Lexie accepted the confident handshake. His palm was cool against her own, the skin as tough as boot leather. Shane Tully. The name rang a bell in her memory, albeit a faint one. He was a regular on the PBR circuit, his rank just moving into the top twenty. This year he was a serious contender for the finals in Las Vegas.

The man on the ground moaned and stirred. “Broke my friggin’ nose,” he muttered. “Need help . . .”

“Let’s get you on your feet, pal.” Handing Lexie his hat, Tully crouched behind him and worked his hands under the big man’s arms. Some pushing and lifting got the drunk upright. Tully took a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket and laid it on the man’s bleeding nose. “Keep it,” he said. “This’ll teach you not to make unwelcome advances to ladies. There’s a first aid station on the midway, by the Ferris wheel. Can you make it that far on your own, or should we call security?”

The man swore under his breath and shuffled off, one hand clutching the handkerchief to his nose. Lexie kept her eyes on him until he’d gained a safe distance. Only then did she turn to face the bull rider.

She knew he probably wasn’t here to compete. This rodeo was sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, or PRCA. The cowboys coming here would compete in bronc riding, calf roping, and other events including bull riding. In 1992, the leading bull riders had broken away from the PRCA and formed their own elite organization, the Professional Bull Riders, or PBR. Only the best could compete in their hugely popular events around the country. Membership, for both riders and bucking bulls, was by invitation only.

Which might have something to do with the reason Shane Tully had come to find her.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here, Mr. Tully,” she said, handing him the hat.

“It’s Shane, and I can’t say you’ve given me much of a chance.”

He smiled with his mouth. His features struck Lexie as more rugged than handsome—deep-set brown eyes, a long jaw ending in a square chin, and a scar, like a thin slash with two stitch marks, running down his left cheek.

He had the look of a man who’d been through some rough times, but Lexie guessed that he wasn’t much older than twenty-five or twenty-six. With a few notable exceptions, bull riding was a young man’s sport. Older bodies couldn’t take the punishment.

“I’m giving you a chance to tell me now.” She folded her arms, waiting.