Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ace
Today is a good fucking day.
I woke up to a picture of Harper's ass and a message that said she's leaving to fly back to Arizona.
My girl is coming home to me. Coming to cheer me on, just like she used to, back when she'd lean on the fence rail in those denim shorts with the frayed edges and scream my name louder than the announcer.
I've got three rides today. Need to win at least two to stay on track for the league title.
Easy. And then I’m taking Harper to the fair, and we’re gonna get drunk and do some line dancing.
"You got everything?" Jett shouts up the stairs.
"Yeah."
"Don't forget the winning smile."
I roll my eyes. "Bulls don't care how pretty I am, Jett. They just want me the fuck off their backs."
I jog downstairs, grab my bag and my hat from the hook by the door. Jett's leaning against the counter, keys spinning on his finger, looking like a man who slept about two hours and is running entirely on caffeine and stubbornness.
"Hunter and Colten are meeting us there with Lola and Violet," he says.
Which reminds me.
"I heard Violet's pregnant," I say, watching his face.
The keys stop spinning. His jaw twitches. His hand shoves into his pocket, and something shifts behind his eyes, a version of Jett I don't think I've ever seen before.
"Yeah. She is."
I rest my hand on his shoulder. "You good? I know you're close with her."
I choose my words carefully. He swears they're just friends. But I see it. He looks at Violet like the whole world reorganizes itself around her smile. He looks at her the way I look at Harper. Even if he hasn't figured that out yet.
"That's all it'll ever be. Friends," he says sharply.
I step back. Give him the space.
"Well, we'll look after her and the kid. She's family. She's going to be fine."
Violet became part of our family the day she arrived on Sterling Ranch with Lola. That doesn't change just because some deadbeat left town, leaving her holding the pieces.
"Let's go then, fucker," Jett says, snapping back into the version of himself that grins and swaggers and doesn't let you see the damage. "We've got some money to win."
I'll be keeping an eye on him. I have a feeling this is tearing him apart in ways he doesn't have the vocabulary for yet.
“You know you can talk to me, Jett? We’re cousins, but you’re pretty much a Sterling brother. You’ve listened to me pine over Harper for years; I can listen back. Okay?”
He nods and walks out to the truck. I watch him go.
Now I've got to win, for me, for Harper, and apparently to cheer up my lovesick cousin who won't admit he's lovesick.
Full card.
* * *
The fairgrounds are already buzzing by the time we pull in. There's the low roar of a crowd that's been drinking since ten a.m. The parking lot's a mess of horse trailers, lifted trucks, and kids running between the fences with cotton candy. Country music crackles from the speakers.
This is my church. Always has been.
Jett and I head through the back entrance to the rider area. The other guys are already warming up, stretching, taping wrists, talking shit. The usual pre-ride energy.
I drop my bag, pull out my vest, my gloves, my rope. Start working the rosin into the grip the way Dad taught me. Muscle memory so deep it lives in my hands even when my head's somewhere else. Jett has already got the camera rolling, ready to make some content.
Hunter and Colten find me behind the chutes twenty minutes before my first ride.
"Draw sheet's up," Hunter says, handing me a printout. He's in his usual spot, arms crossed, hat low, watching everything and saying nothing.
I scan the sheet. My first bull is a mid-range draw. Easy money. My second is solid, strong spinner, decent score potential.
My third.
I stop. Tap the name.
"Gravedigger," I say.
Hunter goes still.
Colten looks over my shoulder. Reads it. Then takes off his hat and drags a hand down his face.
"No," Hunter says.
"I didn't ask a question," I snap back.
"You were about to. And the answer's no."
Gravedigger. Two thousand pounds of black Brahma cross with a reputation that travels further than most men in this sport.
Unridden in his last fourteen outs. Snapped Tyler’s neck in Amarillo six weeks ago, the kid's still in a halo brace, eating through a straw.
Before that, he put two riders in the hospital on consecutive weekends.
This is the kind of bull that, if you ride him, puts your name in a conversation nobody else can touch.
"He's the highest-marked bull on the card," I say. "If I ride him, that score alone could clinch the round."
"If you ride him," Colten repeats, emphasis on the if. "Ace, that animal broke a man's neck last month. And Tyler was good. He was ranked number twelve in the country."
"I'm ranked two.” I shrug.
And this is exactly why my brothers ain’t bull riders. They don’t understand how bad we want this. We don’t want it easy. We get off on the fear. The danger. We’re wired different.
"That's not the flex you think it is when the bull doesn't give a shit about rankings."
Hunter hasn't moved. He's doing that thing where he goes quiet, and you can feel the calculation happening behind his eyes. Running the odds. Weighing the risk against the reward. Thinking like a boss, not a brother.
"Pick a different bull for the third ride," he says. "You win your first two, you don't need Gravedigger."
"I don't need him. I want him. There's a difference."
"The difference is a stretcher."
"The difference is a title." I look at Hunter. Hold his gaze. "I ride Gravedigger, I'm not just winning today. I'm sending a message to every rider on this circuit that there isn't a bull alive I won't sit on. That's worth more than points. That's a legacy ride. And I need that."
"Legacy rides don't mean shit if you're dead, Ace."
"I ain't dying on a bull, Hunter. I made a promise."
Something shifts in his expression. He knows who I made that promise to. He knows I don't break them.
"This is a bad idea," Colten says flatly.
"Most of my best ideas are to you," I retort.
"Name one."
"Harper."
Colten opens his mouth. Closes it. Hunter almost smiles.
"I'm riding Gravedigger," I say, pulling on my gloves. "You can be pissed about it from the stands. Just trust me."
Jett is now by my side. “I vote yes. And I’m his trainer. So…”
Hunter stares at me for a long beat. Then he leans in, voice low enough that only I hear it.
"You come off that bull wrong, Harper is gonna see it. Think about that. I’m saying this because I love you."
He walks away. Colten pulls out a cigarette, looking between Jett and me.
“One day you’re going to give me a heart attack, Ace,” he says, pointing at me.
“I love you too, Colt.” I laugh.
I think about it. I think about Harper watching me. I think about her face. I think about the sound she'd make.
And then I think about the sound she'll make when I ride Gravedigger for eight seconds and walk out of that arena on two feet.
I pull my rope tighter and head for the chutes with Jett on my tail.
I'm behind chute three, one foot on the rail, checking my wrap, when I hear her.
Not her voice. Not yet. I hear the reaction to her, the low whistle from one of the riders to my left, the way Jett suddenly stops talking mid-sentence, the subtle shift in energy that happens when something bright walks into a room full of dirt and testosterone.
I turn around.
And there she is.
Harper Jones, walking through the back gate of the rider area like she owns the entire fairground.
White cowboy boots. Denim cutoffs that should be illegal.
A cropped flannel tied at her waist, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
Her blonde hair is loose and golden under a cream Stetson that I'm almost certain used to be mine.
She's looking for me. I can tell by the way her eyes are scanning the chutes, the way she's moving fast, weaving through riders and stock hands, her boots kicking up dust. I'm already moving.
I step off the rail, pull my gloves off, toss them on my bag, and walk toward her through the crowd. Everything else drops away. None of it exists. Just her, closing the distance, that smile breaking across her face the second she spots me.
She runs.
Full sprint in cowboy boots. Purse bouncing on her shoulder, hat nearly flying off, not a single care in the world about the thirty riders watching or the stock hands whistling or the fact that I'm in full rodeo gear.
I catch her.
She launches herself at me, and I lift her off the ground, arms locked around her waist, spinning her once because I can't help it. Her legs wrap around me, her hands grab my face, and she kisses me like she's been counting every single minute since I last touched her.
I kiss her back the same way.
Her fingers slide into my hair, knocking my hat off. I don't care. Her mouth is warm and tastes like the airplane coffee she probably drank the whole flight here. She's laughing against my lips, and I'm smiling too hard to kiss her properly, and it doesn't matter.
"You're here," I say, pulling back just enough to look at her.
"Flight was delayed, rushed to drive here in time." She's breathless. "I had to get here before you went out. I had to."
"You made it."
"I made it." She presses her forehead to mine, still suspended in my arms, legs wrapped around me like she's never letting go. "Hi, cowboy."
"Hi, Goldie."
She drops her legs, and I set her down, but I keep my hands on her waist. Can't stop touching her. Won't stop touching her.
She straightens my collar. Brushes dust off my vest. Fusses with me the way she used to, like getting me ready is part of her ritual too.
"You look—" She steps back and gives me a slow once-over, bottom to top. The chaps. The vest. The button-down with the sleeves rolled. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, and her cheeks flush pink.
"Dangerous," she finishes.
"That's the idea."
She picks my hat up off the ground, dusts it off, and places it back on my head. Her hands linger on the brim, adjusting it just right, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are so full of something that it nearly takes my knees out.
"You're going to win," she says. Not a question.
"I always win when you're watching."
"Then I won't blink."
Jett wolf-whistles from the chutes. I flip him off without turning around.
"I have some plans for us later," she says, quieter now. Her hands flat on my chest.
"Well, I also have plans for us,” I tell her with a grin.
"Right now, I'm here to watch my man ride."
My man. Jesus Christ, this woman.
I pull her in one more time, kiss her forehead, and let my lips stay there for a beat longer than I need to. Breathing her in.
"Go find the others," I say against her hair. "Hunter's got seats near the front. I'll find you in the stands."
She nods. Steps back. Adjusts her hat.
"Good luck, Ace Sterling," she says, walking backward, pointing at me. "Don't you dare get hurt. Big plans later."
"Big plans for the rest of our lives." I wink.
She turns, blows me a kiss, which I catch and I watch her go. Watch her weave through the crowd, cowboy boots and golden hair, and that walk that makes every man in a fifty-yard radius forget what they were doing.
She glances back once and catches me admiring her.
I pick up my gloves. Pull them back on. Turn toward the chutes where Gravedigger is pacing behind the gate, two thousand pounds of fury waiting for someone stupid enough to climb on his back.
Harper's here. She's sitting in the stands right now, wearing my hat, waiting to watch me ride.
I've never been more ready for anything in my life.
I need to make sure this bull doesn’t kill me, because I need to know what her plans involve. I’m hoping it’s chasin’ and fuckin’.