Bet You Mine (Langston Brothers #1)

Chapter 1 Bull

“Tell me I’m not drunk enough to be seeing lipstick and sneakers in this goddamn wasteland bar.”

Rick didn’t even look up from the glass he was drying with a worn-out rag.

“Nope, you’re seeing it. And for a guy who’s been nursing whiskey for three hours, that’s impressively specific. Shame she’s not your type.”

I took a slow sip.

“I don’t have a type anymore.” And I meant it.

That made him glance up.

“Honestly? Didn’t think Hope’s engagement would hit you this hard.”

I snorted.

“What engagement?”

Then slid my glass back toward him.

“Pour it again… Perfectly fine over here.”

Honestly? I was getting real tired of everyone in Dalmore having an opinion about how I was supposed to feel. Just because my ex upgraded me to the sheriff, didn’t mean I had to fall apart. I’d moved on. Hell, I’d dated plenty since we broke up. Anyway, I don’t need emotional-support girls.

That’s when she moved.

Didn’t say a word, didn’t pause. Just peeled off her jacket, tied back her hair, and walked straight toward the bull like she’d been waiting her whole life to pick a fight with it.

Rick nudged me from behind the bar.

“Think she’s here for the bull?”

“She’s not even dressed to fall off. Tight jeans, that show-off crop top,” I muttered, but kept watching. The kind of trouble I didn’t need, but my eyes sure as hell didn’t get the memo.

And then—without asking, without stalling—she walked right up to the bull.

The way she walked… God. My brain said “don’t,” but the rest of me was already halfway gone.

I wanted to take back my thought—maybe I could make an exception for those support girls after all.

I could barely swallow.

Bit my tongue—though I’d rather have been biting hers.

What am I even doing here? I really gave up on every woman. All of them. But I sure as hell couldn’t let my brain wander to whatever I’d do with her in the barn.

I needed another drink just to numb myself enough so it wouldn’t even cross my mind to take anyone home.

Tossed my glass across the bar top again.

I didn’t plan the evening. Just dropped in for a beer and maybe to watch some idiots get thrown off Rick’s freshly fixed mechanical bull.

The thing had been broken for months, and now that it was back in action, everyone wanted a piece of it.

Including Rick—who, by the way, was already three shots in and talking shit behind the bar.

She climbed on, laughed and looked so goddamn confident, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. And Jesus, her laugh. Warm and dangerous. The kind that gets under your shirt if you’re not careful.

And the second she settled in, half the bar started placing bets.

I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe the whiskey. Maybe the way her confidence pissed me off just enough. Maybe the way she didn’t even glance in my direction.

Rick let out a whistle.

“She’s gonna break it,” he said, and chuckled. “Five bucks says she screams before it even starts.”

I didn’t answer.

Then someone in the crowd yelled, “If you make it thirty seconds, I’m taking you to dinner!”

Another voice jumped in, “If you last a minute, I’ll give you my truck!”

That opened the floodgates. One by one, the guys started calling out offers like we were at a damn auction.

“You can have my horse!”

“I’ll buy you a ranch!”

Rick started jotting names on a napkin, laughing his ass off. It was a show. She hadn’t even started moving, and already half the bar was hitting on her.

It snowballed fast. The regulars started shouting over each other. The room got louder, hotter, more electric by the second.

Rick could barely keep up. “This is the most romantic bullshit I’ve seen all year. Romance is alive and well in Dalmore, folks,” he said, grinning like a fool.

The place exploded. Bets flew like popcorn.

All eyes on her. And she just sat there, calm as hell.

I didn’t say anything. I just watched.

She hadn’t even looked at me. But something about her—maybe the way she owned the room without trying—made it impossible to look away.

Whatever it was, I leaned forward and said it before I could stop myself.

“If you stay on for three minutes… I’ll marry you.”

Not loud. Not showy. Just enough for her to hear.

She turned her head, slow and deliberate, and looked straight at me.

Smirked like she already knew how the story ended.

Then rolled her eyes.

And just like that, Rick hit the button.

She was calm as ever, laughing at all of it.

And I just watched her. Still laughing. Still looking like she belonged somewhere else—and somehow didn’t care.

The bull jerked to life, and so did the room.

She lasted eight seconds. Maybe nine.

It wasn’t a graceful fall. Her leg slipped, her balance went, and then she was off—back hitting the mat with a loud thud.

The bar groaned like they’d all lost a bet at once.

I didn’t move. Not right away. Just watched her blink up at the ceiling like she was checking to see if the world was still spinning.

Then she sat up, grinned, and said, “Okay. That was fun.”

I was already walking.

She spotted me coming, narrowed her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said. Voice tight.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Let me see.”

“Seriously, I’m—hey—”

I was already crouching. One hand on her ankle. The other pulling off that busted sneaker. She sucked in a breath sharp enough to tell me everything I needed.

Her ankle looked like hell. Purple starting to bloom. Swollen as shit.

“Gotta get you to a doctor. Now.”

“I don’t need a—”

“You hit your head, too.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re not qualified to answer that, sweetheart.”

“Wow. Charming.”

“Where’s your car?”

She blinked.

“I don’t have a car. I’ll just call an Uber.”

Rick snorted from the bar. “In Dalmore?”

She shrugged. “It’s 2025. People Uber.”

Rick wiped his hands on a towel and leaned in, grinning.

“Closest Uber you’re getting out here has four legs and a saddle.”

She stared at him. Then looked at me.

“You’re joking.”

I shook my head. “I wish.”

And before she could protest, I slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted.

She gasped. “Wait—what are you doing?”

“Taking you to the doc.”

“I can walk.”

“No, you can limp, and poorly.”

“You didn’t even tell me your name yet,” she muttered as we crossed the bar.

I pushed open the door with my shoulder and stepped into the cold.

She looked up at me, hair in her face, cheeks flushed.

“And now you’re carrying me out of a bar like some small-town cowboy cliché.”

“You don’t even know my name, and I’m already sweeping you off your feet?”

She groaned.

“God. Are you a real cowboy?”

“Cash.”

“What?”

“That’s my name.”

She squinted. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well,” she said, eyes drifting back to her busted ankle, “Cash… remind me to wear boots next time.”

I tightened my grip just a little.

“Deal.”

She looked at me as I opened the barn gate.

“So… which horse am I riding?”

I jerked my chin toward the tallest, blackest bastard in the back.

“That one.”

She squinted. “The one glaring at me?”

“Yep.”

I gave his flank a light slap. “Shakespeare.”

She cocked her head. “Nice to meet you, Shakespeare.”

Then—God help me—she actually stepped forward like she was gonna mount him. Hand up, determined, clueless.

“And you? Which one are you riding?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder. She was holding the lead rope like it was a broken phone charger.

“You know how to ride?” I asked, crossing my arms.

She shrugged. “How hard can it be? I mean, I almost stayed on the bull.”

I stared at her.

“You mean the mechanical bull that dumped you in two seconds flat?”

“Yep.”

I took a slow step back, letting my eyes run down her frame. She was trouble. Hot, snarky, overconfident trouble. Ponytail half undone. Sneakers scuffed. Lip bitten like she was trying not to smile.

Pissed off and proud, and clearly bluffing.

I let her sit in the silence for a second.

“Depends.”

“On what?” she asked, cocky.

I nodded toward Shakespeare. “Whether or not you like concussions.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Go ahead then,” I said. “He’s all yours. I’ll go grab you a hat in case he bolts. Don’t wanna mess up your pretty little head any more than it already is.”

I turned, strolled toward the barn door, slow on purpose.

Behind me, I heard her huff.

“Okay, okay—fine. You win. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

I stopped. Grinned to myself.

God, she was cute when she admitted defeat.

All puffed up pride and no plan.

Couldn’t wait to swing up behind her and show her how it’s done.

This girl…

She was starting to get to me.

I tossed the saddle over Shakespeare’s back, tightening the cinch with practiced hands.

“Just in case you ever feel like learning to ride for real,” I said over my shoulder. “Might as well give you the basics.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, thanks for the tutorial. So I just get on, hold the reins, and…?”

I couldn’t help it. Laughed. Loud and sudden. Jesus.

Didn’t even know her name, and already loved everything about her. Which—yeah—freaked me the hell out.

What the hell is going on with me? This is exactly the problem with women—they make you lose your damn mind.

I cleared my throat, fast. Back to neutral.

“I’ll get on first. Then I’ll help you up.”

She blinked. “Wait, what? We’re riding together?”

I adjusted the stirrup like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Far as I know, there’s only one horse and two asses. You do the math. Unless you’d rather bike.”

“Yeah… no thanks.”

She did pretty well, actually. Stepped up on her good leg, grabbed the saddle. I lifted her by the waist and settled her in front of me.

Could’ve used the step stool by the gate. Could’ve let her scramble up on her own. But this? This was way more fun.

She was tight and warm and maybe twenty-four. And it had been a while since anyone made me forget why I swore off women.

She shifted in my lap, squirmed a little. Uncomfortable saddle, maybe. Or maybe just nervous.

Either way, I wasn’t complaining.

Truth was, I could’ve asked Rick for his damn truck.

But then I’d miss this.

I slipped one arm around her waist, steady.

“You good?”

She glanced back. “I think so.”

“Not to be creepy, but I’m gonna hold your waist. In case Shakespeare gets any bright ideas.”

“Sorry, what?”

I grinned.

“Which part do you want me to explain?”

“So…” she said, casually, like we weren’t already halfway out of town on horseback.

“How’d your horse end up named Shakespeare? You some kinda secret literature buff?”

I smirked. “No. Because he likes to shake.”

She twisted slightly in the saddle. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you.”

I gave Shakespeare a gentle nudge with my heels. Not a full sprint—just a quick burst of speed. Enough to prove a point, not enough to get us both killed.

She tensed instantly.

Whole body locking against mine. Back pressed to my chest, fists clenching the saddle like it might save her soul.

She didn’t scream.

Which either meant she was braver than she looked… or trying way too hard to impress me.

Or possibly unconscious.

I eased up on the reins.

Shakespeare slowed, hooves muffled against the dirt, rhythm settling back to something manageable.

She didn’t say anything right away.

Her hair brushed my jaw. She smelled like something soft and stubborn—vanilla and wildflowers.

I almost asked if she was okay.

Then she exhaled and muttered:

“So that’s it? That was the famous shake?”

I bit back a laugh. Damn. She was tougher than I gave her credit for.

“You wanna go again?”

“Nope.”

But she didn’t pull away either. Leaned back a little more—like maybe the shaking wasn’t the worst part of her night after all.