Page 29 of Rogue Cowboy (Montana’s Rodeo Cowboys #3)

“Cole, I know you said you made a vow, but I’m not holding you to anything. I’m not… I can’t… I’m not sure I can be…” Frustration crossed her features. “I’m not that same girl you spent the magical weekend with. I’m never going to be her again.”

“Riley.” He enclosed her hand in his, savored the connection after feeling adrift for so long.

“You are her. You are still her.” He’d seen glimpses before she started overthinking.

“You just have more layers. Experiences and time change all of us. I’m not the same man I was who signed up for the military.

I’m not exactly the same man you met six years ago.

But we are still who we are at our cores. We will grow and change together.”

She blinked, clearly not believing him. “Some cowboy’s rocking rose-colored glasses,” Riley said.

“I just want you to know I’m not holding you to that ‘promise’…

” she made air quotes that were insulting “…you made in Vegas. You were in full white-hat cowboy mode, and I wasn’t in my right head. I’m trying to save you from yourself.”

“I don’t need saving,” he said, feeling his exasperation grow. Maybe he should throw her in his truck and hit the highway. It had worked last time when she’d been spinning in fear and desperation, and panic to the point he’d been terrified she’d hurt herself, and they’d been running out of time.

“Neither do I.”

*

She was a ridiculous and contrary woman. She’d wanted breathing space from Cole, and now, ten minutes after Rohan had strode up all tense and asked for Cole to help in the bull pens, she missed Cole.

In not even three full days she’d grown to enjoy Cole’s calm, steady presence.

And his obvious admiration. No games. No criticisms. He didn’t try to change her.

God, her nearly two years in LA had just been one emotional roller coaster and obstacle course after another—a prize dangled, just when she thought she should not only walk away but also run.

Nothing she was or wrote or sang was good enough for the management team and producers.

And it wasn’t what she’d wanted. Why had she won first place as an Americana-styled folk singer-songwriter but the manager and label they’d hired for her record wanted a sexy pop star?

But they’d held the contract over her head. And everyone in Marietta had been so proud of her. Excited. So convinced of her blessed good fortune. And she’d just felt more desperate to escape, which made her more determined to fight and win and pretzel herself to show them she could.

Cole had been the first real person she’d met in so long. What you saw, what he gave you, was who and what he was. And he’d seen the true her through the glitter and the gloss. No wonder she’d crushed so hard on him. Heck, she was crushing still.

“Get over yourself and cowgirl up,” she muttered.

She’d checked in with the barrel racers and their horses.

Promised to meet them at the gate in the lineup, and then walked toward the buckin’ broncs to see if Boone and his crew needed help since Boone, a former professional rodeo star who’d retired, still competed in roping and bulldogging at the Copper Mountain Rodeo.

She heard a shout and a loud thwack and a call for Tucker Wilder. Not good. Riley kicked up her pace, her stomach launching into her throat as she thought it was Parker, a kid, the same age as Petal and Arlo who’d shouted. Even as she hurried, she deep breathed and turned the corner.

Marbas. He was rearing and kicking at the gate and Parker was up on the fence trying to soothe him, but something had spooked Marbas badly.

Even as Riley approached, Jim Stevens, a saddle bronc rider, reached for the latch to try to go inside the stall and calm Marbas.

Not the absolute wrong thing to do—Marbas could get terribly injured—but not the safest for the cowboy.

And Marbas was a Telford Family Ranch bronc.

Marbas took the shot and kicked out. Jim dropped and rolled, avoiding the flying hooves.

Marbas bolted, but a row of cowboys blocked the exit, one quickly forming a lasso.

Marbas spun, reared and ran the length of the back row.

Riley trusted Marbas would be blocked in at the other end, so she stood still by his stall.

Parker handed her the tack, but she didn’t think she’d need it.

As Marbas reared, snorted and danced out of range, Riley stayed still.

She began to hum as Marbas ran by. Riley held her ground, trusting everyone to stay calm and do their job.

Marbas ran back several times as she began to sing ‘The Seal Lullaby.’ It was the song she sang every night when she did the last rounds.

She saw Cole out of the corner of her eye and hoped he wouldn’t step in to assist. She wanted Marbas to release some of his nervous energy, which meant he had to keep moving to soothe himself as she too worked to calm him.

She stepped into the middle of the aisle, holding her position and then taking a step or two before stopping.

In the end it was easier than it had initially seemed.

Marbas trotted, snorted, reared once more, but then he met her in the middle, head lowered.

She kept singing, adding his name to the song and stroking his ears, silky mane and neck.

She pivoted, Marbas followed her back to the stall, tack not necessary.

Jim was already out, and Riley went in with Marbas, and latched the door quietly behind him.

“It’s not your turn to show off,” she teased the horse, whispering into his twitching ear. “You’ll get your chance to buck Jim off this afternoon.”

“I’ll take that challenge,” saddleless bronc rider Jim said good-naturedly. “Nice preview of your moves, bud.”

“Good luck, cowboy.” Riley kept her voice low, soft, and her attention focused on Marbas, running her hands over him, and up and down his legs. He hadn’t injured himself in his panic, and relief coursed through her.

She palmed a few oats and held them up to Marbas to snuffle and delicately chew.

“That’s it. Good boy. You got this. You’re the king.”

Marbas sighed and laid his chin on her shoulder, as calm now as he’d been disturbed earlier.

Riley looked up finally, letting her attention expand.

Everyone had faded away as the potential crisis was averted, except for Cole.

He stood tall and still—a watchful mountain, but there was a new, different light in his eyes, that sent a chill through her.

He looked invincible and determined and as if he held a secret.

Riley wondered if Cole was now making a comparison that she absolutely didn’t want—that maybe she too had been panicking and needed to stop running. And all he had to do was stand still and block her escape.

Was she, like Marbas, ready to stop running?

You asked about flying and dreaming. I do still dream about barrel racing. Being poised at the release point, picturing the moves, letting the music, adrenaline and Mystic Pie do her thing.

Mystic Pie?

I was a kid when I named her. I liked pie. Still do.

Favorite flavor?

Peanut butter and chocolate, but don’t tell my mom because she’s all about apple-cinnamon-vanilla and it is to die for.

Restaurant in Last Stand Char-Pie makes peanut butter pie I dream about. I’ll take you one day.

A pie challenge. Barrel racing feels like flying.