Page 23 of Riding the Storm
“Good. Then let’s get started. Today, we’re working on pressure and release.”
He groans under his breath, but grabs the lead rope he has already fitted Midnight with anyway.
I tilt my head and study him. “Something on your mind?”
“Yeah,” he says, meeting my gaze. “You said you wanted me to prove my focus.”
I nod slowly. “I did.”
“Then let me. Stop treating me like some newbie who doesn’t know his ass from a halter hitch. Give me something real to work with, Chuck, and I promise I’ll make an effort.”
I step closer. “Something real? What would that be, cowboy?”
“Not leading a horse around a pen all day. You made your point. I get it. I have a lot to learn and unlearn.”
“And you’ll drop the attitude?” I ask.
His eyes flash. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise my entire personality is gonna change overnight.”
I exhale through my nose. “Deal. You show me some true effort, and we’ll get to the real work. And at the end of this, we’ll show your sponsors results. And maybe even extend your career.”
He nods, and I can see the shift. The determination.
I step back and gesture toward the horse. “Go grab a saddle that feels right. Let’s get him tacked up so you can ride him.”
Bryce smiles a genuine smile. Then he sets his mug on a post and heads for the barn.
For the first time since he got here, I feel like we’re not at war.
Not quite allies either. But maybe somewhere in between.
The early afternoon light hits the arena fence just right and bathes us in a bright halo of sunshine. Bryce is in the saddle with reins in hand.
He’s astride Midnight Storm, the same horse I’ve had him working with from day one—Caison’s new stallion. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone. Training them both at the same time.
I stand to the side and silently observe. Taking note of how he moves, how he commands the animal. And, God help me, it’s like watching him try to tame a wildfire. Midnight’s a beast—slick black coat glistening, muscles bunching under the saddle, nostrils flared, and eyes flashing white. He’snot mean, not exactly, but he’s got that young stud arrogance that says he doesn’t like to be told what to do any more than the cowboy on his back.
Bryce doesn’t fight him. He moves with him.
It’s not what I expected from the cocky bull rider who rode in seven days ago with a chip the size of Wyoming on his shoulder and an attitude that made me want to throw him straight back in his truck. He’s been pushing my buttons since the second we met, trying to get me to heel, like everyone else in his life. But this morning, I found a different cowboy in my pen. One willing to try. And that’s all I really need. Willingness.
Now I can finally assess his stubborn ass, gauge where he’s truly at, and start him from a realistic point. To be honest, from my first impression, I thought he’d last ten minutes on Midnight’s back before getting dumped in the dirt.
Instead, I’m leaning against the fence, watching a man completely in control.
Midnight sidesteps, tossing his head, testing the reins. Bryce doesn’t yank, doesn’t bark an order. He just shifts his weight, light in the saddle, hands steady, voice low enough that I can’t make out the words he is saying. Whatever it is, it works because the stallion circles back, snorting, and finally settles into a canter. A thrill shoots through me at the sight.
It’s not the horse that’s got my heart racing though.
Bryce radiates that raw, masculine cowboy energy that’s impossible to fake. He’s tall, broad through the chest and shoulders. His tattooed arm catches the light when he lifts the reins. The ink that climbs his biceps and disappears beneath his sleeve contrasts beautifully against the bronze skin. His dark, wavy hair gives off an untamed, rugged edge—the kind that says he’s seen hard miles in his twenty-eight years and come out stronger for them. His close-cropped beard frames a mouth that looks like trouble, complete with full lips that could make a woman quiver with need. And probably has many times over. A faint scar cuts through his left eyebrow, probably a souvenir from a ride gone bad. It only adds more character to his already impossibly handsome face.
The tilt of his hat shadows his eyes, but I know they are a stormy shade of blue gray, and I feel their intensity as he concentrates. He’s pure determination and grit, wrapped in denim and a faded gray T-shirt that clings to him like it was made for his body.
Damn.
His chest is thick with power, built from years of hanging on to two thousand pounds of pissed-off muscle, and the shirt strains faintly across it when he moves. Sweat darkens the cotton along the collar and down his back.
I swallow hard, trying not to stare like some starstruck girl seeing a real cowboy for the first time.
