“Sadie!” I call out, cupping my hands to my mouth as I face the pasture. “Sadie!”
Behind me, in the distance, I hear the high pitch of her playful laughter, and I follow after it. Near the edge of the stable, I spot them, Sadie and Quinn.
Sadie’s sitting on top of her favorite mare, Daisy,and she’s got Quinn brushing her mane as she ties dandelions in it, cheeks rosy. Sadie reaches back to grab her stash of dandelions off of Daisy’s rear, and nearly slips. She’s fallen off of just about every horse we own and has been just fine.
But Quinn.
Her reaction is immediate, abandoning the brush and flowers to catch Sadie in her arms, eyes wide. Sadie laughs, which takes Quinn off guard, but the way her body takes a few seconds to relax and return to her tasks makes my chest tight.
“Vaughn!” a voice calls, and I spin, abandoning the sight of the two of them, which is good. I don’t need to be feeling anything for anyone, especially not a twenty-something who is only here for a short time.
Sadie. The ranch. This fucking rodeo. That’s my focus. Myonlyfocus.
Dirk, the postman, stands behind me, passing me a thick, weighty envelope with URGENT stamped over the top, the letters red, a warning of sorts. It’s been years since I’ve had news that wasn’t bad, if I’m honest.
“Thanks, man,” I tell him, and then I turn back and watch Quinn and Sadie from the porch until the sun sets.
CHAPTER 7
FLURRIES, STAY AWAY
As soon asI saw that flyer, as much as I didn’t want to toss my hat into the not-so-proverbial ring, it wasn’t even a choice.
It’s hard to believe in the beauty and magic of fate when your young wife dies of breast cancer shortly after giving birth to your first child. Then again, nowhere in the universe is it written that I’m owed agoodfate. Maybe struggle and pain is my fate, maybe what I’m meant to go through is hardship because it’s supposed to teach Sadie something about life, to build her up and make her strong and invincible. Hell, I don’t know.
What Idoknow is that training now, only five years older than when I last competed, is a lot like what I thinkhell is like.
Everything hurts. My muscles are on fire, and I’m callin’ to God to save me.
My wrists, my lower back, my palms, and fingers can hardly hold a mug of coffee, for Christ’s sake. Getting my body conditioned for one of the most dangerous, toughest sports is every bit the agony I expected it to be.
All for eight seconds, too.
Reaching, I wrap my hands around the grip and continue my pull-ups, a treacherous burn tearing through my palms. Sore, cracked palms, perpetually hurting, an ache numbing my wrists and making my forearms vibrate—that’s what I’m training for, and that’s what I need to get used to.
The day I submitted my application, I uncovered all the equipment in the barn and started training. Despite working on a ranch day in and day out, using my hands under the harsh sun, my body wasn’t ready for this.
A bolt of fire tears down my spine as I tap my chin to the bar at the top, and it’s so potent I drop to my feet and bend at the waist, gripping my knees. Sweat clouds my vision, and my chest burns from fatigue.
“Good morning,” a sweet, soft, almost melodic voice floods my senses, and I right myself and turn, my eyes landing on Quinn Farley, the woman who is unknowingly going to help me save my life. In a cutoff jean skirt and those damn pink, glittery cowboy boots, she tucks her hands into her back pockets, the loose curls in her hair partially covering the faded Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt she’s wearing.
“Actually, you know what?” she asks, though I know it’s rhetorical because she’s smirking as she taps her pink bottom lip. That bottom lip that is coated in something shimmery, something girly, and… her shining eyes cut to mine, and I lose track of my thoughts from the way she looks at me. She swallows, almost like looking at me made her lose track of her thoughts, too. “I’ve been here a week,” she continues, her cheeks now looking a lot like the color of her lips. “I think I’m ready to say good mornin’ instead of good morning.”
I snatch my hat off the ground and drop it on my head. “I don’t think so.”
She braces her hands on her hips, doing a playful little stomp with that Barbie boot. “C’mon, when do I get to start talking like a Texan?”
I roll my neck, ignoring the raucous burn flaring from the strain. “When you’re a Texan.” I don’t have time for silly banter. My body aches, and it’s breakfast time. I need to get Sadie fed, fight with her about runnin’ a comb through her hair, and get her on the bus.
Then I need to get to that envelope.
“I’m done here. Feel free to stay out here if you want.”
Her face falls, but I move my gaze past her, toward the house, and head out of the barn. The morning sun is already hot, promising another sweltering day on the ranch. Our air conditioner hasn’t worked in two summers, and because the entire unit needs to be replaced, I know we’ll have to make do with iced tea and Popsicles again this year.
Unless I win.
I hang my hat on the rack near the door, but keep my boots on as I tread toward the stove and flick the burner on. The door clicks shut, and a moment later the sink turns on. Turning, I find Quinn filling the coffeepot, then pouring it in, adding grounds from the porcelain container on the counter. Just as I reach back to grab the fridge door, she turns to do the same, and our hands collide in midair.
