April’s Cowboy Tanner (Cowboys of Mustang Mountain #4)

Chapter 1

TANNER

The sun was barely up when I moved Juniper through the barrel pattern for the third time that morning.

She was young, only three years old and still figuring out the difference between power and precision, but her instincts were solid.

She made it clean around the first barrel, maybe a half-stride too wide on the second.

I brought her back to a walk and circled toward the center of the arena, giving her time to settle before we ran it again.

The air was sharp and cool, the kind of early spring cold that made the horses blow steam with every breath. I liked working them at this hour. There were no distractions and no audience. Just the horse, the pattern, and the quiet repetition that turned potential into performance.

The sound of tires on gravel pulled my attention to the lot. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting one of the local riders who sometimes dropped in to use the arena. Instead, a white truck rolled to a stop near the fence line, a two-horse trailer hitched behind it.

I didn't recognize the rig. Then I saw the brand on the trailer door.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Juniper shifted beneath me, picking up on the tension that tightened through my shoulders. I walked her toward the rail, my eyes on the truck. The driver's door opened, and a woman stepped out.

She moved with a quiet confidence that didn't need to announce itself.

Dark auburn hair fell down her back in a loose braid, though a few strands had escaped and curled around her face.

She wore faded jeans that clung to her curves, boots that had seen plenty of work, and a fitted jacket that didn't hide the fact she was built more like a competitor than a spectator.

She walked straight toward the arena fence.

I stayed on Juniper and waited.

When she reached the rail, she rested one boot on the lowest board and looked up at me with sharp green eyes that didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Tanner Hollister?" she asked.

"That's right."

"I’m Waverly Kincaid." She said it like she expected the name to land heavy, and it did. "I'm looking for a new barrel horse and heard you're the best trainer in the valley."

I stared at her for a long beat, weighing whether she was serious or testing me.

"You're on the wrong side of the valley," I said.

"Am I?"

"Kincaids don't come to Hollisters for horses."

"Maybe they should." Her tone was even, with no challenge in it, but no apology either.

I leaned forward slightly in the saddle, resting one hand on the horn. "I don't train horses for Kincaids."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

"Do I?"

I exhaled through my nose and gathered Juniper's reins. "You've got plenty of trainers on your side of the ridge. Use one of them."

"I don't want plenty." Waverly didn't move from the fence. "I want the best."

"Flattery won’t work on me."

"Good. I don't use it."

Juniper shifted beneath me again, her ears flicking toward Waverly like she was trying to figure out whether this stranger was a threat or just another distraction. I steadied the mare with my legs and turned her back toward the center of the arena.

"This conversation's over," I said.

"She's favoring her right hind."

I pulled Juniper to a stop. Waverly was still standing at the rail, arms crossed now, her eyes on the horse.

"What?"

"Your mare. She's compensating for something in the right hind. She’s not lame, not yet. But she's carrying more weight on the left to balance it out." Waverly tilted her head slightly, studying Juniper's stance. "Probably tight through the hip. Have you been working her hard this week?"

I didn't answer right away. Instead, I looked down at Juniper and ran my eyes over her frame. Then I dismounted and moved to her right side, running my hand down her flank and over the curve of her hip. There was tension there. It wasn’t obvious and not something most people would catch just by watching. But it was there.

I straightened and looked back at Waverly.

She met my gaze without blinking.

“You just got here,” I said.

“Maybe.” She nodded toward the mare. “But I’ve been here long enough."

"Long enough for what?"

"For me to see she’s protecting that right side. You keep pushing her through turns and she’ll start compensating."

I stared at her.

She stared back.

"You're observant," I said finally.

"I'm a barrel racer. Observation's part of the job."

"And you think that gives you leverage?"

"I think it means I know what I'm talking about.

" Waverly dropped her arms and stepped closer to the rail.

"I lost my last horse to a tendon injury.

Vet said she'd heal, but not enough to run the kind of times I need to stay competitive.

So I'm looking for a new partner, and I'm not interested in settling for second-best just because my last name makes people uncomfortable. "

"Your last name doesn't make me uncomfortable," I said. "It makes you a liability."

"To who?"

"To my reputation. To this ranch. To the people who trust me to keep Hollister horses in Hollister hands."

Waverly clucked her tongue. "Sounds like a lot of pressure."

"It is."

"Then maybe you should care more about the quality of the work than the name on the trailer."

The words came out sharp, but not angry. She wasn't trying to pick a fight. She was making a point, and she was making it well.

I walked Juniper back toward the fence, stopping a few feet from where Waverly stood.

Up close, I could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the sun-worn lines at the corners of her eyes that came from spending most of her life outdoors.

She looked like someone who had earned every callus on her hands.

"I'm not training a horse for you," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't trust Kincaids."

"You don't know me."

"I know your family."

"So did I, once." Waverly's mouth pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Doesn't mean I agree with everything they've done."

That comment hit different than I expected. I studied her for a long moment, looking for the angle, the play, the thing she wasn't saying. But all I saw was a competitor who was tired of being defined by someone else's grudge.

"Even if I wanted to help you," I said, "which I don't—training a barrel horse takes time. Weeks. Maybe months, depending on what you're starting with. You think your family's going to be fine with you spending that much time on Hollister land?"

"I think my family doesn't get a vote in how I run my career."

"You're sure about that?"

"I'm sure I prefer earning things the hard way." She said it like it was a fact, not a philosophy. Like she'd tested it enough times to know it was true.

I wanted to dismiss her. Send her back to her truck, back across the ridge, back to whatever Kincaid trainer could give her a decent horse and keep the valley from talking.

But something about the way she stood there—making no apologies, with no hesitation, just steady confidence in who she was and what she wanted—made it harder to write her off than it should have been.

"I'm not saying yes," I said.

"I didn't ask you to."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Introducing myself." Waverly stepped back from the rail and nodded toward Juniper. "Ice that hip tonight. She'll feel better tomorrow."

She turned and walked back toward her truck, her boots crunching on the gravel, that long braid swinging between her shoulder blades.

She didn't look back. Didn't wait for me to respond.

Just climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and pulled the trailer out of the lot like she'd accomplished exactly what she came to do.

I stood there, holding Juniper's reins, watching the Kincaid brand disappear down the road.

Two things settled in my chest at the same time. One: she was a Kincaid. Which meant working with her would stir up trouble I didn't need and couldn't afford.

Two: she might be the most dangerous competitor I'd ever met.

And I wasn't entirely sure which one of those facts bothered me more.