Leather and Lies (Gritstone Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

One

“WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HAD A HOT-BOY BELLYACHE?”

KINSLEY

Heartbreak can happen in eight seconds or less.

Which means, at the top of my list of things to avoid is cowboys—real ones, the rodeo kind. Tonight is strictly looky, looky, no touchy.

"I still can't believe you almost bailed on me," Jessica says, appearing at my elbow with a corn dog in one hand and a drink in the other.

In denim shorts, knee-length white boots and an off-the shoulder peasant shirt that shows off her olive skin, she pulls off the whole cowboy eye candy thing with ease.

She's not only beautiful, but brilliant too—a pediatric PA, not to mention a wicked fast barrel racer.

"Your mother would have disowned you if you'd missed this. "

Cheyenne Frontier Days sprawls before me.

Ten days of the largest outdoor rodeo in the world that I could navigate blindfolded.

The midway pulses with its usual carnival energy—families munching funnel cakes, teenagers trying to impress each other on the mechanical bull, vendors hawking everything from custom belt buckles to hand-tooled saddles.

"My mother's in Oklahoma with a client's horse," I say as I inspect the caramel apple in my hand, totally worth the messed-up lipstick. "She wouldn't have known."

The mention of my mother sends the familiar twist through my stomach—part pride, part pressure, part something I don't want to examine too closely.

I can almost see her at my age—young, fierce, probably standing in this exact spot once, before life taught her that hearts are meant to be guarded, not given.

"I would have told her." Jessica grins, unrepentant. "Callie Rose didn't raise her daughter to hide on the ranch when she could be networking a rodeo."

Mom built her reputation training barrel racing champions, turning raw talent into pure poetry in the arena. She taught me to appreciate excellence, to recognize the difference between show and substance.

She also taught me that depending on anyone beyond yourself is a luxury working women can't afford.

"I don't hide," I say automatically. "I work. There's a difference." I sink my teeth into the apple, and it's everything I imagined, Ooey, gooey, sweetness with just enough tartness to make it perfect.

"Well then, aside from work, when's the last time you were here just for fun?” Jessica arches a brow. “Not for some political handshaking, but because you wanted to watch good horses and better riders?"

I swallow the piece of apple and start to answer, then realize I can't. Even when I'm here, I'm working—schmoozing with ranchers who might need my lobbying services, building relationships with western industry leaders, representing clients who want access to this world's decision-makers.

Fun is a luxury I've trained myself not to need.

"That's what I thought." Jessica's expression softens. "Kinsley, you know more about this life than most third-generation barrel racers. You could run a ranch, train horses, or compete if you wanted to."

"That all sounds like work to me," I say, "And my job is fun, plus I'm good at it."

"Yeah, well you can't have babies with it," She smirks, then takes a swig of her drink. "When's the last time you had a hot boy belly ache?"

"The Riley Green concert," I shoot back.

"Okay, yes—but that doesn't count. When's the last time—" Jessica stops. "Oh my gosh," she squeals, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Speaking of hot boy belly aches… Kins, look at this!"

She's bouncing on her toes and pointing to a hand-painted sign that reads: WIN A DATE WITH A COWBOY in letters decorated with horseshoes and hearts. Below it, smaller print promises "NFR Qualifiers and World Champions". A line of women stretches from the booth back to the drink stand.

"I'm totally signing up," Jessica announces, already moving in that direction.

I follow her, torn between amusement and secondhand embarrassment. "What happened to that team roper from Douglas?"

"Turned out he was still married. Apparently, 'separated' means something different in cowboy than it does in English." She waves a dismissive hand. "His loss. Come on. You should enter—then we double our chances."

"I don't have time to date," I deflect.

She grabs my arm so I can't escape. "Kinsley, I'm doing this for your own good."

"Fine," I hear myself say. “But you know I have no intentions of dating a rough stock rider.”

Jessica’s face lights up as she grins. “You know you’re guaranteed a good time with a roughie.”

I shake my head as she drags me along. “Yeah, well they think they’re a good time.”

As we walk toward the booth, I tell myself this isn't about bellyaches it’s a work opportunity. A chance to observe the demographic I represent. Nothing more than that.

The line moves at a steady rate. Striker Western Gear is pushing people through, intent on getting that entry form filled out so they can send us promotional emails and announce future opportunities to meet the cowboys they sponsor.

I catch sight of the cowboys manning it—local champions and NFR qualifiers, just like the sign promised. And one of them...

One of them makes me forget that I shouldn’t want the taste of an eight second heartbreak, especially the cowboy kind that comes laced with tabasco sauce.

He's standing to our left, rodeo royalty holding court in a small crowd gathered around him, and my stomach drops straight to my boots.

"Whoa," Jessica breathes, following my gaze. "That's the bull rider, Wyatt Halloway."

Tall for a bull rider—probably six feet—lean muscle filling out his button-down shirt and Wrangler jeans like every girl’s dream.

Beneath the brim of his hat, wavy brown hair catches the afternoon sun.

And even from this distance, those storm-colored eyes stand out—eyes that have probably been breaking hearts since he was old enough to ride a horse.

"You know him?" I ask quickly, before I get distracted and break my rodeo rule. Of course I’ve heard the name before, but somehow, I missed that face and those shoulders…

"Know of him. He's ranked third in the world standings, headed to Vegas for the NFR if he stays healthy." Jessica sighs wistfully. "And he's gorgeous—obviously."

"Is the date with him?" I crane my neck to look around the people in front of us.

"Nah. It's with Jake Morrison."

Bareback rider.

"Look at Wyatt's fan club." She nods just enough to send my attention that way.

The tent is packed with people—older men discussing the good ol' days, younger ones asking about training techniques, and women—lots of women. All of them hoping for a moment of Wyatt’s attention, a smile, maybe a photo.

Someone saunters past us folks in line and right up to Wyatt. Stunning in that deliberate way, with platinum blonde hair in perfect beach waves, clear olive skin, and enough turquoise on her fingers to fund a small ranch. She touches his arm as she tilts her head.

"We should catch up after the rodeo," she's saying, loud enough for everyone within the vicinity to hear.

She's also marking her territory as obviously as a mare pinning her ears in a pasture.

We're closer to the front of the line now and from where I'm standing, I can see Wyatt's profile. His smile is cocky, but it somehow works for him.

Ugh. I roll my eyes. What am I doing in this line?

"If it works out," he says, his voice carrying that smooth cowboy drawl that probably melts hearts from here to Texas.

I huff. He’s polite. Courteous, even. And completely noncommittal.

Her full lips part in a smile. "Cool. I’ll look for you.” She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. “Maybe we could do dinner again sometime. I'm here all week."

"Maybe," Wyatt says, his tone warm but carefully neutral. "Course, this week's pretty packed with competition and sponsor obligations. You know how it is."

I should look away. This is none of my business. But I can't stop staring at the choreography of it all—the way he pulls her in, gives her just enough attention to be polite without promises, borderline arrogant yet charming, and somehow distant enough to leave her wanting more.

It's a performance. A good one I'll give him that, but still a performance.

And for some reason, that irritates me more than his obvious appeal—and I work in politics.

He's playing a role—the available bachelor, the charming cowboy, the perfect sponsorship contestant. Every gesture is designed to maintain his public image without committing to something—or someone. It's smart business. Keep the fans happy, the sponsors satisfied, the money flowing.

"He's really working it, isn't he?" Jessica murmurs beside me.

"It's all an act," I say, surprised by my annoyed tone. I absently take another bite of my apple.

"Maybe. Or maybe he's just good at his job." She gives me a sideways look.

I chew the apple and glance at the cowboy, but I don’t taste anything. All I can feel is the heat buzzing through my body.

I'm reacting to him, and I can't explain why.