Page 6 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

The next morning dawns clear and bright, the kind of Texas day that promises heat by noon.

I’m in the cow pens by six am, checking on the herd and helping Ryan run a few calves through for routine health checks.

By eight, I'm on the road for my appointment with Dr. Malan, before heading out to Wellington.

Gravel crunches under my tires as I’m driving my truck one-handed, sipping from a travel mug of black coffee and trying to ignore the persistent ache in my shoulder.

Out here, everything stretches wide and quiet—land we’ve worked for generations, lined with houses that all share one name: Taylor. Well, mostly.

First up on the left is Connor’s place—newest build on the ranch.

His brand-new Hummer Pickup in the drive, almost as shiny as his sparkly bleached teeth.

Always parked at a perfect angle like it’s posing for a damn commercial.

Two horses graze in the small pen out front, a big ol’ barn to the side and that ridiculous rooster—his “guard chicken”—perched on the porch rail like it owns the place.

Loud little bastard, probably crows at squirrels.

Taking a sip from my coffee, I pass Christian’s place.

tidy enough to make a drill sergeant weep tears of pride.

The grass is trimmed like it’s trying to win a medal, tools lined up so straight they could be measuring sticks, and I swear you could bounce a quarter off his porch swing.

Wouldn’t be surprised if he buffs it with military-grade polish every Sunday.

Man’s got a checklist for everything… except cooking.

Put him near a stove and the fire department starts stretching just in case.

Then comes my place. Freshly painted. Rustic, warm, practical.

Wraparound porch with black railing, big windows that catch the Texas sky, and warm Edison bulbs Mama and Lily insisted on stringing up.

Two rocking chair’s sit side by side. Out back, just past the trees, the river glimmers behind the dock I built with Ryan one summer when we needed more quiet than company.

Ryan’s place is tucked beside mine, always humming with low country music and the smell of something grilled. And Mason’s—well, his house sits just down the way from mine, unofficially part of the lineup, unofficially part of the family.

Finally, at the far end of the lane, where the road bends and the trees open wide, is our parents’ house.

Big, welcoming, the kind of place that still smells like cinnamon and coffee no matter the hour.

Wraparound porch like mine, shutters painted deep green, a large barn and a vegetable garden out back that Mama insists we all help with, even though she’ll redo everything we touch.

The house sits like a guardian at the end of the road—part home, part stronghold, the anchor to everything.

This road? It’s more than dirt and straight fence lines. Each house holds its own story, its own rhythm. And together, it’s the beat of the Taylor ranch. Steady. Unshakeable. Home.

I tap the steering wheel with my thumb, coffee in one hand, sunlight cutting through the windshield as I hit the paved road that marks the edge of our land.

Wellington’s the closest thing to a city within thirty miles of Portree—which isn't saying much, but it does have a hospital, a few decent restaurants, and a Branding Agency, the firm I co-own with Connor.

While most people are surprised to learn that the rodeo star has a business degree and an office job, it's the perfect arrangement.

Connor handles most of the day-to-day operations, and I come in when needed, bringing in clients who are drawn to the Taylor name and a handshake that means something.

When I arrive at Dr. Malan’s office, I remember why I don’t love being here.

There’s not a whole lot to love about the smell of antiseptic and quiet judgment that clings to the air like a bad cologne.

That damn clock in the corner ticks loudly every second, like it’s counting down to a disaster.

And the exam table? Covered in that sheet paper that crinkles under my ass every time I so much as breathe.

I'm already sweating, and it’s not from pain.

The good Doctor doesn't mince his words as he walks towards the examination bed.

“Alright, Grant,” Doctor Malan says, adjusting his glasses like he’s about to ruin my day—which, let’s be real, he usually does. “Your imaging came back.”

He taps the screen behind him, some scan I don’t pretend to understand lighting up like Christmas. I already know what he’s gonna say. I can feel it in my bones—or maybe that’s just the lightning bolt currently stabbing my shoulder every time I move it wrong.

“We’re looking at chronic inflammation around the rotator cuff. There’s degeneration, and honestly, I’m surprised you’re functioning as well as you are.”

“I’m a cowboy, Doc,” I say, gritting my teeth through a smile. “Pain’s part of the job description.”

He doesn’t laugh.

“Yes, well, you're aggravating an old injury by continuing to ride bulls,” he says bluntly, leaning back on a bench, continuing to examine my X-rays. “I’m going to recommend surgery. The earlier, the better. You’re operating at about sixty percent mobility on that arm and you’re compensating with your back—which will give you a whole new set of problems if it hasn’t already. ”

“Surgery?” I scoff. “Now? We’re in the thick of the circuit Doc, and I’ve got three more qualifiers before Super Series. You want me to just drop out?”

“I want you to be able to lift your damn arm in ten years without wincing like a kicked mule,” he fires back. He’s not yelling, but his tone’s hard enough to land.

I run a hand down my face. Fuck . I knew it was bad. Didn’t know it was surgery bad.

He turns around, folds his arms, and looks at me like he’s already read the script and knows I’m gonna fight him.

“I can’t. Not now Doc.”

He sighs, deep and patient, the kind of sigh a man only gives when he's used to stubborn jackasses like me.

Eyeing me for a long moment. “Alright, then we manage what we can. Pain control, anti-inflammatories, physical therapy. And—this is important—I’m adding yoga.”

He moves to his desk and sits down as he sighs, and starts scribbling on his prescription pad.

Yoga

For a second, I just stare, waiting for the punchline.

“Yoga? As in bendy poses and humming and...breathing exercises?” I continue to stare at him in disbelief.

“Yes, Grant. Yoga. You know—stretching, breath work, balance. Contrary to cowboy belief, it does not require incense or a spiritual awakening.”

“Doc, cowboys don’t do yoga. We throw hay bales, we ride bulls, we wrestle livestock.” I shift uncomfortably “You ever see a man in Wranglers touch his toes without swearing?”

Still not blinking. The bastard’s actually serious .

So I say again, for good measure. “You want me”—I point to myself—"a bull rider, to roll into a yoga class?” I ask this nice and slow, just in case he’s confused me with one of his suburban clients who orders oat milk lattes and wears athleisure for the vibes.

Dr. Malan leans forward, arms folded now, matching my energy.

“You’re a bull rider with a busted shoulder and a record of ignoring pain like it’s a lifestyle choice.

Keep it up, and you’ll be a bull rider who can’t even lift his damn arm to do up his button up shirt.

You’re one fall away from being permanently benched.

So yes, Grant, It's yoga or surgery—and trust me, surgery's no picnic. It might result in that eventually anyway. I open my mouth to say something but he ignores me and continues. “Most people assume the pain is isolated to the shoulder, especially after repetitive strain. But often, it’s the back that’s the culprit. Weak or tight muscles in the upper back pull on the shoulder structure. Same thing in reverse. Your body’s one interconnected mess of overcompensation.

Strengthen the back, stabilize the core, and you’ll take pressure off the shoulder. ”

I grimace. “So what you’re saying is, if I work on my back, my shoulder’ll stop screaming at me?”

“I’m saying if you want to delay surgery without completely trashing your body, you need to treat the whole system , not just the part that hurts.” He pauses, leveling me with that Doctor stare. “And yes, that includes yoga. Twice a week. Non-negotiable.”

I let out a grunt. Unable to argue. My shoulder’s been screaming louder every morning. Sleeping is a game of positions now, and even brushing my hair feels like punishment.

I glance at the window, jaw tight. Outside, Portree goes on with its day—cattle, dust, and all the things that make me feel like me . Except right now, I feel like a broken-down workhorse waiting for a shot of glue.

“I want you better,” Malan says, pulling out his prescription pad. “And yoga’s better than chasing painkillers. Try it and come back to me if you don’t feel a change in the next three weeks. I’ll even write it down if that makes it real for you.”

He scribbles. YOGA, 2x weekly.

This man just prescribed me fucking yoga.

I mutter under my breath—definitely not church-friendly language—and drag a hand down my face.

Cowboys don’t do yoga.

We don’t bend. We break. We rub dirt on it. We don’t downward dog.

But the pain... it’s getting worse. And the Pbr doesn’t hand out trophies for stubbornness. If I want to stay in the game, something’s gotta give.

“Anything else, Doc?” I grumble. “Maybe a facial? A mani-pedi?”

He smirks like he’s been waiting for that. “Don’t knock it. You might surprise yourself.”

“I'll have the nurse give you a physical therapy schedule and Annie teaches the yoga class at the gym. She’s good. And don’t think you can charm your way out of it either—she teaches half the rodeo boys from Wellington already.”

I grunt, standing carefully, stiff as hell.

“Guess I’ll see you on the mat,” I mutter, grabbing the piece of paper he hands me.

He smirks. “Wear something stretchy.”