Chapter Six
The air in the round pen smells like horse shit, and it’s hot as hell. The black quarter horse at the end of the lead rope flicks his tail at the flies and tosses his head, nostrils flaring like he’s as irritated as I am.
I’ve been walking him in circles for the past twenty minutes—forward, stop, back up, yield the hindquarters, yield the forequarters. Charli’s been shouting instructions at me like some kind of equine kindergarten teacher.
“Keep his eye on you,” she calls out from where she’s leaning against the rail. Her arms are draped over the top rung, one boot heel hooked up, hat shading her eyes.
She looks like a cowboy’s wet dream. Meanwhile, I feel like a sweaty idiot, leading a thousand-pound animal around like a puppy on a damn leash.
“I got his eye,” I say flatly, tugging the lead when the horse starts drifting away from me.
He jerks his head and lets out an agitated huff, and I swear he’s mocking me.
“Then use your body to move him,” she shouts. “Not your hands.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because he can totally read my mind.”
Charli just smirks and nods toward the horse. “He may not be able to read your mind, but he can read your body. Horses pick up on pressure, energy, and intent. Try stepping into his space instead of yanking on him.”
I sigh and try it her way, stepping toward the horse’s left shoulder. The stallion shifts his weight, then moves back obediently.
I glance up at her. “Happy now?”
“Not bad,” she says, still watching me like a hawk. “He’s starting to respect you.”
“Great,” I mutter. “If only you’d do the same, we’d be getting somewhere.”
That earns a small laugh from her. I shouldn’t care that she finds me funny, but something about the sound crawls under my skin.
She pushes off the fence and walks toward me, her boots crunching over the sand. The late afternoon sunlight catches the dust swirling around her, highlighting her face, and the sight makes it really damn hard for me to stay irritated.
“All right, hook him on the lunge line. I want you to get him trotting a few circles. See how you handle him when he picks up a little speed.”
I release the reins and attach the nylon rope to his bridle. Then I grip the loop and flick my wrist.
“Stop,” she barks just before I jerk the line.
“You don’t wrap a lunge line around your wrist,” she says. “If that horse panics, he’ll yank your damn hand off.”
I look down to see I’ve wrapped the rope tightly around my right wrist several times.
Shit, I didn’t even realize I’d done that.
I unwind it quickly. “Damn, habit,” I say as I look up at her.
She nods. “Exactly. That’s the kind of thing we want to break you from. Bronc riders don’t wrap the rope around their hand for a tight grip. They hold on to a rein or rope with one hand. Why do bull riders wrap the rope?” She looks at me expectantly.
“To help us hold on for as long as fucking possible,” I say, answering what I think is a stupid question.
“Right. Bronc riders don’t just buckle down and try to hold on via strength and pure will; they hold the rein in a way that allows them to follow the horse’s movements and stay balanced on its back.”
I don’t say anything else. Instead, I focus back on the animal. I cluck and then crack the rope.
The horse hesitates, then trots off, head bobbing. It’s not exactly graceful. He cuts his circle too tight, and I end up sidestepping quick to keep out of his way.
“Relax your shoulders,” she commands. “Don’t let him crowd you.”
“I’m trying!” I shoot back.
“He’s reading you, Bryce. If you’re tense, he’s tense. If you’re frustrated, he’s gonna push your buttons.”
“He’s not the one pushing my buttons,” I snap.
“You have to learn to control your emotions, cowboy,” she says evenly.
That makes me pause. The horse flicks an ear toward me, slowing a little.
“Better,” Charli says, her voice low and smooth, like she’s talking to the horse instead of me. “Now change direction.”
I exhale hard and tug the line gently, stepping toward his hip. The stallion slows, pivots, and goes the other way. I glance at her again. She’s smiling now, just slightly, and it pisses me off that I feel proud of myself.
What the fuck?
After a few minutes, sweat’s running down my back, my hat’s sticking to my forehead, and I’ve had enough. I stop the horse, reel in the rope, and run a hand over my face.
“Can we be done?” I ask as I glance at Charli. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t see what the hell walking this horse around in a circle has to do with bronc riding.”
Charli crosses her arms, one eyebrow lifting. “Groundwork helps improve a horse’s responsiveness to cues, balance, and focus.”
“Yeah, no shit,” I bite out. “But what does that have to do with me? I’m not training a horse to run barrels. I’m here to train for saddle bronc. You know, getting bucked off in eight seconds or less.”
Her mouth curves into that damn teasing grin. “Because, cowboy, you need to learn those three things yourself—responsiveness, balance, and focus.”
I blink at her. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
That heat in my chest flares. I drop the rope and turn away. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. I didn’t come here to play horse whisperer.”
“Bryce.” Her tone is sharp enough to stop me mid-step.
I turn halfway back, jaw clenched. She’s already inside the pen, closing the distance fast.
When she gets close enough, she doesn’t look up at me like most people do. She squares off, chin high, fire in her eyes. “You don’t get to walk away just because something bruises your ego.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Isn’t it?” she challenges, eyes locked on mine. “You’ve been at the top too long. You’re used to people treating you like your shit don’t stink and everything you do or say is golden. But you’re not in a bull pen anymore, Bryce. This is a whole different game.”
“I know that!” I spit, taking a step closer.
“Then act like it.”
Her words hit hard. She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, steady and calm, and somehow, that gets under my skin worse than if she screamed at me.
“You think I’m trying to humiliate you?” she says quietly. “I’m trying to reprogram you. Bronc riding might look like bull riding, but it takes a different mindset. A new set of skills. You’ve gotta relearn the rhythm of a horse—how it moves, how it reacts. That starts here, on the ground.”
I scoff. “You act like I don’t know anything about horses. I’ve been riding since I could walk.”
“Not competitively.”
“So, you’re saying you want me to train like a fucking beginner.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Her words hang between us. The horse shifts behind me, restless, as if he feels the tension too.
She folds her arms again, eyes narrowing.
“We’re starting at the bottom, which means groundwork.
Then we’ll move to riding broke horses so I can see if you have the fundamentals.
After that, we’ll start reviewing footage of top bronc riders—see how they move, where their balance sits, what they’re thinking when they ride. ”
I let out a sharp laugh. “You’re kidding. Watching videos? That’s your idea of training?”
“Mental preparation is just as important as the physical,” she says simply. “You, of all people, should know that.”
I take a step closer, crowding her space this time. “There’s nothing wrong with my mental focus.”
Her lips twitch. “Then prove it. You set the pace for all this. We can move through steps quickly if you show me you got them down. And then, and only then, will I bring an actual bronc into an arena.”
For a second, the only sound is the horse snorting and pawing at the sand. We’re toe to toe, breathing the same air, neither one of us backing down. Her gaze doesn’t falter. There’s heat there—challenge, maybe more—but she’s not giving me a damn inch.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “That’s enough for today.”
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me. You can lead the horse back to the stall, give him a good rubdown, and turn him out in the paddock. Then you can find Cabe, help him with evening chores.”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, Chuck, but I’m not a ranch hand.”
“Everyone pulls their weight around here,” she says coolly. “Even spoiled superstars.”
Spoiled?
“Pretty sure my management and I are paying you a small fortune for the training. I don’t owe labor on top of that.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Dinner’s at seven. If you want to eat tonight, I suggest you get started.”
And with that, she turns and heads toward the gate.
I watch her go, jaw tight. Her long, wavy hair rustles in the wind, her hips swaying with every step, making it impossible for me not to stare.
She unlatches the gate, pauses, and glances over her shoulder. “Oh, and, Bryce?”
“What?” I mutter.
“Buck up, cowboy. We’re just getting started.”
Then she’s gone.
By the time I finish brushing the stallion down, I’m drenched and covered in grit. The horse’s coat gleams under the overhead lights of the barn, black as midnight.
I pat his neck and mutter, “You sure are handsome, buddy.”
He flicks an ear at me, and I lead him to the back and release him into the paddock.
Cabe strolls in, carrying a pitchfork, and his eyes fall on me. “You’ve been put to work, huh?”
“Evidently,” I grumble, grabbing a shovel. “Shoveling crap is part of the Charli Storm training program.”
“Welcome to Wildhaven Storm, man,” he says with a laugh. “Ain’t no free rides here. But rest assured, those girls work just as hard, if not harder, than anyone else on this ranch.”
I don’t answer. Just start mucking out a stall, trying not to think about how I went from being the best bull rider on the circuit to cleaning horse shit in nowhere, Wyoming.
How the mighty have fallen.
Every scrape of the shovel against the stall floor grates on my nerves. The sound of it against the concrete is like nails on a chalkboard. Cabe hums some country tune under his breath in the stall next to me, like he’s fucking enjoying himself.
When the stalls are finally clean, new hay is laid, the feed’s set up, and the sun’s dropping behind the ridge.
I lean on the handle of the pitchfork now in my hands and look out toward the training arena.
The dust has settled. The round pen’s empty.
But I can still see her standing there in my head—arms on the railing, boot kicked up, watching me with that mix of judgment and amusement.
I can read her mind. She thinks I can’t do this.
She thinks I’m beyond hope. And damn if I don’t want to prove her wrong.
“You ready to head in?” Cabe asks as he tugs the gloves off his hands. “I’m starving.”
Dinner’s in the main house. I’m inclined to skip it out of spite, but my stomach overrules my pride. By the time we make it inside, everyone’s already seated. Charli’s at the far end of the table, talking with her sister Shelby. She doesn’t even look up when I walk in.
I take the open seat across from her and mutter a, “Thanks,” to Evelyn as she offers me a glass of tea.
Albert’s voice cuts across the table. “How was your first day, Bryce?”
“Fine, sir,” I mutter, cutting into my steak.
His eyes go from me to his daughter.
Charli finally glances my way, and there’s a damn glimmer in her eyes as she answers, “He’s decent with a horse, I guess. Can even take instruction when he has a mind to.”
Albert’s lips lift into a knowing smile. Like he understands his girl in a way that I couldn’t.
“That’s good. I have a feeling, in time, you two are going to be a great team. If you let her, my Charli girl will have you ready to dominate the bronc world,” he says.
Right.
Charli beams at her father, and he answers with an indulgent wink. Then her attention returns to me.
“Did you finish everything I asked?”
“Yeah,” I say shortly. “Your horses’ stalls are spotless, and they’re all fed and watered.”
“Good,” she says, her tone surprised, almost appreciative, and then she turns back to her sister.
Something in me twists. Maybe it’s annoyance. Maybe something else. I can’t decide.
The rest of dinner goes by in a blur of conversation I barely follow.
I catch bits about Matty’s boyfriend clearing land he just purchased, construction about to begin for new boarding stalls here on the ranch, and a mare that they’re excited is due to foal soon.
Every time Charli laughs, that same nerve twists in my chest.
When I finally push back from the table, she looks up again. “Day starts at six tomorrow morning.”
“Six?”
“Mmhmm. So, if you want breakfast, you need to be in this kitchen by then.”
For fuck’s sake.
“You ever sleep?” I ask.
She blinks up at me innocently. “We start work around here at four, so I am letting you sleep in. You’re welcome, cowboy.”
I shake my head, trying to fight a smirk, and head for the back door.
As I step out into the night, the cool air hits me. The ranch is quiet except for the soft nickers of the horses and the hum of crickets and tree frogs. The stars are bright here, clear and endless.
I lean against the porch rail, looking out over the dark fields, and for the first time since I got here, I start to wonder if maybe there’s something to the way she’s doing this. A method to Charli Storm’s madness.
Groundwork. Balance. Focus.
Things I used to have in abundance. They came naturally. But the truth is, I’ve developed habits that need breaking. Involuntarily wrapping my wrist today was proof of that.
There’s more to being a cowboy than the roar of the crowd and the glory of winning the buckle.
I lost that somewhere along the way. Somewhere between sponsors and fans and cameras and headlines.
Now I’m here, back at square one, being told by a sharp-tongued cowgirl that I need to learn how to lead a horse before I can ride one again.
And damn it if part of me doesn’t hate how right she might be.