Page 5 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

I shook my head, giving him a squeeze on the shoulder. “Quit being such a pussy.”

His bright green eyes lit up like I’d handed him the perfect setup.

“What?”

“Speaking of pussy . . .”

“Don’t you start⁠—”

“Man,” he whined, dragging out the word like a kid denied dessert. “We’re done with the events, we’ve got a four-day turnaround, and we don’t fly out until tomorrow morning. What else are we supposed to do tonight?”

I snorted. “Besides limp back to the hotel and whine about your leg?”

Dalton huffed, but his gaze drifted past me, unfocused for a beat.

“Next weekend’s Idaho and I swear to God Idaho is just… potatoes, tractors, and one guy named Steve who closes the bar at nine.”

I barked out a laugh before I could stop it.

“You’re not wrong, but next weekend is Chicago.”

Dalton blinked, then frowned hard. “No. Chicago’s… later.”

“Tomorrow morning we fly home. Next weekend is Chicago. Then Idaho.”

He stared at me for a second too long, squinting like he could force the schedule to rearrange itself back into something that made sense. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I snapped. “And the fact you have to ask is exactly why I’m telling Dad you need to get checked again. You keep mixing shit up, and it’s getting worse.”

He muttered under his breath, rubbing at his temple like it pissed him off that his own brain wouldn’t cooperate. Dalton might’ve been one hell of a bull rider, but the wear and tear was stacking up in places no one could tape.

“So…home tomorrow. Chicago next weekend. Idaho after.”

“Congratulations,” I deadpanned. “You’re back on planet Earth.”

Dalton shot me a look, half annoyed, half relieved. “Okay, okay. Damn.”

“Now come on,” I said, steering him toward the changing rooms again. “Before you decide we’re supposed to be in Alaska.”

Dalton nodded along and muttered under his breath again.

“I’ll get you some pussy with a buckle bunny in Chicago.”

Dalton flicked his eyes to mine and smiled. “Hell yeah.”

“I wonder if Snuggly is going to come back. I swear to fucking God if I get that bull again, the entire world is against me somehow.”

Dalton laughed, the sound following us down the corridor as we headed for the hotel to grab our bags and start the quick turnaround. The timelines never made sense to anyone who didn’t live it: fly in, ride, get wrecked, fly out, repeat.

It was also why it was nearly impossible to find someone dependable to keep my ranch in Lindley running while I was gone. I had to pay people to feed cattle, check fences, and keep the horses in one piece every time the road swallowed me up.

Bull riding wasn’t my job—it was in my blood. My dad wasn’t my coach; he was my mentor, the one who had shaped me into the rider I was. He’d done the same for Dalton.

This life wasn’t about work. It was a lifestyle. Always on the road, always climbing onto the back of a bull, always risking everything for the adrenaline rush and the promise of a fat paycheck at the end. For me, it wasn’t a choice. It was who I was.

The career had been good to me. I was a two-time bull riding world champion back in my prime, and this weekend marked a milestone—my 1000th qualified ride. But damn, my body felt every bit of my thirty-five years. The bumps and bruises I’d collected over the years lingered longer, and there were days I longed for the simplicity of ranch life—just tending to the bulls and horses without the constant grind of the circuit.

Every eight-second ride, every rank bull I’d conquered, every spill I’d taken—it was all part of the legacy I was building. My dad, who was still my coach, couldn’t have been prouder. That pride kept me pushing forward, even when my body begged me to hang up my rope.