Page 82 of The Wrong Ride Home

Jace was already up on the horse, adjusting his grip on the braided rein. The bronc beneath him shifted, muscles tight, waiting for the gate to fly open.

“He looks good,” Duke murmured

Hunt elbowed me lightly. “He’s gonna give us a show.”

I was standing in between them, so I shifted closer to Hunt. Being near him didn’t evoke the kind of nonsense being close to Duke did.

“Oh, yes, he will.”

I’d trained Jace and Widowmaker. Each win was a stroke to my bruised ego, a brick in rebuilding my self-esteem and confidence.

The buzzer sounded. The chute gate swung open, and Widowmaker exploded out, all muscle and wild fury. Her hooves barely touched the ground as Jace fought to keep his seat. The crowd roared, and I grinned, feeling the excitement deep in my chest.

Duke’s arm brushed against mine. I could smell his cologne. He used to not wear anythen. Now, every time I even got a whiff of it, I was like a mare in heat.

Fuckin’ hell!

I let out a breath, forcing my focus on the arena. Anything but Duke. Anything but the heat simmering between us, ready to burn me alive.

Jace spurred Widowmaker hard, his free hand snapping up for balance as the mare twisted midair, kicking out with all the power of a seasoned bronc. She landed, coiled like a spring, and launched again—wild, unpredictable.

Jace rode Widowmaker through it, his body moving with the horse, not against her. Every jump, every buck, every bone-rattling hit against the ground, Jace took it like he was born in the saddle.

The crowd screamed. I could hear Hunt yelling beside me, and I could feel the buzz of it all—the raw power that only eight seconds on a bronc could bring.

“He’s good,” Duke noted.

“You keep up with rodeos?” Hunt asked.

“Yeah, I do,” Duke replied, surprising me.

Six seconds in, Widowmaker did what she was known for. A dirty duck to the left, then a hard snap to the right—fast, brutal, and meant to send a cowboy flying.

Jace tried to correct, but the mare had her way. He lost his rhythm for half a second—half a second too long. Widowmaker threw one last bone-jarring kick, and Jace sailed off, landing hard in the dirt.

“Fuck!” I cried out.

The buzzer rang just as he hit the ground. I sucked in a sharp breath. Had he made it?

The crowd roared, part excitement, part disappointment, and the announcer’s voice boomed overhead. “And that’s a time of 7.9 seconds for Jace Carter! That puts him in second place, folks!”

I clapped.

Jace rolled to his feet, dust flying as he yanked his hat off and gave a quick wave to the crowd. Widowmaker was already being wrangled back toward the pens, still full of fight.

Hunt whistled low.

"Kid damn near had it,” Duke said, shaking his head.

“He’ll be pissed,” Hunt muttered.

He would, but I knew Jace well enough—he might be frustrated for a minute, but he’d take it in stride and then enjoy himself.

“He’ll get laid tonight ‘cause of it, and he’ll soon enough be sayin’second ain’t bad,”I predicted.

Duke chuckled beside me, deep and low. “Can’t say I’d fault him on that.”

The way he said it—like he wasn’t talking about Jace at all—sent a different kind of heat through me.

---