Page 1 of Sugar
PROLOGUE
KASEY
“Would you like me to drag the arena for you, sir?”
Benny looks at me with warm brown eyes as I hover next to the corral, a grin lifting crookedly from one side of his mouth. “No need,” he says, voice gruff. He pats the neck of the horse beneath him with gentle affection. “I’m spendin’ a little extra time with my Tormenta this afternoon, so I’ll drag it later. But I appreciate the offer. You did well today, Kasey—you’ve got a natural rhythm in your hips.”
Coming fromtheBenedito Silva, a two-time world champion bronc rider and ProSpur Hall of Fame legend, the praise lights me up from the inside out. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate you accepting me into your program.”
We’re only three days into an intensive two-week rodeo camp being held at Benny’s ranch just north of Houston, and I’ve already learned so much from the man in front of me. I spent all of last year mowing lawns and breaking horses for ranchers in neighboring counties to afford the opportunity, knowing damn well there was no way my parents would even agree to let me be here much less pay for it—not after rodeo ruined Dad’s life.
They think I’m in Dallas for a football camp.
I almost feel bad for having to carry on such a big lie, but my passion for rodeo has always outweighed any consequences of getting caught. Mom and Dad have no idea that Brooks has been secretly registering us both for small bronc-riding competitions ever since he got his driver’s license last summer and could take us without them knowing. He’d gotten pretty good at forging Dad’s signature for all the liability waivers and consent forms after doing it so much with his own report cards.
“You’ve been on horses your whole life?” Benny asks.
I nod. “Yes, sir. My family owns a rescue ranch in Saddlebrook Falls. We get a lot of mustangs and wayward horses throughout the year. I help break ’em and train ’em for wherever they’re going next.”
His eyes crinkle with a smile. “Don’t tell anyone else I said this, but kids like you are exactly why I do this. You’ve got great instincts. Keep up with your training and I have no doubt you’ll enjoy a successful future in rodeo. You could very well be one of the greats.”
My eyes burn with an unfamiliar emotion. I’m not sure anyone’s ever paid me such a hefty compliment. Taking my hat off my head, I sink my chin to my chest. “Thank you, sir. Sincerely.”
A sudden shouting from the other side of the corral snares my attention, and I look up to find Benny’s wife, Manuella, attempting to herd a brown-and-white paint horse toward the stables. Its rider frantically waves her hands at the woman, saying something I can’t quite hear from this far away.
“Manuella,” Benny calls out. Concern ripples along his dark bushy brows. “You okay?”
She turns toward her husband, face pinched in frustration. “Fine,meu amor. Just helping Miss Jones back to the barn.”
“I’m not ready to put him away,” the girl atop the horse shouts. “We need more practice!”
“Yes,” Manuella agrees, voice nearly as loud. “You do. But not right now—he needs a break and so do you. We’re done for the day, Miss Jones, and as I’ve already explained, I’m not going to let you continue training without proper supervision. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Benny huffs out a quiet laugh before glancing back my way. “Word of advice: be careful with barrel racers, son.” With a dip of his chin, he clicks his tongue and his horse takes off toward the other side of the ring.
I can’t help but stay rooted in place, watching as he climbs down from his saddle to speak softly to the pair. The girl eventually huffs out a defeated sigh and steers her gelding to the barn. My eyes stay glued on her, transfixed by the way her face flushes bright red beneath the riding helmet buckled at her chin. Even from yards away, it’s obvious she’s angrier than a hornet’s nest. Emotion bursts from her like sparks of light, and I feel drawn to it.
When she reaches the barn she swings a leg over the horse’s back and disappears, tucking herself just inside the doorway. I edge along the corral a few steps until she’s back in my frame of view, her long brown hair spilling out as she works to take off the helmet. The ends of it dance along her skin in a way I’ve definitely seen before, and the realization of who she is hits me: Ava Jones, Sheriff Joe’s daughter.
In a town as small as Saddlebrook Falls, it’s sort of impossible not to know everyone you go to school with. I might not consider them all friends, but I’d bet money I at least know all of their first names. But somehow it took until sixth grade, when she showed up to football tryouts during our first week of school, for me to notice Ava.
I know of her dad, thanks to my own—something I’d rather not think about—but it evaded me for a long time that Sheriff Joe had a daughter. Coach about had a heart attack when he realized there was a girl on the field running suicides alongside the rest of us. She kept up well enough—she’d gotten through nearly an entire afternoon undetected beneath the cherry-red helmet that covered most of her face, having tucked all that hair inside.
When her cover was blown and Coach demanded she leave the field, she’d taken off that helmet to let those gorgeous locks flow down her back before opening her mouth to argue against the unfairness of it, for disqualifying her because she was a girl when she’d run faster in every drill than most of the other boys. It was true. She’d been damn fast . . . Faster than even me.
As she stood her ground and made her case, I’d been wholly caught off guard by howprettyshe was. She looked so much like she does now in that barn: face tinged pink, arched brows dipped low with that pouty mouth twisted into a frown. And her eyes . . .
Even at eleven, there’d been a fire in them, a desire to burn down the world around her, a hunger for wreckage and ruin. Now, at fourteen, I can see the fire in her sharp gaze is bigger—brighter—and I’m just as hooked as I was before.
We never had a class together, but she was definitely someone you looked at once and remembered forever. Someone you noticed even in the darkest of rooms. After that day on the field it was like a switch flipped and I suddenly saw her in every crowded hallway between classes, like she’d stuffed a location beacon inside my chest and the second she was within range, my eyes were hurrying to find her.
I tried for a long time to work up the courage to walk up to her and say something, but nothing ever felt right. For months, I agonized over what might do the trick. A joke? She’d probablyfind it lame, especially from a quiet kid like me. I thought maybe I could try my hand at honest flirting, but I’d seen enough fumblings around school to lose any real heart I might have had in putting myself out there like that.
Without a class together or areasonto talk to her, I just didn’t think anything I said would be good enough to leave an impression. Plus she hardly ever smiled, at least that I could tell, and I really wanted the first words I said to be worthy of pulling one out of her.
The pressure of it all just became too much, so I resigned to watching her from a distance, waiting for an opportunity that felt right. And now here she is, right in front of me. On a damn horse, no less.
Free of the helmet, her long hair moves lazily with the breeze, but the storm in her blue eyes is mighty as she watches Manuella and Benny walk away, her fists clenching and unclenching in an unsynchronized rhythm at her sides. Then, without warning, she turns to look at me.
