Rope Lessons & Power Plays
Avery
If pride had a flavor, it would taste like dust and sweat, sunbaked dirt clinging to my boots, the sharp scent of hay in the air, and the distant sound of horses nickering in the corral.. And this morning, I’m full to the brim with both.
The sun is barely up when I find Cash in the tack shed, rolling rope between his calloused palms like it holds the answers to the universe. He doesn’t glance at me when I step inside, just keeps working like I’m not there. Which, honestly, only makes me want to pester him more.
“I want you to teach me,” I say, arms crossed, chin lifted.
His eyes flick up, slow and unimpressed. “Teach you what? How to not fall on your ass in the chicken yard?”
I force a smile. “No, I think I’ve got that part down. I’m talking about the real stuff. Running this place. Ranching.”
He scoffs, tossing the coiled rope onto a shelf. “Ranching isn’t something you pick up like a hobby, princess. It’s a way of life.”
“Well, lucky for me,” I say, stepping closer, “I’ve already got the life. Just need to learn the way.”
He gives me a long, heavy look, like he’s weighing whether or not it’s worth the energy to argue. His stance shifts just slightly, the rope still in his hand twisting tighter, and my pulse stutters like it’s trying to anticipate his next move. I meet his stare and don’t flinch. My heart’s hammering under my t-shirt, but I hold my ground.
“I’m not leaving,” I say, softer now. “You can either help me figure this out or watch me screw it up and burn the whole damn ranch down in the process.”
That gets a twitch from his mouth, could be a smirk, could be indigestion. Hard to say with Cash.
“Fine,” he mutters finally, pulling a pair of worn gloves from the bench. “But don’t come crying to me when you’ve got rope burn and manure in places you didn’t know existed.”
“Deal,” I say quickly, before he can change his mind. “Though, for the record, that’s not exactly a strong pitch for your mentorship skills.”
He tosses the gloves at me and I fumble to catch them, grinning despite myself. They’re too big and smell like leather and dust and something else entirely him. It’s ridiculous how fast my stomach flips.
“We’ll start with roping,” he says, already moving toward the corral. “And try not to let your ego get trampled.”
Outside, the air is cool, and the golden light slants over the fences like something out of a painting. I fall into step behind him, half grateful he’s not looking back, because I’m not sure what my face is doing.
What the heck, cowboy?
A week ago, I couldn’t stand the sight of him, thought he was a bitter relic of this dusty ranch, all sharp edges and judgment. But now, standing out here in the early light with his scent still lingering on the gloves and the ghost of his almost-kiss brushing against my memory, something in me shifts.
I don’t know when it changed. Somewhere between the rope burns, the almost kiss, the dance, and the grudging glances, the man I dismissed as impossible started getting under my skin. And the worst part? I don’t hate it.
I shake it off, kind of, and lengthen my stride.
This isn’t just a lesson. It’s a step. A real one.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s the beginning of something neither of us saw coming.
He shows me how to loop the rope, flick my wrist, shift my hips. It’s all rhythm and motion, a language I don’t speak yet, but his body does.
Every movement is fluid and sure, and I can’t help but watch the way his shoulders bunch beneath that faded t-shirt, the flex of his forearms as he tosses the lasso again and again.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking at me, voice dripping with amusement, as if he already knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I snort. “Please. I’m just studying your technique.”
He turns, walking back toward me with a smirk that’s pure trouble. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
I roll my eyes, but the heat blooming in my cheeks gives me away. He hands me the rope, our fingers brushing, just a split-second of skin on skin, but it sparks through me like a live wire. My breath catches, and I glance up to find his eyes already on mine.
A thousand thoughts race through my head, does he want to kiss me again? Does he regret pulling away last night? My heart thuds against my ribs, loud andinsistent, like it's hoping for a second chance he might not give..
