Page 58 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

“Don’t let the one you love, be the one that got away because you were scared to admit he got in.”

And just like that, the truth unravels inside me.

I’m in love.

Deep, aching, soul-level love.

And I don’t know if I’ll survive it.

***

Two more weeks pass in a blur of water and weights. I've gotten better at compartmentalizing, tucking thoughts of Grant away during training hours, only to have them flood back the moment I'm alone.

Mikhailov seems satisfied with my improved focus, though he still gives me that knowing look when he catches me checking my phone now and then between sessions. But professionally, I'm thriving—my times have never been better, my technique never sharper.

It's my soul that's withering.

I miss the unexpected warmth of the Taylor family dinner table. I miss Lily's inappropriate comments and Eric's complete lack of filter. I miss the sense of belonging I felt, however briefly, in that chaotic household.

Most of all, I miss Grant—his slow smiles, his quiet understanding, the way he saw through my defenses like they were made of glass. The way he took on the river for me, facing his deepest fear just to give me what I needed.

And what did I give him in return? Another abandonment to add to his collection.

Tonight, I've promised myself a night off. A proper English pub dinner, maybe some sightseeing—anything to feel like I'm actually in London and not just passing through on my way to somewhere else.

But as I'm getting ready, my phone pings with a news alert—one of the many rodeo notifications I've been too proud to disable.

ACCIDENT AT WELLINGTON CHARITY RODEO: TWO INJURED

My heart stops. I click through so quickly I nearly crack my screen.

The article loads with agonizing slowness, finally revealing a photo that makes my blood run cold—Grant being loaded onto a stretcher, his face tight with pain. The caption explains: “Rodeo champion Grant Taylor injured while attempting to shield young rider Jakob Nema (17) from charging bull.”

My hands shake so badly I can barely scroll to read more.

Seventeen. Jake's age when he died.

The article says both riders are being treated for injuries, conditions unknown. The video clip shows the moment Grant dove between the fallen teenage rider and the bull, taking the brunt of the impact himself.

Without conscious thought, I'm dialing Mason's number, pacing the small flat while counting each unanswered ring. When he finally picks up, I can barely breathe.

“Mia?” He finally answers, his voice is tired, surprised. Background noise suggests he's at a hospital.

“Is he okay?” I blurt, not bothering with greetings. “I saw the news—the accident—”

“He's alive,” Mason says, understanding immediately. “Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder—the bad one—and a concussion. They're keeping him overnight for observation.”

Relief makes my knees buckle, and I sink onto the edge of my bed. “And the boy? The seventeen-year-old?”

Mason's pause speaks volumes. “Jakob's got a broken leg and some internal bruising, but the doctors say he'll recover. If Grant hadn't—” He stops, then continues more carefully. “The bull was heading straight for the kid's chest. Grant got there first. Took the hit that might have killed Jakob.”

“Why would he—” I start, then answer my own question. “Jake.”

“Yeah.” Mason's voice softens. “The kid reminds everyone of Jake. Same build, same cocky grin. Grant's been mentoring him all summer.”

Summer. I've been gone nearly six weeks. Missed almost an entire season of Grant's life.

Silence falls between us.

“He's talks about you, you know” Mason says, breaking the stretching silence. “Not directly, but he drops these casual statements into conversation. Wondering whether you're coming back after London.”

A sob builds in my throat. “Has he... has he been okay?”

“Define 'okay.' “Mason's tone is carefully neutral. “He works too much. Spends hours at the river, cleaning up that training area he made you, though no one uses it. Fixed up that cottage like it's a shrine.”

Each word is a knife twist. “I didn't know—”

“Of course you didn't. You left to conquer your own.” There's no accusation in his voice, just simple fact. “Look, Mia, I'm not trying to guilt you. You had your reasons. But if you still care—”

“I do,” I whisper, the admission freeing something tight in my chest.

“God, I do.”

“Then maybe he should hear that from you, not me.”

I wipe tears from my cheeks, suddenly aware I'm crying. “They're keeping him overnight for a few days?”

“Yeah, so the good news—if we’re calling it that—is while they’re gluing back the dozen bones he shattered playing cowboy hero, they’re also finally fixing that bum shoulder he’s been too damn stubborn to get looked at for years.

The Taylor family's all here, taking shifts. He’s gonna be real pissed when he wakes up and realizes he’s in a backless hospital gown with nothing butJell-O on the menu and zero say in any of it. ”

A watery laugh escapes me, picturing Grant's indignation.

“Well at least he gets to wake up next to the Super Series trophy and a fat-ass paycheck, seeing as he only went and won the whole damn thing… right before almost meeting his maker.” Mason chuckles.

The words make my breath catch. My chest swells with pride so fierce it nearly knocks me off my feet.

He did it. Even bruised and broken, Grant Taylor is the kind of man who puts everything on the line—for the ride, for the people he loves, for me.

My heart thunders, not just with pride, but with something deeper. Something terrifying and achingly real.

Mason clears his throat. “By the way…it was Grant’s mama who dropped those envelopes on his desk. The ones with your documents.”

I blink, stunned. “What?”

“New postman got confused, stuck ’em in their mailbox. She didn’t think anything of it—just said they looked important and left ’em on his desk.”

A sharp breath escapes me. “Why didn’t he say anything?”

There’s a long pause, then Mason exhales like he’s tired of people not getting it. “Because that’s not the kind of man he is, Mia. Doesn’t explain himself unless you ask real direct. He just…does.

Another pause.

He shows up. He fixes things. Builds damn training rivers, spends all night laying new floors with splinters in his palms and a busted shoulder, because he wants you to feel at home.

He drives all over creation lookin’ for dead flowers—I’m told are called ‘potpourri’—in cream-colored vases and getting way too darn many matching throw pillows—like some interior design cowboy—just ‘cause he thinks it’ll make you smile when you walk into the place and then to top it all off, nearly gets himself killed for people he cares about. ”

Mason’s voice drops lower. Rougher.

“So no, he didn’t tell you his Mama dropped off your passport. Didn’t think to explain the cottage sooner. But he’s been screaming how much he loves you in every way he knows how. You just weren’t listening in his language.”

I press my hand to my chest, suddenly breathless.

He did all that, for me?

My eyes sting and my voice cracks. “Mason…”

“Will you tell him—” I stop, uncertain.

“Tell him what?”

“Nothing. Just... tell him Jakob is lucky to have him.”