Page 92 of Ride the Sky

My heart drops, and a stabbing pain slices through my insides. Tears fill my eyes. He didn’t stick up for me. Worse, he joined in.

“Fuck you,” I whisper into the wind, wiping my eyes on my wrist.

They say more, but I don’t stick around to hear it. I whirl on my boot and race to my pickup truck.

As I speed back to Resurrection, I fume. His words continue to stab. Sharp. Invasive.She ain’t good enough.It feels like betrayal. Words from my hero. Words that hurt me. I hate him.

Damn my stupid, foolish fangirl heart.

But I can’t quit either. Deep down, I know he can help make me a better rider.

If anything, he gives me the incentive I need to beat him at his own game.

Not that it matters anymore.

Never again will I love Wyatt Montgomery.

Sworn enemies until the day we die.

“You’re sloppy,” I yell, stilling the lever, the barrel.

“I know,” Fallon shouts down at me, squaring her shoulders. “And fuck you.”

I duck my head, suppressing a smile. Any cowboy would look at Fallon and see she’s near perfect. Her poise. Her arm tossed to the sky. She could ride the barrel blindfolded. She’s a cowgirl in every sense of the word.

Barefoot and beautiful and tan as buckskin. Barbwire dipped in gold. An angel with a busted halo.

And she’s ready to roll.

Eyes closed, breathing heavily, Fallon tilts her head back, drinking in the dying light of the evening. She’s stronger. More confident. And goddamn glowing.

I can feel how she feels. Alive. Like her brain, heart, and soul are syncing up.

She snarls. “Again.”

When I stay silent, watching her, she opens her eyes.

“Wyatt. Again.”

“Your ass is still sliding back on the barrel.”

Fallon puffs an errant hair out of her face and glowers. “I hate it when you do that.”

“What? Make you better?”

“Correct me. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” I give her a cocky grin, knowing it makes her want to throttle me. “It doesn’t look like it. It looks—”

“Sloppy, I know.” Nostrils flaring, she gets into position. Gives me a wicked smile. “Then let’s fix it, asshole.”

Taking that as my cue, I dig my boots into the earth and grip the lever. “You ready?”

A curt nod. I watch the muscle of her lean legs ripple as she grips the barrel. The way her hands hold the rope. In three weeks, she’s stronger than ever. When she’s not on the barrel, she’s in the barn. Crunches, sit ups, strength exercises.

The barrel’s no substitute for a real horse, a bull. But it’s exercise; it’s working on her balance, her hip, her confidence. To her, it’s everything. I sure hope it fucking helps.

“Get into your stance.”

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