Chapter 4
Hadley
“Hadley, hurry the hell up! I’m going to be late!” Kayley screeches from the other side of the bathroom door. Three sisters, and still, I haven’t learned the art of a speedy bathroom visit. Part of me enjoys tormenting them—payback for being surrounded by females my entire life.
Who am I kidding, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Man of the house since I was twelve’s been a bitter pill to swallow. My good-for-nothing father skipped town and left us with a mountain of debt and a ranch to run, and it was Mom and me against the world. Literally.
Nia was one year old when he left.
I always thought because it’s Mom’s family ranch that his pride couldn’t take the hit.
It wasn’t until years later that I found out the only thing my father concerns himself with is chasing skirt.
Who, if the few occasions I have seen him around are anything to go by, are getting younger as he gets older.
There are so many ways I hate the man who is supposed to be the rock of our family. The man who’s supposed to be here, raisin’ his family, loving his family, working an honest day for our legacy.
Nope, he up and split.
Some days, I don’t care at all. Good riddance.
Some days, the man he is, the man he could never be, drives me to madness.
I gladly took his place. He might have thought we weren’t worth the trouble, but this little family, my sisters and mother, are my life. Them, and this ranch we call home.
I pull my shirt off and wince as the bruising on my ribs pangs with my arm raised over my head. A small price to pay for the chance to bring home extra money to keep the bank off our backs.
The door rattles again under Kayley’s assault. “Come on, Hads, I need to use the bathroom!”
She slept over last night, and it was like old times when Kales lived at home and I wasn’t in the fixer-upper a field over. She should have driven home like she usually does. But we were exhausted from working. Nothing new there.
Not bothering to tuck the shirt in, I tug the door open. “Hold ya horses.”
“Urgh. Why do you take longer than any of the women in this house, hey?” She raises a brow as she crosses the threshold, blonde hair swaying as we pass each other. The door slams behind me and I chuckle.
Our house is a modest—well, more like falling-down-around-us four-bedroom homestead. With the girls in rooms on either side of the hall, Mom has the back room. Me—I live in the old worker’s house down behind the barn.
Currently, I have no plumbing since it busted and we can’t afford the parts to fix it just yet.
Another couple rodeos and I’ll have enough for that and the holes in the roof to be taken care of.
But it would be a godsend if I could win a few rounds.
Living on ramen and beef jerky on the road is getting old.
Speaking of the road . . . Mom stands by the door, arms crossed and frown securely planted. “We don’t need the money that badly. No need to go get yourself killed for a few lousy dimes.”
Her grey-streaked light brown hair is tied back, her light blue eyes laced with worry. “Please, reconsider. We will make do. Kayley is getting a promotion at the feed and seed place next year. It’ll all work out.”
“We can’t wait that long.” I shoulder my overnight bag that I left waiting by the door.
Her face tilts as a sad smile stretches her lips. “Make sure you come home to us, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I pull her into a one-armed hug.
“Bye, girls!” I call out before pushing through the screen.
Two voices holler back with, “Bye, Hads!”
“Break a leg, big brother!”
Geez, Nia, thanks.
“Bye HAD-LEY JONES!” Gemma roars like the commentators always do, stringing out my name like they’re having a tug-of-war with the syllables.
I toss my bag into the back of my old Chevy pickup. It’s old and rusted, just the way I like the things in my life. A little character to them. The two-toned white-and-blue pickup fires to life when I turn her over.
A window along the side of the house pops open. I roll forward a little to see Kayley’s head, hair smothered with shampoo and piled on top of her head sticking out. “Don’t die, alright!”
I wave, giving her a wry smile that I’m sure she can’t really see with the amount of soap and shampoo tracking down her face. She smiles at me wantonly, giving me the hand signal we made up when we were kids. When Mom was asleep and we didn’t want to wake her or the babies.
L with our right hand.
You, two fingers up. Our version of a U, not a V.
Which translates to love you.
Out of all my sisters, Kayley and I are the closest. We’re the oldest. She was old enough when Dad left that she looked after Mom and the younger girls while I took care of the ranch.
There’s no telling how much a heart can break until it’s done breaking. Mom was a mess when Dad left. I can’t blame her. She loved that ingrate more than she should have. Fast forward countless years and we’re all better off without him. Closer and stronger because of it.
I raise my left hand.
L
U
And rotate the hand to mean the number two.
Love you too.
She waves before swiping soap from her eyes. “Shit!” Her head disappears back through the window, leaving me staring at the weatherboard along the house.
On that note, I’m outta here before I cave and find something better to do than get pummeled into the dirt by a two-ton raging animal to make a buck.
The drive from Clinton to Rimbey, Alberta, took longer than it should in my old truck. I roll into the rodeo grounds around sunset. A long fucking day. Just in time for a full-on night.
Trailers, pickups, and trucks filter into the fields surrounding the grounds. My phone lights up as I find a parking spot by an old oak and kill the engine.
“When you gonna upgrade your old rig? Been here over an hour waiting on you, bud.”
Brady.
I tap out a reply and climb from the truck.
Horses whinny and cattle bellow as they settle down in the back holding yards.
The smell of dirt, shit, and pure unadulterated excitement flood the air. Once the sun’s disappeared, folks will start turning up for their Friday night entertainment.
I make my way to the small rodeo office to pay my dues and pick up my number, finding Brady leaning by the door, his hat pulled down over his face and arms crossed. I swear he pretends to be asleep to drive home his point.
His team shirt covered in sponsors does that all on its own.
He got made in the drafts, I didn’t.
Brady is a paid athlete who can afford a decent truck. A bull rider who is paid regardless of his ride. Well, almost.
Me . . . I only cash in if I ride well enough, as an independent, and win a place. I was gunning to be drafted into a team, any team. Missed the mark by who knows what metric. Now I’m determined to make the cut.
“Jonesy, had a solid nap waitin’ on ya, bud.” Brady’s wide-ass smile stretches his stupid handsome face. Blond hair sticks out from under his white hat. His bright blues lit up with mirth as he slams my shoulder playfully with his fist.
“Yeah, least I won’t be sleeping on my ride. Who’d ya pull?”
“Not done it yet. Levi’s waitin’ on you.”
He rolls off the wall and pushes through the door. His hat is in his hand the second he walks up to the desk beside me. I slide my own from my head and hold it in front of me as the woman looks up from her desk. “Cutting it close, Jones; Levi’ll start without you next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I clear my throat.
Is there anyone not ribbing me over my old girl? I love my truck, but I know she’s a rusted-out old wreck. Too old. Too slow. Much like I’ll be if I don’t start winning soon. Thirty is old in bull rider years.
Most cowboys start in their teens, most bucking out around mid-twenties, if they’re smart.
Apparently, Brades and me ain’t that smart.
His girlfriend peeled out last year. Sick of waiting for him to quit the rodeo. If I’ve learned anything about the most dangerous sport on earth, it’s this—you don’t quit rodeo, you leave either because you’re hurt, broke, or dead.
Kayley’s worried expression floods in.
Nope, not happening.
I have a routine. My little rituals. I have a process. No bull is going to send me out in a box. I ride for my family. That keeps me invincible.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Right, fees paid up. Here’s your numbers, boys.” The older woman stands, pulling the old steel cabinet open. She hands out the number plates, recording our numbers in her log before wishing us luck. “’Cause with this new round of bulls, boys, you’re gonna need it.”
We wander from the office to behind the chutes. The last of the sun’s rays splinter over the rails as we walk through the yards that hold the bulls and steers for the roping events.
“Finally! Jones, Fawkner. When you’re ready.” Levi gives us the look that tells me they’ve all been waiting on us for a while.
“Sorry boss, Hadley’s rust bucket only cracks ninety clicks an hour.” Brady comes to a halt by the rest of the riders and I readjust my hat on my head, meeting Levi’s gaze.
The older man’s been in the rodeo game for about as long as I’ve been responsible for my family. In his low forties, he keeps every event running smoothly. Keeping everyone safe. Riders, chute cowboys, and bullfighters.
Speaking of, Logan Montgomery pulls up his ridiculous high neon socks under a skirt of cut up Wrangler jeans ending just above his knees. His face already painted like a literal clown, he waves, and a smile lights up his face.
I wave back.
“Jones?”
I adjust my hat on my head. “Sorry. I’m good.”
He chuckles, chewing on his gum. “I’m glad. Now, pay a-fuckin’-ttention. I can’t keep this shit show straight or you lot safe if no fucker is paying attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
He raises a brow.
We all know he hates it when we call him that. Makes him feel old.
If the shoe fits . . . I beam at him.
His dark eyes narrow as he slaps his clipboard into Brady’s chest and lifts his hat from his head and runs a hand through his hair. He steps toward me.
Flicking my hat from my head, he says playfully, “You’ll keep, bud. Now, down to business.”
The small crowd of cowboys all shift on their feet, their attention turning more serious as Levi reads out the bulls for the night. A few we know. Some we don’t. But the ones we do—they’re tough.
I’d expect nothing less at the start of the season. The Pbr’s way of sorting the men from the boys.
Most of the guys circling Levi I know. The two most notable and the ones to beat, apart from Brades, would be Knox, the bad boy of the rodeo circuit, and Spencer Lockwood—rich boy playin’ cowboy—who’s nice to everyone and is currently fist-bumping Brady.
Both of them also belong to teams.
It’s like the universe is testing my commitment by putting every single cowboy in my circle on a team, and not me.
The rodeo starts off, the roping and barrels taking up the next hour as the crowd eats their supper and settles in for the main event.
Bulls.
I return to my truck and grab my gear bag.
Cars are still rolling in as the night darkens around us. A small yellow VW van pulls in by my truck on the other side of the old oak.
I shoulder my bag and head back to the chutes. Brady is stretching beside Knox and Spencer when I make it back. Their team vests and gear studded with sponsor logos make them stand out. Those of us without a team do the same, for a different reason.
We draw our bulls, and the rituals and routines start.
There’s no locker room at the smaller events, so I drop my bag by Brady’s and pull out my chaps. I run the strap through the front buckle. Kayley and the girls saved up for six months to buy me the best set they could afford. I wear them to every event.
The crowd roars as someone smashes a personal best in barrels.
A whoop rings out from by the bull chutes.
Logan.
I’m guessing the PB was his sister’s.
The rodeo twins from Ontario. One thing about rodeo is it has a magnetic pull that brings folks from all over the country to compete and work the circuit.
“Layla rock out a new time, bud?” I call out.
“She sure fucking did.” Logan holds his hand up to his sister as she trots closer on a chestnut horse, her long blonde hair flowing behind her. She winks at Brady and me. She leans over and high-fives Logan before slowing the horse to a walk. “Ready for this new lot, boys?”
Brady shakes his head.
I nod. “As we’ll ever be, Layla. Congrats on the PB.”
“Thanks, Jonesy. Good luck, hey.”
“Not luck, Montgomery, strategy and brawn.”
She laughs before pushing her horse into a lope and disappearing behind the bull yards.
Twenty minutes later, we’re strapping up and kneeling down, saying our last prayers for a safe and good ride.
Knowing I need great scores to prove myself, I say an extra one to the big guy up there that I can make it to the eight. Dismount and get the hell out before I meet the two-ton maniac I was spinning on face-to-face.
The crowd noise blurs to white noise as I climb the rails over the top of Mad Max the Third.
He’s shifty.
Shaking his head, snot flies from his muzzle already.
I slide down onto his back. He slams his head into the front of the chute. My nerves rise, sending my gut flipping. Hands hold me steady as I slam my fist into my knuckles wrapped around the bull rope.
Something floral floats over the chute.
Am I having a stroke?
Not a scent that comes with cowboys and bulls . . .
I tug my helmet down and double-check the grill is safely over my face. Mad Max snorts.
A soft hum comes from my left.
The fuck?
A fine hand wraps around the top of the chute as cowboys part. Curves wrapped in denim press against the rails. I lift my head to find green eyes staring down at me. Plump, kissable lips . . . Dark curls tumble over elegant shoulders.
Eyes locked, we stare.
Her, down at me.
Me, up at her.
Something moves upward in her hands. Black and oddly shaped.
A bright searing light snaps my vision out.
I shake my head, blinded.
The chute gate whines as it opens.
FUCK.