Gil Sanchez, inspiration. That took some getting used to.
Meanwhile, the Sanchez brothers had been trading spots in the top ten in standings through the first half of the year, sticking to Delon’s carefully plotted schedule of only the best rodeos. And there were still nights when Gil woke up in a cold sweat, sure it was all a dream. Then Carma would shift or sigh, and he’d nestle in close and count his blessings until he fell asleep.
The music changed to something slow and sweet and Carma paused, tossed aside her rope in favor of a longer one, then held out a hand, beckoning Gil onto the floor. She didn’t have to ask twice.
He closed his hands around her waist and moved with her, swaying slowly as she fed more and more rope into the loop, then lifted it up and over so it spun around the two of them.
Her eyes were warm and dark, her gaze locked on his as she said, “You know they call this the wedding ring.”
“Yeah.”
“And there’s a special tradition, where you invite the person you love inside the ring with you.”
“Really? I’ve never heard of…” Then it hit him, and he nearly stumbled. “Is this a proposal?”
She smiled in the way that made him feel as if he’d been created just to put that light in her eyes. “Yes?”
“Well, shit.”
Carma’s loop wobbled, along with her smile. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“No! I mean, it’s fine. I just had this plan…” He splayed his fingers over his breast pocket, so she could see the distinctive outline of the ring he’d tucked in there.
“Oh no.” She closed her eyes. “I did it again. I jumped the gun. God, I suck at big romantic moments. Let’s just pretend I never said anything, and—”
“Uh-uh. I’ll give you the proposal…and raise you about a hundred thousand.” He reached into that same pocket and pulled out a business card with a date scribbled. “When we get home, we have an appointment with the architect who’s doing the remodel of the office.”
As long as no one wanted to live in the apartment, it might as well be office space. Plus they wouldn’t have to worry about Quint and Beni sneaking girls up there the way he and Delon had.
Her brows pinched together in confusion. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“We’re gonna go out back in the pasture, and you’re gonna show him where you want to build our new house.”
She took the card with the hand that wasn’t still busy spinning the rope, almost flawlessly. “But…you have a house.”
“Not for much longer. I’m leasing it to Analise and Cruz as a sort of wedding present. They can’t live in that dinky apartment of hers forever. Besides, now that she’s in charge of dispatch, she can be the one living right behind the shop. I figure our place will be done about the time you and Tori get that second clinic up and running in Dumas, and you don’t have to commute anymore.”
She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Have I ever told you how much I love the way you pay attention to all the little details?”
“I believe you have.” He let everything he felt blaze through his grin. “But I’m willing to let you compliment my skills again later.”
“Meet you at your sleeper?”
“You betcha.”
Her eyes glistened through a sheen of tears as she handed him back the card, then held up her left hand. He slid the ring into place and she laughed with pure joy, lighting up every corner of his soul. He kissed her, deep and possessive, while the rope drifted to the ground, the loop wrapping around their legs and binding them together. All around them, friends and family applauded, calling out congratulations.
And through the wide door that was thrown open to the night, Gil could have sworn he heard the stars singing.
“As a competitive cowgirl, I am all about action and speed and the kickass women who love them, and this book delivers in spades.”
—Kari Lynn Dell
Curious to see more? Enjoy this sneak peek at the first in a high-octane cowboy romance series, where highly competitive racers find themselves torn between the glitz of the international stage and the ranches they call home.
Coming July 28, 2020
Chapter 1
Billy King—Present Day
Turns out the world’s a lot bigger than Memphis.
“Billy! Billy King!” My name is like cracks of thunder on the Spanish wind, and as I cruise past the press corps, I can’t quite feel the relief yet that this is it. It’s over. Flashes from the cameras are too busy sparkling through my helmet’s face shield, shining off my motorcycle and nearly blinding me, there’s so many of them. Valencia is already a massive festival, since it’s the last race of the Moto Grand Prix circuit. But in all my years racing, I’ve never seen the press and the fans this excited before.
I pull off victory lane and stop in the designated winner’s spot, already decorated with royal blue Yaalon Moto everything. The fans are barely held back by the chest-high gate rocking under their hands and repeated chants of my name. “Billy! Billy King!”
“All right, y’all, just wait your turn,” I call out to the crowd. My laugh rings with the pure, sweet adrenaline pumping thick through my veins, a testament to battling twenty guys on the racetrack for who’s coming out on top. And then beating them all, one by one.
Life doesn’t get much sweeter than this. Especially since tomorrow, I can finally go home.
Back to Memphis: the ranch and my saddle, my horse, and my ropes.
Home to Taryn: her whiskey hair and sunset eyes.
I pull off my helmet, and after a quick wave to the fans, I start to find my breath again. I don’t get to keep it long.
My manager’s unmistakable twang cuts cleanly through the roar of the press corps. “I knew you could make it back, Billy!”
Frank yanks me off my bike and into a suffocating hug, slapping my back so hard I actually feel it through the armadillo spine of my leathers. At least he doesn’t notice my wince from the pain in an ankle that’s supposed to be long healed by now.
Telling him I’m hurt will only risk my future even more after what I did. Not that anyone seems to care about the reason why I did it.
Frank’s too excited to pay attention to my stumble, setting my sponsor-coated Stetson on top of my head, then gripping my shoulders. “Not just first place, Billy! First in the world. Didn’t I always say about putting bull riders—”
“Did Taryn call? She see it?” I wave toward the press and the fans again, beaming next to my blue motorcycle. They don’t need to know there’s sweat pooling in my leathers, and my feet desperately miss the buttery soles of my Ariat boots.
Mostly, though, I just miss her.
Frank clears his throat as I tip my cowboy hat toward the cameras, making sure they capture the names of all the people I’m paid to promote. “She hasn’t called yet,” he mumbles.
My pulse starts racing for a whole bunch of reasons I still can’t make myself face, and I turn away from the Moto Grand Prix fans, praying no one caught the look I just felt flash across my face. My only hope is to keep clinging to Plan A: act like it didn’t happen, and maybe it didn’t.
“But she will,” Frank adds in a rush. “You know Taryn. She’s probably just—”
“Busy.” I shift my helmet to my other hand, wiping sweat off my face. “Busy being mad at me.”
Suppose she’s right. I never was nothing special.
“Horseshit,” Frank says. “That woman loves you. And need I remind you, you just won first place at Valencia, Billy. Twenty-five points, and that makes you a damned Moto Grand Prix World Champion. Now be happy, would ya? ’Cause you’re starting to piss me off.” He gives me a half grin and takes my helmet from me, slinging an arm around my shoulders. It does nothing to comfort the guilt swirling in my stomach. “Come on, cowboy. You about ready to show ’em what a ch
ampion looks like?” He nods toward the wall of reporters waiting to ask me the same questions they always ask.
“How did it feel to win today?”
“Were you riding for anyone special back home?”
“Is it hard being an American in a European sport?”
I clear my throat and tip up my hat so their lights won’t cast shadows down my too-long nose. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
Frank claps my back and heads off to organize the interview lineup, and I glance toward the press spot for third place, my twenty-five-year-old little brother already hamming it up for the cameras, probably giving sound clips about his smell-proof underwear again.
Frank is right. No matter what’s been happening at home, I won here, and I should be celebrating. My knee surgery from two years ago has finally stopped causing me problems, and I’ve worked my ass off to get back to the top of the leaderboard. And like my father always says: I should try to be more like Mason.
He never lets love get in the way, and he’s as good on a bike as he is at riding bulls. Everyone says so. It’s probably why he’s allowed to keep his hands in both cookie jars, and mine have been firmly tied.
No more wondering if that bull’s gonna spin or blow when that gate opens. No more wondering if eight seconds are gonna be my last. Now, it’s two red lights keeping me caged and my wrist on the throttle setting me free.
Mason finishes his interview, immediately turning to sign a lady’s chest with a marker as red as her cheeks. Until someone walking by bumps his shoulder hard enough that he stumbles, nearly knocking her over.
“Hey!” Protective instincts blare through me, and I’m three steps closer than I was a moment ago, my outstretched hand already steadying Mason by the shoulder. My eyes home in on the back of Santos Saucedo from Hotaru Racing, strutting away with a chuckle.
Mason looks at me, and neither of us has to glance at the surrounding press to know they saw that shit go down. And I’m not about to let our family name get tarnished.
“What was that, friend?” I call out to Santos, cupping my ear. “We didn’t catch whatcha said.”
Santos turns and rattles off something in Spanish that makes the press collectively gasp. The nerve of that guy.
“Oh, I’m sorry, man,” I drawl, acting all guilty. Mason crosses his arms. He’s three inches and a good fifteen pounds littler than me but with twice the ego and ten times the temper. “We don’t speak fifth place.” I flash a grin that is sure to ramp Santos’s annoyance through the damn stratosphere, but he can kiss my ass. Nobody messes with my brother but me.
A thick hand settles heavy on my far shoulder. “Thanks, y’all,” Frank says behind us toward the press, “but we gotta get Billy and Mason upstairs to get their medals. The Kings’ll have more time to answer questions later, I promise.”
I salute a scowling Santos, letting our manager sweep us out of the parc fermé and toward the stairs to the podium. The last thing I need is for Mason to back me into another damn corner. Thanks to him, racing’s about all I have left.
A familiar throb that has nothing to do with leaning my bike through pin-tight turns twists through my insides, my ankle hurting more with every step as I climb the last of the stairs. And three feet from the door that gives me back to the crowd I’ve spent years trying to convince to love me, I find myself desperately wishing they’d just mail me the medal they want to hang around my neck.
“Showtime, boys.” Frank opens the door to a blast of sound that’s my name on repeat, and since I don’t get a choice, I’m first outside onto the podium.
The sun is in the wrong spot and the wind doesn’t smell right, but I wave and smile a little harder at the cameras taking my picture. Even though the one person who matters probably won’t ever see them.
She still isn’t answering my calls.
No matter what I do, she hasn’t forgiven me, and it’s why I need to get my sorry ass back to Memphis. Running home’s the only way I’m ever gonna get her back.
* * *
I’m already sweating in my best pearl-snap shirt despite the cool November air, hinting at the icy December we’re gonna have. I pluck once more at my starched collar, pointing my battered old boots toward the barn, trying to gain some kind of confidence from being in Memphis, even if my body still thinks I’m in Spain.
My ears haven’t stopped ringing from the end of season awards ceremony, my tux a wrinkled mess since I went straight from the televised stage to the Valencia airport. But I’m back under the same Osage orange trees I grew up climbing while my horse munched on the bumpy hedge apples. And when I head inside, the chatter from farmhands is gonna be in English and not the liquid Italian of my pit crew.
None of it’s making me feel better when I’m about to see her, and I know damn well all she’s gonna do is yell at me, and all I want to do is kiss her and get back to how we used to be. I’ve only been gone a week this last time. But it was a week too long after the way she sent me off.
I touch my hat in Hargrove tradition as I cross under the homemade “Bless Your Boots” sign hanging above the barn entrance, instantly welcomed by a chorus of sniffs and snorts from the horse stalls I pass. It eases something in my chest that’s been wrong since I last left home for the circuit.
Since I could kind of use it, I go ahead and stop by Gidget’s stall, hooking my arms over the latched gate. “Hey, buddy.” He stops fluffing his bed of straw, his ears already turned my direction before he lifts his head and stares me dead in the eye. A broad grin stretches across my face when he huffs and starts walking over, his pace extra slow and stompy, clearly irritated with how long I’ve been gone. At least he’s willing to forgive me for it. “I know, bud. I missed you, too.”
I reach out and stroke the side of his neck, wishing everything was as simple as blazing-fast blue motorcycles and golden horses who only ask that you bring treats before you ride. But like everything else I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with, Gidget isn’t really mine. He’s Lorelai Hargrove’s, the future heiress to the Hargrove Horse Ranch.
No one except a rancher’s daughter could afford an Akhal-Teke of their own. But no one really cares that I ride Gidget all the time, either. Lorelai is usually too busy training for our next race. She’s Frank’s original rodeo-racing experiment, and she’s fast, feisty, and stubborn. Once the sponsors let her move up from Moto2 and into GP with me and Mason, we’re all gonna be screwed.
“No, I didn’t bring any apples,” I tell Gidget when he starts nipping at my shirt and sniffing toward my jeans. “I’ll bring you some later, though. Promise.”
“Hey, Gidget. I didn’t know your cowboy was back.” James smiles on his way behind me, leading a silky chestnut mare out the other entrance to the barn. “Glad to have you home, Billy.”
I return his smile on instinct, tipping my hat in the direction of his silver mustache. “Thank you, sir. Good to be back.”
“Girls are working Bopper, if you’re wondering. Though you might wanna take a bodyguard with you,” he adds with a rumbly chuckle. “They’re out for blood, those two.”
I chew on my tongue, knowing better than to bite the hand that feeds my horse. James is married to Lynn, who owns Hargrove Ranch. And I’ve spent the last year very unsuccessfully trying to convince Lynn to sell me Gidget. She won’t budge, though. Because I don’t have the land to keep him on. “Yes, sir.”
James is still happily making his way out of the barn and looking like he’s whispering to the mare about me. I doubt it has anything to do with my record-breaking win, because whatever it is he says to the horse, he cracks himself up.
I make a face at Gidget, who’s still sniffing for food in my shirt front pocket before I press a kiss to his nose. “Well, buddy, wish me luck.”
Gidget snorts because we both know I’m fresh out of it. Any last bit of luck I had, I just used up in Valencia salvaging my career. But taking
a risk has never stopped me before. Hell, the first time I rode a bull, I was convinced I was gonna die.
One second was all I got. It was enough, though. I woke up on a stretcher begging my father to let me have another go despite my mama’s tears still running down her cheeks. That next time, I lasted for three seconds before Nova Bomb spun and sent me flying, cracking two ribs and fracturing my collarbone.
I’m always better on my second attempt—always. Still, Taryn says that’s the worst thing about bull riders: we don’t expect to stay on. It’s just a game of how long we can last until the bull beats us, and they always beat us. But no bull bucking me ever hurt as much as when Taryn did it.
It’s a long walk toward the training pen, set far enough in the pasture that the colts don’t get distracted by the noise of the barn and the commands of the trainers. But with the wide-open sky and no trees between us, Taryn sees me coming every step of the way.
I know it, though she pretends she doesn’t—she refuses to look my direction. But she’s sitting a little stiffer in the saddle, the clenched muscles in her long legs stretching her jeans, and accusing me of the crimes she screamed at me from across her kitchen table.
I cast them out of my mind. I don’t want to be mad, and seeing her sit a horse like that has always sent a freight train barreling straight into my chest. It’s almost as good as when she wakes up slowly next to me, her silky spine long and bare as she reaches for the coffee I’ve already made and set on her nightstand. When I’m lucky enough to be home.
“Afternoon, ladies,” I drawl to Taryn and Lorelai, taking the last few feet up to the fence of the training pen. My heart’s beating straight out of my chest, a fresh brew of sweat tickling my hairline, and I can’t stop thinking I should’ve shaved. But I couldn’t get my truck here fast enough.
Relentless in Texas Page 38
