Tamed By Tanner (Silver Spoon Cowboys #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

TANNER

If hell has a waiting room, it’s located squarely inside my skull, pounding on the door of my consciousness at six-thirteen a.m. The alarm on my phone trills some faux-zen chime, but the effect is less “centered tranquility” and more “demon invasion.” My eyelids peel apart with the same delicate grace as duct tape yanked from a hairy thigh.

I swipe the alarm away and stare at the ceiling for a full sixty seconds, trying to will my brain to restart. Nothing.

Nada.

I groan and drag a hand down my face, palm scraping over yesterday’s stubble.

Then I force myself upright and immediately regret every life choice that led me here.

My head throbs so hard I almost black out.

I turn my head to the side, trying to ease the stabbing pain shooting down the back of my neck. Fuck.

I suck in a sharp breath, but it feels like my entire spine is lined with barbed wire.

Every muscle along my back is screaming at me.

Like, full-on, take-me-to-the-morgue level agony.

I actually have to hang my head for a second and brace both hands on my knees, so I don’t black out and face-plant onto the floor.

God. Damn it.

Why does it feel like I’ve been hit by a literal truck?

Oh, right. Maggie’s bed frame of doom. My sister decided to redecorate her house and bought all new bedroom furniture.

Of course, my brother-in-law is a penny-pinching asshole, so he decided we could move the old furniture out instead of hiring pros for the job.

Pretty sure I heard my back pop last weekend when we tried to jam her goddamn sleigh bed through her guest room door. I figured I’d just walk it off.

Except now, every time I move, it’s like someone’s shoving an ice pick between my vertebrae. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe through it, but nope, not happening.

I swing my legs off the bed and immediately regret it. Fucking hell. Getting old sucks monkey balls.

I rub my face and trudge to the bathroom.

It’s like wading through Jello just to get there.

Every step sends a spike of pain down my spine, and I grit my teeth, hunched over like a ninety-year-old with a tragic history of poor life choices.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror hits me like a personal attack.

Oh, Jesus.

Hazel eyes bloodshot, hair sticking up in all directions like I lost a fight with a weed whacker, and there’s a pillow line across my cheek that looks suspiciously permanent. I look exactly how I feel: like someone who got run over by a tractor, then backed over just for fun.

I glare at my reflection, waiting for it to magically improve.

It doesn’t.

Whatever. I’m not joining any beauty contests. I pop a couple of painkillers, practically inhale a glass of water, then splash my face. Cold. Brutal. But it helps.

Sort of. I strip off my boxers and shuffle straight into the shower, not even waiting for the water to heat up all the way.

At first, it’s pure hell, but then the water goes hot and, holy crap, it’s almost orgasmic.

Steam fills the air so fast the whole bathroom turns into a sauna.

I brace my hands on the tile and let the water pound directly onto my back.

I might moan. Actually moan. Because the heat is the only thing keeping me from crumpling to the floor and giving up on life forever.

My muscles unclench a millimeter at a time.

The pain eases. Sort of. I hang my head and let the water beat down, pounding out the headache, the tension, and a good deal of the pain.

If I could live in this shower, I would. I crank up the heat until it’s borderline boiling and just stand there, letting the wall of water peel the bad mood off me, layer by layer. My brain finally starts to reboot, but only in low-power mode.

By the time I drag myself out, I’m starting to feel halfway human.

I towel off, wince at the fresh round of back pain, and shoot my reflection a glare.

Still not a beauty queen, but now at least I’m upright and slightly less corpse-like.

I yank open my dresser and grab the first pair of jeans I see and a black T-shirt that fits just right across my shoulders.

I slide it on and roll my head, testing my neck.

Still feels like a rusty hinge, but at least I’m no longer a walking obituary.

My bare feet slap over polished hardwood as I limp my way down the stairs. My house is all vaulted ceilings and sunlight pouring through massive windows. I’d appreciate the view if my head wasn’t trying to secede from my body.

I make a beeline for the kitchen and my coffee maker.

As the machine hisses and spits, I check my phone again.

Twelve text messages, three Snapchats from my brother, who just learned how to use the goddamn app and turned into a menace with it.

There’s also a raging inferno of ignored notifications from the family group chat.

Maggie’s name flashes across my screen, complete with a GIF of a flaming dumpster sailing off a cliff.

I pretend not to see it. I pretend not to see her missed calls either, even though I know ignoring Maggie is about as effective as trying to outswim a pissed-off alligator. She will find me.

But first, I’m going to finish my coffee.

I pour a mug and take a huge gulp, ignoring the burn as it slides down my throat. The caffeine hits hard, like a defibrillator to my soul.

My Apple Watch dings. Calendar event: “Charity Rodeo Planning—9:00 a.m. Sharp.”

“Sharp” was probably my idea, but now it feels like a threat. Fuck. I have an hour to go through emails before I have to deal with my goddamn brothers on the video conference call. I guess I’d better make the most of it.

Now, the emails. I sit at the kitchen table, which is made of some “reclaimed barn wood,” and fire up my laptop. I can tell how bad the day will be by the number of unread messages in the first thirty seconds.

Today I find eighty-four waiting in my inbox. Seventeen flagged as urgent, five of those from Hudson, two from Silas, and one from my sister.

I power through the first ten emails, responding with bored efficiency.

The rest require actual thinking. There’s a spreadsheet from the entertainment division listing profit margins for last month’s events.

I scan for errors, highlight the ones that bug me, and shoot back a snarky note to the accountant about “basic addition.”

Next, a spreadsheet from the bar manager, who still can’t seem to figure out how to calculate pour costs. I type and delete the phrase “Try again, asshole,” three times before settling for “Please double-check these numbers.”

The frustration builds in my jaw, migrating down to my neck. I clench, unclench, clench again, until it feels like my molars are grinding to powder.

The morning sunlight finally breaks through the French doors, splashing gold across the perfectly staged living room.

Everything in here is some variation of white, tan, or pale yellow.

It’s all pristine, like it was staged for a magazine shoot, and it drives me fucking nuts.

I should’ve fired my goddamn decorator, but she’s my sister, so I didn’t.

When I sit back down, I hear the faintest buzz. It’s my phone, shimmying against the marble countertop. Maggie, again.

I let it ring out, and then open my texts.

Maggie

U alive?

Seriously, answer your phone. I’m worried about you.

Stop being an asshole.

I type a response, then delete it. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with Maggie before coffee cup number two.

If I know my sister, she’s feeling bad about my back injury and is already planning some way to fix me.

Since her “fixes” usually end up torturing me, I’ll find a way to deal with this myself.

I walk to the fridge, grab a pre-made protein shake, and slam it while standing in front of the open door. The cold hits my sinuses, and for a second, the headache dulls to a manageable throb.

I close the fridge, take another sip of coffee, and force myself to breathe. I can do this. I can get through one day without stabbing anyone in the eye with a mechanical pencil.

I open the email again and reread what I wrote to the bar manager. I consider sending a follow-up apology, but the rational part of me knows that would only make things worse.

At exactly eight-fifty-nine a.m., I log into the Silver Spoon Falls Family Business Zoom Room, the digital equivalent of a medieval torture chamber where my siblings come to do battle over profit margins and marketing plans. I adjust my webcam and attempt to sit up straight without wincing.

Hudson materializes first, his face taking up the entire left half of the screen.

He’s in his office at the ranch, backdrop perfectly curated for maximum intimidation: a pair of mounted longhorns, several shiny belt buckles, and a photo of the governor shaking his hand.

His Stetson sits on the credenza behind him, but his hair is so perfectly in place I’m convinced he sleeps with a helmet.

Hudson’s jaw is set in its usual “one wrong move and I’ll eat you” configuration.

Next up is Silas, who joins from a truck, earbuds in, sunlight leaking through the windshield.

He looks like he just rolled out of bed and straight into the front seat—T-shirt with a cryptic slogan, sunglasses propped on his head, and a day’s worth of stubble.

He acts like we’re at a tailgate, not a six-figure planning session.

Cole logs in last, from his office at his Montana ranch. He’s wearing a plaid button-down, has next-level bedhead, and is drinking from a mug that says, “World’s Okayest Brother.”

He grins wide. “Morning, ladies,” he drawls, and I can practically hear the eye-roll from Hudson through the screen.

I almost ask where Reine is, but I don’t need to because she appears in the background, giving us a little wave.