Page 40 of His Eighth Ride

Opal propelled herself off the end of the couch and over to her sister-in-law, her voice absolutely gushing with rainbows and kittens as she said, “That’s so wonderful, Alli. I’d love to come stay with you when you have the baby.”

“Oh, I’d love that,” Allison said. “We’re due in April.”

Tag marveled that Opal could stuff her jealousy away so quickly, and he suspected it was because she wasn’t really jealous. He felt like that about the twins. He wasn’t jealous of their friendship or the life they had.

He simply felt left out.

And that pinched inside a person’s heart and soul in a way that words couldn’t describe. So when Opal finished talking to Allison, she came back to the purple couch and picked up Violet. “Hey, you sweet thing.” She pressed a kiss to the little girl’s forehead and sat down between Kyle and Tag.

He didn’t have to say anything, and Opal didn’t need to explain. He knew exactly how she felt, and he reached over and took her hand in his. A quick squeeze, an acknowledging smile, and Tag felt more connected to her than he’d ever felt to anyone else.

“Merry Christmas Eve, honey-love,” he murmured, and Opal pressed into his kiss against her temple.

“Merry Christmas Eve, Taggart,” she whispered back, and oh, how he loved his full name in her throaty whisper.

thirteen

Tucker Hammond scrambled the eggs, trying to keep them tender and soft. Warm and cooked, but not overdone. He hated overdone scrambled eggs, and he’d been setting his alarm five minutes earlier so he could be the one at the stove in the mornings.

He loved his roommate, Tarr Olson, but the man overcooked his eggs.

“Morning,” Tarr said in the moment Tucker deemed the eggs done enough, and he pulled the pan off the stove.

“Mornin’.” Tucker put the pan on a potholder his twelve-year-old niece had crocheted him for his birthday, and he turned to get down plates from the cupboard. He watched Tarr settle at the bar, not the table, and he nudged the pan and rubber spatula closer to him. “I’m not serving you.”

“Sausage and eggs.” Tarr took in the breakfast food, glanced over to the full coffee pot, and then finally—finally—looked at Tuck. “You want an answer about the rodeo.”

“Yes, sir,” Tuck said. “I do.” He turned his back on his best friend and the man he used to manage on the PRCA. They’d ridden the Montana Circuit, the Wilderness Circuit, the Mountain States Circuit, and the Texas Circuit. Tarr did well there, as he hailed from Texas, and Tuck was itching to get on the road again.

His gypsy soul didn’t like all the sitting still, though he hardly had a moment to sit here on his family farm. Matt didn’t hire cowboys needlessly, and everyone who lived and worked the farm had a full-time load to keep them busy—Tarr and Tuck included.

Seeing as how Tucker wasn’t anywhere near the pro level of a rodeo champion, he couldn’t just sign himself up for the first circuit he could, pack his bags, load his horse, and hit the road. He needed Tarr to want to get back in the saddle.

And so far, Tarr did not want to get back in the saddle.

Tarr sighed like Tucker was requiring a pint of blood instead of a decision about his career. “I like it here, Tucker.” He slid a couple of links onto his plate alongside the eggs and reached for the saltshaker though he hadn’t tasted the eggs. Tarr salted everything, and Tucker had gotten used to it.

“You liked it in Montana too,” he said.

“I don’t need the money.” Tarr threw a pointed look to Tucker. “You don’t either.”

“Yeah, but the difference is, I’m going crazy.” Tuck tipped the rest of the eggs onto his plate and snagged four sausage links. He rounded the semi-permanent island he’d installed himself and headed for the table. Then he could talk without Tarr staring at him, seeing straight into his soul.

“Bobbie Jo still won’t go out with me. Melinda was a huge fail, and she still calls me several times a day.” He yanked out a chair and sank into it. “A day, Tarr.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have kissed her on the first date.” He carried joviality in his tone, and that only fueled Tuck’s ire.

“I didn’t,” he said forcefully. He scooped up a big forkful of eggs and put them in his mouth. Tarr said nothing either, and that was his answer about joining the circuit for next year.

A no.

It seemed like all Tuck got—from anyone—was no.

He’d backed way off on Bobbie Jo since the Fourth of July, when Tarr had basically told him he was pathetic for how he acted around her. Embarrassment squirreled through him even now, months later.

“You’ll want to join up as soon as you experience true snow,” Tuck grumbled. “Winter ranching is no fun, brother.”

Tarr chuckled then, because the weather had already turned. The leaves had turned and fallen. Thanksgiving and Christmas were both gone, and it had snowed a few times, then melted—even the big storm last weekend had only left a few inches that hadn’t stuck around. The New Year sat only two days from now, and Tuck needed a plan for it.

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