1
NINE MONTHS LATER
“G oddamn, kid, you tryin’ to ride that horse or fight it?”
Jimmy Ray Gilmore, a loudmouth, abrasive cowboy from South Dakota, glares at me, murder in his eyes, before he’s bucked and tossed on his ass in the middle of the ring. His mouth guard lands in the dust.
I chuckle at his dazed face. No doubt he’s seeing stars.
“Bastard bucked me off,” he says sourly.
Hiding a smile at his indignation, I lean back against the fence and cross my arms. “Nah, you fell off. Don’t try and blame it on the horse.”
Snickers of laughter from the other cowboys.
I jerk my head. “Y’all wanna laugh? I want to see you laughin’ when you’re the ones eatin’ dirt.”
This time, no one laughs. Someone gulps, in fact.
Sure, my bedside manner could use some work, but they’re cowboys. If they ain’t tough now, they’re never gonna be.
Some of the cowboys shift, eyes the ground. Others face me, their expressions set and determined. All of ’em, they’re just fucking kids. No better, no smarter, than I was at sixteen.
I scan the class. “Hell, falling’s part of the job.
It’s not a phenomenon or bad luck. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you stay in the saddle.
” I pause for effect. “Except feed your fucking ego. We ain’t got time for that.
And you ain’t got nine lives.” I blow out a breath and look down at Jimmy.
“Now get the fuck back up and let’s go another round. ”
Grebs, a kiss-ass kid from Wyoming, salutes. “Yes, sir, coach.”
I roll my eyes.
Coach .
God help me. The name makes me cringe. Too blue-collar, too responsible, for my taste.
For the next thirty minutes, I run my class through a series of dismount techniques.
I take serious athletes only, and the ones who can’t hack it are weeded out pretty damn quick. My class is small. Six dusty, disheveled cowboys who’ve put aside the next two weeks of summer to train.
And the poor bastard in charge of them—me.
Last year, I was approached by the Younger Rodeo School to open the second clinic in Montana. They wanted me to train, and it was a hard hell no.
Working for Rand Younger, my old asshole instructor, dredged up shit I’d rather forget.
But then I got hurt. And hurt again.
I love the rodeo. I’m goddamn good at it. Some might call it cocky, but for me, it was a calling. But it was time. I had enough broken bones; one day it’d be a broken neck.
My older brothers were worried, and they’ve had enough worry to last them a lifetime. So I finally took the damn job.
A job I didn’t even want.
Now it feels like I’ve been forced into this box I can’t get out of.
My brothers pulled strings to outfit the ranch for this school.
Saying anything to them, quitting this job, feels like going backward.
Like my brothers would be disappointed in me.
When all I’ve ever wanted to do was make them proud.
Hell, I don’t know what I want. If I can make ’em happy by keeping my dumb ass alive, so be it.
Giving up the rodeo hurt. But not as much as losing what I was foolish enough to think I had.
Fallon.
She and I belonged on the rodeo together. When she left, it made my decision to take the job easier. It gave my brain somewhere to focus besides the past. I have a reason to get up every morning and go on.
Even if it’s the last fucking thing I feel like doing.
Loud whoops and hollers intercept my attention.
I shift my gaze, tracking the kids as they leap from their horses with overexaggerated dismounts.
Cowboys , I think in irritation. Everyone thinks they’re a fuckin’ cowboy.
You’re not a cowboy the minute you climb onto a horse. A cowboy is someone who’s busted and bruised and gets back on. Who knows the risks, the danger, and does it anyway. Who dedicates their life to the horse, to the land.
That’s a cowboy.
“Alright,” I call out, getting the attention of my class. “Get some water and listen up.”
The kids huddle along the fence line, lifting water bottles and sweating in the bright morning sunlight. Jimmy Ray mouths something to Grebs and signals to his horse with his thumb.
I stride toward them. “Gilmore, you got somethin’ to say?”
Gilmore’s sharp gaze finds mine. “That’s a bad horse. I’m not working with her.” He tugs on the reins of his chestnut mare, Beauty, jerking her head roughly. Terror fills her big brown eyes; she chuffs and backs away from him.
Fuck, no, he did not.
You touch an animal, a kid, or a woman on my watch, I will tear your arm the fuck off.
Hackles rising, I stare him down. “That’s the horse you were assigned. And we don’t have bad horses on this ranch. We have bad riders.”
The class snickers quietly. Gilmore drops his eyes to his boots.
I turn to the group. “Let me give you three life lessons at this school. One: You think you’re fucking good?
You think you’re tough shit? Wrong. You ain’t.
The best way to get better is hard work.
” When I see a few nods, I continue. “Two: Did that fall hurt? Well, guess what? It hurts every damn time. There ain’t no one behind you with a pillow to catch you, so get used to it.
” I pause, taking in their wide-eyed expressions, then say, “Three: Practice is over. Get the fuck outta my ring.”
I watch as the kids grab their bags.
“It’s the Younger School, man,” Grebs whispers to Gilmore as they head to the bunkhouse. “My dad says they’re tough.”
Tough. Fucking bullshit.
I’ve been a trainer before. I’m stern, an asshole when I want to be. But I’m not a bad trainer. I wouldn’t wish one of them on any cowboy. Especially one like Rand Younger.
Which is why I have to stick this job out. It’s either my school or Rand’s, and if I can keep any kid away from Younger’s bullshit, the better for them.
Without another word, I mount my blue roan mare, Pepita, and guide her into a slow canter across the ranch.
Dust billows beneath her hooves as I leave behind our new expansion—or what we call the West Pasture.
Last year, we bulldozed the chalets and everything on the land.
After what happened with Reese, Ford wanted nothing to do with the chalets anymore.
Who can blame him? Someone took his goddamn wife.
Since then, we’ve built another barn, a bunkhouse, and a small cabin to be used as my training school during the summer. Like I said, my brothers pulled strings to get this school going. Letting them down isn’t an option.
I slow Pepita to a trot, grinning as Runaway Ranch proper rises up. The sprawling lodge. A meadow of sunflowers. Glacial mountains and quivering spruce as a backdrop. Cowboys and staff on horses and ATVs. In the distance, the growl of a tractor.
Runaway Ranch is waking up. Opening day. The start of a new season.
It seems like just yesterday we were struggling to make a buck, to keep the ranch open.
Now it’s a million-dollar business. We’ve doubled our staff.
Had a write-up in Bride magazine featuring the ranch as a top bachelorette party destination that damn near gave Charlie a heart attack.
These days, the ranch can run without us.
That’s a good thing, too, especially with all my brothers and their wives doing their own things.
Although Davis and Charlie would never admit it, they’d work themselves to death if they could.
By the time I stable Pepita and stomp up the steps of my silver vintage Airstream, the sun’s high in the sky. I exhale slowly and push my way through the screen door I don’t bother to lock.
Inside, the Airstream is sun-cooked and stale. I drop my Stetson on the kitchenette next to an ashtray and a burnt-out joint then turn on the old radio. John Denver croons softly from the speakers. I pull open one of the tattered flowered curtains to let in the sunshine, and a moth escapes.
It’s dusty and threadbare, but I like my trailer.
My brothers give me shit for living like a hobo.
I got it at an auction for cheap. With the rodeo, I was always on the go, so something temporary made sense.
Although with the school being open, maybe it’s time I rethink taking Ford up on his offer to move above the garage.
Maybe it’s time to rethink my entire fucking life.
After gulping down a cup of cold coffee, I shuck my sweaty rodeo school shirt off and change into my Runaway Ranch gear.
Swipe aside the marketing material Ruby’s made for me.
Tug a bottle of vodka from the cupboard.
I grip its neck hard, my gaze going to the old coffee tin on the shelf.
Forgetting about the drink, I give the coffee can a shake, rattling its contents as if to make me remember.
As if to remind myself I haven’t made it all up.
Us.
Me and Fallon.
She’s constant the thorn in my side and the woman I can’t stop thinking about.
I twist my head, my gaze going to my unmade bed as a memory surfaces.
The farewell campfire dinner. The sound of wind chimes outside while I fucked Fallon, hard and quick in my trailer.
She unzipped those tight blue jeans and bent over.
I was on fire with my cock buried in that tight pink pussy, my hand fisting that silky caramel-blonde hair.
Afterward, we lay in bed and talked. Argued. Whatever the fuck you want to call it.
Fallon smokes her cigarette, puffs a white ring into the air. “One day, I’m gonna chase those wild horses. And never come back.”
I rub her thigh and frown, hating the idea of her gone.“Your sister would miss you.” Ignoring her dirty look, I pluck the smoke from her fingers and stamp it out. I fucking hate it when she smokes. A constant reminder of her reckless life. “I’d miss you.”
She shrugs, rolls into my arms. Her raspy voice is like smoke rolling over silk as she says, “Cowboys don’t miss anything. Least of all a woman.”
Wrong. She was so goddamn wrong.
“Fuck,” I rasp, tearing my eyes away from the bed.
Three years ago, I was holding her in bed, now I’m holding a bottle of cheap vodka and this fucking tin can.