Page 7 of The Wildest Ride

“Don’t worry about that now. You’ve got training to do. Gotten a bit out of shape, if you ask me.”

Piper erupted in a fit of witchy cackles as Lil stormed out of the kitchen. Ignoring them all, Lil went to her office.

On the second floor of the farmhouse, the room used to be her gran and granddad’s bedroom, but she and Gran had turned it into the office after he passed. Gran said she couldn’t bear to sleep in there alone.

It made a lovely office—wide and bright, with delicately framed French doors that led to a weight-bearing balcony. Weight-bearing because Lil’s summer project last year had been to reinforce the support beams, replace the decking, and weather coat the whole thing.

She figured that should get her five years’ worth of good use of Muskogee’s extreme annual mood swings before she’d need to do any repairs. That is if she kept up on refinishing it every year, which she had planned to, since walking out on the balcony had preserved her sanity after a long stint of pushing paper many a time.

She walked through the doors and stood there now, enjoying it while she could still call it hers. There were bills to pay, orders to fulfill, and emails to respond to, but that wasn’t her job now. Now her job was to enter a rodeo contest and try to win some money to save the ranch.

And to think she’d thought the goats were bad.

2

“Read it again.” AJ Garza ground the words out between gritted teeth, his shoulder burning like it did every time he gripped his riggin’ these days.

Claudio sighed but read aloud from the glossy quarter sheet ad he held. “‘The PBRA Closed Circuit Tour, a rough stock rodeo unlike any other, kicks off this June. This is a tournament-style traveling rodeo with a one-million-dollar cash prize. The PBRA Closed Circuit is a testament to God’s greatest battle: man versus nature—or in this case, man versus the rankest bulls on earth! The final three cowboys will compete for the million-dollar prize. For the grand finale, each cowboy goes up against a never-been-beaten man killer. But don’t worry, folks, to show that these cowboys are a match for any set of horns, each rodeo on tour features a different set of special challenges—including unpredictable untried bulls, fresh-caught mustangs, and more! You’ve heard of reality TV. Well, this isRodeo TV,folks. Fans will get to know every cowboy through in-depth interviews, candid videos, and special VIP events! Follow along from start to finish and get a chance to get up close and personal with your favorite. The PBRA Closed Circuit, where reality TV meets the rodeo.’”

“How long?” he grunted.

“Twenty-five seconds, on the highest setting,” he said. “You can probably get off now.”

Judging from the way the younger man drummed his fingers against his thigh, Claudio Ramiro, CityBoyz’s under-the-table, on-again, off-again office manager, was getting tired of counting seconds. He was supposed to be stuffing the emergency closure notice letters at his desk—the job for which he was on-again.

“Nope. Keep going. This old thing is at least five times slower, dumber, and weaker than every dick of a bull I’ve ever been on,” AJ grunted while thrashing and jerking wildly atop the aging mechanical bull.

“So The Old Man’s got you riding dick again, AJ? I heard you guys needed money, but that’s extreme...” A sardonic voice sliced through the noise of the robotic bull.

The unexpected arrival of Diablo Jones, the best friend he had ever had, didn’t throw AJ off the bull.

That he stood next to The Old Man did.

It’d been three years since he’d seen either man in the flesh.

AJ tucked and rolled as he flew off the bull, landing flat-assed on the mat, winded, his ears full of the music of a machine that needed oil.

The Old Man was not due in the office for a few more hours. But here he was, which meant AJ was caught.

“Hello, Alonso.” Henry Bowman had a baritone rumble that had only deepened with age, like expensive whiskey. The sound of it in person, instead of a thin and distant thing over a weak signal across an ocean, hooked into the center of AJ’s chest.

Lying on a wrestling mat looking up at The Old Man’s shadowed face against the backdrop of a ceiling was as familiar to him as the smell of leather.

A grin spread across AJ’s face, revealing a set of dimples and two rows of relatively straight pearly whites with what he liked to think was a charming chip in his front tooth. Even though the smile was for The Old Man, he spoke to Diablo when he said, “The stubborn old coot left me no choice. He wouldn’t take my money.”

Henry ignored the two younger men, instead pointing out the painfully obvious: “You’re too old for this.”

The Old Man had a reputation for telling it like it was. Why would that be any different today than it had been fifteen years before when he’d stood over AJ after he’d been thrown the first time?

Back then, he’d said:You let the bull win.

Henry offered a hand.

Today, AJ accepted it.

It was damn good to see the man. His bald head gleamed from a fresh razor and oil, his rich dark brown skin betraying only about fifty of his sixty-four years—even with a salt-and-pepper beard.

Like all riders, Henry had received his share of unintended cosmetic surgery over the years: a bit of eyebrow lost forever, a nose with a few additional curves, a slight droop to the left eye. Time had lightened the charcoal gray of his eyes, but AJ doubted that even death would dim their lightning.

---