I clear my throat and lock my eyes with Ruby's. "Sorry, ma'am. I fell off the bull pretty hard. I'm okay, though."
She turns to Jagger. "You're doing barn duty for Wyatt tonight. You can trade with him one of your days."
"No, that's not necessary," I say, not meeting Willow's eye, hating that I'm not going to be alone with her tonight.
Jacob interjects once more. "I'm assuming that Jax told you to ice yourself tonight."
I turn toward him with a sigh. "Yes, sir, he did."
"Okay, then it's decided. Jagger, you're on barn duty. Wyatt, you're icing."
Like the rest of the Cartwrights, I don't dare say no to Jacob.
He orders, "Eat up, and we'll go to the therapy room after dinner."
"Yes, sir," I reply, still avoiding Willow's stare. I shove my mashed potatoes in my mouth, barely tasting them.
When I finally meet Willow's gaze, I'm hit with a wave of frustration and dejection.
I concentrate on my food, not engaging in conversation. I'm unable to get comfortable in the wooden chair because of the consistent throbbing of my ass.
After dessert, Jacob rises. "Let's get you in the ice bath, Wyatt."
"Have fun," Mason quips.
I ignore him as I stand, trying not to wince, and then follow Jacob through the house. We step outside into the warm early summer air.
He asks, "How many seconds did you last?"
Shame fills me as I admit, "Maybe one."
He chuckles.
"No offense, but I don't find it amusing," I grouse.
"Jax said you were getting cocky. Guess it was meant to happen."
"Sorry, but what does he want me to do? Go on the bull and be scared of him?"
Jacob stops. He pins his steely gaze on me.
I cross my arms and don't flinch, preparing myself for a lecture.
He asks, "When you came to me and wanted to ride, what's the first rule I told you?"
I grind my molars, cringing inside.
One of his brows curves upward, amused yet unimpressed.
I shift on my feet, and a sharp pain runs down the back of my leg. I clench my jaw to get through the sting, and admit, "Always respect the bull."
"Arrogance overshadows respect." He lets his lecture linger in the air for a moment and then makes his way into the therapy room.
I follow him, holding in my wince as I climb the porch steps and go inside. The wood creaks under my boots, and the ranchhands' voices echo around the room, bouncing off the metal tubs.
"Boss," Kit, a newer horse jockey with blond hair and freckles, booms, standing to attention.
"Kit. How's your ankle?" Jacob inquires.
