Page 13 of Tame Our Wild

I’ve always loved bull names. They are outrageous and creative, usually fitting the bull’s personality or physical traits perfectly.

“Picked them up for you from a contractor outside of Tucson on my way back home.” He drags a hand over his beard. “They’re a bunch of dicks if you ask me. It was hell loading them in here, but we have them for the next few weeks, and they aren’t going to take it easy on you.”

“Well, I won’t take it easy on them either.”

“Atta girl.”

I’m lucky that he offers to hold practice here. He said he has a hard time working from home when his kids are running around, plus Aaron’s been best friends with my dad ever since he became my coach. Most practice sessions for expert riders take place at a coach’s ranch, rodeo grounds, private arenas, or at home if they have the proper setup. Luckily for me, my parents built me a practice area on our property when I decided to pursue this as a career.

I also have access to a mechanical bull I named Man Eater. I saved every penny to buy that beauty.

She’s currently set up in the barn, where I practice form and positioning to reduce the risk of injury in a controlled environment.

And yes, my mechanical bull is a she, because there are definitely no balls on that thing.

A few snorts come from inside the trailer, making the hairs on my arms vibrate with anticipation. I bounce on my toes, my eyes lighting with eagerness as the beasts thump around.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re my kid or not,” a deep, familiar voice says, laced with amusement.

My dad, Brady, emerges from around the front of the truck with his hands propped on his hips. A glaze of sweat covers his forehead after getting his horse ready. Like every practice, he rounds up the bulls after I ride them. My parents may not fully support my choice to compete again after my leg broke, but he’s always here and never fails to tell me how proud he is, despite his fear of watching me get back out there after being so … broken.

I roll my eyes. “Of course, I’m your kid. You only have yourself to blame for my love of riding.”

A shallow laugh rumbles through his chest as he shakes his head. “Let your fourteen-year-old daughter ride a steer once, and she decides to hang up her ballet shoes to be a fuckin’ bull rider.”

Yeah, Mom didn’t like that. She danced all the way through college back in the day. I may look more like her with my light hair and blue eyes, but my dad’s blood and tenacity run thick through my veins. Mel takes after our mom in more ways than one, but my parents never gave me a brother, so I guess, in a way, I’m the son he never had.

When I was fourteen, Dad was coaching some boys at my high school for the upcoming rodeo at the Ember Ridge Fair. Mel was home sick that day, so Dad picked me up from school and took me to watch his practice. I grew up watching him ride, not professionally, but as a hobby when our town would have rodeos a few times a year.

I should’ve been working on homework, but instead I watched their entire practice in fascination. Toward the end, I asked my dad if I could try. He laughed, as did some of the guys in my class. I asked again, firmer that time because I wasn’t fooling around. Of course, he said no, but that didn’t stop me for long. When one of the smaller steers was loaded into the chute, and nobody was looking, I snuck over and started climbing the fence. Those things clank around when you climb them, so I didn’t get very far before my father scolded me.

“Why can’t I?” I asked.

“Because it’s dangerous,” he answered.

I peered up at him skeptically. “It’s because I’m a girl. Isn’t it?”

With that one comment, I broke him. His dark brows collided as if something inside him clicked.

He looked at the guys in my class, back at me, and nodded. “Alright. Just this once.”

The moment I mounted and felt the animal’s muscles tense below me, the addiction started. Getting tossed around and trying to hang on was electrifying. I didn’t last five seconds on the damn thing before I was bucked off, but the thrill threaded through my soul all the same, and I knew that I’d never want to unravel it. When I rose from the dirt with a smile on my face, my dad and I both knew that once would never be enough.

At times like these, when I’m practicing or competing, I know my dad thinks about that memory just as much as I do.

“Watch those daughters of yours, Jackson,” my dad tells Aaron, glaring at me spiritedly.

Aaron blows out a breath. “Oh, I am. But Miss Harlow Hartt here is inspiring the next generation of female bull riders. I’m afraid my daughters are pretty big fans of hers.”

I fail to bite back my smile. Whenever I see his daughters, Ella and Avery, they are always eager to pick my brain about riding and dissect my most recent ride they watched.

A part of me hopes they didn’t watch the live-streamed event in Tucson, but I know they did. Their family never misses it. Falling and getting back up is the name of the game, and if they take one thing away from my failure of a ride, I hope it’s that.

Crossing one leg over the other, I curtsy jokingly before standing back up with a broad smile. Both men look at each other, rolling their eyes.

“I’d say my biggest goal in life is to inspire other female riders, but we all know that that’s only part of my dream.” I slap the side of the trailer. “What do you say we get these fellas out of here?”

FIVE | COLSON