"So did I, once." Waverly's mouth pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Doesn't mean I agree with everything they've done."
That comment hit different than I expected. I studied her for a long moment, looking for the angle, the play, the thing she wasn't saying. But all I saw was a competitor who was tired of being defined by someone else's grudge.
"Even if I wanted to help you," I said, "which I don't—training a barrel horse takes time. Weeks. Maybe months, depending on what you're starting with. You think your family's going to be fine with you spending that much time on Hollister land?"
"I think my family doesn't get a vote in how I run my career."
"You're sure about that?"
"I'm sure I prefer earning things the hard way." She said it like it was a fact, not a philosophy. Like she'd tested it enough times to know it was true.
I wanted to dismiss her. Send her back to her truck, back across the ridge, back to whatever Kincaid trainer could give her a decent horse and keep the valley from talking. But something about the way she stood there—making no apologies, with no hesitation, just steady confidence in who she was and what she wanted—made it harder to write her off than it should have been.
"I'm not saying yes," I said.
"I didn't ask you to."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"Introducing myself." Waverly stepped back from the rail and nodded toward Juniper. "Ice that hip tonight. She'll feel better tomorrow."
She turned and walked back toward her truck, her boots crunching on the gravel, that long braid swinging between her shoulder blades. She didn't look back. Didn't wait for me to respond. Just climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and pulled the trailer out of the lot like she'd accomplished exactly what she came to do.
I stood there, holding Juniper's reins, watching the Kincaid brand disappear down the road.
Two things settled in my chest at the same time. One: she was a Kincaid. Which meant working with her would stir up trouble I didn't need and couldn't afford.
Two: she might be the most dangerous competitor I'd ever met.
And I wasn't entirely sure which one of those facts bothered me more.
CHAPTER 2
WAVERLY
Ace's Place was the kind of bar where people already knew your business before you sat down. I pushed through the door and braced myself for what I might find inside. A few heads turned my way, and a conversation near the bar stalled. The bartender, a broad-shouldered, bearded guy with a dishtowel slung over his shoulder, shot a look in my direction then turned away.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t outrun my last name. It didn't matter that I'd spent the last six years building a career separate from the family ranch, running my own circuit points, and buying my own entry fees. The only thing anyone in this damn town cared about was history. And being a Kincaid meant I had eyes on me wherever I went, whether I wanted them or not.
I wanted the attention tonight. Not because I liked having people watch my every move, but because I needed Tanner Hollister to understand that saying no to me out at his ranch with nobody watching was one thing. Saying it in front of an audience was something else.
I spotted him at the far end of the bar. He was nursing a beer and talking to an older man I recognized as one of the Fosters who ran a cattle ranch west of town. He had his hat pushed back and his forearms resting on the worn wood.
For a brief moment, I stood there and watched him. When he wasn’t frowning at me, he was pretty damn hot. In another time and another place, I might have been tempted to run my hands over his broad shoulders and tangle my fingers in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. But Kincaids and Hollisters didn’t mix. That was one rule that the entire valley had always lived by.
I crossed the room and took the empty stool two down from Tanner. When the bartender came over, I ordered a whiskey neat. By the time he set my drink down in front of me, Tanner’s smile had disappeared.
"What are you doing here?" He didn't look at me when he said it.
"Hey, Hollister." I picked up my glass. "Can I buy you a beer?"
His jaw tightened. "I'm fine."
The rancher glanced between us and must have decided he didn’t want to get caught up in whatever might go down between a Kincaid and a Hollister. He said something to Tanner under his breath, then picked up his beer and moved to a table.
Tanner turned to face me. In the low light of the bar, his eyes were darker than they'd been in the afternoon sun. He looked like a man who had already made up his mind about something and didn't appreciate having to say it twice.
"You drove into town to find me in a bar," he said.
