Crazy For You

Copyright © 2013

Crazy For You by Cheyenne McCray

All rights reserved. No part of this e-Book may be reproduced in whole or in part, scanned, photocopied, recorded, distributed in any printed or electronic form, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

E-book conversion by Bella Media Management.

Published by Pink Zebra Publishing.

13-Digit ISBN: 978-1-939778-93-2

First Edition e-Book

Clint McBride rested his forearms on his thighs as he leaned forward in his seat in the bleachers and watched a female rider chasing the cans. Her barrel racing was effortless, her horse expertly trained. She was clearly the best rider he’d seen in the women’s competition.

He tugged the brim of his Stetson lower to shade his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. It was late March but the Arizona sun shone bright. It warmed his shoulders and his bare forearms where his sleeves were rolled up. His skin had missed the Arizona sun.

Cheers and shouts of the rodeo crowd nearly drowned out his thoughts. With practice born from years of meditation, he pushed the noise aside and his mind wandered back to the days when he’d been on the pro rodeo circuit.

Before Bucky died.

Clint clenched his jaw. He hadn’t planned to come back to Arizona. Cave Creek, just north of Phoenix, wasn’t far enough from Prescott to still his memories or his guilt. Hell, traveling the world hadn’t healed him. Why would he think being back now would be any different?

Dust spun in a small whirlwind as a brief burst of wind caught up dirt in the center of the arena. The dust devil scattered and spit dirt and dissolved before it reached the end of the arena.

Something deep within Clint had drawn him back to the States, something he couldn’t identify. It had been seven long years since he’d stepped foot onto U.S. soil. He’d boarded that plane for Europe and hadn’t looked back.

At least not until recently. He’d felt a call he couldn’t ignore and had left Argentina where he’d lived for the past three years. It had never really been home, just a place where he’d settled. No, his roots were far from South America.

“You’re Clint McBride, aren’t you?” A young man’s voice captured Clint’s attention and he looked up to see a cowboy he didn’t recognize. “Can I sit here?” the young man asked.

Clint gave an inward sigh but nodded.

“I’m Jerry Taylor.” Jerry held out his hand. “Used to watch you all the time when I was a kid.”

“A pleasure.” Clint took Jerry’s hand and shook it. The young man had a surprisingly strong grip.

Jerry had an enthusiastic smile as he let go of Clint’s hand. “I don’t think there’s been an All-Around champion as good as you since you dropped off the circuit.” He nodded toward the ring where the barrel racing competition was just ending. “The only one even close is Johnny Parker. He’s been going after a couple of your old records.”

Johnny Parker. The name sounded familiar, but Clint couldn’t place it.

“Are you coming back to compete again?” Jerry asked. “You should, you know. You’re the best I ever saw.”

“Don’t know about that,” Clint said. “I recall some damned fine cowboys. I didn’t always win.”

“But you won almost every time.” Jerry nodded. “And you set the record for bareback bronc riding. Nobody has ever beat or matched your score and it’s been a ton of years since you rode.”

Clint shifted on his bleacher seat and looked out at the arena where the calf roping was getting started. He glanced at his hands that were scarred from his many events with steers and horses over the years. He had more scars on his body and old injuries that flared up every now and then despite the fact he was only thirty-one.

He looked up to see a cowboy roping a running calf with a lariat. The cowboy sprang off the well-trained horse that backed up and kept the rope snug, the calf steady. The cowboy ran to the calf, threw it to the ground, and tied three feet together before flinging up his hands to indicate he’d finished.

The cowboy had done a good job, but Clint had seen more experienced competitors.

“You were lots better than that,” Jerry said. “You’ve got to come back.”

Clint turned his attention to the young cowboy. “I’m just visiting.”

“You’re from Prescott, right?” Jerry grinned. “I kept track of all of the best riders. Too bad about Bucky Fisher. You two were friends, weren’t you?”

At the mention of Bucky’s name, Clint felt heat under his collar. “I’ve got to be going now.” Jerry looked disappointed as Clint stood.

Jerry got to his feet and took the hand that Clint offered. “Nice meeting you,” Jerry said.

“My pleasure.” Clint gave a nod before stepping down off of the bleachers and onto the dusty ground.

Again, Clint wondered what in the hell he was doing here. He hadn’t expected someone so young to recognize him. He’d kept his hat low and had hoped he’d escape notice by anyone who would know who he was.

He almost bumped into a woman carrying two cups of beer, said “pardon me,” and continued on away from the stands.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” A man’s gravelly voice caused Clint to stop in his tracks. “Clint McBride.”

“Hi, Walt,” Clint said as he turned and saw his old mentor. A rush of memories, most of them good, washed over Clint as he reached out his hand to the man who had to be in his late sixties by now. Clint smiled, genuinely pleased to see the man who’d taught him almost everything he’d learned about rodeo. “What have you been up to?”

“Maybe I should be askin’ you that, boy.” Walt took Clint’s hand and gripped it as he looked Clint up and down. “What’s it been, five, six years?”

“Seven.” Clint and Walt released hands and Walt hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. His skin was tanned and leathery, lines crinkling the corners of his eyes, just like Clint had remembered him.

“Damned good to see you. Where the hell have you been?” Walt rocked back on his heels. “Last I heard you up and left and didn’t tell a blessed soul where you were headed.”

Clint shrugged, a hard, dark feeling suddenly filling his chest. “Here and there.”

Walt eyed him for a long moment, his hazel eyes keen. “You seen Cody yet?”

Clint shook his head and he wondered, not for the first time, what his younger brother was up to these days.

“I hope you have a better answer when you talk to that brother of yours.” Walt frowned. “Ran into Cody not too long ago and he said he ain’t seen hide nor hair of you since you up and ran off. Said you haven’t called or sent a post card and didn’t know if you were alive or dead. Have to say I’m glad to see you’re alive and you look good, but I don’t know what kind of howdy you’re going to get from him.”

Clint grimaced. Yeah, Cody would probably be madder than a pissed-off swarm of yellow jackets.

“How soon you planning to head up to Prescott?” Walt asked.

Clint pushed up the brim of his hat with one finger. “Not sure what kind of welcome I’d get.”

Walt snorted. “Guess you’ll find out, now won’t you.” He said it as a statement rather than a question.

Clint didn’t respond. Whatever Walt might think, Clint wasn’t sure he was going to go to Prescott. Too many bad memories, the worst one being Bucky’s death, a death that had been Clint’s fault.

“I got a group of kids I’ve got to check in on, getting ready for their events.” Walt studied Clint. “You look me up when you get home. We’ll have ourselves a nice long talk.”

Walt gave a nod before he turned and strode around the arena. Clint let out a long, slow breath and looked at the arena where a flagman signaled the end of another timed event. Clint had known he’d likely run into someone from Prescott. After all, he’d been on the pro rodeo circuit for some time before he took off…as if he’d been running from the devil himself.

Clint went up to the arena fence and watched a little more of the calf roping. Being around the rodeo and watching the events stirred something inside him. He remembered the thrill of competing, the surge of adrenaline that went through him every time he prepared for an event. Bareback bronc riding had given him the biggest natural high back in the day.

The thought of the event caused a low ache in his belly. Bucky had died while competing in the bareback bronc riding event, thanks to Clint.

Mixed memories continued to hit him. A lot of good memories were there but they were overshadowed by what hadn’t been so good.

“Clint?” This time it was a feminine voice that jerked him from his thoughts. A vaguely familiar voice.

He looked away from the arena and met the big blue eyes of a beautiful young blonde who was looking at him with incredulity. It took him a moment to recognize the former sixteen-year-old girl who’d grown up to be this stunning woman in front of him.

Ella Fisher. Bucky’s little sister—only she wasn’t so little anymore.

“Ella,” he said, not really knowing what to say. The emotions raging through him, souring his belly, were of sorrow and regret as he met her gaze. A part of him was glad to see her, but another part of him wished he’d never set foot on the rodeo grounds.

The surprise he’d first seen changed to shock, pain, hurt, and then anger. Her eyes flashed. “You sonofabitch.” She reached up and slapped him hard enough to snap his head to the side. “How could you?”

He brought his hand to his stinging jaw and rubbed it as he met her angry blue eyes. “I deserved that,” he said, even as he remembered what a temper Ella had always had. She’d been fiery then, and it was obvious that hadn’t changed.

“You sure as hell did deserve that and more.” She raised her hand like she was going to slap him again then clenched her fist and lowered it. With her hands balled at her sides, she glared at him. “How dare you leave like you did? You didn’t say goodbye to anyone. You left with no explanation. Nothing. You didn’t even let us know how you’ve been all this time. For all we knew you were dead.”

“I’m sorry.” He dragged his hand down his face. “I knew that none of you would want to see me again.”

“What the hell is that?” She scowled. “Some lame excuse to leave behind everyone who ever loved you?”

She stumbled over the words “loved you,” and he thought he saw something glitter in her eyes. Was it tears?

“I took everything from you and your family.” Clint swallowed. If they were tears, he was certain they were tears of anger. “You didn’t need me around as a reminder.”

This time confusion clouded Ella’s eyes but she recovered. “The day after Bucky’s funeral you just disappeared. How could you? We lost Bucky…and then we lost you.”

“I’m sorry, Ella.” Clint wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Bucky’s death or for leaving? Probably both.

She tilted her chin up. “Sorry isn’t good enough. You broke my parents’ hearts, you know.” Her eyes seemed to say, “And you broke mine.”

Clint looked away for a moment before meeting her gaze again.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Where could you possibly have been for all these years?”

“A lot of places.” He lifted his Stetson with one hand and pushed his fingers through his hair before setting his hat back on his head. “Too many to count.”

“Well, you’d better start counting.” She seemed to be holding herself tightly as she spoke. “You have a lot of people to answer to.”

She clenched her jaw and spun away from him before he could respond. He watched her stomp off in her worn cowgirl boots, her chin still tilted up, her long hair swinging across her back. She was the blue-eyed blonde all-American girl next door, and she couldn’t be cuter.

He rubbed his stinging jaw and couldn’t stop watching her. In spite of himself, he admired her womanly curves, her soft round buttocks, and her shapely legs beneath her western jeans.

Disgusted with himself, he turned away. Ella had to be twenty-three now, eight years younger than his thirty-one, and she was his best friend’s sister. His dead best friend.

Clint tugged the brim of his hat low again. Ah, hell. Coming to the rodeo had been a bad idea. A real bad idea.

Ella’s face felt flushed and the tips of her ears burned. Clint McBride. Clint was back. She slipped into the crowd, determined not to look at him again.

Seeing him had been such a shock that for a moment she hadn’t been able to think clearly. She’d loved him, her whole family had loved him, and he’d just up and left them all during the worst time of their lives.

She’d more than loved him like her family had, and how she’d felt had seemed like more than a teenage crush.

When she was deep in the crowd, despite herself she glanced at the place where Clint had been standing. He was gone.