Broken Trust (Wildhaven Cowboys #1)

Chapter One

Axle

The hum of the crowd skates across the concrete and steel like a living thing, vibrating up through the bottom of my dusty boots as I stand in the back corridor of Cowtown Coliseum.

Fort Worth is one of my favorite towns to visit.

And this venue is legendary. There’s history in these walls.

Sweat, grit, blood—all of it soaked into the bones of this arena.

You don’t walk in here unless you’re ready to prove something.

And tonight, I’ve got everything to prove.

I roll my shoulders once, then again, working out the tension that’s been sitting between them since I drew my bull.

Hade’s Ransom. Mean, rank, and smart in all the worst ways possible.

The kind of bull that doesn’t just buck; he’s out to destroy the man on his back.

Bull riders have been stepped on, slammed, and straight-up wrecked by him.

He doesn’t just want you off of him. He wants to make you pay for climbing on him in the first place.

Exactly the kind of ride I live for.

“Axle.”

I glance over to see Royce leaning against the rail, hat tipped low, arms folded across his chest. My brother looks calm, but I know him better than that. He’s wired, just like I am. We’ve been riding together long enough that we can read each other like a book.

“You good?” he asks.

I huff out a breath. “Of course I am.”

He smirks at my arrogance, but he nods anyway. “Hell of a draw tonight.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, rolling my wrist, already feeling the phantom pull of rope and hide against my skin. “Figure he’s gonna make me pay for daring to mount him.”

Royce pushes off the rail and steps closer, his voice dropping just a hair. “You ride him clean, and you’re sittin’ real pretty for the finals. It’s you, Kyler, and Bryce.”

“I wouldn’t count yourself out yet, brother.”

He grins. “I’m not, but I’ll have to put up a big number to squeeze in. You just have to hold on.”

I nod.

The Pbr World Finals.

Professional Bull Riders, Inc., or Pbr, is an international professional bull riders organization, headquartered in Fort Worth, Texas. It’s the largest bull riding league in the world, sanctioning hundreds of events every year.

The finals are held at the end of May. The goal, the finish line—I’ve been chasing it all season. I’m close—damn close—but close doesn’t mean a thing if I don’t keep focused tonight and stay planted on Hade’s Ransom’s back for eight seconds.

Eight seconds. That’s all a cowboy’s dream ever comes down to.

“I know,” I say.

Royce studies me for a second, then claps a hand on my shoulder. “Then go get it.”

Simple as that.

I nod once, sharp and determined, and turn toward the chutes.

The arena is loud and bright. The lights overhead glare down, catching on dust that hovers like smoke above the dirt floor.

I love everything about bull riding—from the clang of the chute gate to the smell of earth, leather, beast, and adrenaline. It’s familiar. It’s home. I crave it like an addict craves his drug of choice.

The announcer’s voice booms overhead, hyping up the next ride, feeding the energy already buzzing through the crowd. My name rolls out over the speakers, and the reaction is instant.

Cheers. Which is a good sign.

Because Bryce Raintree is up next, and the man is a legend and the undeniable fan favorite.

I try not to let it go to my head, but I hear it. I feel it, and it fuels something deep and hot in my chest.

I swing up onto the chute gate, peering down at Hade’s Ransom. He’s massive. Dark hide stretched over coiled muscle, sides heaving, eyes sharp and angry. He slams himself against the gate, rattling the metal hard enough to make it groan under the force.

“Easy there, big boy,” one of the flank guys mutters, though we all know there’s nothing that’s gonna calm this savage.

I drop down into the chute, and my focus narrows, and the noise fades as I settle onto his back.

My gloved hand finds the rope, fingers working instinctively—pulling it tight, adjusting until it feels just right in my grip.

My other hand braces against his shoulder as he shifts beneath me.

Power rolls off him like a storm cloud ready to break open.

This is the moment.

The calm before the battle begins.

I lean forward, pressing my chest down, locking myself in. My thighs clamp tight, and my boots find their position, my heels turned in. I take a deep breath. Then another.

“Ready?” the gate man yells.

“Yep,” I call back.

He slams his hand against the chute.

I lift my free hand and give the nod, and the gate explodes open.

Hade’s Ransom launches forward like a battering ram, and all hell breaks loose.

The first jump is a straight-up blast of pure energy, his front end hitting hard while his hindquarters kick high, snapping me forward and back in a violent rhythm. I stay centered, hips loose, arm locked in, attempting to ride the momentum instead of fighting it.

Second jump, he twists hard to the left. I feel it coming half a second before it starts, and I shift my weight, keeping my shoulders square while my body follows the spin. My rope hand burns as it tightens, but I don’t loosen my grip.

The crowd is a distant roar now, drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the rush of blood in my ears.

Three seconds.

He bucks again, higher this time, then spins the opposite direction, trying to throw me off-balance. He’s fast and erratic. Unpredictable. Every calculated move is designed to toss me.

Four seconds.

My legs scream as I clamp down harder, muscles on fire. My free arm whips through the air, counterbalancing every violent shift beneath me.

Five seconds.

He drops his front end and launches his hind legs sky-high, and for a split second, I am completely weightless before gravity slams me back onto his back. And I feel the impact travel from my tailbone to the base of my skull.

Six seconds.

I’m still on him. Still centered and in control. Much to his displeasure.

Seven seconds.

As if he knows our time is almost up, he gives everything he’s got—one last brutal combination of spins and kicks that would send a lesser rider flying across the arena.

But not me.

Eight seconds.

The buzzer sounds.

Relief hits sharp and fast, but there’s no time to celebrate.

I release my grip and push off. But the fucker gives me one last high kick and sends me airborne.

I hit the ground hard. Face-first. And pain explodes through my cheekbones the second I land.

I can’t get my hands up in time before the jarring crash. Dirt fills my mouth, and the tang of iron floods in almost instantly.

I know that feeling and that taste.

I roll, scrambling to get clear as the bullfighters move in, drawing Hade’s Ransom away before he can double back on me.

I push to my feet, the high of the ride drowning out most of the pain, but not all of it.

Shit. My nose.

I reach up, fingers coming away red and slick with blood.

Yeah, that’s broken.

I huff out a half laugh, half groan and tilt my head back just enough to keep the bleeding from pouring straight down my face.

The crowd is on their feet, cheering loud for me.

I lift my arm and give them a wave, blood streaming down over my lip, staining the front of my shirt. It probably looks worse than it is. Or maybe not. Hard to tell with adrenaline still pumping through me this hard.

Either way, I stayed on, and that’s all that matters. The score from this round should keep me on the board even if my next ride is shit.

I turn and jog toward the exit, boots kicking up dirt, the roar of the crowd following me all the way out to the on-site Pbr Sports Medicine Team.

“Sit.”

Dr. Chastain doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.

He never does.

I drop onto the folding chair in the medical area, grabbing a towel and pressing it to my face while he moves in close, already snapping on gloves.

“Well,” he says dryly, tilting my chin up, “you’ve looked better.”

I snort, then instantly regret it.

“Yeah, I’m guessing it feels about as good as it looks.” He hums, examining my nose with practiced hands. “Broken,” he declares.

“No shit,” I grunt.

He shoots me a look. “You want my help, or you want to keep being a smart-ass?”

I grin despite the pain. “Both?”

He shakes his head, but I catch the hint of a smile as he reaches for supplies. “Hold still.”

I do, letting him work. He’s done this enough times on me that we’ve got it down pat.

“So,” he says as he starts cleaning up the blood, “you riding again tonight?”

“If they’ll let me.”

“They’ll let you. If I do,” he mutters. “Question is, whether you should.”

I look at him hopefully. “Got points to earn, Dr. Chaz.”

He pulls out a huge cotton swab and starts to clean my nostril, careful but firm. “I know you do.”

“I’m hoping to qualify for finals.”

“So is every other cowboy who’s darkened my tent tonight,” he mutters.

“I need it. I’m winning that purse so I can take the summer off and enjoy some R & R at home in Wyoming.”

His eyes widen. “You? Taking a break?”

“A short one.”

We fall into a comfortable silence for a minute before the opening to the tent rustles and another bloody cowboy stumbles in.

“Busy night,” I say. “Where’s your help?”

I glance around, hoping to catch sight of Dr. Chastain’s lovely assistant.

“Don’t bother,” he says. “Ashley’s not here tonight.”

“Damn. She’s the only thing that makes our visits tolerable,” I say with a laugh and instantly regret it.

“That’s too bad because she’s leaving us this fall,” he says.

That catches my attention. “Yeah?”

Ashley has been a part of Dr. Chastain’s team for as long as I can remember, and she’s good at her job, helping to fix up busted cowboys.

“Her son is starting preschool in the fall, and she wants to be home more.” He adjusts the brace he placed on the bridge of my nose, making sure everything’s set. “Can’t fault her for that.”

“No,” I agree. “Family comes first. But, damn, we’ll miss her and her magic hands.”

He nods. “I’ve got a physical therapy applicant I’m considering—a doctorate student in Colorado, graduating next year.

She worked as a certified medical assistant at a friend’s practice in Laramie while earning her undergrad.

He was really impressed with her. She’ll actually be interning at a rodeo school near you this summer. ”

“Yeah?” I say again, curiosity piqued. “Where at?”

“Wildhaven,” he confirms. “I’m looking forward to seeing how she performs there before I make a final decision.”

“Raintree-Storm Rodeo Academy?” I ask.

His brows lift slightly. “That’s the one.”

I grin, ignoring the pull in my face. “I’ll be working there this summer too.”

“Well, I’ll be,” he says. “Small world.”

“Yeah,” I say, leaning back carefully. “Wildhaven Storm Ranch—that’s my family’s place. My cousin Charli’s engaged to Bryce Raintree. Academy’s set up on our land.”

Bryce is currently on a two-year rodeo retirement tour before hanging up his hat for good, settling down, making Charli a housewife, planting babies in her, and running the academy full-time.

He lets out a low whistle. “That is a small world.”

“Who’s the student?” I ask. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

He glances at me as he finishes taping. “A Miss Asbury.”

I frown slightly. “Asbury …”

He nods.

“Yep,” he says, “Jovie Asbury.”

I bark out a laugh, then wince again because that was a mistake. “You’re kidding me.”

“What?” he asks, stepping back to assess his work.

“Little Jojo Asbury?” I shake my head, disbelief settling in.

“You know her?”

“Yeah,” I say, a grin tugging at my mouth despite the pain. “She was my little brother, Cabe’s, first love. Hell, I think he’s still hat over boots for her.”

He raises a brow. “Is that right?”

“Oh, yeah.” I chuckle. “Kid followed her around like a lovesick puppy until she left for school. He’ll be fucking stoked to have her on the ranch for the summer.”

It’s been years since I saw her. She and Cabe must have been twelve or thirteen when I graduated high school and started chasing my rodeo dreams. But I remember her—bright smile, blonde curls, stubborn streak, always stuck to Cabe’s side.

Funny how things circle back.

Dr. Chastain tosses the used gauze into a bin. “Well, I’m looking forward to hearing how Miss Asbury does.”

“Yeah,” I say, still shaking my head a little. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Appreciate it.”

He gives me one last look-over. “You’re good for another ride—technically. But try not to land face-first again.”

“No promises.” I grin.

He snorts. “Of course not.”

I push to my feet, grabbing a clean towel and wiping away the last of the blood. My nose throbs, but it’s manageable.

“Thanks, Dr. Chaz.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” he calls after me as his next patient settles onto the folding chair.

I just lift a hand in response and head back toward the arena, just in time as Royce’s name is announced.

I make my way to the rail, leaning against it, eyes locked on the chute as he climbs up. He moves with the same quiet confidence as his big brother—controlled, focused, unshakable.

We’ve been doing this together our whole lives. Different styles. Different approaches. But the same fire.

He settles onto his bull and nods, and the gate bursts open.

I watch every second. Every movement and adjustment.

He rides clean.

Eight seconds comes and goes, and he dismounts smooth, landing on his feet like it’s nothing.

Show-off.

The crowd eats it up.

I grin, pride hitting deep.

“That’s it, brother,” I mutter under my breath.

Looks like we both might be headed for the finals.

He glances my way as he exits, catching sight of me by the rail. His eyes flick to the tape across my nose, then back up to my face, and he smirks as he shakes his head.