Chapter Seven
I’m up before my alarm. Can’t sleep. Too many thoughts running through my head. Today, I plan to work with Bryce early because I have Pearl coming at eleven and a new rider starting after school.
Last week was a long one. A very long one. The man has fought me at every turn. He’s so full of anger and fear that he can’t get out of his own way.
Yesterday, I came really close to throwing in the towel and sending him packing, but then he did something I hadn’t expected. He admitted he was scared.
Scared to get back on a bull and scared not to.
The admission slipped out in a moment of exhausted frustration. And he might not have realized it was a breakthrough, but I’ve broken enough stubborn animals to know that it was.
So, here I am, facing another morning with an ornery cowboy.
When I get to the arena, he’s already there, much to my surprise. He’s leaning against the rail, coffee cup in hand, hair tucked under his hat. The black quarter horse is hovering close.
Bryce seems lost in thought as he watches the horse lazily walk in circles.
“You’re early,” I say as I unlatch the gate.
“Didn’t wanna get in trouble with the boss lady,” he mutters as I step into the pen.
“Good. Then let’s get started. Today, we’re working on pressure and release.”
He groans under his breath, but grabs the lead rope he has already fitted Midnight with anyway.
I tilt my head and study him. “Something on your mind?”
“Yeah,” he says, meeting my gaze. “You said you wanted me to prove my focus.”
I nod slowly. “I did.”
“Then let me. Stop treating me like some newbie who doesn’t know his ass from a halter hitch. Give me something real to work with, Chuck, and I promise I’ll make an effort.”
I step closer. “Something real? What would that be, cowboy?”
“Not leading a horse around a pen all day. You made your point. I get it. I have a lot to learn and unlearn.”
“And you’ll drop the attitude?” I ask.
His eyes flash. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise my entire personality is gonna change overnight.”
I exhale through my nose. “Deal. You show me some true effort, and we’ll get to the real work. And at the end of this, we’ll show your sponsors results. And maybe even extend your career.”
He nods, and I can see the shift. The determination.
I step back and gesture toward the horse. “Go grab a saddle that feels right. Let’s get him tacked up so you can ride him.”
Bryce smiles a genuine smile. Then he sets his mug on a post and heads for the barn.
For the first time since he got here, I feel like we’re not at war.
Not quite allies either. But maybe somewhere in between.
The early afternoon light hits the arena fence just right and bathes us in a bright halo of sunshine. Bryce is in the saddle with reins in hand.
He’s astride Midnight Storm, the same horse I’ve had him working with from day one—Caison’s new stallion. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone. Training them both at the same time.
I stand to the side and silently observe.
Taking note of how he moves, how he commands the animal.
And, God help me, it’s like watching him try to tame a wildfire.
Midnight’s a beast—slick black coat glistening, muscles bunching under the saddle, nostrils flared, and eyes flashing white.
He’s not mean, not exactly, but he’s got that young stud arrogance that says he doesn’t like to be told what to do any more than the cowboy on his back.
Bryce doesn’t fight him. He moves with him.
It’s not what I expected from the cocky bull rider who rode in seven days ago with a chip the size of Wyoming on his shoulder and an attitude that made me want to throw him straight back in his truck.
He’s been pushing my buttons since the second we met, trying to get me to heel, like everyone else in his life.
But this morning, I found a different cowboy in my pen.
One willing to try. And that’s all I really need. Willingness.
Now I can finally assess his stubborn ass, gauge where he’s truly at, and start him from a realistic point. To be honest, from my first impression, I thought he’d last ten minutes on Midnight’s back before getting dumped in the dirt.
Instead, I’m leaning against the fence, watching a man completely in control.
Midnight sidesteps, tossing his head, testing the reins.
Bryce doesn’t yank, doesn’t bark an order.
He just shifts his weight, light in the saddle, hands steady, voice low enough that I can’t make out the words he is saying.
Whatever it is, it works because the stallion circles back, snorting, and finally settles into a canter.
A thrill shoots through me at the sight.
It’s not the horse that’s got my heart racing though.
Bryce radiates that raw, masculine cowboy energy that’s impossible to fake.
He’s tall, broad through the chest and shoulders.
His tattooed arm catches the light when he lifts the reins.
The ink that climbs his biceps and disappears beneath his sleeve contrasts beautifully against the bronze skin.
His dark, wavy hair gives off an untamed, rugged edge—the kind that says he’s seen hard miles in his twenty-eight years and come out stronger for them.
His close-cropped beard frames a mouth that looks like trouble, complete with full lips that could make a woman quiver with need.
And probably has many times over. A faint scar cuts through his left eyebrow, probably a souvenir from a ride gone bad.
It only adds more character to his already impossibly handsome face.
The tilt of his hat shadows his eyes, but I know they are a stormy shade of blue gray, and I feel their intensity as he concentrates. He’s pure determination and grit, wrapped in denim and a faded gray T-shirt that clings to him like it was made for his body.
Damn.
His chest is thick with power, built from years of hanging on to two thousand pounds of pissed-off muscle, and the shirt strains faintly across it when he moves. Sweat darkens the cotton along the collar and down his back.
I swallow hard, trying not to stare like some starstruck girl seeing a real cowboy for the first time.
Sure, he’s an attractive man. But he’s also a client.
A high-profile, high-maintenance, pain-in-the-ass one. And the second I let any attraction bleed into my work, I’m done.
“Quit ogling him, Charli,” I mutter under my breath, forcing my arms to cross over my chest. “He’s your student, nothing more.”
Of course, Bryce picks that exact moment to glance my way.
That smirk—that damn infuriating smirk—curls one corner of his mouth. “You over there cheering me on, Chuck?”
My spine straightens. “Nope. Just talking to myself and making note of some things you can improve on. And stop calling me that.”
He chuckles. “You won’t give an inch, will you, woman? Pretty sure I’ve got this figured out.”
“Good. Then you’re ready for the next step.”
His brows lift beneath the shadow of his hat. “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”
I walk toward the back gate of the riding arena, leading to the pasture, and swing it open. “Let him run.”
Midnight flicks his ears back like he’s been waiting to hear that.
Bryce’s face says he has too. He adjusts the reins and gives a squeeze with his legs.
The horse launches into motion, and his hooves eat up the ground.
Bryce is focused and sure. They move in sync, like they’ve both been dying to be set free.
I bite down on a smile, pretending to study his seat and form, but I’m really trying not to imagine what it would feel like to have that focus directed at me.
Professional, Charli, I remind myself again. Be. Professional.
They disappear over the hill, and I shut the gate. Leaving them to it while I get Sweet Pea saddled up and ready for Pearl.
My late afternoon student is leaving with his father when Bryce and Midnight Storm finally show back up at the barn.
Midnight slows to a stop, and Bryce swings a leg over and lands lightly on the dirt, patting his neck with a hand that is both big but gentle.
“You’ve got good hands,” I admit before I can stop myself.
He glances over his shoulder, and I can feel the heat crawling up my neck as our eyes meet.
I can’t believe I said that out loud.
He grins, then turns back to the stallion. “Good boy. That was a hell of a run,” he says, voice a little rough.
“Yeah,” I agree, stepping closer. “A nice long one too.”
He grins, teeth flashing white against the black of his beard. “Guess we both needed a little freedom.”
“Guess so.”
We stand there for a beat too long. Midnight huffs, tail swishing, and I use the excuse to step past Bryce and loosen the girth. His presence hits me like a wall—sweat, leather, and spice.
“You managed to get out of helping me this afternoon, but don’t think you’re getting out of evening chores.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” he says as he takes Midnight’s reins and leads him inside to be brushed.
“You did good,” I call after him, hoping it sounds casual. “He’s a handful, but you handled him clean.”
He nods. “See, I can play nice,” he says, watching me instead of the horse. “And you had me pegged as some cocky cowboy who couldn’t listen.”
“You are a cocky cowboy who doesn’t listen.”
His mouth curves again, slower this time, like he enjoys the verbal back-and-forth. “Made up your mind, and there’s no changing it, huh?”
I shrug.
“Who’s the stubborn one again?” he asks, a glint in his eye as he turns and disappears inside.
“That’s what I get for stroking your ego!” I shout after him.
His laugh, clear and deep, floats from the open door, and the sound of it slides down my spine in a way I’m uncomfortable with. “You’re welcome to stroke whatever you want anytime, darlin’.”
The way he says it—lazy, confident—makes me want to knock his hat clean off his head.
And maybe kiss him after.
God, what is wrong with me?
“I’m going in to help Grandma. Find Cabe and get to work,” I bark, brushing my hands off on my jeans.
He pokes his head back out. “Yes, ma’am.”
I don’t miss the teasing note in his voice or the way he gives me that look again—half heat, half challenge.
This is bad.
He’s a client. A stubborn, frustrating, way-too-sexy client that I’m not supposed to fantasize about between training sessions.
He’s also dangerous—not because of his reputation, but because I’m beginning to think he’s got layers I want to peel back to get to the heart of who he is.
The raw swagger and attitude? That I can handle. The skill and the quiet control I saw underneath it all today? That’s what’s going to undo me if I’m not careful.
He tips his hat, then turns and walks away.
The barn door swings shut behind him, and I let out the breath I was holding.
I’m in trouble. Big, dangerous, tattooed trouble.
And tomorrow, I have to climb right back into that arena and face it again.