The sequel is finally here!
A few years back, Kiernan Kelly, BA Tortuga and I put out Midnight Rodeo's first book, Homecoming. We recently republished that book on our own, and now we have the sequel, Midnight Rodeo: Belonging.
Look at this cover by the amazing Kris Norris!
Strangely enough, I'm not responsible for the tiger shifter on the cover. That's BA Tortuga. I wrote a cheetah shifter and a spirit guided rodeo rider named Raven Walkingman.
And here's a bit from my story, Light a Rocket. Special thanks to Jaymi for being our amazing editor.
“Rocket, you cannot keep this up, kid.” Thack, the head of all things in the arena, looked bitchy on the best of days, but the stock contractor was positively livid. The huge black horns curving over his head actually sort of pulsed. Cool. Terrifying, but cool.
“Keep what up?” Rocket went for innocent. It wasn’t his best look, but it was rare enough around these parts that he thought it could work.
“Kid, you weigh, what? Eighty pounds?”
“Stop it. I’m at least a buck and a ten-spot.” Pretty much.
“You can’t bulldog. You can’t do the timed events. Stop being a turd with a death wish. You rile up the stock.”
Rocket tried hard not to let his hurt show. Or his panic. He had to make some money. Had to. “I’m not trying to upset anyone. I’m bulking up, I promise.”
“Bulking… okay. Okay. You get one more chance, but the physics say it can’t work.”
“Physics say the girls can’t ride the barrels and they sure as shit do.”
“Mmm.” Thack was good at the noncommittal noise. “Well, just do me a favor and don’t get hurt.”
“Right. I’m on it. Totally.” Hell, he wasn’t sure his three broken ribs were ever going to recover. They did tend to stick out. Rocket was a cheetah shifter. Ribs were a thing.
“I’m serious. One more catastrophe on the timed events and I’m sending you to Eshelman.”
The shifter doc was… intense. Difficult, at best. Strict. Rocket just nodded, feeling like a bobble head doll.
He slunk passed the bullfighters, the scary as all fuck ghost riders, and then headed to his truck. He thought he was safely out of everyone’s way, which was naturally when he slammed right into a solid, lanky body.
“Whoa, kiddo. Watch where you’re putting those boots down.” Raven Walkingman caught his upper arms when he bounced.
Oh, God. God. That was— He’d just bumped into…
Right. Breathe. “Sorry.”
That bronze face split into a wide, white smile, the king of the Midnight Rodeo not seeming at all put out. “No problem. Rocket, right?”
“Yeah. Yes, sir. Rocket Ugara.” He held out his hand, the urge to sniff this man overwhelming. He panted a tiny bit, his usual reaction to stress more than a little embarrassing.
Walkingman shook his hand, making shivers run up his arm and down his back. Hello.
His kitty purred inside him, its tail lashing, and he had the urge to do his best sexy dance. Rocket fought that compunction, but he couldn’t cover it completely, obviously. Walkingman’s nose quivered, and he grinned wider.
“You riding tomorrow?” Rocket asked. He had to stop being an idiot. You didn’t come onto the most famous cowboy in their world. It didn’t happen.
“I am. What about you?” Walkingman let him go, the lack of touch such a disappointment.
“Gotta make my pennies, so yeah. Totally.”
“Well, watch those ribs. I was you, I’d sit out the bulldogging this week.”
“Yeah. Thack was pretty clear about that.” Still, he needed to get enough cash for gas to make it to the next event and pay his entry fees.
“Then why are you still doing it?” The man sounded genuinely curious.
“Same reason every broke-dick cowboy does it, I reckon.” And didn’t he feel about two inches tall admitting that?