by Shey Stahl
Table of Contents
Untamed
Copyrights
Contact Information
Untamed Playlist
Quote
Dedication
Part 1
1 – Down the well
2 – Draw
3 – Away from his hand
4 – Smoke & Fire
5 – Bull Rider
6 – Bull Rope
7 – Dismount
8 – Panic Attack
9 – Back Pens
10 – Change Directions
11 – Gate Man
12 – Hooked
13 – Judges
14 – Left-Hand Entry
15 – Into his hand
16 – After Midnight
17 – Glove
18 – Hung Up
19 – Rank
20 – Rider Relief Fund
21 – Second Go
22 – Spinner
23 – Enter
24 – Eight Seconds
25 – Gold Buckle
26 – Cut The Cord
Part 2
27 – Flank Strap
28 – Flank Man
29 – First Go
30 – Free Hand
31 – Chute
32 – Cover
33 – Qualified Ride
34 – Re-ride
35 – Riding Hand
36 – Right-hand delivery
37 – Ring of Honor
38 – Slap
39 – Spurs
40 – Turn Back
41 – Turn Out
42 – Vest
43 – Seeded
44 – Short Go
45 – Fades
46 – Fouled
47- Disqualified
48 – Bucked Off
49 – The Ride
50 – Arena
Acknowledgments
Meet the Author
A version of this book was originally published as Remember Tonight by Chelsea Landon, a book written under a pen name Shey Stahl used in 2014. The title, events, story line, scenes, and character names have been altered to combine the author’s work and copyrighted by Shey Stahl.
Copyright © 2018 by Shey Stahl
Untamed
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Shey Stahl.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, the professional bull riders, locales, or persons, dead or living, is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, sponsors, PBR and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Copy Editing: Becky Johnson, Hot Tree Editing
Cover Image: Furious Fotog
Cover Model: Andrew James
Cover Designer: Perfect Pear Creations, Sommer Stein
Formatting and Graphics by A Designs
Plagiarism checks carried out by Hot Tree Editing using Grammarly, Plagiarisma, and by Shey Stahl using Plag Scan.
Facebook: www.facebook.com/SheyStahlAuthor
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.sheystahl.com
Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/authorsheystahl
Instagram: www.instagram.com/sheystahl99
Happy Hour
Black Flag
Trading Paint
The Champion
The Legend
Hot Laps
The Rookie
Fast Time
Open Wheel
Pace Laps
Dirt Driven (TBA)
Behind the Wheel (TBA)
The Trainer
The Fighter
Waiting for You
Everything Changes
All I Have Left
Awakened
Everlasting Light
Bad Blood
Heavy Soul
Bad Husband
Burn
Shade
Love Complicated
How to Deal
Tiller
Untamed
Delayed Penalty
Delayed Offsides
Unsteady
Unbearable
Unbound
Music was a huge part of Maesyn’s journey for me. I rocked the 80’s and 90’s country while writing it and it pathed the way for the characters. I threw in some new stuff too.
I Feel A Sin Comin’ On by Pistol Annies
Like The Rain by Clint Black
She’s In Love With The Boy by Trisha Yearwood
Don’t Close Your Eyes by Keith Whitley
Mama He’s Crazy by The Judds
Friends In Low Places by Garth Brooks
The Beaches of Cheyenne by Garth Brooks
Rodeo by Garth Brooks
I Try To Think About Elvis by Patty Loveless
Are We In Trouble Now by Randy Travis
I Told You So by Randy Travis
That’s the Way Love Goes by Merle Haggard
For a complete playlist for Untamed visit my Spotify page here:
https://spoti.fi/2JIA1ZI
“Don’t let the tame ones tell you how to live.”
~ Jonny Ox
For Hannah –
if it sets your soul on fire, be fearless.
The expression “down the well” is used by bull riders to describe a situation in which a bull is spinning in one direction and the force of the spin pulls the rider down the side of the bull into motion’s vortex. This is a dangerous scenario that often results in a bull rider getting hung up to the bull.
I give myself to others, even when I can’t or shouldn’t. It’s something I’ve always done.
Which might be why I’m careless. Reckless . . . loveless. And in the aftershock of lost love, I don’t smile more.
Or maybe I should say I smile less. Or, maybe not at all. I’m not fine. In the loneliest moment of devastation, when my world fell apart, all I could do was stare blankly. I lost the love of my life. I had a boy who looked at me like the world revolved around me. I pushed until he caved, until he couldn’t take my ways and now, all I have left is his memory.
So yeah, careless, reckless, and whatever . . . loveless. I would love to say this is a story about a girl who took the path less traveled and it ended up being the right one, but I would be lying. It’s about a girl who knew right from wrong and still chose wrong because the right way seemed insignificant and quite possibly irrelevant at the time. Sometimes it’s the wrong choices made on a whim that teach you what life is really about.
You know that song by Lee Ann Womack “I May Hate Myself in the Morning?” It’s playing on the radio in my room and though it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with my situation, I certainly don’t love this heartbreaker in my bed now, but he’s someone I can ignore; he just won’t let me. And maybe the song has nothing to do with me, or my situation, other than me hating myself in the morning for continuing whatever this is we’re doing.
End it. Set yourself free from him. You don’t owe him anything.
The boy on the edge of my bed, I don’t owe him anything despite what he thinks. His back is turned, and like my mind, his focus is elsewhere, unaware of the hurt we’re causing by what we just did. But guys like this, the
y’re like lighting a torch to your soul and he’s the wrong one. His name is Joel Peterson and he’s the perpetually bad side of the one I lost.
“Thanks,” he mutters, buttoning his jeans and pulling on his shoes. His cheeks are flushed, his breathing still ragged, reminiscent of moments ago, but that’s not why my attention shifts to his. It’s the tattoo on his back, a bull’s skull outlined in what appears to be blood dripping from the horns, and then it’s the Central Washington hoodie he pulls over his head. “I’ll see you tonight sometime?”
I hate the sound of his voice. It reminds me of his twin brother.
I shrug. “We need to stop this.”
Pulling on a shirt from beside my bed, I cover myself, hide away from the humiliation I hold within. I don’t look at his face. I’m not sure I ever do. Why would I? I don’t mean anything to him. And I’m not entirely sure why he’s telling me thanks. I just found out he’s seeing someone now. Has been for the last month.
Before you judge me, I never imagined myself as the other woman. Or in my case, girl because can you really call a seventeen-year-old girl a woman? I don’t want to destroy relationships. That’s not me, but then again, maybe it is. Maybe I don’t know anymore.
Standing, he glares at me with a deep crease to his brow, all traces of his earlier relief I gave him fading. “What the fuck do you mean we need to stop this?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. You’re seeing someone.”
His face falters, his too-familiar brown eyes narrowing. “Who said I was seeing someone?”
“It doesn’t matter who told me, Joel.”
Joel’s jaw flexes and his chin dips, nodding once. “Whatever.” His deep voice is barely above a whisper, his features controlled, sharp, not giving me much to go on.
I don’t say anything else. He leaves, out my window, like he came, without another word.
I watch him walk up the driveway, his steps quick and light, coming back from someplace he never should have been.
Lighting a cigarette, I sit next to my window, my eyes drift, smoke filtering through dawn blue. Pinks, reds, smudges of colors that make this world beautiful surround me. It’s a summer sunrise in Ellensburg, Washington. I flip my cell phone around in my hand. There’s a message on it from almost four years ago I refuse to delete. A heavy weight gnaws at my chest. A decision I made . . . a consequence I never saw coming. I can’t say that night will haunt me forever, but here, now, surrounded by the same colors as the morning I found out he left my life forever, I’m reminded of the boy who changed my life—who continues to change my life—maybe for the worse. Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in a room full of mirrors, each one reflecting back at me the mistakes of my past. I want to smash them to pieces, destroy the reminders, but that’s bad luck, isn’t it?
Cracking the window open, I draw my bare legs to my chest and let out the cloud of smoke drifting from my lips. I angle my head so the wind blows over my face. Drawing in gentle breaths, I close my eyes. It’s relaxing. Breathe in the fresh air, hold it in, imagine it’s everything you want it to be and then some. The wind is blowing, usual for Ellensburg, but I don’t mind. It gives me the fresh breath I’m looking for. Something pure, so unlike what I’m drawing into my lungs.
I like to think despite my young age, I’m an old soul. I believe there are parts of this world that are pure and natural. It just happens. Like the way a river cuts through a valley. The way a sunset blankets the flat plains of eastern Washington every night. The way a sunrise on a crisp fall morning clears the early morning fog. Or the way the stars, so glittery and beautiful, light your way through even the darkest of nights.
As Miranda Lambert says, “I feel a sin coming on.” One I know I’m going to love and regret at the same time. It’s buried in my bones, a need, a desire for more out of a life laid out for me, only it’s the wrong life and one I’m not about to follow. This can’t be it. I want to look back on my life and say, damn, that was a wild ride. I don’t want to look back when I’m fifty and be like, it was okay. I wish I had, or maybe I could have. . . . Life needs to be lived, not wished.
Blowing out another breath, I snuff out the cigarette I know my dad will kill me for smoking and turn to stare at the clock on my nightstand. It’s nearing four in the morning and it’s time to get on with the day. Living on a ranch, there’s a good amount of work to be done and you need every ounce of daylight you can get.
It’s already late July and so far my summer has been the same as it’s always been. Working on a ranch time has forgotten. Problem is I’m young and I have dreams, things I want out of life, and they’re not going to happen if I stay here forever. My Grandpa Lee used to say life is your story and death is a sentence only to be defined by living your best life. He was like a hundred when he died so I tend to believe in everything he said to me. Nearly as old as the nineteenth-century buildings in the Kittitas Valley.
You know what he said to me the morning he passed away?
“Be wild, be free. In the clouds I’ll see you again.” He had dementia. I’m not even sure he was talking to me that spring morning we said goodbye, but I like to think he was.
Just before sunset, I’m ready to get out of the house and let loose. The moment I reach for the front door, stacked bangle bracelets giving my presence away, and the old wood squeaks, drawing my dad’s attention to me. There’s nothing worse than trying to sneak out of the house unnoticed only to have the door and bracelets give you away.
Damn you, door. Should have used the window like Joel did.
Come to think of it, he’s been sneaking into my room for the past two years and he’s never been caught. I guess he knows a thing or two about sneaking around.
Dad’s throat clears from the living room. He stands, hands on his hips, eyeing me from head to toe. He doesn’t like when I dress like this. It’s not even that what I’m wearing is revealing, because it’s not all that bad, but it’s the fact that I don’t wear simple covering sundresses like my mom or the other girls around town. I’m nothing like that. I wear statement pendants, long chain multi-strand beaded necklaces and distressed vintage threads that speak to me. Give me reds, rich browns, deep purples, and turquoise colors with tattoo style wings, hearts, and arrows and I’m at peace with my mind and body. Today I chose a black cowgirl hat, a fringed bullhorn top I tied just above my hips and a purple, blue, and white bohemian style long skirt with a belt. Still barefoot, I reach for my Ariat boots in misty turquoise elephant print next to the door, but I don’t put them on. I prefer to be barefoot as long as possible.
Doesn’t exactly scream homegrown girl, does it?
“Where do you think you’re going, Maesyn?” Here’s the thing about my dad. Not only does he rarely smile, but he’s also not kindly asking, “Hey, kid, what are you doing tonight?” Nope. It’s more like, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going and with who?” He’s demanding I tell him, and forgive me here, I don’t want to tell him. Rebellious by nature, and after nearly eighteen years, I’m so sick of his stupid rules. He’s totally that stereotypical helicopter parent, always in my business.
The defiant teenager I am, my first instinct is to ignore him, but I know if I do—because I’ve been there before—it’ll lead exactly where I don’t want it to. It starts with him laying into me about responsibility and ends up being more about respect for your parents and everything a teenage girl who’s dying to get out of the house doesn’t want to hear. I’m all for respecting your parents and authority figures, but it’s starting to feel like a prison here. If a ranch in Ellensburg was a prison. Given my nearly eighteen years of captivity, I’m pretty sure it is.
“Relax, Dad. Just going out.” I try to keep the sarcasm from my tone. “I’ll be back later.”
Maybe tomorrow.
While I’m sure he means well, Archer Calhoun comes from a time when girls didn’t go out and they certainly didn’t spread their legs for boys. Girls were young ladies and said yes, sir and yes, ma’am and never talk
ed back to their parents. Like Morgan. My little sister who’s perfect. I may not be anything like her, but I adore her in every way.
I can see it more and more, the need to control my wild and free spirit, especially in these moments when my dad looks at me with his scrutinizing glare. I bet my dad wonders what went wrong with me. How’d his precious daughter turn into this? For an entire year, from two years old to three, I refused to wear clothes. Not even joking. Would. Not. Wear. Them. Family pictures were interesting. My point is, he should have known the kind of girl I was going to turn into.
I know he wishes I was more like my mother who never makes eye contact with him and waits on him hand and foot. Or like Morgan, the sweetest eight-year-old you’d ever meet. Without a care in the world, she runs around here with a baby bull at her side, convinced he’s not going to grow up. She sneaks animals into her room and swears that if you feed cows chocolate chips, they’ll make chocolate milk.
But I’m not my sister. I’m Maesyn Skye Calhoun, barely five three, green eyes, with loose blonde curls down to my waist, rebel-wild with a gypsy soul. With an insane desire to be anywhere but here, I’m never one to follow. I do what my heart knows to be true, but maybe not always the right decision. I question the rules and refuse to conform to a standard way of life or arbitrary rules. Finding beauty in imperfection, my intuition and heart vow to keep the sparkle in my eyes and it’s not going to be found here.
Still standing by the front door, my focus shifts outside. Up our long dirt road lined with Jeffrey pine trees I hear the faint rumbling of a rusted turquoise ’79 Ford short bed coming to rescue me.
“Where exactly are you going?” Dad’s eyes narrow on me, waiting for the lie he knows is coming about where I’m going. My dad decided long ago I wasn’t trustworthy, but then again, I’ve done little to prove him wrong in that manner.
In some ways, he’s a man in complete denial that his firstborn daughter graduated last month and she’s turning eighteen in six days. Deep down, he’s scared I’m leaving and never coming back. I like to think this overprotectiveness comes from him caring, but I’m not sure anymore. He comes across as overbearing and completely unreasonable.
