Page 16 of Riding the Storm
“Yeah, I was younger and feistier then,” Bryce says.
Daddy lets out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. We don’t get many legends around this table.”
“Not counting me,” Grandpa says with a wink.
Bryce chuckles, ducking his head a little, clearly pleased to be recognized by the two of them, but trying not to show it too much.
Just then, Shelby bounces up the front steps, her braid swinging, followed by Cabe.
“Looks good,” Shelby says, plopping into a chair and grabbing a sandwich. Then she spots Bryce and freezes. “Wait.” Her eyes come to me. “Is that—”
Bryce turns toward her, offering his hand. “Bryce. Pleasure.”
Shelby shakes it, eyes wide. “Oh my God, Charli, that’stheBryce Raintree.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I know.” Figures she’d recognize him, seeing as she spent a year on the rodeo circuit herself.
Cabe looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. “No way! Dude, I’ve watched every one of your rides. I saw you at Cheyenne. You rode Widowmaker like it was nothin’.”
Bryce’s grin widens. “You were there?”
“Front row!” Cabe says, practically glowing. “Man, you’re a freaking beast.”
Matty laughs softly. “Cabe’s our cousin. He’s the youngest brother of Axle and Royce Trust.”
“No shit,” Bryce says, his eyes flitting to Grandma. “Sorry, ma’am.”
She waves him off with a smile.
He focuses back on Cabe. “Those boys can ride. Hell, Axle is going to be better than me one day.”
Cabe’s grin stretches wider. “Wait till I tell him you said that.”
Bryce chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “You do that. Tell ’em both I said they still owe me a beer from Vegas.”
That earns laughter around the table.
I sit across from him, arms folded for a second before I finally reach for a sandwich. I can feel his gaze now and then, flickering up from his plate. Staring like he’s trying to figure me out.
When our eyes meet, he smirks again.
I arch a brow in warning.
He grins wider.
God help me, he’s infuriating.
Grandma starts questioning him as we eat. “So, Bryce,” she says, spooning some pasta salad onto his plate, “what made you decide to switch from bulls to broncs?”
He hesitates, his fork pausing midair. For a moment, that easy charm falters. Then he shrugs, forcing a tight smile. “Didn’t really decide, ma’am. Doctors told me I’m one bad fall away from being out of commission for good. Bulls are … well, less forgiving than horses, I guess.”
A shadow flickers in his eyes before he looks down. “My team figured broncs might be a better option if I wanted to stay in the game a few more years.”
The table quiets for a heartbeat, all that bravado replaced by something rawer—bitterness maybe. Bruised pride.
Grandma nods slowly. “That must be hard.”
He gives a half laugh with no humor in it. “Yeah. Feels like being told I can’t do what I was born to do.”
