Page 14 of Drifter’s Heart

Chaotic thoughts swirl around my head, and I discard each one as they pop up. No, this is something I need to handle for me, not owe favors to the Coyote Falls boys for. Not my brother. Not his best friend. Zero interference. That’s what got me here. That and some shitty choices of my own.

Because out here? This is just my regular, normal life mess.

At least the chicken salad is good.

FIVE

WEST

No Bull Served Here

“Get in the seat. Knees bent. No, not like that. Too much. Straighten up. He’s gonna—ah, dammit,” I swear as Dustan eats dirt for the fourth, maybe fifth, time this morning. I sigh. “Kid, you’ve⁠—”

“Gotta get better at staying on the damn bull. Yep, heard you the first five times.” He grins at me from where he sits in a puff of dirt. His butt has created a dust bowl the shape of its own postage stamp. His mark on this place a dozen times over. And that’s just today.

Okay, so maybe it’s six.

Our makeshift training ring is set outside in the yard behind a local produce store that a friend has lent out for the occasion. Dustan’s been on that bull and off it since just after sunrise. My ass hurts at least as much as his, cramping every time he comes off right before the alarm on my phone registers the 8.5-second mark I’ve set.

I’ve always trained longer than the bell is supposed to run, giving my rider a half breath longer than is expected. In my mind it’s half an extra heartbeat. Cord ran to championship on the strategy more than once, but Dustan hasn’t made it to the regular bell yet, let alone the extended one.

“You can run your mouth on me all you like, kid.” Maybe I have been working him too hard. “But this timer?” I wave the phone. “That’s your judge, right here.”

We only have a handful of weeks, a little less, before the Valiant Peak Invitational. I know without doubt who Cord is bringing to represent the ranch and himself. He sure as hell had better not be riding. I knew who he’d put on a bull without asking before I left Coyote close to a year ago.

I never expected to stay away this long, and yet here I am, training my own rider. A rider Cord knows nothing about, at least not yet. I guess all the blinders will come off on the night of the Invitational. The rodeo will be decent, considering the influx of interest we had after last year’s climactic end. Dustan’s ride should be good too. Hell, if we can get some hours of practice in, he might even stay on the bull and earn himself some points. But pulling the wool over my best friend’s eyes and not fessing up to training a rider I’ll enter for Cord’s own rodeo? I’m not really looking forward to announcing that not-so-subtle fact.

One large part of me wants to be back on the rodeo circuit as a full-time trainer. I haven’t filled those tall boots for years, not since I last worked with the man who created the Valiant Peak rodeo and rode to fame there… and disaster. My boots have one hell of a history. The rest of me has no idea what I want, which is why I’m drifting about between jobs training and back in town taking design work.

Dustan flurries dust bunnies between his fingers. “You are Mister Grumpy Pants today. Sure it’s not because you didn’t hook up with the pretty nurse the other night?”

I glare at him. “Get your ass out of the dirt, Mister Carter. When you can stay on the bull for a full eight seconds, then you can mouth off at me all you like.”

“Sure it’s just eight seconds? Pretty sure I can count to ten, you know.” He dusts himself off and heads for the makeshift chute we’ve created out of a crush and a few bits of sheet metal that I’d hitched up.

I hold back a snort. Maybe there’s hope for the kid yet. “All you gotta do is count to eight. Do that for me and we can call it quits for the day. Deal?”

“Damn. You choosin’ not to play nice, ranch man?” Dustan raises both eyebrows as he surveys the bull dancing about in the chute. “Aren’t you all riled up, big boy?” He pets the damn thing between the horns.

I groan. “Don’t do that.”

“Just makin’ friends. Something you could learn a little bit about, seeing as you have so many.”

Freaking smart-ass.

“All right. Remember to keep your knees slightly bent. Hand in the air.” I wait until he’s ready for his next ride and pull the chute at his nod. The eight-second count runs in my head from the moment the bull’s out. Dustan’s seat is good. His knees remain flexed as the bull—a cute little menace called Lucky Clover I borrowed from a local stockman—bounces about in a neat circle. His hooves kick up plenty of the sawdust I threw down earlier for a little padding, but the previous rounds have dampened it down.

“Good. Now stay on, you sassy thing,” I mutter, halfway through the count. Dustan’s ringlets bounce about his face wildly. “Hand out,” I call when his arm drops a fraction. Five, six, seven⁠—

Just before my alarm rings, the bull jerks sideways. Dustan slips from his seat, his knees too rigid around the beast’s midsection to flex with his tornado of a ride. The beast moves, but he doesn’t go with it. By the time that the alarm goes off in my hand, Dustan rests in a puff of dust on the ground while Lucky Clover trots off to the other side of the ring to find the exit canal I set up earlier.

“Dammit,” I mutter, grimacing. “That was damn close.” My thumb lifts off the stopwatch button. I halted the timer when Dustan came off, but even with the extra time, he still went a fraction under eight seconds. He’s so near that I can taste it.

“I swear I can count to eight.” Dustan grins as he clambers out of the dirt, dusting himself off. “We came close, though. Once more?”

His expression makes me think of another rider who was always so damn positive before a ride. A positive attitude that almost got him killed.

Twice.