Page 46 of Rough Ride with the Grumpy Cowboy
“Fun? I did not work my ass off your whole life to build your career for you to be ‘having fun.’ Let’s go—we have lots to talk about,” she demands.
“No.”
“No?”
“I am not going anywhere with you. You’re not my manager anymore, remember,” I assert, wrapping my arms protectively around myself.
She smiles and takes a step closer to me. “That’s a misunderstanding that we are going to clear up right now.”
Misunderstanding? What happened between us was catastrophic, definitely not a simple disagreement.
“Don’t be stubborn, Noa. Let’s go!”
She takes my hand and starts dragging me away, and that’s when I spot my stepfather’s car with him behind the wheel and my stepbrother next to him. No! They are not going to drag me into their mess again.
I yank my hand back, and before my mother can react, I take off running. She screams, and I hear someone take off after me, which only pushes me to run faster. I have no idea where I’m going—I just know that I need to get away from her, from them, before they put me through hell once more.
Never again!
18
ZANE
I watch through the kitchen window as the Bronco disappears from sight, my fists clenched in anger by my side. Once again, Ella’s meddlesome self has managed to interrupt a very important conversation between Ava and me.
It was by sheer luck that I managed to find her alone in the kitchen. After waiting for weeks, I finally got the chance to talk to her. Then Ella had to barge in, accuse me of bullying Ava, and take her away.
Unlike previous times, I’m not going to let more weeks pass by. Today, as soon as they come back from music class, I’m finding Ava and demanding some much-needed answers from her.
I’m feeling too wound up to work, so I head over to my gym to squeeze in a workout before I start my day. The PBR bull riding season starts in a few weeks, and I impulsively decided to sign up for it. I’m not going for a medal—not by a long shot—I just want a chance to redeem myself and prove that I’ve still got it as a bull rider.
My exercises are now focused on strengthening my back and leg muscles in preparation for those eight seconds I’ll be on that bull.
“So this is what you do when you’re slacking on your duties as foreman?” Jace mocks, wheeling himself into my private space.
How did he even manage to get here? I have steps outside with no ramp.
“I’d advise you to leave the same way you came in,” I tell him as I keep on with my pull-ups.
Instead of heeding my words, he gets to his feet and starts snooping around.
“You know, I’ve never been in here,” he mutters to himself.
“With good reason—this is my personal space,” I assert.
“How do you have better equipment than the gym at the house?” he queries, stopping at the treadmill in the corner.
“Because I take my physical therapy seriously, unlike you,” I retort.
Jace was wounded while on an overseas mission in Somalia. He’d been hurt before, but this was bad enough for him to be in the hospital for eight months. We almost lost him, but after healing and lots of physical therapy, he was sent home and now uses a wheelchair to get around. He can stand and walk, but only for short distances due to his limited mobility.
He runs the ranch’s security—a role he takes very seriously. Iron Stallion is worth billions, so his hypervigilance is understandable. There was an unsuccessful attempt to steal a couple of thoroughbreds last year. The thieves were caught and punished thoroughly by us to make sure we sent a message that the Morgans are not to be messed with before we released them to authorities.
Ever since then, Jace upgraded our safety features, with cameras everywhere, reinforced security doors, a panic room for some reason, and so many other measures I can’t be bothered with as they’re not my responsibility.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I ask, jumping off when I get to fifty pull-ups.
“Just checking in on my big brother,” he replies with a shrug.
