Page 25 of Saving the Rain
Chapter 10
One thing about Beau Heartford as a boss is that he takes shit seriously and acts fast. No sooner had I mentioned to Tessa about possibly needing more trail horses brought in considering the increased number of ranch visitors, he evidently made plans from afar.
Which is why I’ve had the instruction today to head over to Rhodes Ranch to collect a couple of new mares to introduce to the stable. It’ll take them a while to get used to the place, and I’ll have to see how they fit in with the pecking order of the others—not to mention how they are around new people, noises, and unfamiliar territory—before we can even start to think about putting guests in the saddle on either of them.
But if there’s anything Lucas Rhodes knows, it’s horses. The guy has been running his ranch and herd for decades. If he’s confident these two are the perfect temperament for the job, I trust he knows what he’s talking about.
Pulling up to the barn, I can see plenty of vehicles lined up near the arena—the local rodeo competitors must be training today. As my truck and trailer come to a jolting halt, I realize that means Kayce islikely to be here.
No sooner than I think it, like I’ve conjured his presence, I spot his now all-too-familiar dusty black truck and plates.
The guy seems to be everywhere I fucking go in this town. Considering he lives and works on top of a goddamn mountain, he bloody well has a knack for being in all the same places I end up.
My knuckles blanch around the steering wheel.
Last weekend at The Loaded Hog was a crap shoot. Having to deal with Kayce’s stupid decision-making and his lack of interest in being responsible. Christ, it felt like having a sniveling little kid covered in mud, with tear-stained cheeks, and an arm in a sling sitting in my front seat all over again.
So much so, I barely made it inside with the girl before making an excuse, easily finding her another cowboy to be entertained by. She didn’t seem to care all that much, either. That asshole’s chest puffed out like he’d just won a fucking buckle when it became clear I was offloading her and cutting a path for home.
Getting out of my truck, I busy myself with sorting the back of the horse trailer, making sure there’s nothing loose or out of place that might spook the two I’m here to collect.
As I do a walk-through and double-check everything, I hear commotion coming from the arena. Someone has just burst out of a chute for a practice ride, and they’re being cheered on by the others hanging over the railing.
I readjust my hat and walk down the ramp, just as the pickup rider swings by to collect whoever had been out there. They do their job smoothly, securing the rider, who I catch sight of—a flashy grin and shaggy mess of sandy hair gives him away immediately. Chaos Hayes jumps down to the dirt and exchanges a few words with the guy still in the saddle, then lopes over to where his hat flipped off during the course of his ride.
He squares it back on his head while heading toward the railing and joins the others. A small group watches as the next rider prepares to be released.
In my chest, I feel a tightening, like a rubber band stretching to its limits. A tense withholding of breath. Because I don’t have to see who is up next to know who it’s going to be, and yet I can’t bring myself tomove from where I’ve stalled at the back of this trailer. My gaze turns to the chute, where all I see is a hat tipped forward, a chin tucked low. From personal experience, I know the routine. I feel the tingling in the pads of my fingers as if I’m the one sitting astride that horse, wrapping and re-wrapping my hold while absorbing the heat and breaths of the animal preparing to unseat me. Taking deep inhales so as to not go blank or lose touch with your senses and limbs once everything explodes out the gate.
The crew hanging over the back of the chute are there, heads lowered as they all wait for the signal. Each of them with a job to do. Every single person working as a team to make sure the horse and rider are safe. This might only be practice, but they’ll be drilling these runs as if it’s a packed arena and prize money is on the line.
Not to mention the safety of the man on the back of a bronc who is raring and ready to make his life hell for eight seconds.
From all the way over here, the intensity, the concentration is visceral. Every person holds their breath in anticipation.
That cream-color hat dips in a quick nod.
The gate is flung open, and all it takes is one perfectly timed launch by the bronc... they both fly out of the chute. Kayce marks out perfectly with his heels and lays back with one hand high overhead. His other is wrapped around the rope just above the horse’s shoulders. In hardly the blink of an eye, they’re in the middle of the arena.
To a casual onlooker, it would seem like a blur. Nothing more than hooves flying, the fringes of his chaps swinging, the rider’s body being jerked around in a seemingly impossible way.
But I feel every single flicker of muscle, each heaving breath and flex of the horse as if I were out there in the middle of that arena myself.
Kayce’s body holds the perfect balance of anticipating his horse’s movements, and staying strong enough to withstand being bucked off. The arm he holds high looks balanced, comfortable. He’s in perfect rhythm with the bronc. All that natural talent he’s always had for connecting with his horse bursts to the fore with each buck and flick, but there’s also a maturity present in him now, too.
At first, I can’t discern what it is. The ride is over and done with—those eight seconds are eaten up in a few rapid heartbeats. But as the pickup rider closes in, that’s when the difference I’ve been trying to identify becomes apparent.
He’s stronger. More definition to his frame than I remember him having the last time we competed against each other. It sits on his figure well and allows him to appear more in control, more relaxed, and sure of himself, like he’s already got the certainty of a win locked in his bones.
When he jumps down from the back of the pickup rider’s horse, he lifts a hand to run through his hair, and it shows off the shape of his back. His shirt pulls tight, revealing the way his shoulders are broader now than they used to be, with planes of lean muscle tapering down to his trim hips.
He jogs over to collect his hat from the dirt, and I get a look at his ass when he bends down. As he straightens back up, I feel it... something curls, hot and tight, right down low in my stomach.
Oh, fuck no.
My eyes snap away from the sight of my stepbrother’s ass in a pair of jeans and chaps. The pulse thumping in the side of my neck is a motherfucking traitor because there is no goddamn way I just drifted into that kind of territory.
I was watching his form.