Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(38)

“That one is rank. I’m pulling you something good-natured,” he says, walking away with his horse in hand, Luke following to see the others. Like his choice is final.

There must be at least ten horses in that pen, but it’s the sorrel horse in the round pen that has my attention. The one who chucked that cowboy good and hard.

I feel kindred with that one, and I didn’t wear my jeans and paddock boots in the middle of summer so I could stand around in the sun, sweating.

While Cade’s back is turned, I march in the opposite direction and duck under the fence post of the round pen. I feel eyes on me, but the men say nothing to stop me.

They must be smarter than Cade.

The little horse’s nostrils flare with each breath, wary eyes looking around a little. But honestly, I’m not worried. I ride well. I know I do. I haven’t been handed easy horses my entire life. I haven’t had grooms and trainers do the dirty work while I sat on the sidelines. I grew up with more money than most of the other girls at my barn, and yet I was always the one that had to work for things.

My dad often joked that none of the money was mine. It was his, and he wasn’t going to spoil me with it.

Both my parents value a good work ethic. Hard work and making something of yourself are what they value most. They never forced my brother or me into post-secondary educations. They followed our leads, and while I thought it was unfair at a younger age, I get it now. I get not bankrolling your children’s lives. I get not micromanaging their choices.

And I’m glad they haven’t. However, I’d have taken a little more pressure.

Maybe I wouldn’t be a directionless bartender if they had set more expectations. Who’s to say?

With that in mind, I take the reins and slide a hand over the young horse’s shoulder.

“Boss is gonna kill ya,” one cowboy mutters from the opposite side of the fence panel.

I just smile to myself.

No, he’s not. Cade Eaton is out of his depth with me.

I push my hand into the stirrup, shifting the saddle across the horse’s back, watching her ears flick back and forth. “Easy, baby,” I murmur.

Her head inclines toward me slightly, big round eye assessing me. I decide she likes me. I decide she’s smart.

These guys all think they’re tough and can outmuscle a horse, but they’re wrong.

I put my foot into the stirrup before pressing down, and she still doesn’t move.

“Red, don’t you fucking dare.”

I shake my head, but don’t look behind me at Cade. He’s only sort of my boss.

He doesn’t feel much like a boss lately. And I’m difficult to boss around at the best of times—ask my dickhead brother.

With one deep breath, I swing a leg over the filly’s narrow back, sinking gently into the saddle.

“Woman.”

I snort. Cade just womaned me. I want to laugh, but I can feel the horse’s back curled up beneath me.

She’s standing still—but not for long. She’s coiling all that energy to go straight up, so I open one rein wide, turning her head in toward my leg and give her a firm kick before she can bunch up any further.

Instantly, she’s hopping and kicking, but I squeeze my thighs and drop my heels, keeping her in a tight circle so she can’t explode.

“What a good baby,” I coo at her, even though she’s tossing herself around like a total fool. But not enough to loosen me off her. I refuse to fail in front of these guys. I especially refuse to fail in front of Cade.

He’ll be all annoying and I told you so about it and my ego honestly can’t handle that type of blow where he’s concerned.

I urge the filly forward, driving with my seat, to send that momentum ahead of us rather than up in the air. And in under a minute, she’s dropped the shenanigans and is cantering around the round pen.

It’s not pretty, but it’s not a bronc show either. I hear the hoots and hollers of the guys around me—the whistles and the “yeehaws”—but I keep her going, letting her tire herself out. Letting her run until she settles and drops her head.

It takes my all to not turn to Cade and stick my tongue out at him.

You’re twenty-five, you’re twenty-five, you’re twenty-five.

He turns me into an idiot. A bold, drooling, showboating idiot. He’s a challenge and look at me—I love a challenge.

Eventually the filly breaks to a trot, and then a walk, and I reach forward to run a hand up her sweaty neck.

“Not bad, city girl!” One of the guys calls out, and I peek up, grinning in his general direction, before hopping off.

“Better than any of you fuckin’ dress-up cowboys managed,” Cade bites out, seething from beneath his cowboy hat.

He looks pissed, and the flutter in my stomach at how imposing he is has me wishing he’d take some of that frustration out on me.

“I’m gonna ride like Willa when I grow up!” Luke has climbed up to the top panel of the fence and leans over, eyes glowing with excitement. “She made that filly her bitch!”

“Luke!” I say right as Cade barks, “Lucas Eaton.”

The little boy’s eyes widen as he drops off the fence, like he knows he’s stepped in it now. He takes off into the barn, tiny cowboy boots thumping against the dirt road, without a backward glance.