Page 6 of Riding the Storm
“Matty, I train horses, not cowboys,” I say, shaking my head.
“You train horses and riders,” she corrects.
“Horses, yes. Riders, yes. But not bucking broncs and definitely not rodeo hotshots with overinflated egos.”
“You started training Leon Brewster this year,” she points out.
I stop dead, plant my boots, and face her. “Leon is six years old. His dad wants to enter him in a junior rodeo, and I’m training him to ride two-handed on a saddle bronc pony. That is not the same as dealing with an almost-thirty-year-old cowboy and a fifteen-hundred-pound bucking beast.”
“A bronc is just a horse,” Matty argues, like she’s explaining something obvious. “You know horses. And the cowboy is just a man. You know men.”
I snort. “You don’t sound so sure about that last part.”
“It’s a lot of money, Charli. And if we don’t accept it, they’re looking at hiring Giles.”
That makes me stop breathing for a second.
Of course.
I look at her, narrowing my eyes. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
“Why doesn’t Shelby do it?” I ask. “She’s the one who trains competition riders.”
“She trains barrel racers, jumpers, and trick riders—notcowboys looking to hold on to an angry animal’s back for eight seconds,” Matty says. “She hasn’t got a clue what to do with a bull rider.”
“Neither do I!”
“Look, he’s a professional. He knows how to ride bulls, but he needs to learn how to ride broncs.”
I stare at her. “So, he’s a cowboy who doesn’t know how to ride a horse?”
Matty sighs like I’m a difficult child. “Of course he can ride a horse, Charli. He just needs to unlearn what he does on the back of a bull and retrain his body for bronc form. You know, different cues, different posture, timing. You’ve trained broncs. You know how they move, how they react. He needs to learn how to read that. It’s muscle memory, and you can help him build it.”
Oh my God. She’s serious.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
“Come on,” she says, smiling a little. “You’ve been talking for months about wanting to try something new.”
“Yeah, I meant something like high-speed conditioning of a racehorse, not teaching a cocky celebrity to stay on a bucking horse without dying.”
She laughs. “You always say you like a challenge.”
I exhale hard, rubbing the back of my neck. “Fine. I’ll take a look at him. But you’re gonna owe me.”
Her grin widens. “Once you see your paycheck, you’re gonna owe me.”
I shake my head as we reach the porch. “I swear, I like boss you less and less every day.”
She grins, pushing open the front door. “As long as you still love sister me, I can live with that.”
We step inside, and I let the cool air wrap around me. The smell of tangy fruit and cinnamon hits us—Grandma’s been making apple dumplings. My stomach growls as I follow the aroma, and Matty heads upstairs.
I find Grandma in her apron at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan.
“Any of those done?” I ask as I glance over her shoulder.
