Long Live Cowgirls
CASH
DECEMBER
Hot damn, she looked good. No, she looked better than good. She looked hot as hell. My sexy little devil.
Cloaked in black, she turned this way and that as she examined herself in the thin mirror in the horse trailer. Grabbing her red cowboy hat out of the hat box, she settled in on her head, her plump lips tugging upward into a smug grin.
“I look fuckin’ good,” she said whirling to flash me a dazzling smile.
I grinned at her from outside of the trailer’s tack room. “You really do, sugar.”
She turned around and stepped out before planting a soft kiss on my lips. “I feel like I should’ve practiced more in this shirt though. It’s all tight and stiff. I’m afraid it’s gonna fuck up my throw.”
“Well, I know I wouldn’t be too sad if you decided to take it off and rope without it.” I pulled down my glasses and winked at her.
Ollie snorted and grabbed the red rope my dad got her for Christmas off of the back of one of the camping chairs set up by the trailer. “Wouldn’t you love that?”
“You fuckin’ bet, sugar.” I smacked her ass as she walked by me, a shit-eating grin on my lips as she flipped me off.
A wave of laser focus rippled across her features as she tossed her rope away from her and rebuilt the coils slowly, methodically.
Just like I taught her. She hid it well, but I’d competed enough to recognize the nerves.
They rested in the tension in her shoulders, or in the line between where her brows pinched together in concentration.
The stubborn set of her jaw, like she was clenching and unclenching her teeth.
I could have offered her reassurances, maybe some sweet nothings, but she’d see it as an insult.
She knew she was good. She knew I wouldn’t have let her compete if I didn’t feel she was ready.
She knew I wouldn’t have brought all our friends along for this moment if I didn’t believe in her.
Right now, more than ever, my girl needed ballbusting and word wars. Flirty grins, and sugary sweet insults.
My girl.
Who’d have fucking thought I’d ever get to call Ollie Ravenwood mine. I know every guy thought they’d snagged the best girl out there, but she truly was something else.
Ollie rolled out her neck and shoulders, blowing out a deep breath before adjusting her loop. And then she started to practice on the roping dummy set up about six or so feet away. One catch. Two. Three.
I could feel the tension melting off of her with each catch, but it’s like that tension was transferred to me.
I wasn’t usually on this side of the rodeo.
The spectator. Or coach in this instance.
This must be how Dad felt. God it was fucking nerve wracking.
I was excited and confident but also nervous as hell for her.
“Make sure to follow through. Don’t drop your arm. Look where you wanna throw.”
It may as well have been Dad talking to me.
She didn’t answer, but with each throw she adjusted or tweaked her arm until it was damn near perfect.
“Alright, you ready to warm that fuckin’ hellhorse of yours up?” I asked, nodding back to Nesta who was tied up to the trailer.
I’d never really been into mares. Too fussy and finicky for me. But Ollie and her worked well together.
Ollie chuckled as she gathered up her rope and walked over to the mare, placing it over the saddle. “And you wonder why she hates you.”
Checking her tack once more, Ollie and I walked with Nesta toward the warm up arena.
The grounds before a competition always reminded me of a bee hive.
Everyone buzzing around, busy getting things ready.
The Christmas Classic had been going on for a long time.
Since before me. Before Dad. Before his dad probably.
It was one of the biggest breakaway competitions here in Texas for both amateur and pro level contestants. People came far and wide for this.
Even amidst all the buckles and brightly colored outfits, Ollie stood out. But instead of folding under the pressure, she embraced it. Confidence and surety oozed from her. The cadence of her steps, the tilt of her chin, the spark in her eyes.
God, she’d never been more fucking beautiful.
I recognized quite a few of the women as we passed. They nodded or waved, some even went so far as to try and start up a conversation, but the moment they noticed Ollie, they shied away.
“Alright, you’re gonna go in there and warm her up just like we normally do. Don’t work her too hard and watch out for others. Keep your arm warm, but don’t overdo it. You don’t wanna be dead tired for your runs.”
She blew out a breath as we stopped just outside the large doors leading into the indoor arena. “Well, wish me luck.”
I leaned in close, gripping her shoulders as I rested my forehead against hers. “You don’t need luck, sugar. You make your own. Now go out there and give ‘em hell.”
Her lips tugged upward and her eyes flashed like fireworks.
She’d made it into the short go. The final fucking round, and I was so damn proud of her. But I was also nervous as all hell.
“You don’t stop fucking’ pacin’ I’m gonna cut off your damn feet, boy.”
“Shut up, old man,” I said, continuing to pace back and forth in the box, my gaze glued to the arena. I might need to have my damn boots re-soled by the end of this, with the way I was wearing them out.
Everyone was here. Between all of us coming out to support Ollie we’d needed two boxes.
Hux, Quinn, Walker, and Whit, Uncle Goodie and the ranch boys.
Ryder, Charlie, Mav and Chey. Cason was dressed to the nines in black and red to represent our little rockstar.
Even Mama and Bodacious had come along. Bodacious was bedecked in a red and black sweater with a pair of aces stitched into the back in honor of Ollie’s hat.
Mama swore she’d found it at the pet store, but we all know she’d sewn it on herself.
A small step in the direction of accepting Ollie.
Dad squeezed my shoulder. “She’s gonna be fine.”
I waved him off, my gaze on the arena. I could spot her easily enough. She and Nesta were a dark smudge in a sea of bright hues. The only drop of color they wore came from Nesta's red saddle pad to match Ollie’s hat.
I don’t think in all the time I’d competed I was ever this nervous. Yet here I was now, quaking in my damn boots. Not because I didn’t believe in her. I knew she was damn good. Hell, she’d made it into the top ten in her first competition.
I just knew that nerves could fuck with you. A single second wasted could risk a win. I didn’t want her to just go out and do it. I wanted her to win. Because she fucking deserved it.
A firm weight settled on my shoulder, accompanied by Mav’s low, deep voice. “Don’t worry. She knows what she’s doin’.”
I couldn’t take it in the box any longer. I had to get out. I had to be closer.
Ignoring everyone’s questions, I rushed toward the right side of the arena close to where the chutes were.
The announcer's voice echoed through the speakers just as I climbed up onto the top rung of the pipe-stall. “Up next, amateur rider, Miss Ollie Ravenwood, representing Mercenary Ranch.”
My heart beat so damn hard against my ribcage I worried it might crack a rib. Guess it was the moment of truth. The sea of bodies parted for her as she rode Nesta into the left hand box beside the cow chute. The side closest to us.
“Give ‘em hell, sugar!” I shouted over the crowd.
And even though I knew it wasn’t possible with the loudness of the indoor arena, in that moment, as she rolled out her neck and sucked in an exhale, it’s like I could hear her breathing, her heart thumping—a much steadier, determined beat than mine.
She flipped her rope and readied her coils in her hands, adjusting her reins. Nesta pranced and pawed at the ground, lunging toward the entrance of the box.
Fuck. Don’t break the barrier.
Last thing she needed was to get a time penalty for that. We should have practiced that more.
“Easy,” I whispered, though I was too far away for her to hear me. It was more for me than her, anyway. “Easy.”
And even though it wasn’t possible, it’s like Nesta heard. She stilled a moment. Two. The only movement coming from the twitch of her muscles.
Ollie nodded, and the chute slammed open.
She and Nesta shot out of the box like a bat out of hell, her rope already circling around her head. I was pretty damn sure my heart might explode in my chest as she let the loop sail.
Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. It was like a war drum pounding in my ears.
The rope slid around the steer’s horns and Ollie slid to a stop on Nesta, a spray of sand exploding around them, her rope going taut for just a moment before she let go entirely.
“Well, hot damn, folks. Comin’ in at 2.4 seconds, that’s what I call a great catch!”
Holy fucking shit. Her best time yet.
As if drawn together like two magnets, she all but whirled in her saddle to meet my gaze, the look on her face full of shock and disbelief.
I could hear our friends cheering for her over the crowd’s shouts and applause. But none other was louder than the whistle that cut over the cacophony. I wouldn’t mistake Mama’s whistle anywhere.