I can't help it—I chuckle, shaking my head. "Mama, do you mean he brought you a thong?"
"Whatever that cooch string is called," she snaps back, and I'm still laughing as she hits me with the full force of my name. "Tristan Stetson, I am not playin’ with you. Keep whatever kinky shit you’re gettin’ into over at your house the hell away from me over here."
It’s serious business when she says my whole name like that. I give Benson a look that says he’s a damn traitor. And he knows it because he walks away wagging his tail.
The morning sun glints off the silver buckle of my brother’s belt as he steps out onto the porch, smirkin’ like the dickhead he is. Danger twirls the scrap of lace around his finger like a lasso. "I can tell you what kind of kinky shit he gets into if you want, Mama," he drawls, eyeing me with that same glint our granddaddy used to have.
"Danger," I say, nodding toward the thong still dancin’ on his finger. "You can burn that in the fire pit." Seeing as how she just left, and I ordered her a ride before she could lay her head down on the pillow beside me, she won’t be needin’ it anymore.
“Well…” Mama starts, and her expression softens. “If you can’t bring her over for breakfast with your Mama, then she isn’t the type of girl you should be bringin’ home at all.”
The porch creaks, a warning that yet another member of my family is about to weigh in on my damn business. I turn, ready for whatever jab is coming my way, but it's just Fisher, my six-year-old nephew who is way too wise for his age.
"Don’t you dare burn that where I roast my hot dogs," he declares, staring at the lingerie with disgust before he turns back and heads inside to wait at the breakfast table.
“You’re right, Fisher,” I laugh, yelling after him. “Sorry about that.”
Danger, ever the instigator, sends the thong spiraling through the air. My hand snaps out, reflexes on point from years of wrangling more than just stray underwear. The lace lands in my palm before I tuck it into my back pocket.
He smirks, stepping closer to the railing. “Nice catch. But keep that shit up and you might end up like me—with a kid of your own.”
Fisher’s mom skipped town the second she had him. Packed her bags faster than a rookie getting bucked off a bull. Said she was never meant to be a mama, not meant for this small-town ranch life. She was meant to be an actress or some shit. Honestly, I don’t think Danger ever got over that heartbreak. And if there’s one rule I’ll never break, it’s this—we don’t talk about her. Ever.
“Don’t you be wishin’ that nonsense on me, now.”
As Mama walks inside to finish making breakfast, I sit on her porch steps, looking over my favorite view. The early morning light stretches across the ranch, casting a molten glow over rolling pastures—one thousand acres that belong to us. Cattle graze lazily in the distance, a few horses stir near the fences, tails flicking, their coats gleaming as the sun climbs higher. The air is rich with the scent of earth, hay, andthe faintest hint of morning coffee drifting in from the farmhouse.
My grandfather's legacy stretches across this expanse, built from his blood, sweat, and dreams. But it hasn’t been the same around here since Granddaddy passed, although a piece of him still lives on in all of us. He gave us our nicknames—originally only used them when ridin’, but they stuck.
Mine? Well, he said I was trouble because I was fearless, and somehow, I always find my way out of whatever mess I get myself into. Never backed down from a challenge—whether it was takin’ on the gnarliest bull in the pen, sweet-talkin’ someone else’s girl, or stirrin’ up chaos at the rodeo after-party. Maybe he settled on Trouble after one legendary night when I rode a bull no one else would, then got into a bar fight, and he caught me walking out grinnin’ like an idiot.
There's something freeing about livin’ on the edge, though. Whether it's starin’ down at a bull with horns sharp as sin or racin’ my bike against the thundering heart of the storm, I feel alive. Rules are just around to be toyed with, but maybe that’s just typical for a bull rider. Around here, we raise our red cups high and laugh loud—because life doesn’t slow down. And we brothers, we protect the land, we protect each other.
This place, Stetson Ranch, it's more than home—it’s where I plan to live and die. And we—the Stetson boys—we keep it pumpin’, fierce as the bloodline that links us. Granddaddy's spirit lingers, a shadow that watches over the land. I carry his wildness inside me—his need for speed. He’s the reason I’ve been chasin’ storms my whole life—he’s a flame that never flickers out.
Every day, we fight to keep James Stetson’sdream alive. Family, the Stetson Ranch, and its riders—that’s all that ever mattered to him.
My brothers and I were born to ride, but the team we built? That’s something else entirely. We’re the Stetson Stormers—our own crew on the Pro Bull Riding circuit. Handpicked, battle-tested, and built for chaos.
We aren’t just cowboys. We’re the kind of men who ride like the devil’s chasin’ them.
Tenacity. Raw nerve. Fire in our veins.
We don’t ride for trophies. We ride for something bigger—for the Stetson name, for the legacy, for the memory of James Stetson and everything he stood for.
Other ranches are folding under pressure. Riders are turning tail, sponsors pulling out. The world’s watching, wondering who will weather the storm.
But we don’t back down. Not now. Not ever.
And tonight, under the glare of the arena lights, with the crowd roaring and the bulls thrashing, we’ll do what we were born to do.
We’ll prove that the Stetson Ranch doesn’t just breed champions.
We forge legends.
two
Sawyer
