Chapter Four
Axle
For a second, I stare.
“What?” he asks.
I shake my head. “This ain’t a rodeo school.”
Royce snorts. “No shit.”
Because it isn’t. Not even close.
The cabins look more like vacation rentals than staff housing. Fresh wooden siding. Metal roofs. Flower boxes. Actual flower beds. The little covered porch has a rocking chair on it.
A damn rocking chair. At a rodeo academy.
I drop my bag and push open the door.
The place is bigger than the trailer we’ve been sharing lately.
A kitchen. Leather chair. Flat-screen television. Queen-size bed. Air-conditioning that actually works.
I let out a low whistle. “Well, hell.”
Royce appears in my doorway. “Pretty nice, huh?”
“Nice?” I laugh. “It’s a fucking palace.”
I walk through the cabin, opening cabinets and doors. All the essentials are stocked—from dishes to towels and extra pillows and blankets.
And it all looks and smells brand-new. Clean and expensive.
Which makes me think about the rodeo school Dad sent Royce and me to when we were kids.
Now, that place was a complete dump. A worn-out ranch in the middle of the Arizona desert.
Nothing but dirt, cacti, rattlesnakes, and heat that could melt your damn boots off.
The dorms were tight, the beds were squeaky, the linens threadbare, and the bathrooms looked like science experiments gone wrong.
The arena fencing looked like it was one angry bull away from collapse.
The instructors were mean as hell.
And the food was fucking terrible.
But somehow, Royce and I loved every second of it.
We were thirteen and fifteen, respectively, at the time. Young, eager, and stupid.
Every morning, we’d wake up before sunrise and hit training hard, convinced that we’d be world champions as soon as we graduated high school.
Didn’t matter that we were wet behind the ears, exhausted, or that we spent most days of that camp getting our asses handed to us.
We were living rodeo, and that was enough for us.
I unzip my duffel and start hanging clothes in the closet.
“Think these kids realize how good they got it?” I call out.
Royce laughs as he turns and heads out the door. “Not a chance.”
“Nope.”
I shove my boots beneath the bed. “Little bastards got bunkhouses nicer than most hotels.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re unpacked.
Neither of us brought much.
Jeans, T-shirts, underwear, socks, and boots. A few personal things.
Simple.
The life of a rodeo cowboy doesn’t exactly require a lot of possessions.
We head back outside and start walking toward the covered arena.
The academy grounds are buzzing with activity.
Parents hauling luggage. Kids carrying gear bags. Horses being unloaded from trailers. Staff moving equipment.
Excited chatter fills the air.
The atmosphere feels familiar.
Different place.
Different circumstances.
Same rodeo energy.
Every kid here has a dream. I can see it on their faces. It’s the same hunger I had at their age.
That same stubborn belief that they’re about to become something special.
I remember the feeling well. Hell, I still feel it now. Every time a bucking chute swings open and the crowd goes wild.
Some of these kids will make it to that moment.
Most won’t. That’s just the cold hard truth of it.
Rodeo is cruel like that. Talent and heart matter, but you have to be willing to put in the work.
Even when the injuries start to outweigh the winnings.
Even when you start to forget what home feels like.
And even when you give it all you have, sometimes, none of it is enough. And you never know when the next ride will be the last ride.
But every single one of them deserves a chance to find out.
The covered arena is packed by the time Royce and I arrive.
Students fill the bleachers.
Boys.
Girls.
Tiny little eight-year-olds with oversize hats and teenagers trying to look tough.
Future champions and future quitters. The next Bryce Raintree and the next generation of busted cowboys with shattered bones and broken hearts.
Bryce stands in the middle of the arena, holding a microphone.
The superstar owner of the academy somehow manages to look polished and completely cowboy at the same time.
He waits until everyone settles down.
Then he smiles. “Welcome to Raintree-Storm Rodeo Academy.”
The cheers nearly blow the roof off the place.
Bryce grins. “That’s what I like to hear.”
More cheering.
More applause.
The excitement is contagious. I even find myself yelling and whistling.
Bryce raises a hand, and the arena quiets to a low hum.
“Before we get started, there’s something every cowboy and cowgirl needs to understand,” he says. “Rodeo has five golden rules.”
Every kid leans forward.
“Rule number one”—his voice carries through the arena—“Cowboys and cowgirls look after their own.”
A few heads nod.
“Rule number two: Cowboys and cowgirls are always training and learning.”
More nodding.
“Rule number three: Cowboys and cowgirls face their fears head-on.”
A little girl in the front row straightens proudly.
Bryce points toward the crowd. “Rule number four: Cowboys and cowgirls respect the people who came before them and the traditions of rodeo.”
The applause starts building again.
“Rule number five”—he pauses dramatically, and a grin spreads across his face—“Cowboys and cowgirls do whatever it takes to win.”
The arena explodes, and the kids jump to their feet.
I exchange a glance with Royce.
Yep, they’re definitely rodeo kids.
Bryce lets the noise continue before waving everyone back down to their seats.
Over the next twenty minutes, he breaks down the schedule.
Bull riding.
Bronc riding.
Barrel racing.
Steer wrestling.
Tie-down roping.
Team roping.
Breakaway roping.
Some students are enrolled in a single event while others are trying to tackle two or three.
Personally, I think a few of them are out of their minds for trying to cramp so much into such little time. But ambition and common sense rarely travel together in a cowboy’s life.
Especially a rodeo cowboy.
Bryce finally reaches the instructor introductions. “Now I’d like our coaching staff to join me.”
Royce and I stand, along with the rest of the instructors.
Shelby walks out to the field with us. The kids immediately recognize her. Several young girls start whispering excitedly as she waves to them.
Shelby Storm can do it all—horse jumping, trick riding, and roping. But barrel racing is where her talent truly shines. She was a junior phenom and dominated the circuit in college. She would have been a world champion if she hadn’t had to come home and help at Wildhaven Storm.
The applause gets louder.
Bryce introduces each of us, rattling off our accomplishments—championships, titles, and years of experience.
Then he addresses the students. “If you listen to us, we can make you better.”
The crowd grows quiet.
“We’ve spent our lives learning this sport.”
His arm sweeps across the line of instructors. “We are the best at what we do.”
The grin returns.
“The crème de la crème.”
Laughter ripples through the arena.
“And you couldn’t be luckier to have us.”
The kids cheer again.
Bryce waits for them to settle.
“Training doesn’t stop when you’re out of the arena either. You will have mandatory classroom theory sessions to attend.”
A groan rises from the crowd.
“You may not find it as exciting, but it is just as important,” he says sternly.
He starts explaining the classroom curriculum.
Video review sessions.
Event fundamentals.
Scoring systems.
Sports psychology.
Equipment maintenance.
Livestock care.
Safety procedures.
Everything young competitors need to understand beyond simply climbing onto an animal and hanging on.
The parents seem particularly pleased with that part of the orientation.
Then Bryce glances toward the gate. “Now I’d like to introduce our medical staff. Hopefully, you’ll all see very little of them.”
I half listen.
Still scanning the crowd and studying the students. Clocking the ones to watch.
“Dr. Seth Stoke.”
A man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair steps into the arena, wearing a crisp white doctor’s coat and a confident smile. Looking like every sports medicine doctor I’ve ever met.
Polite applause follows.
Then Bryce continues, “And his assistant and physical therapist, Jovie Asbury.”
My brain completely short-circuits as she walks through the gate with a confident stride.
Bright smile.
Long blonde hair, pulled into a wavy ponytail.
Tan tank top.
Formfitting jeans.
Dark brown boots.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
For a second, I don’t recognize her. Little Jojo Asbury.
The girl who used to run around Wildhaven with scraped knees and pigtails.
The little girl who Cabe followed everywhere.
The little girl who I taught to ride that stubborn paint pony.
Except she isn’t a little girl anymore. Not even close.
My mouth goes dry as I take in the woman standing before me.
Geezus.
When did that happen?
When did she turn into …
Into that?
I instantly hate myself for the thought because she’s Cabe’s girl.
Still, I can’t stop staring.
She’s smiling at the students as she and Dr. Stoke talk with them.
Completely unaware that my entire nervous system just malfunctioned.
Royce elbows me.
“Ow. What the hell?”
His eyes narrow. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
“Because you look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
Or something.
“Just noticing that little Jovie has grown up. Fuck, we’re getting old, brother.”
He chuckles. “We are.”
I look back toward the arena.
Damn it.
That smile and those dimples. The same ones she had when she was twelve. Only they were cute then, not sexy.
Shit.
I wrangle my dangerous thoughts and try to concentrate on what Bryce is saying, but I barely hear him.
All I can think about is the last time I saw her.
College. No. It was before that. Christmas, before I left for the circuit. I was eighteen, so she must have been …
She was a kid then.
Now she’s standing in the middle of this arena, looking like every bad decision a man could ever want to make.
I scrub a hand across my jaw. Get it together, asshole.
It’s just Jovie.
Cabe’s Jovie.
The girl everybody expects he’ll probably marry someday.
The girl who calls my mother Momma Trust.
The girl who’s basically family.
My stomach tightens.
Damn, I need to get laid.
Bryce finally finishes the introductions. Students cheer. Parents clap.
Jovie smiles and waves. Then she turns and walks toward the exit, side by side with Dr. Stoke, and my gaze watches her hips sway until the two of them disappear behind the gate.
And just like that, she’s gone.
Royce clears his throat. The bastard notices everything.
I cut my eyes to his, and a slow grin appears on his face.
“Ax.”
I know that tone.
“No.”
“No what?”
His grin gets bigger. “Don’t even think about it. That’s Jojo.”
“And? I know who the hell she is,” I snap.
Royce’s eyebrows rise. “And she’s off-limits.”
“No shit, asshole.”
He laughs, and I want to punch him. Mostly because I know exactly what he’s thinking.
I glance toward the gate where she disappeared.
One final look.
Then I force myself to turn away. Making a mental note to avoid the medical clinic this summer.
That’s Cabe’s girl.
And damn if my baby brother isn’t one lucky son of a bitch.