Page 33 of Ride Me Reckless
Colt.
I tapped it and lifted the phone to my ear, heart thudding louder than the track speakers. It rang once. Twice.
Then came his voice. Low. Familiar.
“You’ve reached Colt Bennett. Leave it short or don’t leave it at all.”
The tone beeped.
I froze.
Then: “Hey. It’s me.” My voice cracked, softer than I meant it to be. “I, uh… I won. In Dallas. Thought maybe you’d want to know.”
I hesitated, lips pressed tight.
“I just—yeah. That’s all.”
I ended the call before I could do something stupid. Like say I missed him. Like ask if he ever thought about us.
We stood there a beat longer, watching the crew prep the next heat.
The high had slipped away. But for one second, I’d felt like I was flying.
Would Colt hear it in my voice and remember what that felt like too?
Chapter Nine
Ash and Grit
Colt
Sunday mornings always started the same.
Coffee in a ridiculously expensive mug, black as sin. Two eggs scrambled lazy. Boots by the back door, coated in yesterday's dust. I liked the quiet. The kind that settled deep in your bones and didn't ask much from you.
Except today, it didn't sit right.
I leaned against the counter, cup in hand, watching the sun break over the hills. The TV murmured low in the background—some gospel station I didn't remember setting. It was race day in Dallas. I didn't need the calendar to tell me.
Tessa would be suiting up. Zipping into fireproofs. Sliding into the cockpit of that old beast she still called a dragster.
My fingers hovered over my phone more than once. Thought about texting her good luck. Just those words. Nothing loaded. Nothing messy. But hell, what was the point?
She didn't owe me anything. And I'd already said too much or not enough, depending on the day.
If she was ever gonna come home to Lovelace, it had to be because she wanted to. Not because I pulled her back with some half-assed text at seven on a Sunday morning.
I finished my eggs and scraped the pan clean, then tugged on my hat and headed out. I had feed to pick up before the store got crowded with weekend ranch hands.
As I passed through town, familiar storefronts blinked to life one by one. The scent from the Lodgepole pines hung in the air, faint but steady. It always brought back memories of being with my father, when he taught me how to ride. As I rounded the bend past Dalia's place, something caught my eye—the roses.
Big old things, blooming wild in the side yard. Crimson and peach, curling heavy at the tips like they'd been left to grow without pruning. Her sister, Marge, planted those decades ago, back when Dalia still hosted backyard socials and kept jars of sun tea on the porch rail.
I slowed the truck just a touch. The gate was crooked again. Her blinds were still drawn. I made a mental note to stop by later just to check-in.
I pressed the pedal and moved on.
The feed store sat just off the edge of town like it always had—the sign faded, the parking lot half gravel, half guesswork. Joe's truck was already there—same spot, same old dent in the fender.
