Chapter Five
Royce
We drop Jovie off at her family’s house in town, and by the time we pull into Wildhaven Storm, it’s late enough that the ranch has gone quiet.
Or it should have.
Instead, the driveway leading to my parents’ house is lined with pickup trucks, and a row of horses is tied along the fence.
I stare through the windshield.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Axle grumbles beside me, letting his head fall back against the seat. “I’m fucking done.”
I glance at him. “Done with what?”
He gives me a flat look. “People. I about reached my limit last night.”
“Poor baby.”
“Fuck you.”
I grin.
He’s been the center of attention since he walked out of Dickies Arena, and I’ll admit, watching my perpetually grumpy brother get mobbed by half the rodeo world without losing his shit has been entertaining as hell.
Unfortunately for him, our family missed out on the first round of celebrating, so they’re here to make damn sure he gets a second helping.
We climb out of the truck, and Mom comes flying down the porch steps.
“Boys!”
She makes a beeline for Ax, but halfway across the yard, her eyes land on my arm. Her entire expression changes, and so does her trajectory.
“Oh, honey,” she gasps, abandoning Ax without a second thought as she heads straight for me.
I sigh.
Fuck. Here we go.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Her eyes narrow as she reaches for my good arm and starts inspecting me like she can diagnose me by touch. “Why are you wearing a sling if nothing happened?”
“I tweaked my shoulder again. It wasn’t a big deal, but traveling with Ax’s girlfriend is like traveling with a mini mom.”
She doesn’t laugh.
“Jovie was just being overly cautious,” I assure her.
She commences fussing over me anyway. Our protests have never carried much weight with our mother.
Meanwhile, Dad has made it to Axle.
Boone Trust is grinning like a damn fool.
That’s Dad—the quintessential rodeo dad.
Proud, loud, and keeping track of every buckle, every bruise, every score, and every damn standing.
Always has been. He had us in boots and tossed us on anything with four legs and a bad attitude the second we were old enough to stay upright.
If it bucked, he figured we ought to learn how to ride it.
He claps Axle on the back. “Hell of a ride, son,” Dad says, his voice thick with emotion. “Hell of a season.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“And beating Bryce?” Dad’s grin stretches even wider. “That was the best part.”
Charli, standing behind him, laughs. “He took it easy on him.”
Axle groans. “Oh, fuck off, Charli.”
She beams at him, clearly enjoying herself.
Dad throws an arm around Axle’s shoulders. “I want to hear every damn detail.”
I can’t help smiling.
This is Dad’s favorite part. His sons coming home with rodeo buckles, busted bodies, and stories to tell. He gets to live a little vicariously through us, like every ride is his ride and every win belongs to all of us.
Mom, meanwhile, is still fussing over me. “Tell me the truth. Does it hurt bad?”
“No.” I pause. “A little.”
“I’ll get you something for the pain.”
“Mom.”
She glances at the sling, then back at me. “Fine. But once everyone leaves, we’re putting ice on it.”
She shakes her head, already muttering under her breath as she turns toward the house. “You boys are going to put me in an early grave.”
I nod toward Axle. “Why am I getting all the grief when he’s the one with the busted face?”
Axle immediately points at me. “You’re the one with a scar running down your ugly mug.”
My hand goes instinctively to my forehead.
The scar runs from my hairline, down across my forehead, and through my right eyebrow—a souvenir from a wreck in Prescott last year. It’s old enough now that I barely notice it, even when my fingers find the raised line of it.
Cabe comes up beside me and slings an arm over my shoulders. “You’re still a pretty son of a bitch,” he says. “Even with a scar running down your face.”
I look at him. “You have to say that because you have the same damn face, asshole.”
Cabe grins.
He’s the youngest of us, but people have been confusing us for twins our entire lives. Same dark hair. Same eyes. Same crooked grin. Same damn face.
He squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever. I’m way prettier than you.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Around us, everyone is talking at once. Micah pops open a cooler and tosses beers to Axle and me.
Horses shift and snort along the fence, their tack jingling softly in the night.
Dad’s recapping Axle’s rides from the weekend, breaking down every one, offering his analysis of what went right, what went wrong, and what Axle could’ve done better.
I lean against the railing, beer in hand, and let the familiar noise wash over me.
The road is thrilling; it gets in your blood.
But nothing beats coming home to this.
Then Charli’s phone chimes.
She pulls it from her back pocket and glances at the screen. “It’s Bryce.”
She accepts the video call. Bryce’s face fills the screen, and he’s already in bed at the hotel, propped against the pillows with the covers pulled up to his waist.
I snort. “Look at that. I reckon old men need their rest.”
Bryce’s eyes narrow. “I’m only thirty. That’s four years older than you, asshole.”
“And you still need your beauty sleep.”
He flips me off. “I’ve got a four a.m. wake-up call. Early flight.”
Dad laughs.
Bryce looks around the screen at everyone gathered on the porch.
“And I wasn’t expecting to see everybody,” he mumbles.
“Sorry, cowboy. I’ll find somewhere quiet,” Charli says, turning the screen back around. “Everyone, tell Bryce bye.”
A chorus of, “Good night,” follows.
“Night, Bryce.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Get some sleep.”
“Don’t miss your flight, old man.”
Charli laughs and steps away from the group, still holding the phone in front of her. She starts down the porch steps, and the rest of us fall back into conversation.
“Hey, do we have room for two more at the wedding?” I hear him ask.
Charli stops, and her eyebrows lift.
“I’m bringing an old friend home with me from Dallas.”