Page 11 of Rogue Cowboy (Montana’s Rodeo Cowboys #3)

“C’mon, rodeo queenie.” Rohan pulled out his smooth country hick voice, calling her the childish nickname that he’d tormented her with when she’d been a kid. “You love the stage.”

“Yeah, Riley, show us some of your gymnastic moves before you’re too old and dusty to pull them off.” Arlo grinned in challenge.

“I’m not biting,” Riley waggled a finger at her, so aware of Cole watching all the byplay. He was practically taking notes.

“We should get pink saddles. We can be members of Chappell Roan’s ‘Pink Pony Club,’” Petal said, looping on one of the grips and checking it.

“Please no,” Riley muttered. “How ’bout you flip for who goes first,” Riley suggested, stifling an unexpected urge to show off in front of Cole. No. That would be disastrous.

But maybe he’d realize she was fine, and he could take his white-hat-cowboy complex somewhere else.

“Na-uh, you’re up. Show us how it’s done.” Petal dramatically gestured toward Cinnamon, and Arlo cupped her hands like she’d toss Riley up.

She didn’t want to disappoint them or make it weird, and it wasn’t like she didn’t keep herself in shape or practice. If she wanted to add trick riding instruction to the horse programs at the Telford Ranch, she needed to be comfortable demonstrating.

She stroked Cinnamon. “Hey, girl, new plan.”

Her heart and head settled as her whole body calmed. Cinnamon was a beautiful paint she’d raised and trained since she was a filly—probably her best friend after her mom.

But as she moved to hoist herself up, Cole stepped forward and ran his hands over the girth. Then he touched the saddle.

“Meet your approval cowboy?” She wasn’t sure if she should be charmed or pissed. “Next time you take me shooting, I’ll check your…ah…clip?”

He turned his head, and she caught her breath at the flash of amusement in his eyes. His mouth was daringly close and a little scandalous imp stirred inside her.

She remembered how on the day and night they’d spent together, she’d thought about kissing him.

Willing him to kiss her, wondering if she should make her first ever move.

And now she’d missed that chance. The one inexperienced peck on the cheek when he’d left after their weekend together could hardly count as a memory or a kiss in his much more experienced life.

“You think you know what you’re doing? When’s the last time you saddled a horse?” It was fun challenging Cole. She could feel Cinnamon’s urge to play, and it was contagious. Riley felt electricity zip up her spine.

“Do I need a lesson?”

She shook her head slowly, raised her brows in challenge, daring him to respond. “Do you?”

“I’d be more incentivized if my cowgirl gives me a show.”

“Cole?” she protested. He couldn’t talk like that. She wasn’t his. Not really.

In one smooth move, he tossed her up and into the saddle like she weighed as little as a rag doll. She felt Cinnamon’s joy, and tucking her left leg into the grip, and testing it, she let herself slide over, tapping Cinnamon as she did, so she’d know where she was, and clucked for her to go.

From a well she’d thought dry, Riley felt something alive and daring tidal wave inside her and she heard Cole shout as she fell into the suicide drop, one hand dangling as she got the feel and then the other when she felt secure.

Cinnamon made her first pass around the exhibition arena, and Riley’s body felt strong and alive and attuned to each detail—the feel of the late summer sun, the smells of dirt, sawdust, animal, dried grass, hint of autumn, and as she looked out past the arena toward the river with the glimmering birch and aspens and pines, Riley caught a glimpse of a dog belly-creeping toward the arena.

It stopped, eyes on her, but when she circled around again, the dog was gone.

Maybe a mirage. Too much blood to her brain, but dang she felt like her teenage self again.

Healthy. Confident. Ready for anything. Riley lifted her leg up and out, toe pointed toward the sky, and she felt free.

She laughed as Cinnamon cantered past a stunned-looking Cole, and a small audience began to stand up on the rails to watch and Riley, who’d been hiding for so long, felt the tingle, the warmth of the sun rising in her chest, as she looked at the people gathering—most of whom she’d known for her whole life and theirs.

She stretched out, her body hanging between Cinnamon’s front and hind legs.

She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling, and then used her abs to pull herself up.

Gathering the reins, she hopped to standing, braced and kept her knees soft as she urged Cinnamon to kick up the pace. The kid inside her rejoiced. Sang.

Showtime.

What’s your favorite place to be?

***

You told me your favorite spot was toward the highest part of your ranch in a tree so you could look at the stars, and during the day you could see the glimmer of Miracle Lake. Is that still your go-to?

She’d told him that? Of course she had. She’d had zero filter with Cole before.

But she hadn’t looked at the stars since she’d lost the baby that she hadn’t wanted and yet grieved in a way she couldn’t explain.

Cole was the only one who knew—of the possibility of the baby, but he’d been too polite to ask.

Or too uninterested? Had he too been relieved?

She didn’t answer his question but posed a different one.

Do you think stars are souls?

I like that idea. Sounds like a song.

Sounded like hope and desperation and guilt all balled together.

What’s your favorite place?

Used to be on the east part of our ranch—a limestone outcropping above the branch of a river that runs through Last Stand. My cousins and I would jump off and swim, but a lot of times I just liked to lie there and look at clouds. Stars. We got that in common. But now…

What?

I don’t have a favorite place, but when I do, it will be where you are.