2. Beck
Beck
It’s a beautiful fuckin’ day for a rodeo.
The sun is shining, a late spring breeze is enough to keep it from being stiflingly hot, the energy in the crowd is palpable. It’s the kick off to rodeo season in Sage Valley, and I’m ready to line my pockets with prize money.
The rodeo draws everyone in the area. Sure, the bull riders and saddle bronc guys attract the majority of outsiders, but everyone in Sage Valley is here to see me.
I don’t compete often anymore, not since my shoulder started giving me grief and the ranch started taking up most of my time, so my being here today is somewhat of a special event.
But Wild Sage is in desperate need of some repairs and I don’t have the funds to cover it.
Today needs to go well, so I’ve done all my usual pre-run rituals.
I started my day as I normally do, with a plain black coffee, watching the sun rise over the Alberta foothills.
I gave Willow a once over to make sure she’s in good shape.
She looks good today, her dark mane shimmering against the tan colour of her body.
I’ve coiled my rope exactly six times, and I’ve been repeating my pattern in my head like a mantra.
Nod. Break. Settle. Swing. Dally. Step down. Trip. Tie.
Steer roping used to be second nature to me. I was a household name in my heyday. I can be eight seconds flat on a good run. It’s why I’m hardly even phased when I spot a woman across the arena, standing next to the exit gate, wearing a t-shirt that says Vegans Taste Better across the back.
The keyword is hardly.
I scoff under my breath.
There’s always one. Always one idealist with their head in the clouds, come to vilify a centuries old tradition of ranching in Sage Valley. Our way of life, and the only life I’ve ever known.
My run is minutes away, and I’m trying to focus on every steer leaving the chute to study their break, but my gaze keeps wandering over to the tall brunette, standing with her back turned to me and one hip popped, leaning against the metal fence.
I glance up, scanning the crowd and trying to keep my gaze far away from the protester. Normally, I don’t pay them any mind. But I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn to her waist, the way it curves in and disappears into snug fitting Wrangler jeans.
Wrangler jeans. It’s almost an abomination, a rodeo protester wearing Wranglers. But damn the pockets on the back make her ass look incredible.
Recognition tugs at the back of my mind as I see who she’s standing with: Sutton Hayes, the vet.
Sutton and I know each other well. Owning a cattle ranch means that she’s on my speed dial. And I can’t help but wonder about the way she’s looking up at the protester with such familiarity.
Eyes up, Hollis.
Willow shifts beneath me, nickering softly as if she knows I’m distracted. Sometimes I think Willow takes competing more seriously than I do. I grab my lasso and her reins in one hand, and reach down to pat her tawny shoulder with the other.
“We got this, girl,” I murmur, giving her a gentle squeeze with my heels and steering her closer to the chute. I take a steadying breath as we get closer to the arena, and the officials ready the steer behind the gate next to me.
A movement in my periphery catches my attention. My eyes flick away from the steer and over to the brunette standing on the sidelines. Time moves in slow motion, and for a second I’m caught by the hypnotizing sway of her hips as she turns toward the arena. Her head snaps towards me.
It’s my fatal move, letting my eyes wander away from the ring and over to her. Now, the focus I had going into my run has all but vanished, because my senses are homed in on the way her dark eyes pierce me from behind the fence.
Dark eyes that I would know anywhere.
Dark eyes that I haven’t stopped thinking about since my childhood.
Dark eyes that are very, very off limits.
Because they belong to Lyla Morgan, my best friend's little sister. And she’s nothing but trouble.
The second our eyes meet she sticks out her tongue, exactly like when we were kids. My self-control slips a little, and the corner of my mouth tugs upward.
“You ready to go soon, man?” the official readying the steer asks.
I give my head a shake and repeat my mantra, a desperate attempt at regaining my concentration.
Nod. Break. Settle. Swing. Dally. Step down. Trip. Tie.
I nod once at the chute crew, and they release the steer in a clean break.
Willow is close on its heels, her hooves thundering in the dirt, a cloud of dust forming behind us. She’s speed and fury, meanwhile I’m still distracted by Lyla’s presence at the edge of the arena.
Settle… I get Willow into position and lift my roping arm, ignoring the sharp twinge that nabs at it. My mind goes instead to Lyla’s generous hips.
Swing… My fingers unfurl, the rope sliding out of my hand and through the air toward the steer. There’s a swish of long, shiny, dark hair in my periphery, and it’s all I can focus on.
I wait for the loop to land and catch the steer's horns, but at the last second, the animal slips out of my rope, and runs off.
My mind spins, but my thoughts aren’t on the loss or the steer doing its victory lap. They’re on plush, full lips, chocolate eyes, and the way Lyla’s nipples peaked through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.
Vegans taste better… Clearly vegans also don’t believe in wearing bras.
Willow skids to a stop and rears her head as the steer runs off, and the pick up men corral it toward the catch pen. Her frustrated huff of breath brings me back to the present moment.
Fuck.
I glance over at the scoreboard, the letters NT for no time, displayed in bright, bold letters. They may as well flash the word failure across the screen.
That’s what I am, and disappointment sinks like a stone in my gut when I think about what this means. It’s no longer about my ego. It’s no longer about me and my previously held world record.
All I care about now is Wild Sage, the ranch that has been a part of my family for generations. It’s been falling apart around me. The cattle ranch may have been in dire straits before my dad handed over the reins, so to speak, but it’s my responsibility now, and any failures now land solely on me.
It gets harder and harder with each passing day that something fucking breaks or breaks down.
Not to mention having to field the onslaught of calls I get, or people knocking on my door looking to buy some–or all–of the property.
Developers are practically frothing at the mouth when it comes to untouched land that they can turn into overpriced row homes or condominiums. These days, I’ve been struggling to turn them away.
I turn Willow around, giving her belly a gentle nudge and clicking my tongue. She picks up her feet into a trot and I direct her through the gate being held open by a roughstock worker who gives me a sympathetic nod as we leave the ring.
But it’s not the pity in his eyes that I care about right now. I’m using every ounce of self-control not to look over at Lyla. Her dark stare makes my skin sizzle as Willow and I pass her.
When we reach the stables, I hop off and loosen her cinch before walking her back to find our trailer. Removing her bridle and bit, I replace it with her halter and tie her lead rope to the side of the trailer, while I untack her and start loading up equipment.
I work in silence as Willow munches, but I sense her disappointment at our loss as acutely as my own. She blows a puff of air through her nose, glancing at me sideways like she knows the loss was my fault. As if she knows what this means for me, for the ranch.
“Sorry, girl,” I say, patting her on the shoulder as I come around to look her in the eye, to atone for my mistake.
That’s one thing I’ve always loved about horses. They’re nothing but honest, and they expect nothing but honesty from you.
She huffs another breath, this time stomping her front hoof on the dirt.
“Not good enough, I know. I should have been paying closer attention,” I add.
“How’d you do?” Austin’s voice asks behind me as he gets out of his car. He’s been busy on the ranch today, completing some odd jobs for me, but he said he’d meet me after my run. Austin’s been better about keeping his promises these days.
When I look up, his near-black hair and dark eyes are strikingly similar to the woman who was staring me down mere moments ago. The woman whose curves were my downfall.
I only grunt as a response and turn back to Willow, tugging the quick release knot to bring her over to the trailer waiting for her. Willow climbs up the ramp and gets in the trailer without any fuss, and Austin lifts the back gate to close it with a clunk.
“That bad?” Austin asks, turning to walk around the trailer to the driver side of the truck.
I don’t need to tell him how it went, it’ll be the talk of the town in no time.
“I saw your sister,” I say, evading any kind of conversation about my loss today. Why I decided that Lyla Morgan was a better topic of discussion is beyond me, because I swear Austin can read my thoughts all over my face.
Austin never mentioned that Lyla was coming back into town.
He probably didn’t think it was information I’d be remotely interested in.
And I’m not. I have more pressing matters to worry about.
Dread settles in my gut as I consider the outcome of the rodeo today, the concessions I’m going to have to make yet again to try and keep the ranch functioning.
By the look on Austin’s face now, the way his dark eyebrows have pinched together, I get the impression he didn’t know she was here.
“Lyla’s in town,” he says, his expression unreadable. “Weird. She never told me she was coming back. Did you talk to her?”
I shake my head. “She was too busy yapping with Sutton.”
Except for the excruciating seconds she spent staring at me.
Austin glances back in the direction of the stables, as if contemplating whether he should go in there and talk to her. Relief washes over me when he decides to continue loading my tack into the trailer instead.
The fact is, I blame Lyla for the way my run went.
I was distracted, when I should have been locked in.
I should not have been thinking about Austin’s little sister the way I was, fixating on her long legs in those jeans, the swish of her hair on her back, the way her eyes met mine and lit up like that, a hint of a mischievous sparkle in her night-black irises.
I was probably imagining it. There was never anything between Lyla and me, there couldn’t have been.
Austin and I have been thick and thieves since we could talk. Even after Lyla left Sage Valley, Austin stayed. Picked up a job at the ranch working for my dad.
But that never stopped me from wondering what would have happened if I’d met Lyla first.