He scrambled for something to say but everything that sparked sounded like a fuck boy line. Bull riding. Stick to bull riding, Chase.
“Gloves.” His vocal cords sounded as if they had been ridden hard and put away wet.
Chase offered her his best work gloves—no tears, reinforced pressure points, a cuff to protect the delicate skin at her wrists from a rope burn. She slid them on then wiggled her bare toes.
“What about shoes?”
“My work boots would slide right off you. You’ll get a better hold on the barrel with your feet. Truer to real bull riding.”
He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward Yancy’s contraption. Though she walked beside him, her resistance telegraphed through the muscles in his hand, his forearm, his shoulder.
“I don’t know about this, Chase.”
Her voice was flat, all her previous bravado squeezed dry. It occurred to him that Gretchen de Havilland had probably not run up against many things in life she was not good at, and her inability to wing it probably left her on the sideline of a great many rodeos.
Chase stopped before her, took her hands in his, and squeezed until her hat brim lifted and her gaze met his. “No surprises this time. I won’t let you fall.”
She inhaled a deep, fortifying breath and nodded.
Yancy’s contraption consisted of an old oil drum suspended on pressure coils between four points—three Shumard oaks and one stake cemented in place like a fencepost because they lacked a fourth tree. The two rear connectors were secured at a higher elevation to better simulate the bull’s natural, nose-down position while bucking. Holding pins at the barrel’s four welded points gave the rider and instructor ultimate control over movement. A braided, high-strength nylon rope wrapped the barrel to mimic the way bulls were tied.
Chase jostled the parts to ensure the fasteners hadn’t rusted out. When her legs proved too short and his overalls so baggy they kept hanging up on the coils, he eased her onto the barrel’s crest but did not let go of her waist. So that he had a hand free to demonstrate the proper rope grip, he held her firmly against him, her bent hip to his thigh.
Arousal began at their joined bodies but quickly roped his groin.
The grip, Chase. Stick to bull riding.
“Around the hand and wrist, back across the gloved palm, lock the fingers down, arm relaxed and bent.” He instructed as best he could with one hand. “You try.”
As he should have expected, she needed to only see something once to master it.
“I’m gonna step away,” said Chase, “but the pins are in and you won’t move. Grip this part of the rope with your other hand until you feel stable.”
Her expression was every greenhorn’s who had climbed atop Stalin’s Assassin. A little like picturing the making of a body cast. She couldn’t learn to trust herself until she made that leap of faith.
He stepped back.
As predicted, she moved less than a caterpillar, but she was pale, even by redhead standards.
“Breathe, chief.” Never before had he called a girl chief, but it seemed to fit. She was the executive of her destiny, the leader of the Close Call tribe, and master over all social proprieties.
Her chest rose against the overall bibs, her breasts rounding out the space nicely. He was pretty sure it was her first significant pull of oxygen since she had landed between his thighs over by the tailgate. That she had done as he’d asked, nearly commanded, let him know she was fully under his influence. He reminded himself to behave, to be a good steward of that influence, no matter how much his hardness dictated that he move his arms inside those cavernous overalls and pleasure her nearly-naked waist-down far more than a ride on a rusty barrel could.
“When you’re ready, release your free hand and raise it up over your head.”
Gretchen did as asked. Even managed a smile at how much she looked like a bull rider.
Chase gently gripped her free wrist, just beyond the glove, her skin heated against the evening chill. He positioned her raised arm to a natural angle then moved it left then right. “Rules state that this arm can never touch your body, the bull, or any equipment. Think of it like a steering wheel. Whatever direction the arm rotates, your body will follow.”
She nodded. Full concentration.
“I’m gonna take the pins out one at a time. Back first, left then right, so you can learn to absorb the movement where the tension is higher.”
He did as promised. Springs gave a bit of play—not even a foot each way. Enough for her to feel suspended but not out of control.
The corners of her mouth tipped upward, all the smile her nerves dared. After a few test bounces, she became emboldened. Open-mouthed, laughing, with an awkward little wooo she asked for the front pins to be removed.
“Are you sure? They’re not as tight as the back.”