfold figures. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to watch the first match. Riley found a table with an unobstructed view of the pit and far enough away to avoid the spray of mud.

The antique train whistle attached to the wall behind the bar bellowed. Sugar introduced the wrestlers. “Get ready, boys, ’cause Denise and Krista are gonna give you a fight to remember. Both gals made the finals in last year’s Royal Gorge mud wrestling competition.”

Wolf whistles filled the air.

The women retreated to opposite corners of the kiddie pool and made a big production out of straightening their swimsuits. When the train whistle blew again, the contestants dove into the pit, spewing mud over the edges of the pool. They tussled, slipped and slid until only the whites of their eyes and their teeth were visible. Riley chuckled at the effort the women put into the act. They knew if they gave the cowboys a good show, they’d earn enough money in tips to cover their rent for a month.

“I thought you were leaving?” Sugar sidled up to Riley’s table.

“You know me—can’t resist a dirty girl.”

“You need a real woman.” She snorted at the mud-slinging duo. “Not immature, self-centered brats who only want to get their hands on the Fitzgerald fortune.”

“And where is a twenty-five-year-old guy to find a mature, worldly woman his own age?”

“Not at Dirty Lil’s, that’s for sure.”

“If I stop coming here, you’ll miss me.” Riley kissed Sugar’s cheek. “I’ve got to hit the road.”

“Fly safe, you hear?”

“Will do.” Riley returned to Parker’s F-150, where he’d left his gear bag, then phoned the cab company. By the time Rosalinda arrived, thunder echoed in the distance. She stepped on the gas and issued a weather report. Ominous black clouds threatened the skies to the west. At the airport he tipped Rosalinda another hundred before entering the hangar that housed his plane. The Dark Stranger—literal translation of his great-great-grandfather’s name, Doyle—was a gift to himself after he’d graduated from college.

Ben Walker, the airport operations manager, stood next to the Cessna 350 Corvalis. “High winds and possible hail are headed this way. You’re being routed through Albuquerque, then over to Arizona. You’ve got to be airborne in the next ten minutes. After that they’re shutting us down until the storm passes.”

“What about fuel?”

“Took care of that earlier.” Walker shrugged. “Heard you lost today so I doubted you’d stick around long.”

“Thanks.”

“Have a safe flight.” Walker returned to his office.

Riley got in the plane and hurried through the preflight checklist, then taxied onto the runway. The control tower instructed him to fly twenty miles east then turn south toward Albuquerque.

Once the Dark Stranger leveled off at sixteen thousand feet, Riley relaxed behind the controls and turned on the stereo. Time passed quickly and the plane soon entered Albuquerque airspace. He decreased his altitude and veered west toward Arizona. He’d just straightened the aircraft, when out of nowhere an object slammed into the propeller.

“Shit!”

Flecks of blood spattered the windshield and the plane vibrated violently. Riley quickly feathered the propeller and shut down the engine to prevent further damage.

He muttered a prayer and searched for a place to land.



OH, MY GOD.

Maria Alvarez stared in horror out the window of her station wagon. The small plane wobbled in the sky, its right wing dipping dramatically before leveling off. The aircraft was losing altitude fast. Maria pressed on the gas pedal as she whizzed along I-40 heading west out of Albuquerque toward Mesita.

Suddenly the plane switched direction and crossed the highway right over her car. He was gliding toward the salvage yard—Maria’s destination. Flipping on the blinker, she entered the exit lane. Keeping the plane in sight, she drove along a deserted road for a quarter mile. The road dead-ended and Maria turned onto a dirt path that led to Estefan’s Recycling and Auto Salvage. The business had closed to the public years ago but the property had never been cleared of ancient car parts, tires and appliances. The past few months the lot had become the home turf of the Los Locos gang.

Aside from normal gang activities—robbery, drugs and shootings—the Los Locos members were famous for their artistic talent. A recent display of their artwork across the front of an office complex on the south side of Albuquerque depicted an alien invasion of earth. The mural had received praise from the art professors at the University of New Mexico but not the police or the public. Regardless of the gang’s creativity, none of its members would escape the ’hood without an education.

Maria was one of five teachers in the city whose students had dropped out or had been expelled from high school. Except for a few instructors, society had written off the troublemakers. Education, not gang affiliation, was the path to a better life. Once the teens joined a gang, leaving alive wasn’t an option. Maria’s job was to help at-risk teens earn a GED then enroll in a community college or a trade program. Most days she loved her work, but there were times—like now—that her students tested the limits of her patience.

Yesterday, three of her charges had skipped class. When she’d stopped by their homes this afternoon to check on them, their families had no idea of their whereabouts. As she left one of the homes, a younger sibling confessed that his brother, Alonso, had gone to meet the Los Locos at Estefan’s Salvage.

As Maria raced toward the junkyard, the plane dropped from the sky and touched down, bouncing twice before racing across the bumpy desert toward the chain-link fence enclosing the property.

He’s not going to stop in time.

The aircraft rammed into the fence, ripping several panels from the ground before the nose of the plane crashed into a stockpile of rubber tires, spewing them fifty feet into the air. Amazingly the aircraft came to a halt in one piece.

After parking near the downed fence, Maria clutched the lead pipe she stowed beneath the front seat. This wasn’t the first time—nor would it be the last—that she rescued one or more of her students from a dangerous situation. Her father insisted she carry a gun, but after her brother had been shot dead by a gangbanger ten years ago, Maria wanted nothing to do with guns.

Sidestepping scattered debris, she hurried toward the plane. Her steps slowed when the cockpit door opened and the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on stepped into view.

He tipped his cowboy hat. “Howdy, ma’am. Sorry about the mess I made of your place. I’ll cover the damages.”

This past March Maria had celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday. Entering her mid-thirties was tough enough without being “ma’am’d” by a sexy young cowboy. He grinned and she swore her heart flipped upside down in her chest. Embarrassed by her juvenile reaction to the stranger she stopped several yards from the plane.

“You wouldn’t happen to have the name of a good aviation mechanic, would you?”


Chapter Two

Stomach tied in knots, Riley walked around the plane, assessing the damage—flat tire. Minor dents. Oh, man, that couldn’t be good—two mangled propeller blades. Only a bird the size of a hawk could have done that much damage.

Despite a breeze, sweat dripped down his temples as the harrowing descent replayed in his mind. At least his radio hadn’t shut off and he’d been able to communicate his safe landing to the control tower at a nearby airport.

“Are you all right?”

The sultry voice startled Riley. He’d forgotten about the woman. He gave her a once-over. Out of habit he catalogued her features, placing them in the plus or minus column. Her voice made the plus column—the raspy quality reminded him of a blues singer.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He moved toward her then stopped on a dime when she lifted the metal pipe above her head.

“Don’t come any closer.”

This was a first for Riley. Usually, he was the one beating off the women. “I’m no threat.”

Keeping hold of the weapon, she crossed her arms in front of her bosom—a well-endowed bosom.

Plus column.

She had curvy hips unlike the skinny buckle bunnies who squeezed their toothpick legs into size-zero Cruel Girl jeans. This lady filled a pair of denims in a way that made Riley want to grab hold of her fanny and never let go.

Three pluses—home run.

“Engine trouble?” she asked.

“Bird strike. I’d hoped to make it to Blue Skies Regional—” the municipal airport was located seven miles northwest of the central business district in Albuquerque “—but I lost altitude too quickly.”

“Who are you?”

The female drill sergeant needed to loosen up a bit. He spread his arms wide. “A cowboy.”

“Aren’t they all.” She rolled her eyes.

Amused, Riley tapped a finger against his belt buckle. “Standing before you, ma’am, is a bona fide world-champion bronc-buster.”

“Don’t call me that.” Almond-shaped brown eyes flashed with warning.

“Call you what?”

“Ma’am.”

So the lady was a tad touchy about her age. The tiny lines that fanned from the outer corners of her eyes hinted that she was older than Riley by more than a few years. She was on the short side, but there was nothing delicate about her. The arm wielding the pipe sported a well-defined bicep. His mind flashed back to Dirty Lil’s—he’d give anything to watch this woman mud wrestle.

“I’ve never met a real cowboy who wears snakeskin boots and flies his own plane. My guess is that you’re a drug dealer, masquerading as a cowboy.”

Whoa. “Sorry to disappoint you, ma’—uh, miss. I left Canon City, Colorado, earlier today after competing in the Royal Gorge Rodeo.” She didn’t appear impressed. “Go ahead and check my plane for contraband.” He dug his cell phone from his pocket. “Or call my agent. He’ll verify that I’m Riley Fitzgerald, current NFR saddle-bronc champion.” Soon to be dethroned if he didn’t get his rodeo act together.

“Agent?” she scoffed. “Is that what they’re calling drug cartels these days?”

The lady appeared immune to his charm. Riley couldn’t remember the last time a woman had rejected him. Her feistiness and bravado intrigued him and he found her sass sexy. “Why would a drug runner risk landing his plane in a salvage yard?”

“I’ve seen bolder displays of arrogance.”

Now he was an arrogant drug dealer? “As soon as I locate a good mechanic I intend to fly the heck out of Dodge.” He removed a handful of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. “Put this toward the damages. You can send a final bill—”

One of her delicately shaped eyebrows arched.

“What?”

“Cowboys don’t carry around hundred-dollar bills.”

“Take the money!”

Riley jumped inside his skin and scanned the piles of household appliances, searching for the location of the mystery voice. “Who’s there?”

“Alonso Marquez, get your backside out here right now.” The woman marched toward the graffiti-covered cinder-block hut with broken-out windows and a missing door. The word Office had been painted across the front in big red letters. Rusty refrigerators, washing machines and water heaters sat outside the building. “Victor and Cruz, I know you’re there, too.” The pipe-wielding crusader halted a few yards before the door when three teens waltzed from the building.

They were dressed the same—baggy pants that hung low on their hips. Black T-shirts. Each wore a bicycle chain lock around their necks and another chain hung from the pocket of their pants, down both sides of their legs, ending an inch above the ground. The baseball caps on their heads were turned sideways—all facing to the left—and their athletic shoes had no laces.

“You guys better have a good reason for skipping class yesterday and missing the quiz.”

Quiz? He’d crash-landed his plane, been accused of drug trafficking and now the crazy lady discussed schoolwork with three troublemakers from the ’hood.

“We’re not comin’ to class no more.” The tallest kid of the bunch spoke.

“You’re quitting, Cruz? The three of you are this—” she pinched her thumb and forefinger together in front of the boy’s face “—close to earning your GEDs.”

“We got a better gig goin’ on.”

“Does this gig have anything to do with the Los Locos, Victor?” She tapped the end of the pipe against the boy’s chest.

“What if it does?” The teen grimaced, the action stretching the scar on his face. A line of puckered flesh began at his temple and cut across the outer corner of his eye, dragging the skin down before continuing along his cheek and ending at the edge of his mouth. “Hanging with the Locos is better than sitting in class learning stupid stuff, Ms. Alvarez.”

Ms. Alvarez was a teacher. Riley didn’t envy her job—not if her students were as difficult as these punks.

“Victor—”

“Mind if I butt in?” Four heads swiveled in Riley’s direction.

“Awesome landing, dude.” The kid named Victor made a fist pump in the air.

“Thanks, but I prefer using runways when possible.” Keeping one eye on Ms. Alvarez and her lead pipe and the other on the teens, Riley joined the crowd. “You guys didn’t get hurt by flying debris, did you?”

Three heads swiveled side-to-side.

“I’m Riley Fitzgerald.” He held out his hand and one of the teens stepped forward, offering his fist. Riley bumped knuckles with the kid.

“Alonso Marquez.”

Next, Riley nudged knuckles with the tall teen, who said, “Cruz Rivera.”

The kid with the scar kept his hands in his pockets and mumbled, “Victor Vicario.”

Riley offered his knuckles to the teacher, but she held out her hand instead. “Maria Alvarez.”

Pretty name for a pretty lady. He eyed her weapon. “That’s for show, right?”

“No.” She smiled and Riley’s breath hitched in his chest. She had the most beautiful white teeth and dimples.

“When did you figure out I wasn’t a drug lord?” he asked.

Her gaze dropped to his waist. “When you pointed to the horse on your belt buckle.”

“I’ll be happy to cover the damages if you tell me who owns this place.”

“My dad owns it.” Cruz and his homies snickered.

“Yeah, Cruz’s dad’s gonna be ticked when he sees the busted fence,” Victor said.

Riley was being conned, but played along. “I’ll pay you guys to straighten things up before Cruz’s father gets word of the damage.” He handed each boy a Ben Franklin. Eyes wide, mouths hanging open, the teens gaped at the money. They’d probably never seen a hundred-dollar bill before.

“Absolutely not.” Maria snatched the money from their fingertips. “None of their fathers owns this business, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Mr. Fitzgerald? The only person he’d ever heard called Mr. Fitzgerald was his father.

“Alonso, Cruz and Victor are enrolled in a high school program I teach for at-risk teens.”

Cruz attempted to mimic his teacher’s voice. “Ms. Alvarez is our last chance to change our ways before we land in prison or fall under the influence of gangs.” Laughing, the boys decked each other with playful punches.

“That’s enough.” Maria scowled. “Get in the car. We’ll discuss the ramifications of your actions in a minute.”

The boys shuffled off. When they were out of earshot, Maria said, “You landed your plane in an abandoned salvage yard that’s rumored to have been taken over by the Los Locos. The boys were hanging out here, waiting for the gang.”

“You think the thugs will show up tonight?”

The sexy cowboy pilot was worried about the plane being vandalized. “I don’t know.”

“Mind if I hitch a ride with you? I need to make arrangements to have the plane towed.”

The last thing Maria wanted was a handsome cowboy distracting her while she reprimanded her students. She clearly hesitated too long in answering, because he added, “You don’t have to go out of your way. Drop me off wherever you’re taking those guys.”

She couldn’t very well leave him alone in the junkyard with night approaching. “Sure. I’ll give you a lift. And I can give you the name of a reliable mechanic.”

“I’ll fetch my gear bag.” He jogged to the plane and Maria had to drag her eyes from his muscular backside.

You’re old enough to be his mother. That wasn’t exactly true—an older sister, maybe. Regardless, it irked her that a man as young as Riley had thrown her for a loop. With all she’d been through and seen in her thirty-five years she should be immune to a handsome face and a sexy swagger.

“Is the cowboy dude coming or what?” Cruz asked when Maria returned to the station wagon.

“Yep.” She settled behind the wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror. The three musketeers sat shoulder-to-shoulder. The boys were all bright and funny, and deserved a chance to escape the gang violence of inner-city life. If only they believed in themselves. Maria was doing her best to nurture their self-confidence and encourage them to study. They had to excel in the classroom if they wanted any chance at a life away from gangs and drugs. The boys’ actions today proved that her efforts were falling short.

“We’re giving Mr. Fitzgerald a ride into town. You three better mind your manners.”

“Are we gonna get to make up the quiz?” Alonso asked.

Of course they would. Maria bent and broke the rules to help her students succeed. “We’ll see.” Wouldn’t hurt to let them stew.

“C’mon, Ms. Alvarez,” Victor whined. “We know the material.”

Victor and Alonso glanced at Cruz, expecting their buddy to chime in but Cruz remained silent. Of the three, Maria worried she’d lose Cruz to a gang. A few months ago his younger brother had gotten caught in the crossfire between two rival gangs and had been killed. Maria sensed Cruz wanted revenge. She knew the feeling well, but when she’d attempted to share her personal experience with gang violence, Cruz had shut her out.

“Who gave you guys a ride out here?”

“A trucker dropped us off at the exit ramp on the interstate. We hiked the rest of the way,” Victor said.

The passenger door opened and the cowboy tossed a duffel onto the front seat. “Sorry,” he said.

“What’s in the bag, mister?” Alonso asked.

“Change of clothes and my rodeo gear.” He removed his hat and rested it atop his knee.

“Mr. Fitzgerald—”

“Call me Riley.” His smile set loose a swarm of butterflies in Maria’s stomach.

“Riley,” she repeated in her best schoolmarm voice. “Please fasten your seat belt.” Once he’d completed the task she made a U-turn and drove away from the salvage yard.

“You ride bulls for real?” Victor asked.

“Nah, I’m not that crazy. I bust broncs.”

“You famous?” Cruz asked.

“I won a world title last year at the NFR in Vegas. Ever heard of that? The National Finals Rodeo?”

A resounding “no” erupted from Victor’s and Alonso’s mouths.

“It’s the biggest rodeo of the year. The top fifteen money-making cowboys in each event compete for a world title.”

“Does the winner get a lot of coin?” Victor asked.

“Depends on your definition of a lot.”

“A thousand dollars,” Victor blurted.

“Idiot.” Alonso elbowed Victor in the side. “He flies a plane, so he’s gotta make more ’n a thousand dollars.”

“How’d you learn to fly?” Victor asked.

“Went to flight school while I was in college.”

Maria’s ears perked at the word college.

“Why’d you go to college?” Victor asked.

“What else was I going to do after high school?” Riley said.

Victor’s eyes widened. “You coulda hung out with your homies.”

“Yeah, but that would get boring after a while.”

The teens exchanged bewildered glances.

“The truth is,” Riley said, “my old man insisted I earn a college degree so I’d be prepared to help with the family business.”

Intrigued, Maria joined the conversation. “What does your family do?”

“They breed horses.”

Her hunch had been correct. “You live on a ranch.”

“No, my family lives on a horse farm in Kentucky.”

“You don’t have a Southern accent,” she said.

“Lost the accent when I went to college at UNLV in Las Vegas.”

“I’d go to college if the school was next to topless dancers and casinos,” Cruz said.

“I was too busy rodeoing to gamble.” Riley winked at Maria and darned if her heart didn’t pound harder. She strangled the steering wheel and focused on the dirt road leading to the highway.

“What do you guys do with your spare time?” Riley shifted in his seat. “Are you into sports or clubs?”

“Yeah, we’re into clubs.” Cruz snorted.

Maria caught Alonso watching her in the rearview mirror. The teen held a special place in her heart—he reminded her of her brother, Juan. Desperate to fit in, he was a follower not a leader. Alonso had much to offer others and she hoped to convince him to attend college after he earned his GED.

“What clubs are you involved in?” Riley asked.

“What do you think?” Cruz said. “We’re going to join the Los Locos.” The teen acted too tough for his own good.

“Gangs are for losers. Most of those guys land in prison or they get shot dead on the street.”

“Gangs are cool,” Victor said.

“Then how come all they do is break the law, sell drugs, use drugs and shoot people?” Riley countered.

Maria decided to intervene before the boys went ballistic. “A few of the gangs in the area have unusual talents.” She took the on-ramp to the highway. “Members of the Los Locos gang are accomplished artists.”

“If they’re that good, why aren’t they in art school? Or a college program where they can put their creativity to good use?” Riley asked.

“The kids come from disadvantaged backgrounds and—”

“Disadvantaged means poor,” Victor interrupted.

“The families can’t afford to send their son or daughter to a special school let alone an art camp during the summer months.” Maria merged with traffic and headed toward civilization. “Do you know where you want to stay for the night?” she asked Riley.

“Take him to the Lamplight Inn down the block from our house,” Victor said. “My sister works there. She’ll show you a good time for one of those hundred-dollar bills you got in your wallet.”

Riley ignored Victor’s comment. “Any motel is fine.”

Motel? Maria doubted this cowboy had ever slept in a motel. She’d have to go out of her way and drop off Riley downtown at the Hyatt Regency.

The remainder of the trip was made in silence—the gang wannabes brooding in the backseat and Riley staring at the Sandia Mountains off to the east. When they entered the Five Points neighborhood, Riley tensed. Maria was used to the rough-and-tumble areas in the South Valley, but this Kentucky-bluegrass cowboy had probably never seen urban decay the likes of what he viewed now.

Maria’s parents lived in Artrisco, not far from the Five Points, and she’d moved in with them a year ago after ending her relationship with her fiancé, Fernando. Living with her folks was to have been temporary but Maria delayed finding her own place because she felt responsible for her mother’s continued decline in health. She turned off of Isleta Boulevard and parked in front of Cruz’s home.

The yard was strewn with broken furniture and garbage. The plaster on the outer walls of the house had peeled away and several clay roof tiles were broken or missing. Good thing Albuquerque received less than nine inches of rain per year. Maria unsnapped her belt.

“I don’t need an escort,” Cruz said.

“I want to speak with your mother.”

Cruz hopped out of the car. “You know my mom won’t be in any shape to talk.”

Sadly, the teen’s mother was a methamphetamine addict—all the more reason to make sure Cruz stayed away from gangs and earned his GED. “Promise you’ll attend class on Monday.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Cruz,” Maria called after him.

“What?”

“Be a man of your word.”

After Cruz entered the house Maria spoke to Victor and Alonso. “I want you guys to keep your distance from the Los Locos. And both of you had better be ready to take that quiz on Monday.”

The boys didn’t register a protest as Maria drove them home—two blocks from Cruz’s house.

“Thanks for the ride,” Alonso said when he got out of the car.

“See ya.” Victor followed Alonso into his house.

Maria left the Five Points and made her way toward the river. She drove across Bridge Boulevard then turned on Eight Street. “The Hyatt Regency is on the other side of the Rio Grande.”

“Do you do this all the time?” Riley asked.

“Do what?”

“Drive through questionable neighborhoods?”

“Yep. Comes with the job.” She also lived in one of those questionable neighborhoods Riley referred to. She turned on Tijeras Avenue then stopped in front of the hotel.

Riley faced her, his mouth curving. Maria swore she’d have to ingest a dozen bottles of antacid medicine before her stomach recovered from her run-in with the flying cowboy.

“Let me buy you dinner as a thank you for helping me today,” he said.

Dinner…as in a date? It had been months since she’d sat across the table from a man, never mind that Riley Fitzpatrick wasn’t just any man. He was a sexy young cowboy…man.

“How old are you?” She winced when the question slipped out of her mouth.

“Twenty-five. Does age matter if we’re only having dinner?”

Oh, God. Maria’s face flamed. Had he guessed she’d been thinking about sex? She really needed to get laid. “Dinner would be nice, but I’m not dressed for the Hyatt. How do you feel about Mexican food?”

“Love it.”

“I know just the place.” Maria drove back to the other side of the Rio Grande and parked in front of a narrow brick-faced storefront with Abuela’s Cocina on the sign, sandwiched between a Laundromat and a liquor store. “‘Grandmother’s Kitchen,’” Maria said. “Consuelo makes great enchiladas.”

“Is it safe?” Riley asked, eyeing the car filled with gangbangers at the corner. The guy in the driver’s seat glared at them.

“No riskier than the wild horses you ride.” Rodeo could be violent at times, but at least the horses and bulls didn’t shoot at the cowboys who rode on their backs.

They made it as far as the restaurant door when a gunshot went off. In a move so quick it snatched the air from Maria’s lungs Riley opened the café door and shoved her over the threshold, catching her by the waist when she tripped on the welcome mat in the foyer. Before the door had even shut behind them, Riley had Maria pressed against the wall, his body shielding hers.

“Did you get hit?” he whispered.

Shock kept her tongue-tied.

“Don’t move.” Riley settled his palm against her hip, exerting enough force to keep her pinned in place. The heat from his hand burned through her jeans, warming her skin. She giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Are you finished playing hero?”

“Hola, Maria.” A young woman entered the hallway, carrying two laminated menus. She stared at Riley’s hand still attached to Maria’s hip. “¿Quién es el vaquero?”

“This cowboy is Riley Fitzgerald. Riley, Sonja. Her aunt owns the restaurant.”

Riley tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

Ma’am? Sonja was nineteen. Maria snorted.

“Sígueme,” Sonja said, disappearing through a doorway.

Maria followed the hostess into the dining room, stunned that a twenty-five-year-old man made her feel as if she were a carefree young girl and not a woman who had seen and experienced a lifetime of tragedy and heartbreak in thirty-five short years.


Chapter Three

Riley lost his train of thought as he drowned in Maria’s brown eyes.

“Do I have food stuck to my face?” She reached for her napkin.

He covered her hand with his, pinning the napkin to the table. “No. Your face is fine. As a matter of fact it’s perfect.”

Maria’s cheeks reddened and Riley chuckled.

“What?”

He released her hand. “I make you nervous.”

“No, you don’t.” The denial lacked conviction.

He eyeballed her fingernail tapping the table and Maria fisted her hand. “Why do I make you uneasy?” he asked.

“Besides the fact that you’re a complete stranger?”

“Yeah, besides that.” He popped a tortilla chip into his mouth and chewed.

“Let’s see.” Maria held up one finger. “First, you’re sexy and attractive.”

Wow. He hadn’t seen that one coming. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” A second finger rose in the air. “You’re wealthy.”

“Money makes you anxious?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you that money is the root of all evil?”

“Actually, my father taught me that money solves all problems.”

Third finger… “You’re young.”

He’d read the occasional magazine article that testified to the sexual compatibility of older women and younger men. Made sense to him. He waggled his eyebrows. “Youth has its advantages.”

The waitress arrived with their meals and the women spoke in Spanish. Riley guessed they discussed him because the young girl glanced his way more than once. “The enchiladas are great,” he said, disrupting the conversation.

“I’ll tell Aunt Consuelo you approve of her cooking.” The waitress disappeared.

“The whole family works in the business?”

“Years ago Consuelo won the lottery and used the money to open a restaurant. Since then, most of her nieces and nephews have worked here at one time or another.”

“I hope she kept part of her winnings and bought a new car or treated herself to a vacation.”

“No car or vacation, but she did send her only son to college.”

“What does he do?” Riley asked.

“He’s an investment banker in Los Angeles.” Maria sipped her iced tea. “Pablo visits once a year and attempts to coax his mother to move to California, but Consuelo refuses.”

“Why?”

“This is where she was born and raised.” Maria smiled. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“What’s that?”

“This neighborhood is a far cry from where you were raised.”

“True.” No sense pretending he felt at home in the ’hood.

“Consuelo can’t retire or close the restaurant because she’s the only stable influence in her nieces’ and nephews’ lives. Without her, the kids would be out on the street running with gangbangers. She pays the kids more than minimum wage, but keeps half their paycheck and deposits the money into a savings account for their college education.”

Riley had never had to save a dime in his life. Heck, the day he’d been born his father had opened an investment portfolio in his name with five hundred thousand dollars. Today, the account was worth millions. When it came to college, his father had written a check each semester to the university—not one financial-aid form had been filled out the four years Riley attended UNLV. “Consuelo’s a generous woman.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Riley sensing Maria was eager to end the evening. He wasn’t. “You like teaching?” She nodded but didn’t elaborate. He’d never had to work at engaging a woman in conversation. “How long have you been a teacher?”

“I taught six years of high school English before volunteering the past five years with the district’s at-risk kids. The classes are part of the city’s antigang program.”

“The boys you gave a ride home earlier…were they expelled from school or did they drop out?”

“All three were expelled. If they fail my class, the educational system writes them off for good.”

“Do you have the support of the families?”

“Not as much as I wish. We have students who don’t even know who their fathers are and a few with dads in prison or running with gangs.”

Riley had experienced his share of disagreements with his father, but the old man had always been there for him; and Riley couldn’t imagine not having a male role model in his life. “Tell me more about the boys you’re working with.”

“Alonso lost his father when he was seven—gunned down by police in a drug raid. Alonso’s mother cleans offices at night and works at a convenience store during the day.”

The kid’s mother worked two jobs in order to feed her family and keep a roof over their heads. Riley’s mother had never worked a day in her married life.

“Why did Alonso get expelled from school?”

“He skipped too many days, but he was between a rock and a hard place. When one of his siblings became ill, Alonso’s mother made him stay home to care for them so she wouldn’t miss work.”

“How often do his brothers and sisters get sick?”

“His little sister Lea has asthma and is prone to pneumonia.”

“That’s too bad.”

Maria narrowed her eyes and Riley resisted the urge to squirm. “You really do feel compassion for Alonso, don’t you?”

Riley was the first to acknowledge he led a privileged life. He bought what he wanted, when he wanted and without considering the cost. And why shouldn’t he? He had an abundance of money at his fingertips. It wasn’t his fault he hadn’t had to work for a dime of it. Even though he had nothing in common with Alonso and his family, Riley wasn’t so coldhearted that he couldn’t sympathize with their daily struggles. “What kind of student is Alonso?”

“A good one. Alonso loves to learn. He’s smart and organized with his studies and grasps new concepts easily. He’s ready to take his GED test but I’ve held him back because I haven’t devised a financial strategy to pay for his tuition at a community college.”

“Alonso wants to go to college?”

“He plans to enter the medical field.”

“Nurses and technicians make decent salaries,” Riley said.

“And the jobs come with health insurance and benefits. Alonso realizes that if his mother had health insurance his sister would have access to better care.”

“What about the boy with the scar?”

“Victor is bright, too, but he’s very self-conscious of his face.”

“Did a gangbanger cut his face?”

“His mother did that to him.”

His own mother?

“She attacked Victor’s sister after the girl announced she was pregnant—” Maria shuddered “—by the mother’s boyfriend. Victor tried to protect his sister and got himself hurt.”

“I hope the woman went to jail.”

“The hospital called in the cops after they’d stitched Victor’s face but Victor changed his story and said he didn’t know his attacker.”

“What does Victor want to do with his life?”

“He’s not sure. All the kids take career assessment tests and Victor displayed decent math skills and an aptitude for electrical work and plumbing but he’s not interested in those fields—which is too bad because a local business has offered to employ students while teaching them the trade.”

“What’s the deal with the smooth-talker?”

“Cruz Rivera.” Maria wrinkled her nose. “Like you, he’s popular with the ladies.”

Riley placed both hands over his heart. “Was that a compliment?”

“You know you’re a good-looking man.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For calling me a man.” Twenty-five was considered young in many minds; but, at every age, Riley’s parents had demanded a level of maturity far beyond his years. In truth, he felt a lot older than twenty-five.

“Cruz prefers to use his muscle over his brain. He’s stubborn and bullheaded.”

“The kid has the makings of a good rodeo cowboy.”

“His father rode bulls before he—”

“Cruz’s father was T. C. Rivera?”

“Yes.”

Riley had heard stories about Rivera. The man had taken the rodeo circuit by storm when Riley had been in high school. But T.C. had thrown away his chance at a world title when he’d gotten into a brawl in South Dakota and killed a man. “Where’s T.C. now?”

“South Dakota State Penitentiary in Sioux Falls.”

“Was he close to Cruz?”

“Yes. Cruz is his eldest child. T.C. and Juanita have…had four children.”

“What do you mean had?”

“Cruz’s younger brother by one year was the victim of gang violence.”

“Shot to death?”

“A few months ago. He’d been sitting on his front porch with Cruz when a fight broke out between two gangs and shots were fired. A stray bullet caught him in the chest.”

Unable to imagine witnessing a sibling’s death in such a violent manner, Riley suspected Cruz’s tough-act demeanor was a facade hiding a hurt and angry young man. “Does Cruz ever visit his father?”

“No. Juanita doesn’t have a car and she can’t waste hard-earned money on bus fare to take the kids to South Dakota.”

“How long is T.C.’s sentence?”

“He won’t be eligible for parole for another twenty years.”

Cruz would be close to forty when his father left prison. Steering the conversation back to Maria, Riley asked, “What do you do when you’re not chasing after delinquent kids?” He really wanted to ask if there was a man in her life.

“Nothing as exciting as flying airplanes or busting broncs.”

“Have you flown before?”

“I’ve never been on a plane.”

“Bet you’d enjoy the experience.”

“Why would you think that?”

He shrugged. “You’re a thrill seeker.”

“Hardly.”

“Sure you are. Your job is one big thrill. You have no idea what you’re going to face when you roll out of bed each morning.” She didn’t refute his charge. “Any brothers, sisters, nieces or nephews?” A significant other?

“Afraid not.”

“I have one sister,” Riley said. “Bree’s twenty-eight.”

“What does she do for a living?”

“Manages the horse stables at the farm.”

“Stables?”

“The Fitzpatricks breed racing horses.”

“What kind of racing horses?”

“The Kentucky Derby kind.”

Maria’s fork clanked against the side of her plate.

Depending on their personal agenda, this is where women either pushed Riley away or attempted to get closer. “Our family’s been involved in horse racing for generations.”

“That explains the plane, but not the rodeo.”

Before Riley had a chance to speak, the waitress appeared with dessert. “What are they?” he asked.

“Polvorones. Almond cookies,” Maria said.

Riley sampled one. “They melt in your mouth.” He helped himself to a second cookie. “When I was in eleventh grade I had the chance to attend the Lyle Sankey Rodeo School—he’s a famous rodeo cowboy. I got hooked on the sport.” He chuckled. “My father has since regretted giving me that birthday gift.”

Maria smiled and Riley’s eyes were drawn to her full lips and enticing dimples. “You have a beautiful mouth.”

“Good grief, stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Flirting.”

“How old are you?”

“You’re not supposed to ask a woman her age.”

“Why not? Is your age a big secret?”

She scrunched her nose. “I’m thirty-five.”

“You’re only ten years older than me.”

“Only?” She glanced at her watch. “Hurry and finish your dessert.”

“Why the rush?”

“I need to check on my mother.”

Riley stuffed the remaining cookie into his mouth. “You mentioned that you knew a good aviation mechanic. I’d prefer to contact him tonight. Do you have his number?”

At first Maria acted as if she hadn’t heard his question then her shoulders slumped. “Why don’t I take you to see him.”

Hot dog. “I’ll pay him to drive out to the salvage yard and inspect the plane.” Tomorrow Riley would lease a plane to fly to the Payson rodeo.

Riley grasped Maria’s hand and squeezed her fingers. He expected her to pull away, but she didn’t and the longer their skin remained in contact the hotter the heat that raced along his forearm and spread through his chest. If touching the schoolteacher’s hand created such an intense reaction then kissing her would be a thrill unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

She cleared her throat. “We’d better get going.”

He set a hundred on the table.

“Is that all you carry in your wallet…hundred-dollar bills?”

Riley moved behind her chair and whispered in her ear, “Would it matter if I said yes?”

Maria squirmed, the movement bringing Riley’s mouth closer to her cheek. The smell of lilies teased his nose and he resisted pressing a kiss to her warm skin. He pulled her chair back and she bolted from the dining room.

Riley followed, doubting she’d claim ten years was too great an age difference after he gave her a real kiss—the slow, hot, wet kind.



HANDSCLENCHINGTHESTEERING wheel in a death grip, Maria turned onto her parents’ street. She hoped her father was in a good mood and her mother hadn’t finished off a fifth of vodka—a habit she’d begun after her son died.

Maria parked beneath the carport next to her father’s Chevy pickup. He’d forgotten to turn on the outside lights. For once she was grateful. The three-bedroom, two-bathroom ranch was in sad shape. Years of neglect had transformed the flower beds and green grass into dirt and weeds.

“This is where the mechanic lives?” Riley asked.

“Yep.” Maria led the way up the front walk. She slid her house key into the lock.

Riley grabbed her arm before she opened the door. “Is the mechanic your…?”

“Father.” She stepped inside.

A moment later Riley shut the door and flipped the dead bolt. Obviously he’d noticed the neighborhood wasn’t the safest. Twenty years ago the area had been crowded with young families and working couples. Once California gangs began infiltrating Albuquerque, the families that could afford to relocated to the suburbs.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Maria disappeared down the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms. She knocked on her parents’ door then poked her head inside the room. Her mother’s snores greeted Maria and a half-empty bottle of booze sat on the nightstand. Maria returned to the living room. “Mom’s asleep.” At her age she should be immune to embarrassment, but she was relieved Riley would be spared meeting her drunk mother.

“Dad’s outside in the shed.” They left through the sliding glass doors off the kitchen and walked along the brick path that ended at the rear of the property. Light shone through the windows of her father’s workshop. “Dad,” Maria called.

The shed door opened. Her father wore his favorite cowboy hat—one given to him on his birthday by Maria’s brother right before he’d been shot. The brim of the Stetson was frayed and the crown covered in sweat stains. She doubted her parents would ever let go of their dead son—the Stetson and vodka constant reminders that Maria had failed her family.

“Dad, this is Riley Fitzgerald.” She spoke in English even though her father preferred communicating in Spanish. “Riley, this is my father, Ricardo Alvarez.”

“How do you do, Mr. Alvarez.” Riley shook hands with her father. “Maria tells me you’re an airplane mechanic. My Cessna suffered a bird strike and I had to make an emergency landing. I was hoping you could check the plane and assess the damage.”

“Where is the Cessna?”

“Estefan’s Salvage,” Maria answered.

“Lucky for me your daughter was out there searching for her students at the time or I would have been stranded.”

Maria focused on Riley, ignoring her father’s heated stare. Her parents resented Maria for working with delinquent teens, believing her actions sullied her brother’s memory.

“I’ll pay you for your time,” Riley said. “I need to rent another plane from the Blue Skies Regional Airport until the Cessna’s repaired. I’ll be in Arizona for a rodeo tomorrow evening, but, barring bad weather, I’d return to Albuquerque on Sunday.”

The sooner Riley and his crippled plane left the state of New Mexico the better. Maria hadn’t drawn a deep breath since he’d emerged from the cockpit earlier in the day. “Dad, will you be able to inspect the plane before Sunday?”

“Sí.” Her father had once been a gregarious man but his son’s death had left him bitter and remote.

“Thank you, Mr. Alvarez.” The men shook hands.

Back inside the house, Maria asked, “Would you care for a drink?” Call her fickle. One moment she couldn’t wait to dump Riley off at the hotel, the next she didn’t want the evening to end.

“Sure.” Riley sat on a stool at the countertop then ran his fingers through his hair—gorgeous, black hair.

“Fitzgerald is Irish, right?” Maria placed a can of cola in front of him.

“Wondering why I don’t have red hair?”

Maria laughed. “Mind reader.”

“I’m Black Irish.”

“What’s that?”

“My mother traced her lineage back to the Iberian Peninsula, which means my redheaded relatives cohabitated with the Indians and through the centuries each generation has produced an offspring with black hair.”

“Are you the only one with dark coloring in your immediate family?”

“My sister’s a carrottop. Dad has brownish-red hair and my mother’s hair is a blondish-red.” He chuckled. “As she ages, she goes blonder to cover the gray.”

Maria fingered the ends of her dark hair. She couldn’t recall when she’d had her hair professionally colored and she was certain a few gray strands were visible.

“What about your family?” Riley asked. “Are you Mexican, Spanish, or a mixture of both?”

“My great-grandfather was a bricklayer in a small town outside Mexico City. He married my great-grandmother there then they moved to the States and became U.S. citizens. My father and uncles learned to lay brick from their fathers but after high school my dad went into the air force. When Dad retired from the military, he hired on at the regional airport and has worked there ever since.”

“I bet your grandfather was proud his son served in the military.”

“He was.”

“If your father would rather not have to deal with my plane, I’ll find a different mechanic.”

This is your out. Suggest Riley find another mechanic to fix his airplane, then you’ll never see him again. The thought made Maria sad. She was too old for Riley and they lived very different lives. But the cowboy was a flirt, and he made her feel fresh and young inside. She hadn’t felt this invigorated since before her brother had passed away. What could it hurt if she saw Riley one more time?

“Dad will be happy to help.” She glanced at the wall clock. 10:00 p.m. “You’re probably ready to check in at the hotel.”

Maria wrote her cell phone number on a piece of paper. “Call me when you know what time you’ll arrive on Sunday and I’ll arrange for my dad to meet you at the airport.”

Riley took the paper, his fingers caressing hers. A zap of electricity spread through her hand and suddenly Sunday couldn’t come fast enough.


Chapter Four

“Ladies and gents, welcome to Payson, Arizona, home of the Gary Hardt Memorial Rodeo—the oldest continuous rodeo in the world!” The announcer’s voice boomed across the Payson Event Center outdoor arena late Saturday afternoon. Over three thousand people packed the stands.

“This here rodeo began in 1884 and hasn’t missed a year since.” Whoops and hollers followed.

“You ol’-timers out there might recall the original rodeo venue was a meadow near the intersection of Main Street and Highway 87. Back then wagons circled ’round to create the arena.”

Riley dropped his gear bag in the cowboy-ready area. As was his M.O. a cab had driven him from the local regional airport to the rodeo grounds and he had less than fifteen minutes to prepare for his ride.

“Hey, Fitzgerald, heard you had trouble with that fancy plane of yours.”

What the hell was Stover doing here? Riley thought the man had been headed to Texas this weekend. Ignoring the question about his Cessna, Riley straightened his chaps. “You stop riding for the big money?”

“You oughta know by now—” Stover’s smirk widened “—I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Stover had entered every rodeo Riley had since the beginning of the year—not unusual. The serious contenders followed the money trail. Riley had chosen to ride in Payson because he needed a win to boost his confidence and he’d wanted to get the hell away from Stover—the braggart annoyed the crap out of him.

“You tagging along when I head back to Albuquerque?” Riley asked.

“There’s no rodeo in Albuquerque,” Stover said.

“Who said anything about a rodeo? There’s a lady waiting for me in the Duke City.” Riley doubted Maria pined for him, but that wouldn’t stop him from chasing what he wanted—and he wanted her.

“You’re so full of wind you could fly to New Mexico without your plane.”

“Jealous?” Riley grinned.

“Women and rodeo don’t mix,” Stover said.

No kidding. Most cowboys learned that lesson the hard way.

“You go see your lady, Fitzgerald. Have a nice long visit with her.”

Maria wasn’t Riley’s lady—yet—but Stover’s words reminded him that he’d better watch his step around the sexy señorita lest he forget his goal of winning a second title. “That’s the plan, Stover. I’m gonna drown myself in drink and women.”

“Rawlins came out of nowhere last year when he should have retired.” Stover fisted his hands. “Then you won the title even though you didn’t earn it. This year—” Stover poked himself in the chest “—I’m takin’ home the buckle.”

Riley turned his back on the cowboy and focused on his ride. He’d drawn a gelding named Blackheart—a veteran bucker.

“We got plenty of ropin’, rasslin’ and bustin’ activity,” the rodeo announcer proclaimed, disrupting Riley’s concentration. “As a matter of fact last year’s world-champion bronc rider, Riley Fitzgerald, is goin’ first today!”

World champion…world champion…world champion…

Repeating the mantra in his head, Riley envisioned Maria’s pretty face and flashing brown eyes. She had as much guts and determination as a rodeo cowboy. Tangling with delinquent teens was tougher than riding a wild bronc. He worked three or four times a week for eight seconds. Maria faced gangs and kids living on the edge 24/7 and he doubted her record of success was as good as his.

Today, Riley wanted to impress Maria with a win. He didn’t understand why her admiration was important to him—he doubted he’d see her after the Cessna was repaired.

“Folks, the action’s at gate number five. Let’s see if this world-champion bronc rider can tame Blackheart!”

The roar of the crowd faded in Riley’s head as he climbed the chute rails. The familiar pungent smell of livestock calmed his nerves. As soon as he attempted to settle into the saddle, Blackheart rebelled, forcing Riley to hop off. Once the gelding calmed, Riley claimed his seat.

After the dink he’d drawn in Colorado, he was ready for a fight and prayed Blackheart wouldn’t let him down. Riley squeezed the buck rein, secured his hat on his head and slid deeper into the saddle. One. Two. Three. He signaled the gateman and the chute door opened. Riley’s body tensed in anticipation then the horse burst from his metal prison.

Riley raked fur—rolled his spurs high on the gelding’s shoulders, inciting the animal to buck harder. Blackheart responded to the taunt by thrusting his hind legs into the air. The horse hit the ground then twirled left, right and back to the left again in quick succession.

Eight seconds passed in a blur. The buzzer sounded but the ride wasn’t over until his boots hit the dirt. Dismounts were tricky and had to be timed perfectly so the cowboy didn’t break his neck or worse—get his head stomped on. Riley vaulted from the saddle. Luck was with him. He landed on both feet, stumbled once then regained his balance.

“Our world-champion cowboy gave us a world-champion ride. Fitzgerald scored an eighty-six!”

“You lucked out, Fitzgerald,” Stover said when Riley returned to the cowboy-ready area.

Before he had a chance to refute Stover’s charge, another competitor shouted, “Hey, Fitzgerald! Those kinks the press said you needed to work out just got ironed flat!”

Riley chuckled.

“Don’t get cocky. Your eighty-six is about to bite the dust.” Stover stomped off.

As Riley stowed his gear, his cell phone rang. He checked caller ID. His father. Perfect timing. “Hey, Dad.”

“Where are you?”

“Arizona. Tamed a little booger called Blackheart. I’m in the lead with an eighty-six.”

“Congratulations. Got a minute to talk?”

“Sure.” Riley grabbed his bag and retreated to a quiet corner away from the bucking chutes.

“I’ve got a potential buyer coming in sometime mid-October. I want you to show him around Belle Farms.”

“Who’s the buyer interested in?”

“Bonnie-Blond and Sir Duke’s offspring. We’re expecting the foal early October.”




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