Page 41 of A Mustang River Christmas

The show was important, but so was the mayoral stuff, and Cassidy was worried about Jessie’s ability to do it all.

“I mean, sabotage would track with Danielle’s character,” Austin said.

“True,” Dalton agreed.

West turned to the forge with an iron rod trapped in tongs and heated the metal until it was glowing. Then he brought it out and started hammering away at it, each movement molding the hot iron in a way Jessie’s hammering simply hadn’t.

West also drew a different crowd from Jessie.

Suddenly, the booth was surrounded by a gaggle of women who had materialized out of the ether, all eyes glued to West’s movements.

Cassidy could admit his work was compelling.

But he was . . . well, he was West Hancock, and these ladies must not be from around here. Because women from Rustler Mountain knew the truth: West Hancock was as dangerous as his ancestor, Butch Hancock the Traitor, whose name sent waves of loathing around her family dinner table any time it came up.

Sure, West’s broad shoulders might be of interest. His muscles might be eye-catching.

But he wasn’t Dalton.

Dalton was safety and security, and he had plenty of muscles too, so why would she ever look at West?

With that thought uppermost in her mind, she turned to Dalton and smiled.

Oh yes, Cassidy Wilder knew exactly what she wanted.

And she was going to get it.

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Excerpt From Dallas

Dallas

I don’t have a death wish. I just like to flirt with death for around eight seconds on a Friday night.

Every so often that old song drifts through my head as I climb into the chute. Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys.

Good thing my mom doesn’t give a shit about me.

My stepmom is a good woman, though, and she doesn’t deserve to worry about me. Hell, my dad is a decent guy, for all that he didn’t know about me until I was fifteen. He took me in after years in foster care, tried to finish raising me right.

He did his best.

I’m just fucked up.

Fucked up enough that this is how I get my kicks, I guess.

I’m sitting on the edge of the chute, and I lower myself down onto the bull, grabbing hold of the harness and slipping my hand beneath the leather strap.

“The next rider up is a champion. Number two in the world right now, folks, just twenty-four years old, from Gold Valley, Oregon, riding a little bull called Tundra. Give it up for Dallas Dodge!” The crowd cheers and I adjust the leather strap, my heart pounding in my head, my whole body shaking from the adrenaline pouring through my veins. A better high than any shit out there.

Though, it’s not unlike shit you buy on the street. You could think you’re buying straight shit, and it could be laced with Fentanyl and send you straight to an early grave.

Tundra might be my bad batch. He’s pissed at me, that’s for sure. Which is his whole job. I’m supposed to ride him; he’s supposed to buck me off.

I’m never sure who the crowd is chanting for.

If they want me to get my full eight seconds, or if they want the bull to throw me, and tear me a whole new one for good measure.