Stepping close to her, she looks up at me. Her face is free of makeup. Natural beauty and freckles in plain view. Soft, full lips that look more than kissable, slightly parted for me. I nearly reach out to grab her. My mind curious if her cheek is as soft and warm as her hands.
“Good thing your opinion doesn’t matter to me.”
Then I spin on my heel, headed for my truck to pop a handful of Advil.
I’ll be damned if a hot-ass doctor tells me I’m not going to ride.
I’m a bull rider.
That’s what I do.
Chapter 2
Grayson
“Wherethehellhaveyou been?” I grunt as Tate saunters up behind me. He still wears that same angry scowl. The one that says he’s not done with our argument from earlier. The topic set to arise again the moment one of us loses our temper.
“Don’t worry about it.”
My anger bristles below the surface. I can never fucking escape my brother. It wasn’t enough that he had to go become a pro champion in my sport or that he’s always tried to replace Dad since our parents died. No, the bastard has to be here, too, hovering over me like a dark cloud.
“Whatever.”
Turning my back on him, I go back to my conversation with Louise Vega. A young bull-rider newer to the circuit. Those chaps and boots barely broken in with good competition just yet. He was smart to come to a place like our fair county. A good number of the best got their start here.
Boulder Ranch hosts the Cole County Rodeo from April through October. For technically professional riders like me, but not part of big promotions like the PBR, these events are a gold mine. Every month, there are paid competitions, and regulars like me and this new kid, Vega, sign up for every single one.
A lot of the younger guys will travel to other events around the country in between, but that time has passed for me. A dream long gone.
The memory closes in, my eyes pressing shut in an effort to shove it out. It’s not where my mind needs to be right now. Not when I’m still pissed at my dick of a brother hovering at my back.
Glancing at the men and women around me, more and more tend to be from elsewhere each season. I may not live in Cole County anymore, but I’m still considered a local. In a fit of stubbornness, I’d bought land just across the border.
Though bull riding has always been my calling, I grew up around horses and cattle. My family’s farm still serves as Tate’s home. Land that borders this very ranch.
So when I left, it was with a vision of having my own tiny ranch. It wouldn’t have felt right if I couldn’t have those same animals as an adult, too, alongside my two Bernese Mountain dogs. Both of which I rescued as puppies from a high-kill shelter a few hours away. Honestly, I’d have more if I had the time.
“I’ll be out at another event in June in Montana.” Vega pulls me out of my thoughts once more.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve ridden out there before. It’s a good event,” I nod. The kid has a solid head on his shoulders and takes direction well. He’ll go far in this sport if he can keep his body healthy or learn to ride through injuries.
The lights dim. A signal that opening night is about to start. Giddy anticipation fills me. This has been my favorite night of the year since I can remember. Before I took my life into my own hands by riding competitively, I was just a spectator. The same as everyone else out in those stands.
The Cole County Rodeo has been in business for four generations now. A legacy too perfect to disrupt. I’ve been coming here and competing since I was a teenager, so something like pride fills me walking out to the center of the arena for the fourteenth time as a professional.
“What the hell happened to your hand?” Tate growls in my ear as I place my hat back on my head, the ends of my dark hair curling at the nape of my neck.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” The snarl of his words making my jaw clench painfully.
“What’s wrong with you?” I grit through my teeth as Tate moves directly behind me. His body is so close I can feel the heat of his breath at the back of my neck. The feel making me twitch away. “You’re the one who fucked up your hand because you just had to punch me. Again.”
“Quiet, you two,” Bill Layman, another bronc rider, whisper-shouts at us as we fall into our straight line at the center of the arena.
The crowd roars through the curved seating area shaped like a wide U and flooded with light. Thousands of faces crowd here night after night to watch athletes and everyday people do something they love. A pastime that means as much to them as it does to us standing here in the dirt.
Two large flat screens sit high on either side of the long edges, each playing a slideshow of memories captured in this place through the generations—everything from the day the Miller family bought this ranch through last season’s closing night.
