PROLOGUE
CORD
The world disappeared in a tornado of the bull’s making.
I kept one hand in the air, but my seat was wrong—had been wrong since the start.
And Wrecking Ball—well, hell. That bull earned his name. He twisted and leaped and slammed into the dirt beneath me as soon as I started counting.
Eight seconds. Sixteen heartbeats to that buckle. That’s all I need.
Then flames would burst from the struts opposite the crowds, and I’d walk away from the championship ride as the owner of the coveted ruby-studded buckle I’d trained for all season. Add that to the collection in the caravan I was living in while West helped me build my dream house on the land I’d bought in Montana.
Eleven heartbeats.
West had warned me. “Concentrate, you eager fucker. An unfocused rider is a dead rider.” I’d grinned him off, too busy thinking about the buckle and that land with its pretty little waterfall and the coyotes that didn’t eat me when I camped there.
Thirteen.
But Wrecking Ball didn’t give a damn about my plans, twistingin spectacular style while I clung to him with clenched thighs that earned their workout.I’ll get you a fucking paddock.
Fourteen.
I inhaled dust, choking. My back ached. Hell, everything ached. After this, I was calling retirement.
One heartbeat to go. Half a second to the bell and?—
Fifteen.
The black bastard bucked, and suddenly keeping one hand free wasn’t the problem. I sailed through the air, but a wrench on my leg where it tangled in a rope that shouldn’t have connected me to anything anchored me to the moving hellion.
Sixteen.
I was airborne. Then I wasn’t, and Wrecking Ball looked a whole lot closer from underneath. Maybe I should have listened to West.
The land in Montana was stunning.Coyote Falls. That’s what I’d put on the paperwork when I signed. “Getting you that paddock, Wreck,” I wheezed through a mouthful of dust as hooves came down and I ran out of seconds and heartbeats all at once.
ONE
CORD
Bullseyes and Paintballs
I fix my eyes on the target’s shadow as it wavers behind a hay bale across the yard and risk a sideways glance at my partner. “We have one chance to get this thing done right. Are you ready?”
Bright blue eyes stare back and a pair of strawberry blonde pigtails jiggle in solemn confirmation.
I maintain my hard expression. We’ve got six shots left between us and this is make-or-break time. My reputation as the owner of Coyote Falls is on the line.
“Good. Let’s do this.”
Our mark—my newest ranch hand, Billy—waggles his ass as a target, and it’s all we need. A war cry leaves Sally’s throat that draws every eye in the yard as we charge out from behind the barn door. My nine-year-old niece stays in my shadow like I’ve taught her, firing sniper-worthy shots in short bursts as Billy leaves his cover. A blob of bright sunshine-yellow paint nails him in the center of his chest.
“Damn, Rand. Your girl packs a punch.” Billy rubs his faux wound, smearing paint over his work shirt, and swipes the excess on his faded jeans. “Oops. Language. Sorry, honey.”
“I got you, Billy!” Sally skips around in a circle, kicking up dust bunnies in her wake. Her paintball gun bounces wildly at her side.
Billy grins, his hands raised in surrender.
