Page 8 of Ride Me Reckless (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #1)

Chapter Eight

Borrowed Time

Tessa

T he hum of engines and distant speaker crackle pulled me from a shallow sleep. My eyes opened to a shaft of sunlight cutting through the trailer's narrow window, catching on the chrome rim propped against the wall. We were back at it—Dallas. One more race. One more shot.

Callie was already up, clanging around like she was in a damn cooking show instead of a ten-by-twelve aluminum box on wheels. The smell of burnt coffee and motor oil filled the cramped air.

"You sleep at all?" she asked, chipper, too chipper, as she popped the microwave open with her elbow.

"Barely," I muttered, swinging my legs off the bed. My back ached from the unforgiving mattress and from carrying this whole operation on nerves and duct tape.

She turned, holding up two mugs like we were on vacation. "Today's gonna be different."

I gave her a look. "You say that every race."

"And one of these times, I'll be right."

I took the coffee, even though it tasted like burnt toast soaked in radiator water. "Transmission feels tight," I said. "We should push it while we've got the edge."

"Nope," she said, grabbing her tablet. "We baby that car today. Sponsors want consistency, not a burnout queen."

"If I baby it, we don't win."

"If you wreck it, we're done."

We stared at each other, the kind of silence settling between us when neither of us wanted to admit we were scared.

“This sponsorship only covers today,” I said quietly. “If we don’t win, we don’t eat. You know that, right?”

I looked away and admitted, “If I weren’t so damn stubborn, I’d ask Colt for help. But I just?—”

“I get it. Can’t say I blame you,” she said, her voice softer now, though she still wouldn’t look at me. “But let’s… not make today the day we gamble what little we’ve got left.”

I set my mug down and pulled on my boots, the laces worn and frayed. Everything we owned was either patched, rusted, or barely holding together.

Callie still wore hope like a badge. But me?

All I felt was the clock ticking. Borrowed parts. Borrowed time.

The sun beat down on the blacktop like it wanted to melt every last ounce of resolve out of me. I crouched beside the dragster, tightening the last lug nut with a growl of frustration that had nothing to do with the wrench in my hand.

"You'd better hold, baby," I muttered to the machine, brushing a hand along the polished fender. The paint was scuffed, the decals from three seasons ago peeling at the edges, but she still looked like a beast ready to bite.

This car knew all my secrets. She knew what it was like to start from nothing and scrape your way into someone's spotlight. She also knew what it felt like to fall hard and fast, leaving scorch marks behind.

"Miss Walker?"

I looked up to see a man in a crisp white polo and mirrored sunglasses strolling toward me. The temp sponsor rep. Hale Performance something-or-other. He had a clipboard and the kind of handshake that told you he'd never held a wrench in his life.

"We just wanted to confirm you'll be in lane four for the 2:15 heat," he said, glancing over his shoulder like I was a formality.

"And remember—this partnership hinges on visibility.

We're looking for grit, but we're also looking for podiums. Our branding package goes further if your car crosses the finish line first."

I offered him a tight smile. "So, no pressure."

He chuckled like I was joking, then walked off with a nod that felt more like a warning.

I exhaled, wiping sweat from my brow. Across the pit wall, a cowboy in faded jeans and a hat leaned against the rail, arms folded. Something about his posture, the way his jaw set—it sent my heart shuttering. For one gut-shot second, I thought?—

But no. It wasn't Colt.

Just another shadow wearing the wrong boots.

I cursed under my breath and turned back to the dragster. Focus, Tessa.

Callie was off hustling God-knows-what with the other teams, trying to secure extra dollars from small donations. The noise of the track ramped up—announcers, engines, the pulsing crowd. It was all white-hot adrenaline.

I reached for my helmet, fingers closing around the edge.

That's when my phone rang.

I frowned. Only a few people ever called me on race day. I dug it out of my back pocket, my gut already sinking.

Mom.

I hesitated for half a second before answering. "Hey, Mama."

She didn't respond right away.

Then came her soft, uncertain voice. "Marge? Honey, is that you?"

My chest tightened. "No, Mama… it's Tessa."

A pause. Then a shaky breath.

"Oh… of course it is," she said, but her voice sounded far away. "You just sounded like your Aunt Marge for a minute. Isn't that funny?"

Funny wasn't the word I'd use.

"Mama," I said gently, ducking behind the trailer for a sliver of privacy. "Are you okay?"

"I can't find my Sunday shoes," she said, her voice wobbling. "And I told your daddy we'd be late for the potluck."

I closed my eyes.

Mom was getting worse.

And I wasn't there.

My fingers tightened around the phone, as if I might will her clarity back through the static. But all I heard was the rustle of her moving around the house, humming a hymn like she used to when I was a girl getting dressed for church.

"I'll call you tonight, Mama," I said softly. "Okay? Just… don't go anywhere."

She didn't respond. Then—"Love you, baby."

My throat went tight. "Love you, too."

The line went dead.

I stared down at the screen until it dimmed in my palm. Then I slid the phone into the pocket of my coveralls and leaned back against the trailer, pressing my head against the aluminum like it could keep the ache from spreading.

I should be home.

I should be doing more.

But I needed this win. Not just for the car, not just for the sponsors, not even for me. If I didn't cross that finish line ahead of the pack today, there wouldn't be another shot. No more parts. No more entry fees. No more fake-it-til-you-make-it pep talks over cold gas station coffee.

No way to get back to Lovelace and figure out how to help her before it was too late.

The guilt crept in like an oil stain—slow and seeping. I hated that it took money to fix everything. Hated that love wasn't enough, but today, love had to wait.

I had a race to win.

The staging lights flickered yellow, flickering like the excitement inside of my chest.

I slid the helmet over my head, every breath shallow and hot. The world narrowed behind that tinted visor—just me, the track, and the ticking clock that could save or sink everything.

The dragster vibrated beneath me like a coiled beast. I nudged the throttle, feeling her hum through my bones. She wanted to run. She always did.

So, did I.

I stared down the strip, that long, straight promise stretching out like a dare. A quarter mile of judgment. A few seconds to prove I wasn't done. That I still had it. That maybe I could keep this thing alive long enough to get home and fix what mattered most.

This wasn't so different from barrel racing.

Back when it was just Colt and me, dusty arenas, and late-night kisses behind the chutes. I used to live for the cloverleaf pattern—the way Biscuit and I became one solid blur of instinct and control.

This was the same kind of dance.

Only faster. Hotter. Louder.

I lined up, blinking at the light stack. Red. Yellow.

Green.

I hit it.

The launch slammed me back in my seat, the G-force stretching time itself. My hands were steady, feet tight. I didn't even think. I just moved—automatic, precise, ruthless.

The engine screamed like it wanted blood.

I hit second. Then third. My body was fire. My mind was ice.

Halfway down the strip, I could feel it—how good the run was. Every shift hit clean. No drift. No drag. Just speed and silence roaring louder than thought.

The finish line came up like it had been waiting for me all along.

I crossed.

I didn't even hear the announcer at first. Didn't register the explosion of cheers or Callie's scream behind the pit rail. All I knew was the number flashing on the LED board.

17.843 seconds. My best run this season. Maybe my best ever.

I ripped the helmet off and let the air slap my face. My hands were trembling. My throat burned from holding my breath too long.

But I smiled.

I actually smiled.

We'd won.

The dragster rumbled to a halt as I coasted down the end lane, the official waving me toward the return path. My heart still hadn't caught up.

This didn't change everything.

But it changed something .

Maybe enough to buy us time—to get home and finally fight for the things that mattered— before they slipped away for good.

The car clicked and groaned beneath me as it cooled, metal settling with the lazy rhythm of an engine that had given its all. I stood beside her, helmet cradled in my arm, sweat drying sticky along my spine, the Texas sun still throwing heat like it had something to prove.

Callie came barreling down the return lane, her boots skidding in the dirt. "Tess!" she shrieked, throwing her arms around me. "You did it! You freaking did it!"

I laughed and nodded. "I know. I can't believe it either."

"You smoked that lane! Girl, I swear, they're gonna talk about this run all damn week."

Her voice was loud, triumphant, but it faded as I looked past her—toward the stands, the fence line, the sea of strangers who'd seen the best of me today.

He wasn't there.

Of course he wasn't. Colt wasn't part of this world anymore. I left that behind years ago. But still... some quiet, stubborn part of me had hoped.

Maybe not for him to cheer. But just to know .

Back then, after a good ride—whether it was a perfect barrel run or just some small win at a nowhere rodeo—he used to wrap me in his arms like I'd just lassoed the moon. He'd murmur, "That's my girl," low and proud into my neck while the dust was still settling.

Now it was just me.

Me and Callie. Me and this one win.

It was enough. But it wasn't everything .

Callie tugged on my sleeve. "Tessa. Don't go all broody on me. This is huge."

I blinked the sting from my eyes and forced a smile. “Yeah. I know. I just…” My voice wavered. “He would’ve liked to see that run.”

Callie quieted. For once, she didn’t offer a comeback.

She just looped her arm through mine and nodded. “Then maybe you ought to tell him.”

The crowd noise dulled around us, swallowed by the rumble of engines and the slow return to business as usual. The moment—fleeting and raw—hung in the heat like smoke from an engine burn.

I slipped my hand into my back pocket and pulled out my phone before I could talk myself out of it. My thumb paused over his name.

Colt.

I tapped it and lifted the phone to my ear, heart thudding louder than the track speakers. It rang once. Twice.

Then came his voice. Low. Familiar.

“You’ve reached Colt Bennett. Leave it short or don’t leave it at all.”

The tone beeped.

I froze.

Then: “Hey. It’s me.” My voice cracked, softer than I meant it to be. “I, uh… I won. In Dallas. Thought maybe you’d want to know.”

I hesitated, lips pressed tight.

“I just—yeah. That’s all.”

I ended the call before I could do something stupid. Like say I missed him. Like ask if he ever thought about us.

We stood there a beat longer, watching the crew prep the next heat.

The high had slipped away. But for one second, I’d felt like I was flying.

Would Colt hear it in my voice and remember what that felt like too?