Chapter 1
one
Trouble
Some women want a wild night. Others want a solid chest to fall asleep on—a man who’ll make ‘em breakfast in the morning.
This woman’s about to learn I’m only good for one of those.
“How’s round three sound, cowboy?” she asks, rollin’ over to my side of the bed.
I'm on my feet, scanning the room for the trail of clothing. Hers, mine—it's all just collateral damage now. I find a pair of shorts draped over the lampshade, blocking half the light from splattering across the wall.
"Round three sounds like heaven," I say as I toss her shorts onto the bed. "But we'll have to rain check it."
She props herself up on an elbow, her bottom lip turning into a pout. "Well, I'm fine with cuddling. You got those strong arms. I'd fit right in there."
"We’ll have to rain check that, too. Work starts here around five a.m.," I say, bending down as I search under the bed to track down more of her clothes. "And your ride’s here."
"Already?" she asks, sitting up now. The disappointment spreads across her face before she hides it with a forced smile.
I can see it, the craving for more—the connection she wants.
But there's a line I don't cross. Women can have all the fun they want here, but stayin’ the night—that shit leads in a direction I'm not headin’.
I sigh, already knowing the rest of her clothes are probably scattered across my porch. She didn’t even wait to get inside—climbed into my lap the second the truck was in park. Round one happened with her back against the front door.
I nudge open the closet, grab a Stetson Stormers tee, and toss it her way.
“Here,” I say. “Take this.”
She drops the sheets around her, teasing me.
Slipping the shirt over her head and dragging it down slowly, her tits bounce slightly, nipples hard and pink, almost begging for my mouth.
A sight that could easily tempt a man into forgetting his own code, but I clench my jaw, remindin’ myself who I am—the lines I’ve drawn for a reason.
She stands up and yanks her shorts on real fast, like now she’s in a hurry to go. “You really are trouble, aren’t you?”
“That’s what they tell me.” I lean against the doorframe, trying for a grin.
She snorts, not quite smiling. “Yeah, well, you sure live up to the hype.”
“In that case,” I say, stepping closer, “I’ll be a gentleman and walk you out, sugar.”
The front door creaks open, and a rooster screams like some damn alarm I can’t snooze. I glance toward mama's farmhouse. “Shit,” I mutter. “Ranch is about to wake up.”
Her brows lift, just slightly. “Right. Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”
“Come on, it’s not like that—”
She cuts me off with a soft kiss, like she doesn’t want to argue. But when she pulls back, her voice is cooler. “Call me.”
I watch her go, but the mood’s shifted. She bends down to snag her black lace bra from the grass and shoves it into her purse without looking back.
"Sure thing," is all I manage, but it's enough. I don't have her number, and I won’t ask for it. I wave as she slips inside the car and it pulls away. This is the way of things here. I might party all night and enjoy myself, but when the sun rises, reality sets in, and the work has to get done… But maybe I’ll start about twenty minutes late today.
I collapse onto the couch, the cushions swallowing my weight as I let out a long sigh. My eyes flutter closed for a moment. Then, a sharp, insistent bark cuts through my moment of silence. My eyes snap open, the brief haze of near-sleep shattered.
His head cocks to one side, those judgy eyes fixing me with a stare making it clear he's not impressed. Benson Bone, my mom’s Australian Shepherd, is seated on my porch, staring at me through the screen door like he's here to serve me papers.
"Aw hell, Benson, what're you doin' givin’ me the judgy eyes?" I tease him, opening up the screen door. He responds with a soft, throaty bark.
"Did Mama send you?" I ask, narrowin’ my eyes at the dog, who barks louder this time.
It's his way of sayin' get your damn boots on, Trouble. If you haven’t picked up on it yet, that’s me—Tristan Stetson, also known as Trouble, according to the ranch and everyone who's ever dared to step into the arena with me.
I chuckle, flicking a toothpick between my lips from one corner of my mouth to the other. I slip on some clothes and put on my boots, then whistle at Benson, who leaps down the steps following behind me.
“Let’s not keep the queen waitin’, shall we?” Benson and I hop in the side-by-side, and we cut across Stetson Ranch.
It’s our kingdom here, a place where Mama raised four wild boys—now five, counting my nephew. Her hands might be rough, and she might yell at us more than anything, but there’s always been that twinkle in her eye that tells us she loves every moment of it.
We drive past my older brother's place—everyone calls him Danger. He lives there with his son, Fisher. My other two brothers, who go by Rogue and Charming, are probably out patrolling the fences on the far side near their properties. My three brothers and I each have our lodges on the ranch, spread out in different corners, with Mama’s farmhouse right in the middle—the heart of it all.
Every morning, we gather there for breakfast. Her door’s always open—not just for us, but for the ranch hands in the bunkhouses, the staff we have, and the riders on our Stetson Stormers team.
We’ve got a big crew, but around here, loyalty runs deep. Everyone’s family.
As we close in on Mama’s house, Benson Bone seems to sense my thoughts, his ears perking up like he knows he’s about to watch somethin’ entertaining go down, like usual.
“What she got up her sleeve today, boy?” He doesn’t answer, simply pants in response.
Mama's farmhouse has been here for generations, but we updated it for her. She has the biggest wrap-around porch in town with rocking chairs lined up across it. Her only requirements were an oversized kitchen and a dining table that could fit all of us.
"Trouble," Mama drawls, stepping onto her porch. "Do you know what Benson brought me this mornin’?" Her hands rest unevenly on her hips.
"Can't say I do, Mama."
I don’t even need the details—I’m already smilin’. I already know I’m busted. Been here too many times, and never could keep a straight face through it.
She thrusts a delicate, accusatory finger towards me. "A pair of them skank-tied underwear." Her southern twang makes even the raunchiest items sound like a church choir gone wrong.
I can't help it—I chuckle, shaking my head. "Mama, do you mean he brought you a thong?"
"Whatever that cooch string is called," she snaps back, and I'm still laughing as she hits me with the full force of my name. "Tristan Stetson, I am not playin’ with you. Keep whatever kinky shit you’re gettin’ into over at your house the hell away from me over here."
It’s serious business when she says my whole name like that. I give Benson a look that says he’s a damn traitor. And he knows it because he walks away wagging his tail.
The morning sun glints off the silver buckle of my brother’s belt as he steps out onto the porch, smirkin’ like the dickhead he is.
Danger twirls the scrap of lace around his finger like a lasso.
"I can tell you what kind of kinky shit he gets into if you want, Mama," he drawls, eyeing me with that same glint our granddaddy used to have.
"Danger," I say, nodding toward the thong still dancin’ on his finger. "You can burn that in the fire pit." Seeing as how she just left, and I ordered her a ride before she could lay her head down on the pillow beside me, she won’t be needin’ it anymore.
“Well…” Mama starts, and her expression softens. “If you can’t bring her over for breakfast with your Mama, then she isn’t the type of girl you should be bringin’ home at all.”
The porch creaks, a warning that yet another member of my family is about to weigh in on my damn business. I turn, ready for whatever jab is coming my way, but it's just Fisher, my six-year-old nephew who is way too wise for his age.
"Don’t you dare burn that where I roast my hot dogs," he declares, staring at the lingerie with disgust before he turns back and heads inside to wait at the breakfast table.
“You’re right, Fisher,” I laugh, yelling after him. “Sorry about that.”
Danger, ever the instigator, sends the thong spiraling through the air. My hand snaps out, reflexes on point from years of wrangling more than just stray underwear. The lace lands in my palm before I tuck it into my back pocket.
He smirks, stepping closer to the railing. “Nice catch. But keep that shit up and you might end up like me—with a kid of your own.”
Fisher’s mom skipped town the second she had him.
Packed her bags faster than a rookie getting bucked off a bull.
Said she was never meant to be a mama, not meant for this small-town ranch life.
She was meant to be an actress or some shit.
Honestly, I don’t think Danger ever got over that heartbreak.
And if there’s one rule I’ll never break, it’s this—we don’t talk about her. Ever.
“Don’t you be wishin’ that nonsense on me, now.”
As Mama walks inside to finish making breakfast, I sit on her porch steps, looking over my favorite view.
The early morning light stretches across the ranch, casting a molten glow over rolling pastures—one thousand acres that belong to us.
Cattle graze lazily in the distance, a few horses stir near the fences, tails flicking, their coats gleaming as the sun climbs higher.
The air is rich with the scent of earth, hay, and the faintest hint of morning coffee drifting in from the farmhouse.
My grandfather's legacy stretches across this expanse, built from his blood, sweat, and dreams. But it hasn’t been the same around here since Granddaddy passed, although a piece of him still lives on in all of us. He gave us our nicknames—originally only used them when ridin’, but they stuck.
Mine? Well, he said I was trouble because I was fearless, and somehow, I always find my way out of whatever mess I get myself into.
Never backed down from a challenge—whether it was takin’ on the gnarliest bull in the pen, sweet-talkin’ someone else’s girl, or stirrin’ up chaos at the rodeo after-party.
Maybe he settled on Trouble after one legendary night when I rode a bull no one else would, then got into a bar fight, and he caught me walking out grinnin’ like an idiot.
There's something freeing about livin’ on the edge, though.
Whether it's starin’ down at a bull with horns sharp as sin or racin’ my bike against the thundering heart of the storm, I feel alive.
Rules are just around to be toyed with, but maybe that’s just typical for a bull rider.
Around here, we raise our red cups high and laugh loud—because life doesn’t slow down.
And we brothers, we protect the land, we protect each other.
This place, Stetson Ranch, it's more than home—it’s where I plan to live and die.
And we—the Stetson boys—we keep it pumpin’, fierce as the bloodline that links us.
Granddaddy's spirit lingers, a shadow that watches over the land. I carry his wildness inside me—his need for speed. He’s the reason I’ve been chasin’ storms my whole life—he’s a flame that never flickers out.
Every day, we fight to keep James Stetson’s dream alive. Family, the Stetson Ranch, and its riders—that’s all that ever mattered to him.
My brothers and I were born to ride, but the team we built? That’s something else entirely. We’re the Stetson Stormers—our own crew on the Pro Bull Riding circuit. Handpicked, battle-tested, and built for chaos.
We aren’t just cowboys. We’re the kind of men who ride like the devil’s chasin’ them.
Tenacity. Raw nerve. Fire in our veins.
We don’t ride for trophies. We ride for something bigger—for the Stetson name, for the legacy, for the memory of James Stetson and everything he stood for.
Other ranches are folding under pressure. Riders are turning tail, sponsors pulling out. The world’s watching, wondering who will weather the storm.
But we don’t back down. Not now. Not ever.
And tonight, under the glare of the arena lights, with the crowd roaring and the bulls thrashing, we’ll do what we were born to do.
We’ll prove that the Stetson Ranch doesn’t just breed champions.
We forge legends.