Page 27 of Bourbon Breakaway

“Rules are fun”—I search my mind for the boy’s name—“Gareth. At least that one is because I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“When do we get to do this on horses? I don’t want to rope a dummy calf,” Gareth moans again. “That’s for babies.”

Another snigger wafts over my shoulder from Ashton’s direction, but I don’t show him I heard it. In fact, if Ashton thinks this boy’s defiance bothers me one bit, he’s wrong. Gareth and his copper hair might come off a bit bratty for some, but I kind of like it. He has thejump right into itnature that I always thought a kid of my own would have, and lots of gusto.

I bend down to face the ten-year-old eye to eye. “I assure you, a baby can’t rope a dummy calf.”

He rolls his eyes, and the challenging gesture ignites a part of me I haven’t felt in a while. I love a cheeky kid.

I speak quietly to him so Ashton can’t hear. “Listen, if you focus and do as I say all lesson, and concentrate really well, I’ll let you try to lasso that guy over there.” I point to the stands.

Ashton has no idea what I just said, but he sees me and Gareth watching him and waves at us.

Gareth grins. “Okay. Deal.”

It’s a little unfair, potentially letting Ashton get walloped a few times by the nylon rope when he’s injured. But he’s obviously well enough to make the walk over to the yard and has enough energy left to heckle me. He thought he was coming here for me to entertain him? He’s mistaken.

I teach the children about the parts of the lasso, this is supposed to be a 101 course after all. I tell them all the things Monica Dane taught me. How to flick the wrist in circles, how to throw the rope like a baseball.

Then, we begin by simply trying to make a circularmotion overhead. It’s harder than any of them thought it would be. I jet from kid to kid, trying to help them move their wrists around, helping them out when they pretty much rope themselves. One girl keeps hitting her own head, and I never thought we’d need a helmet for lassoing. The back of her head is a nest of tangles.

Ashton runs his mouth from behind me. “Tell her to put her elbow higher.”

I spin around, and he’s pointing to the one who keeps hitting herself.

Oh, lucky me.I have a teaching assistant and unsolicited help today. I ignore him but position the girl’s arm higher. She must just be tired because she can’t keep it up. She is only eight with bird’s arms but she purses her lips like she’s trying.

The next thing I know, Ashton is making his way over the sand to us and standing next to me and the young girl.

He speaks to her. “You want me to help you?”

“We don’t need your help.” I step in between him and my student. “We’re doing just fine. Don’t you need to rest up?” I ask in such a way he knows I want him to get the hell out of here.

“Not really.”

“Well, just now you were walking like you have fins for legs.”

He laughs that magnetic laugh that makes it harder for me to push him away. But I need to establish boundaries. At least until I get used to his alluring smell and vampire’s feast of a neck. Damn, there’s something about his neck.

I give him another proverbial shove. “Go bother someone else. I’m not your babysitter, Ashton.”

Gareth decides now is a good time to listen and be a class clown. “Ooooh. She told you off,mister.”

Ashton isn’t the least put off by either of us. He cocks that crooked smile of his and wipes the corner of his eye. “I kind of like it here.” Then he speaks to the kids. “Who wants to watch a rope off?”

The kids drop their lariats and jump up and down, excited to stop the required repetition to actually learn how to rope.

I cross my arms. “This is supposed to be a roping club. Their parents brought them tolearnnot to watch.”

But the kids are in a full-on mutiny already. After a long day of school, they’re probably hangry. All of them have dropped their lassos to the ground and are pounding their feet, dust kicking up beneath them. They chant, “Rope off! Rope off! Rope off!”

I shake my head slowly, knowing I’m not getting out of this, but neither is he. “You’re done, Dane. There’s no way you have better tricks than I have.”

He licks his lips, sinking his teeth into the bottom one. “Let’s see whose cowboy blood runs deeper, Hunter. Did mine survive California or did yours survive New York?”

“UpstateNew York,” I correct him.

“Not here anyway.”

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