Page 4 of Ride the Sky

“Goddamn, kid, you tryin’ to ride that horse or fight it?”

Jimmy Ray Gilmore, a loudmouth, abrasive cowboy from South Dakota, glares at me, murder in his eyes, before he’s bucked and tossed on his ass in the middle of the ring. His mouth guard lands in the dust.

I chuckle at his dazed face. No doubt he’s seeing stars.

“Bastard bucked me off,” he says sourly.

Hiding a smile at his indignation, I lean back against the fence and cross my arms. “Nah, you fell off. Don’t try and blame it on the horse.”

Snickers of laughter from the other cowboys.

I jerk my head. “Y’all wanna laugh? I want to see you laughin’ when you’re the ones eatin’ dirt.”

This time, no one laughs. Someone gulps, in fact.

Sure, my bedside manner could use some work, but they’re cowboys. If they ain’t tough now, they’re never gonna be.

Some of the cowboys shift, eyes the ground. Others face me, their expressions set and determined. All of ’em, they’re just fucking kids. No better, no smarter, than I was at sixteen.

I scan the class. “Hell, falling’s part of the job. It’s not a phenomenon or bad luck. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you stay in the saddle.” I pause for effect. “Except feed your fuckingego. We ain’t got time for that. And you ain’t got nine lives.” I blow out a breath and look down at Jimmy. “Now get the fuck back up and let’s go another round.”

Grebs, a kiss-ass kid from Wyoming, salutes. “Yes, sir, coach.”

I roll my eyes.

Coach.

God help me. The name makes me cringe. Too blue-collar, too responsible, for my taste.

For the next thirty minutes, I run my class through a series of dismount techniques.

I take serious athletes only, and the ones who can’t hack it are weeded out pretty damn quick. My class is small. Six dusty, disheveled cowboys who’ve put aside the next two weeks of summer to train.

And the poor bastard in charge of them—me.

Last year, I was approached by the Younger Rodeo School to open the second clinic in Montana. They wanted me to train, and it was a hard hell no.

Working for Rand Younger, my old asshole instructor, dredged up shit I’d rather forget.

But then I got hurt. And hurt again.

I love the rodeo. I’m goddamn good at it. Some might call it cocky, but for me, it was a calling. But it was time. I had enough broken bones; one day it’d be a broken neck.

My older brothers were worried, and they’ve had enough worry to last them a lifetime. So I finally took the damn job.

A job I didn’t even want.

Now it feels like I’ve been forced into this box I can’t get out of. My brothers pulled strings to outfit the ranch for this school. Saying anything to them, quitting this job, feels like going backward. Like my brothers would be disappointed in me. When all I’ve ever wanted to do was make them proud.

Hell, I don’t know what I want. If I can make ’em happy by keeping my dumb ass alive, so be it.

Giving up the rodeo hurt. But not as much as losing what I was foolish enough to think I had.

Fallon.

She and I belonged on the rodeo together. When she left, it made my decision to take the job easier. It gave my brain somewhere to focus besides the past. I have a reason to get up every morning and go on.

Even if it’s the last fucking thing I feel like doing.

---