Page 4 of Eight Seconds to Ride

“Sterling.”

Huffing out a laugh, I say, “Sucks that his ass will be handed to him his first year in the rodeo.”

Cope throws his head back, snorting out a laugh as Colt chimes in again.

“Heard he’s pretty talented.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he was pretty talented in the little leagues where he came from, but now he’s gonna be up againstme. Big difference, man.”

“It’s shocking,” Whit cuts in, not elaborating further.

“What’s shocking?”

“That you were able to fit that big-ass head through the door. That ego of yours has it pretty inflated.”

Rolling my eyes, I can’t help but laugh. “It’s got nothing to do with ego,” I explain. “It’s a fact. I’m the best at what I do. Those three world champion buckles prove it.”

Our food arrives before any of them can reply, and that’s pretty much the end of that conversation as we all dig in. The food here is always so damn good. Tastes just like Mama’s cookin’. That thought reminds me that I have dinner with my sister and folks Friday night.Exactly how I want to spend my evening.

My parents only live about ten minutes away, but I tend to avoid their house as much as possible. The Grahams are legacies in the rodeo world. My father and both my uncles were bronc riders—my dad being the best our region has ever seen—and my sister is a world champ barrel racer, which she learned from my aunt. I’ve quite literally been in and around the rodeo for as long as I can remember.

Coming from a legacy family has its perks, but it also has its downfalls too. One of them being the overwhelming expectations my dad sets for me. No matter how well I perform, no matter how much I win, he’s always pushing for me to try harder, be better, go further. I don’t think he means to be overbearing, but it gets old fast. Instead of being proud of me, he constantly pushes for perfection.

And if my friends are already talking about this new bronc rider, it’s only a matter of time before my dad will have something to say about it too. Annoyance furrows in my gut simply at the thought.

2

Sterling Addams

Being the new guy in town is never fun. It’s uncomfortable, even on the best of terms. I’ve never been someone who can make friends at the drop of a hat. I tend to be more introverted; small talk makes me sweat, and I never know how to act in large groups of people. As a kid, being around animals interested me way more than kids my age. One benefit of growing up surrounded by farms, there’s never a shortage of four-legged companions.

Copper Lake, Wyoming. It’s been a good fifteen years since I’ve been here, and it’s just as I remember it. Me and my family left town when I was seven. Dad got a new job in an oil field in Texas, so we had to pack up and go. My parents still live there, as did I up until a few days ago. Joining the PRCA, I knew I wanted to move somewhere that was smart for my career. Sure, there are rodeos and clinics all over the country, but it’s no secret there are a handful of places in the United States that statistically produce better rodeo cowboys. Copper Lake is one of them—infact, I’d even go as far as to say it’s the best location for a new bronc rider to be.

When I was going over all of this with my parents, my dad got the bright idea to reach out to Conrad Strauss. After all, it was his family’s ranch that we lived on before we moved away. I barely remember them, being so young, but I know our parents were close. So close that when they died a few years ago, my parents flew here for their funeral—and if there’s one thing about Chet and Diane Addams, it’s that they do not fly. Ever.

Conrad was more than willing to have me stay at his ranch while I prepare for my first rodeo season, and I’m extremely appreciative of that, but it doesn’t make it any less awkward that he is basically a stranger to me. Back when I lived here as a kid, Conrad was away at college, so I met himmaybetwo or three times.

Thankfully, he has an apartment above his barn that he’s letting me pay for with good ol’ fashioned sweat equity, helping out around the ranch until it’s rodeo season. He even so graciously gave me a stall for Lottie, my mare I brought from Texas. Can’t really beat that; essentially a free place to crash, with hundreds of acres for me to practice on.

But then I had to go and make everything exponentially worse by drunkenly hooking up with someone four months ago who is now probably my biggest competition and basically a legend, not only in Copper Lake, but within the whole organization. Granted, I had zero way of knowing I’d end up back here, but I still don’t know what the fuck came over me that night. Seeing Shooter Graham at that bar in Vegas the night of the finals was surreal. Even though he's not much older than me, I’ve still looked up to him for as long as he’s been in the spotlight. He’s not a world champ for the third year in a row for nothing.

Having him not only flirt with me that night, but also proposition me… I’ve never done something like that, and I hadjust enough liquor diluting my blood to make it impossible for me to say no. And now, we live in the same damn town. I’m dreading the first time I run into him—and I know it’ll happen. Even if I never ended up moving here, though, I still would’ve seen him at rodeos one way or another. We’re both bareback riders, so it was freaking stupid of me to do.

Who am I kidding? He won’t even remember me. Shooter probably hooks up with a different person every night during the season. There’s no shortage of buckle bunnies.

I just finished herding all the cattle out to the pasture for grazing, and I’m making my way back to the house. It isn’t spring yet, so it’s not hot outside, but having the sun beat down on me all morning, in addition to all the work I’ve been doing, has me sweating like a damn hog.

The apartment above the barn is plenty big enough for me. It has a bed, a closet, a dresser, and it even has a bathroom. No kitchen, though. So, I have to go inside the house whenever I want to eat, which isn’t ideal, but whatever.

Kicking off my shoes on the back porch, I pull open the screen door and step inside. The back door is right off the kitchen, so I don’t have to intrude too much on Conrad’s space when I come in here. I grab a water bottle out of the fridge and pluck an apple from the bowl on the table, and I’m about to leave when footsteps sound behind me, entering the kitchen.

“Oh, hey, Sterling.”

Turning to face him, I force a smile. “Hey, Conrad. I just got done taking the cows out. Needed a snack.” I hold up the apple, as if to prove my statement. “Don’t mean to be in your way.”

Conrad is a beast. A freaking mammoth. I’m six foot, and he towers over me. He’s gotta be at least six-five, maybe even taller than that, with the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen. His thick, dark beard is a couple of inches long. In a pair of Wranglers and a red-and-black flannel rolled up his corded forearms, he’s anintimidating presence. I think he’s in his early forties, at least, given how he was away at college when I was living here, but he doesn’t look it.

Chuckling, he grabs a water. “You don’t need to keep apologizing, Sterling.” His voice is deep. Boisterous. “You’re living here too. You’re allowed to come and go as you please.”

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