Page 69 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

The crowd starts cheering and whistling, but he holds up his hand again.

“But only if Ridge Colter makes his full eight seconds.”

The sound is deafening. I’m crying, not pretty tears but full-on sobbing, as Cash and Walker pull me against them from either side.

“No pressure, though,” Meredith says dryly. “Just the entire ranch depending on eight seconds of bull riding. Totally casual.”

Through my tears, I spot Ridge by the chutes. He’s stretching against the fence, already in his chaps and protective vest, the black helmet I kissed for luck this morning locked in place. Even from here, I spot the tension in his shoulders, the pressure.

I blow him a kiss, exaggerated and dramatic, not caring who sees. He looks up at exactly the right moment, catches it, and presses his fist to his chest, right over his heart. The gesture makes my throat tight.

“The sexual tension could be cut with a knife,” Meredith observes. “How do you function on a daily basis?”

“Usually with less clothing,” Cash says, which makes Meredith cackle and me turn crimson.

The first exhibition riders enter to warm up the crowd. These are professionals who donated their time and money to our cause. Tom introduces Sean Washington from Austin.

“That’s Black Lightning he’s riding,” Walker explains, leaning forward to see better. “Mean son of a bitch. Ninety percent buck-off rate.”

The gate opens, and a big brindle bull with horns that look like they could punch through steel explodes out.

Sean makes it look easy on exit, flowing with the bull’s movements like they’re dancing, but he barely holds on for two seconds, and he’s sliding off the bull, trying to free himself before he gets trampled. My heart is in my throat.

“Fuck,” Meredith states, reality twisting her expression into one of fear. “Why would anyone climb onto one of those beasts?”

“That’s whatshe said,” Cash mocks and winks my way, which has me chuckling despite the tension.

Walker leans forward slightly, his gaze still locked on the arena. “It’s about more than adrenaline. For some of these guys, it’s legacy. It’s proving something to their families, to themselves. Eight seconds on a bull can feel like control, purpose… even healing. ”

Meredith blinks at him. “Damn. Okay, cowboy philosopher.”

The second rider, Bobby Garrison, Tom’s nephew, is next. His bull, a coal-black monster named Midnight Terror, is in a mood. The moment the gate opens, Midnight Terror goes vertical, all four hooves leaving the ground. Bobby lasts exactly three seconds before being launched into orbit.

He lands hard, wrong, his leg bending in a way that makes me gasp.

The bull wheels around, spotting him on the ground, and charges.

Bobby rolls desperately as hooves the size of dinner plates slam into the dirt inches from his head.

The safety riders sweep in, but Midnight Terror dodges them with surprising agility for something that size.

“Get up, get up, get up,” I chant, gripping both my men’s hands.

Finally, someone gets a rope on the bull, directing him away while medics rush to Bobby. He manages to stand, limping badly but waving to show he’s okay. The crowd applauds, but my heart is trying to escape through my throat.

“Ridge can’t get hurt,” I whisper. “We just got everything figured out. We’re finally together, finally home, finally?—”

“He’ll be fine,” June says firmly, but I can see the worry in her eyes too.

That’s when I glance around and spot Ronan, stumbling down the aisle like he’s navigating a ship in a storm. His face is red and sweaty, shirt half untucked, and he’s gesturing wildly at nothing.

My stomach hardens, fear pinching down my spine.

“Incoming,” Walker mutters, already standing. The tension in his body is immediate, predatory.

Cash rises too, and I notice several other ranch hands throughout the crowd turning toward the disturbance. We’re not alone here; we have an army.

Ronan is close enough now that I catch his slurred shouting. “Thieves! Fucking thieves! That’s my inheritance! My grandmother’s ranch!”

Cash and Walker move fast. One second, Ronan is storming toward us, red-faced and shouting, and the next, both of them have him.

Cash grabs one arm, Walker the other, lifting him clean off his feet like it’s nothing.

“This is my ranch!” Ronan screams, spit flying, eyes wild. “You stole it! You fuckers!”

“The only thing stolen here is the oxygen you’re wasting,” Cash snaps, his voice low and razor-sharp, loud enough to cut through the crowd. His jaw is clenched, eyes blazing. “We warned you once about coming anywhere near Sophia and us.”

Walker steps in closer, his grip like steel. “And now you’re gonna find out what happens when you don’t listen.”

“You’re gonna be sorry you ever set foot on this dirt,” Cash growls. “Real sorry. ”

The crowd starts booing, voices rising with a mix of outrage and glee. “Get him outta here!” someone shouts. Popcorn sails through the air and bursts across Ronan’s head like snow.

A chill dances down my spine, not from fear but from how fast my cowboys moved, how fiercely they stepped between me and danger like it was instinct.

Like protecting me wasn’t a question, just a fact.

My heart is pounding, not because of Ronan’s threats, but because of the way they carry him out despite his shouting and thrashing.

The arena erupts in cheers.

This isn’t just loyalty. It’s something deeper. Fiercer. Territorial.

And terrifyingly beautiful.

“This is better than reality TV,” Meredith says, casually filming on her phone. “Your followers are going to love this.”

“It’s also stressful. Don’t forget that,” I say, trying to calm my breathing. June is reaching over to take my hand. “We’re all in this together.”

“I love Montana,” Meredith declares with a grin. “In Chicago, someone would already be calling their lawyer. Here you have freaking cowboys taking out the trash.”

They’re gone for what feels like forever.

Another rider enters, Jake something from Wyoming, and this time I watch the bull as much as the rider.

It’s a spotted beast, white and brown like a deadly dairy cow, spinning in the chute before the gate even opens.

When it does, the bull corkscrews out, and Jake lasts maybe less than three seconds before eating dirt.

Then three more riders, and I’m starting to worry about my men.

Finally, Cash and Walker return, sliding back into their seats, both of them still buzzing with the kind of quiet rage that simmers even after the fire is out.

I lean in. “All okay?”

“Lucky for us,” Cash says, brushing dust from his jeans, “the cops were already out front. They arrested him for public intoxication and being a potential threat to others.”

Walker nods, gaze still tracking the edge of the arena. “We made sure they knew about what happened at the house too. The bathroom incident—with you.”

My stomach twists.

“They said we might need to give a statement later,” Cash adds, voice softening as his eyes meet mine. “But he’s not going to bother us.”

Relief flares over me, leaving my limbs just a little shaky.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” Tom’s voice booms through the arena, pulling every head toward the gate.

The crowd goes silent. Completely, eerily silent. Thousands of people holding their breath at once.

“Returning to the arena after three years, riding to save his family’s ranch and prove that legends never truly die—Ridge Colter!”

The silence shatters into thunder. People are on their feet, signs waving, and someone starts a chant that spreads like wildfire: “Ridge! Ridge! Ridge!”

I can see him at the chute, climbing onto the bull with the grace that clearly made him famous. But I also see what others might miss, the slight hesitation as he swings his right leg over, the way his jaw tightens.

“The bull tonight is Apocalypse Now,” Tom continues, and my blood turns to ice water. “Twenty-one hundred pounds of pure aggression. This red devil is ferocious. Only two riders have ever made eight seconds on this beast.”

The bull is huge, a deep rust red with a white face and horns that curve wickedly forward. Even in the chute, he’s throwing his head, slamming against the metal rails with impacts I can hear from here.

“Apocalypse Now?” I squeak. “That’s what he drew?”

“Random draw,” Cash murmurs, but I sense the tension in his body where it presses against mine. Walker’s hand tightens on my thigh.

Ridge settles onto the bull, and I watch him wrap his hand in the rope. Around and through, around and through, then pounding his fist to set the grip. He looks up once, finding us in the crowd. Even from this distance, our eyes lock.

“I love you,” I mouth, exaggerated so he can read it .

He touches his chest, right over his heart, and nods to the gate operator.

My heart stops.

Those around him are double-checking things.

Then the gate swings open.

Apocalypse Now doesn’t just exit; he detonates. All four hooves leave the ground as he launches from the chute, his chunky body twisting in midair like he’s trying to turn himself inside out. Ridge moves with him, but barely, his free hand high and already fighting for balance.

One Mississippi.

The bull lands and immediately spins left, hard and violent, his body nearly horizontal with the force. Ridge’s entire body whips to the side, his legs losing their grip for a terrifying moment before he clamps back down.

Two Mississippi.

A damn monster of a buck, the kind that sends most riders flying. Apocalypse Now’s back hooves kick higher than his head, and Ridge’s body compresses and extends like he’s being worked by invisible hands. His face is pure concentration, and I can see the pain there, the strain on his hip.

“Hold on, baby,” I whisper, not even realizing I’m standing, everyone around me standing too.

Three Mississippi.