Page 27 of Stick Around,
“We won’t let him fill your head with garbage technique, Quinn. There’s a reason we don’t let him teach the advanced students.” Enzo rolled his eyes but pushed away from the fence, following Kellan with determined strides.
“Because you’re jealous of my natural charisma!” Kellan’s voice drifted back.
“Because you teach showmanship, not horsemanship!” Enzo called after him.
I watched them disappear into the stables, bickering like brothers. “Is this normal?”
Reid shrugged, scratching Walter behind the ears. “They’re always looking for excuses to outdo each other… well, when Enzo isn’t stressing about the ranch.”
Why would Enzo be stressing about the ranch? From my viewpoint they had everything running smoothly. Then again, I wasn’t an expert on running a ranch.
I suddenly felt responsible for the impromptu competition and for distracting them from their jobs. “I’m sure you all have actual work?—”
“Do you want to see?” Reid interrupted, his eyes meeting mine directly. The question was simple but somehow felt weighted with something more.
I hesitated only a second before nodding. “Yes, I’d like that.”
He nodded, then pushed off from the fence. “Main arena’s this way.” He handed me Walter as he led me around the side of the stables.
The main arena was larger than the arena we had just been in, with seating along both sides. I settled onto a bench in the shade, Thunderbolt propped beside me and Walter on my lap, feeling like I was about to watch a private performance. In a way, I guess it was. No one else was currently at the ranch for lessons or to ride their boarded horses.
Less than five minutes later, the three men rode into the arena. Kellan sat atop Whisk, the bay gelding prancing with obvious pride, tossing his head as if aware he had an audience. Enzo rode a sleek dark brown horse with a white star on its forehead, his posture military straight.
But it was Reid who caught my eye the most, mounted on a small chestnut mare whose ears were pinned back at the sight of the other horses. She sidled nervously, but Reid’s body remained calm, his hands steady on the reins.
It was the finicky mare they had rescued that they introduced me to the day before. “That’s Junebug, right?”
Kellan grinned from atop Whisk. “The demon herself. Only Reid can ride her without losing a finger or going for too wild of a ride.”
“She has a low bullshit tolerance.” Reid stroked the mare’s neck. Something about the way he looked at her with patience and understanding stirred something inside me.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Kellan announced dramatically, spinning Whisk in a tight circle. “Welcome to the first annual La Cuesta demonstration of superior horsemanship, as judged by our esteemed visitor and hobby horse champion.”
I settled more comfortably on the bench. “What am I looking for exactly?”
“Different styles,” Enzo replied before Kellan could turn the answer into another joke. “Different horses need different approaches. Watching will help you understand movement.”
As they began warming up their horses, I was struck by how uniquely each man rode. Kellan was all flash and flair, encouraging Whisk to show off with high steps and dramatic turns. Enzo moved with precise efficiency, every transition smooth.
And Reid... Reid seemed to melt into Junebug, their movements so synchronized it was hard to tell where the horse ended and the man began. When the mare shied at a shadow, his body absorbed the motion like it was his own startled reaction.
I found myself watching him the most, though I tried to be subtle about it. There was something mesmerizing about the quiet confidence in his every move.
I realized I was witnessing something magical. Not just horsemanship, but three very different men in their element, showing me a glimpse of their souls.
I absently stroked Walter’s head while trying not to stare too obviously at any one cowboy. Just as I was settling into a comfortable rhythm of dividing my attention equally between the three men, Kellan guided Whisk to the fence directly in front of me.
“Getting too hot out here.” He let out a dramatic sigh that seemed designed specifically to draw my attention.
I watched in growing disbelief as he removed his cowboy hat, placing it on the saddle horn. Then, with a slowness that could only be described as performative, he grabbed the back of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.
My mouth went dry.
I’d seen Kellan shirtless last night, but him sitting on a horse, bare-chested and grinning like he’d invented sex appeal, felt infinitely more scandalous.
“Better?” I managed to ask, proud that my voice didn’t falter.
“Much.” He winked, flashing that smile that probably made women and girls faint during his riding lessons. “Hard to demonstrate proper form with all that fabric in the way.”
