I scowl at him.
"He's a mean one."
"I'm about to bury your face in this dirt, Jett," I hiss.
He laughs, pocketing his phone. "Look, we're promoting you and might find you a new girl."
I shake my head. "Not interested."
I rip off my shirt and throw it on the fence rail. The drop barrel waits in the center of the room, scarred and dented from years of abuse, the cables taut and ready.
I wrap my riding hand, left, always left, with the resin-coated rope, pulling it tight between my fingers until the grip is second nature. Feel the familiar burn across my palm. I swing my leg over the barrel and settle in. Feet up. Knees locked against the sides. Free hand raised.
Jett hits the release.
The barrel drops and spins, wrenching left, and my body responds before my brain catches up. Hips forward. Shoulders back. Core tight enough to crack a walnut. The cables jerk and snap, simulating the violent, arrhythmic chaos of two thousand pounds of pissed-off Brahma trying to fling me into the dirt.
This is where the world narrows to nothing. No Harper. No heartbreak. No missing cattle or cut fences or drunk texts at one in the morning. Just physics and instinct and the primal, animal refusal to let go.
The barrel kicks right really fuckin’ hard, and I counter with my hips, shifting my weight, riding the momentum instead of fighting it. My free arm whips for balance. Dust rises around me. Jett's shouting something I can't hear over the blood pounding in my ears.
Eight seconds on a bull is an eternity. Your brain wants to panic. Your muscles want to seize. Every nerve in your body is screaming get off, get off, this thing is going to kill you. And you have to override all of it. You have to find the calm in the center of the chaos and stay there, balanced on the edge between control and catastrophe, for eight of the longest seconds of your life.
I've done it hundreds of times. I'll do it hundreds more. Because this is the one thing I'm sure of. The one place where everything makes sense. Where I'm not the guy pining after a girl who left, or the little brother trying to fill his father's boots, or the underboss pretending ranch work is his only job.
On a bull, I'm just Ace Sterling. And Ace Sterling don’t fall.
The barrel bucks one last time and settles. I hold my position for a beat, then release my grip and drop to the dirt.
My next rodeo is this weekend, and the bulls they're bringing are fuckin' deadly. Rank stock from a breeder in Oklahoma who's famous for producing animals that end careers. And of course, I'll be picking the meanest one out of them.
Not that I'll be telling my brothers that.
"You look better here than you did on that mechanical one in the bar," Jett says.
I flip him off.
"Fuck you."
After a few more rounds, each one faster, harder, Jett cranking the tension until the barrel's bucking violent enough to rattle my teeth. I'm done. My arms are dead. My core is screaming. And when I look up, wiping the sweat from my face with the back of my hand, I find Colten and Hunter standing by the barn door watching.
This can't be good. Especially if Hunter is here to deliver news in person.
I drop down and join Jett over with them.
"Are you here to watch me train?" I ask.
Hunter shakes his head. "Paulie is out tracking the remaining missing calves."
Shit. My stomach drops. I've been trying not to think about those calves since yesterday.
"What do you need me to do?"
A smirk tugs at Colten's lips. "What do you think?"
I rub my hands together. "I'm assuming it involves some kind of retaliation?"
Hunter nods.
