Rancher’s Embrace (Flying Diamond 5 Cowboy Romance)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

KRISTIN

“God, did you see her ride?” a shrill voice called from the other side of my trailer wall. The sound was sharp enough to rattle through the thin metal, slicing into the quiet I’d been clinging to.

“She’s so ridiculous with those flashy colors and the fringe. It’s so cringy.”

Voices always echoed in the trailer area. Every breath, every insult bounced between the aluminum walls like gossip trapped in a tin can. There wasn’t any mistaking who they were talking about.

Me.

“Her cousin’s married to some big rancher from Montana. I’m sure that’s where the money’s coming from.”

“Yeah, he’s part of the Flying Diamond Five. God, what I wouldn’t have given to land one of them.”

“There’s still one available. Lincoln Felder is single.”

“Not as single as some would like to believe.”

The tone shifted. The last speaker wasn’t one of the two who’d been running me down a moment ago. Her voice was deeper, filled with a sense of satisfaction.

“Girl, you better spill,” one of the others said, a grin audible in every word.

“We’re together.” The woman said it as if it were a victory, not a lie. My breath caught. “I think he’s going to ask me to marry him. Then I’ll get my hands on that money.”

All of them laughed, high and harsh. The sound scraped down my spine like a spur.

I stared at the mirror across from me. The bright reflection of my outfit burned back at me.

The wild colors, the fringe, and the shine that caught the light every time I turned —it was perfect.

A little wild, a little loud. But it was mine.

Nobody forgot my name at the end of the rodeo.

Every little girl who pressed up against the rails wanted a picture with me.

They saw more than sequins and sass; they saw possibility.

Still, the voices burrowed under my skin. The metal of the trailer made every syllable echo until it felt like they were sitting inside with me. I could almost picture their faces, the smirks, the way their lipstick creased when they laughed.

I clenched my jaw and smoothed my hands down the glittering fringe of my shirt, the nervous habit I always relied on before a run. My palms came away faintly dusty. The trailer smelled like leather, hairspray, and the faint metallic tang of dirt baked into everything I owned.

Thankfully, the voices faded down the row, swallowed by the clatter of another horse being loaded. I waited a few seconds longer before unlatching the door. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that hummed inside your ears after too much noise.

The lot was empty when I stepped outside. Sunlight reflected off the chrome edges of trailers, bright enough to make me squint. A breeze stirred the dust around my boots. For a moment, the world felt still again.

I didn’t need those women anywhere near my head. Their words were poison, and I couldn’t afford poison right now.

“And I sure didn’t need to think about Linc getting married.” Lady lifted her head over the stall guard, ears pricked as if she’d understood every word. The late-day light caught her coat, turning it the color of polished copper.

“That’s right, he’s a slime ball,” I whispered, reaching to rub the white star on her forehead.

She snorted, a deep, rolling sound that felt like agreement.

“He never talked about marriage with me.” The words slipped out before I could swallow them. They tasted bitter. Oh, good, now I was pouting over the man I’d walked away from. Regret was a habit I didn’t have time for, but sometimes it ambushed me.

Linc had been faithful, steady, maddeningly patient. Even when we’d been “on a break,” he hadn’t seen anyone else. I knew that much. I also knew I’d been the one to run first.

Lady shifted, bumping my shoulder with her muzzle, reminding me that standing here in self-pity wasn’t helping either of us. I gave her neck a firm pat. “You’re right. Focus time.”

I reached for the saddle blanket and felt the familiar calm slide in.

Leather creaked, cinches tightened, the warm smell of horse and dust anchoring me where I belonged.

Lady flicked an ear, keyed up but waiting on my cue.

Groom, check stirrups, tug gloves—the same routine that steadied my breath while the crowd outside built to a muffled roar, like thunder rolling in.

My heart kicked in my chest, matching that rhythm. I breathed through it.

The gossip still echoed faintly in the back of my head, the mention of his name like a bruise I couldn’t stop pressing. Lincoln Felder. The last single one, they’d said. Not as single as some would like to believe. The words stuck.

I pulled in a slow breath and forced my focus back to the horse beneath my hands. Her hide rippled when I ran my palm down her flank. Solid muscle. Steady heart. My one constant.

“Let’s show them why they keep talking,” I whispered.

Lady blew out a long breath through her nostrils. For a moment, everything went still again.

I slid my boot into the stirrup and swung up like I’d been born in the saddle: no hesitation, no thinking, just muscle memory and fire.

From up here, everything made sense again.

Dirt, sweat, adrenaline, hay—it was home, sharp and clean in my lungs.

My nerves finally shut up. It was just me and Lady. Always was.

She danced beneath me in the alley, muscles coiled tight, vibrating with that let me go, I’m ready to fly energy.

Her teeth clicked on the bit, ears flicking, whole body wound like a loaded spring waiting on that damn green light.

Down here, the air was thick with it—competition, desperation, hope, all of it pressed close enough to taste.

But she was hotter than usual, too keyed up. I felt it in the jitter of her stride, in the twitch of the reins against my palms. My heart kicked faster, matching her rhythm, uneven and sharp. Sweat slicked my gloves. My mouth tasted like iron and dust.

This was the edge, right here. The moment where everything could go perfectly, or go straight to hell.

And I leaned right into it.

The alley was chaos, boots thudding on packed ground, announcer’s voice crackling overhead, a whistle somewhere close by.

Horses snorted, pawed, sidestepped. I could hear the crowd beyond the panels, a low roar of conversation and excitement that surged with every rider who took off.

The sound of it crawled under my skin. It was the pulse of competition, steady and relentless.

But I pushed all of it aside. The noise. The nerves. The whisper of Linc’s name still haunting the edges of my thoughts. I couldn’t afford distraction. Not here. Not now.

Lady shifted again, her front hoof stomping once in protest. I reached forward and patted her neck, feeling the slick warmth of sweat already darkening her coat. “Easy, girl. We’ve done this a hundred times. You know what to do.”

Her ear flicked back toward me, as if to say she knew better than I did.

The green light blinked.

We exploded forward.

The world narrowed to sound, speed, and instinct.

Hooves hammered the dirt, each stride driving us faster into the open arena.

The crowd’s noise became a blur, the announcer’s voice a distant echo swallowed by the rush of wind.

My braid whipped across my back. Dirt flew up in sharp bursts, hitting my jeans and boots, sticking to the sweat on my neck.

Nothing existed outside the pattern: just me, Lady, and the clock.

We rounded the first barrel in perfect sync, her body leaning deep, my inside leg pressing firm, every ounce of control balanced between trust and gravity. The barrel tipped, wobbled, then righted itself. Clean.

I could feel her lungs expanding under me, the power in her stride building as we cut for the second. The air whipped past, the faint taste of it hot and dry against my tongue.

“C’mon, girl,” I whispered, leaning low over her neck. My voice vibrated through her mane. “You’ve got this.”

She responded with a surge that stole my breath. We tore around the second barrel so tight I brushed it with my boot. Clean again.

The crowd roared somewhere far away. The sound was nothing but thunder behind glass.

We had it. We had it.

Then something shifted.

One stride off. One heartbeat wrong.

Her hind hoof slipped in the churned-up dirt. The world tilted. My grip on the reins yanked hard and uselessly.

In a blink, everything inverted, the roof where the ground should be, the ground where the roof was.

The impact slammed through my shoulder and shot up my spine.

Air rushed out of my lungs with a harsh, broken sound I couldn’t hold back.

Pain exploded white and hot, spreading through my arm until my vision went fuzzy.

The ground was cold and gritty under my cheek.

The smell of dirt filled my nose, sharp and raw.

I rolled once, coughing and struggling to breathe, my arm screaming every time I moved. I could hear the crowd gasp in a collective breath, a hundred voices sucked in at once.

Lady’s hooves clattered nearby as she scrambled up, reins dragging. My heart lurched until I saw her standing, chest heaving, unhurt. The relief hit me hard enough to double the pain.

Before I could push myself up, a shadow dropped over me.

“Don’t move.”

That voice, low, rough, and so painfully familiar, twisted my stomach.

Lincoln.

I blinked against the blur of lights. The sun haloed around him, catching on the edges of his dark hair. He was already kneeling beside me, hat gone, eyes wild with worry, sweat running down his temples. His shirt clung to his shoulders, the rolled sleeves dusted with dirt.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was tight, strained, carrying the command of a man who expected an answer and hated that he needed one.

His hand hesitated for a moment before resting softly on my arm. Warm. Steady. Solid in a way that hit too close.