Page 5 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

The bull beneath me is pure bottled rage, two thousand pounds of muscle determined to throw me off. I adjust my grip on the rope, my gloved hand tight as the chute gate swings open.

Time slows down.

The moment we burst into the arena, Diablo twists his massive body, trying to catch me off-guard with his first move. But I've been doing this since I was fourteen, and I can read the rhythm of his body like braille. I counter his movement, keeping my core tight and my free hand high.

“That's it, son!” Dad's voice somehow cuts through the roar of the crowd, distinct as always. The Taylor family occupies nearly an entire section of the bleachers, their whoops and hollers the loudest in the arena.

Eight seconds.

That's all I need to stay on this beast. Eight seconds that feel like eight lifetimes.

Diablo bucks hard, his back legs kicking toward the sky before he spins sharply to the left. A searing pain shoots through my right shoulder—the old injury making itself known—but I grit my teeth and hang on.

Six seconds.

The crowd is a blur of color and noise around me, but I don't see or hear them. There's only me and this bull, locked in our dangerous dance.

Four seconds.

Diablo changes tactics, spinning rapidly to the right before bucking forward. My shoulder screams in protest, but I refuse to let go. Not yet.

Two seconds.

The bull throws his head back, nearly catching my chin, but I lean away just in time.

One second.

The buzzer sounds just as Diablo makes one final, desperate attempt to throw me. I release my grip, pushing off and away from his massive body. My boots hit the dirt and I immediately sprint toward the fence, heart pounding as the bullfighters distract Diablo.

I clear the fence in one smooth leap, adrenaline still surging through my veins as the crowd erupts. The announcer's voice booms over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that's Grant Taylor with a score of 92! Our hometown champion does it again!”

I tip my hat to the crowd, flashing the smile that's graced more than a few billboards for my family's ranch. My shoulder protests the motion—sharp, hot—but I grit my teeth and roll it once, swallowing the ache like it’s nothing more than a stubborn fly buzzing around, momentarily forgotten in the rush of victory.

Connor is the first to reach me, slapping me on the back with enough force to make me wince.

He’s the second-oldest Taylor boy—the one who decided early on that dirt under the nails and sunburnt skin wasn’t the only way to carry the family name.

Ranching? He respects it. Grew up mucking stalls and fixing fences same as the rest of us.

But he always had a sharp eye for leverage, for turning grit into gold.

While the rest of us were learning how to rope cattle, Connor was figuring out how to rope opportunity.

Always dressed one notch above the room, with short, neatly cut brown hair and piercing blue eyes that don’t miss much—except, ironically, when women are trying to flirt with him. Which is often. Very often.

Connor runs a string of businesses across Wellington, one of which being a Branding Agency we own together. He’s the kind of man most folks wish they were and never admit it. Loyal. Strategic. Quietly powerful.

Taylor-blooded. But walking a path he carved for himself.

“Thought that last spin had you for sure, brother” he says, grinning.

“Please,” I scoff. “Diablo and I have an understanding.

He tries to kill me, I make him look good trying.”

Ryan approaches next, more reserved than Connor but still sporting a proud smile. “Good ride. Dad's already bragging to everyone within earshot.”

I glance over to where our Dad stands, surrounded by his usual crowd of ranchers and rodeo enthusiasts, gesturing wildly as he recounts the ride as if they hadn't all just witnessed it.

“Bet he is,” I say, laughing.

As we walk toward the gathering area, a group of women approach, all smiles and batted eyelashes. I recognize a few from previous rodeos—rodeo groupies, as Connor calls them.

“Grant, that was amazing!” A blonde whose name I can't remember touches my arm. “Are you coming to the after-party at The Whisky Barrell?”

Before I can answer, another woman—Moira, no Michelle, I think—steps forward. “Or we could have our own private celebration.” She slides a piece of paper into my front pocket, her fingers lingering longer than necessary.

I flash them my practiced smile, the one that doesn't quite reach my eyes but seems to work just fine on most women. “Ladies, I appreciate the offers, but family tradition dictates I celebrate with the Taylors tonight.”

Their disappointed looks are interrupted by my father's booming voice as he approaches.

“Son! There you are!” He throws an arm around my shoulders, making me suppress a grimace as he hits the sore spot. “And I see you've already attracted your fan club.”

The women giggle, clearly charmed by Dad's lack of filter.

“Eric Taylor,” he introduces himself, though everyone in a hundred-mile radius knows exactly who he is. “You know, if my son weren't so damn stubborn about staying single, one of you lovely ladies might have a shot at becoming the next Mrs. Taylor.”

“Dad,” I warn, but he ignores me.

“Though fair warning—Taylor men are like bulls. Hard to ride and even harder to tame.” He winks, and I resist the urge to disappear into the ground.

The women laugh, though Missy looks like she's taking his words as a personal challenge.

“If you'll excuse us, ladies,” I say, steering Dad away. “Duty calls.”

“Was just having a bit of fun,” Dad protests as we walk toward the family.

“You're incorrigible,” I tell him, but there's no heat behind it. That's just Dad—inappropriate humor and all.

“Got you away from them, didn't I?” He grins, and I realize he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Your Mama’s waiting. Says she needs photographic evidence of her son's triumph to show the book club ladies.”

My Mom is waiting with Lily and Christian, her phone at the ready. When she spots us, she waves frantically.

“There's my champion!” She pulls me into a hug that I return one-armed, keeping my right shoulder carefully angled away. “That was incredible, sweetheart!”

“Thanks, Mama.” I kiss her cheek and pose for the obligatory victory photo, plastering on my media-ready smile.

Lily, as usual, is already one step ahead of me. She eyes me like a hawk, arms crossed over her perfectly ironed blouse, long blonde hair swept into some no-nonsense braid she probably did in five seconds flat. She's got our mama’s bone structure, but a sharper mouth and sharper instincts.

Looks sweet—smiles like sunshine—but I’ve seen her ruin grown men with that mouth of hers. She's five-foot-nothing at the rebel age of twenty two, but stands like she’s six-two when she's pissed. Always in boots with a heel and always shit stirring.

“Something's wrong with your shoulder,” she says, eyes narrowing. Nothing gets past my sister.

“It's fine,” I dismiss, but Lily crosses her arms, a gesture that means she's not buying what I'm selling.

“You're favoring it. Again.” She turns to our mother. “Mama, tell him to see a doctor.”

“I don't need—”

“Grant Taylor,” Mama interrupts, her voice taking on that tone that still makes all of us Taylor siblings stand a little straighter. “If your shoulder is acting up again, you're going to the doctor. End of discussion.”

I sigh, knowing there's no point arguing when Celia Taylor has made up her mind. “Fine. I'll call Dr. Malan tomorrow.”

“You'll call today,” Mama insists. “For an appointment tomorrow.”

I look to Christian for support and I get none, as the bastard just stands there leaning on one leg with that cocky little grin that says he’s the good-looking Taylor brother, and he damn well knows it.

Blond like Dad was back in the day. Marine through and through—disciplined, dangerous, and deceptively charming.

He served six years and came home leaner, meaner, and somehow more irresistible to the ladies, which I didn’t think was possible.

Looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, acts like he belongs in detention. The youngest boy of the family at twenty four, and yet the one most likely to end up shirtless in a girl's Snapchat story.

“Does this mean Grant won't be helping with the fence repairs this weekend?” he asks, all faux-innocence, but there’s a glint in his eye that dares me to call him out.

I narrow mine. “Nice try brother. I'll still be supervising your lazy ass.”

“Language,” Mama warns, but she's fighting a smile.

Dad claps his hands together. “Well, now that that's settled, who's ready to celebrate? First round at The Whisky Barrell is on me!”

Christian whoops enthusiastically, and even Ryan cracks a genuine smile.

Ryan doesn’t say much, doesn’t need to, being the oldest of five Taylor siblings.

Standing off to the side like always, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Built like a mountain and just as immovable.

Dark hair, stormy blue eyes, and the kind of patience that’ll outlast anything.

Rancher down to the bone. He doesn’t do drama, doesn’t chase attention.

But he sees everything. He nods at me from across the parking lot—our version of a hug.

As we head towards the trucks, Mason West appears; silent as always.

My best friend has a way of showing up exactly when needed without drawing attention to himself.

“Good ride,” he says simply, falling into step beside me.

“Thanks.” I roll my shoulder experimentally and wince. “Not my best dismount though.”

Mason eyes the shoulder but doesn’t comment. He doesn’t need to. He knows me too well. Knows exactly how much pain I can swallow before it shows. Hell, he’s the only person who’s ever matched me swing for swing—in the ring and in real life.

Mason and Devon West grew up next door to Portree Hill Ranch, same land as the Taylors, just a different house and a different kind of chaos. They’ve been living with their aunt and uncle since they were kids. Family by circumstance, but chosen all the same.

Mason gives me a knowing look and smirks.

His short brown hair and piercing blue eyes could make a confession out of a stranger in ten seconds flat.

His jaw is always shadowed with stubble, the kind that says he’s got better things to do than shave—and he does.

As if he needed help turning heads, he’s also a goddamn fireman and a cowboy.

The kind that carries injured calves one minute and drags folks from burning buildings the next.

The kind that wears soot like armor and makes flannel look criminal.

The ladies swoon over him—always have. Something about the quiet, the scars, the muscle. Doesn’t matter that he says maybe five words an hour; to everyone else, but me and his twin, Devon; but when he speaks, the whole damn room tilts to listen. We all do.

He's not blood, but he’s more than that. He’s a Taylor in every way that matters.

“Lily ratted me out,” I tell him with a sigh. “I'm going to the doctor's tomorrow.”

“Good.” He nods once, definitively.

“Traitor,” I mutter, but there's no heat in it.

***

The celebration is in full swing by the time we arrive at The Whiskey Barrel. Dad holds court at our usual table, regaling anyone who'll listen with increasingly embellished versions of my ride. Mama laughs at his antics, occasionally cutting in to correct the more outlandish claims.

I nurse a beer, nodding and smiling at the steady stream of well-wishers who stop by our table. My shoulder throbs in time with the country music blaring from the jukebox, and I find myself counting the minutes until I can escape.

Lily slides into the seat beside me, pushing a glass of water my way. “Take these,” she says quietly, discreetly passing me two pain pills. “Don't worry, they're just over-the-counter. But they might help until you see the doctor.”

I accept them gratefully. “How'd you know how much I needed that right now?”

“Your tell is showing,” she says, nodding toward my left hand, which is unconsciously rubbing my right shoulder. “Plus, you've turned down three beautiful women tonight. That's not like you.”

“Maybe I'm growing as a person,” I suggest dryly.

Lily snorts. “Or maybe you're in too much pain to consider adding athletic sex to your evening.”

I choke on my water, earning a satisfied smirk from my sister. “Fuck sakes, Lily.” I sputter out.

“What? I'm just speaking the truth.” She pats my good shoulder and stands. “Get some rest, cowboy. You look like hell.”

By eleven, I've made my excuses and slipped away from the celebration. The drive back to my ranch house on the edge of the family ranch is quiet, the radio turned low as Riley Green sings about wanting someone in the worst way. You and me both, man. You and me both.

Once home, I kick off my boots and head straight for the bathroom, dry-swallowing two more pain pills before stepping into a scalding hot shower. The water pounds against my aching muscles, providing momentary relief.

Afterward, wrapped in a towel, I stand before the mirror and examine my shoulder. The scar from the surgery is a jagged white line against my tan skin. I rotate my arm carefully, wincing at the stiffness.

“Stupid,” I mutter to myself. I should have listened to Mason when he suggested sitting this one out. But I couldn't. Not with the whole town watching, expecting their golden boy to perform.

In my bedroom, I pull on a pair of sweatpants and sink onto the edge of my bed.

My gaze lands on the framed photo on my nightstand—me and Jake at the lake, both of us grinning widely, his arm slung around my shoulders.

He was fourteen in that picture, I was seventeen.

It was taken three weeks before he drowned.

I pick up the frame, running my thumb over Jake's face. “You'd be laughing your ass off at me right now, wouldn't you, buddy?” My voice sounds hollow in the empty room. “Your big brother, the supposed tough guy, done in by a shoulder injury.”

Setting the photo down, I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of exhaustion and something heavier —a loneliness that no amount of admirers or family celebrations can fill.

My last thought before sleep claims me is that Dad is right about one thing—Taylor men are hard to tame. Because to be tamed, you have to be willing to be caught. And I've spent the last eight years making sure that never happens .