Page 26 of Wyatt

Joker’s hooves thunder on the hard-packed earth. My heart thunders in time to his stride. I didn’t get near enough sleep last night, but you wouldn’t know it from the rush of hot, urgent energy coursing through my body.

Squeezing Joker’s sides with my legs, I drop the reins and use both hands to ready the lariat I’ll use to lasso the calf. My shoulders and biceps sing as I take the looped rope in my right hand and whip it in a circle above my head. I hear itswhoop, whoop, whoopevery time it rotates just above my ears.

“Look at that smile!” Duke yells as I hurtle past him. “Boy, that ain’t gonna last when you miss!”

“I ain’t missing!”

I wish I could say I’m not one to brag, but there’s no use lying. I’m the best damn cowboy this side of the ColoradoRiver. No one can outride or outlasso me. Not even my older brother, Cash, who was basically born with a Stetson on his head and a rope in his hand. Too bad he’s not here to see this. He and Mollie went to Dallas this morning to lay the groundwork for the launch of her next boot collection.

A grin splits my face as Joker and I hit just the right distance from the calf. I release the lariat. My heart leaps into my throat as I wait the split second it takes for the circle of rope to land around the calf’s neck. When it lands, the calf struggles, pulling the rope taut. Joker holds his ground while I leap off him with a happy yell.

The calf struggles. She’s strong, but I’m stronger. Ryder hops off his horse, too, and together, we tie up the calf’s legs with another rope we call the piggin’ string. We give her a few minutes to calm down before we let her loose.

By the time we’re done, I’m covered in sweat and out of breath. The cloud of dust we kicked up has yet to settle, making my eyes sting. But the calf has rejoined the herd and is now merrily munching on some grass.

I can’t stop smiling. “Eat that, motherfucker,” I say to Duke.

He rolls his eyes, the side of his mouth curling into a smirk as he trots closer. “You got lucky.”

“He actually didn’t.” Sawyer puts his hands on his hips. “Wyatt came home alone last night. Saw it with my own eyes.”

Ryder stares at me. “Are you sick?”

“Shut up.” I yank off my hat and wipe my brow on my sleeve. “I was tired, is all. Been a long week.”

“It’s Wednesday.” Ryder blinks.

“So?”

“This have anything to do with Sally?” Duke asks. “I saw y’all dancing last night. Looked…cozy.”

Sawyer screws up one eye against the sun and the dust. “I thought I heard her call you Daddy.”

Heat crawls up my neck. Sally did call me Daddy, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. My dick throbs at the memory.

I bite back a wince. I’ve been on the verge of a half chub ever since it happened. Kept me up way past my bedtime, wondering if Sally had gone home with Beck after I left.

I wondered if the eager way she’d touched me—the heat in her eyes—was real, or if she really was just faking it to get that dickhead’s attention.

No wonder I smoked like a chimney on the drive home. My chest is still heavy from all the cigarettes I long-darted out my truck’s window. I only smoke when I’m stressed or drinking, but even the occasional cigarette is terrible for you. I need to quit. Go cold turkey.

I tell myself quitting will be easier after Sally leaves for New York. I won’t be so stressed then. Or horny. Or angry with myself for being such a fucking coward and not telling my best friend how I feel. But being honest would mean opening up—risking decimation—and I don’t do that. Avoiding my feelings might not be the smartest way of protecting myself, but it does mean I avoid more hurt.

“We got work to do.” My voice sounds gruff, even to my own ears. I clear my throat. “And y’all remember what Mom said about gossip.”

“Gossip is the Devil’s radio,” Sawyer replies.

Duke grins. “But nature’s telephone.”

My chest twists. Mom had a big heart and was always telling us the importance of kindness, but she also had a wicked sense of humor. I’d like to think I inherited all of that.

God, I miss her.

Grabbing a piece of gum from my saddlebag, I pop it into my mouth and climb back into the saddle. “Don’t make me pull rank, y’all. Let’s get to it.”

Garrett Luck made Cash foreman of Lucky Ranch when my brother was barely twenty years old. Cash was green as ablade of grass—we all were—but Garrett was patient with us, and taught us everything he knew about running a cattle ranch.

I miss him too. His death from a massive heart attack this spring shocked us all; he was only fifty-six and in great shape. Cash took it the hardest, but all of us Rivers boys felt the loss of our adopted father figure acutely.

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