father. “How could you, Dad? A bet? Really? And what’s this with Hoyt? You told me you’d no more sell that man a broken-down pony than any of your string.”
There was that chuckle again.
She groaned with frustration.
“Come on.” He placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the stands. “We’d better hurry before it’s Ace’s turn.”
At her wit’s end, Flynn went with her father to the crowded bleachers where they found two empty seats. Second to the last row, unfortunately. She couldn’t remain still as one cowboy after the other went. Beau did well, his score landing him in the lead. His position lasted only until Austin Wright’s turn. Austin had also drawn a McKinley horse and was the first competitor that day to successfully ride one.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Ace’s name was called.
Flynn gnawed her lower lip as she watched him straddle the fence and sit True Grit. The horse, raring to go, shifted nervously in the narrow chute, bumping into the side panels and tossing his head.
Ace didn’t hurry.
He was too far away for Flynn to see, but she imagined him testing the rigging and adjusting his grip on the handle until it satisfied him. He’d place his feet above the horse’s shoulders, correctly marking the horse before entering the arena so as not to be disqualified before his ride even started. He’d listen to the advice of his brother and cousins and buddies who were clustered together and hanging on the fence.
In the end, he’d trust his instincts.
Suddenly, the chute gate flew open and True Grit exploded into the arena, front hooves solidly planted on the ground, his back ones reaching for the sky. Not the biggest horse there by any means, his claim to fame was his ability to bend himself into the shape of a twist tie while achieving incredible heights.
Today was no exception.
Rocking onto his hind legs, True Grit reared, standing almost completely vertical. Ace clung to the rigging, leaning so far back his head lay against the horse’s rump and the toes of his boots touched the horse’s ears. Even in that impossible position, Ace spurred the horse, urging him to buck higher, buck harder.
True Grit gave it his all, hitting the ground with his front feet and spinning in a full circle with such force, Ace was almost knocked off.
Flynn gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.
What was wrong with the timer? Surely eight seconds had passed. More like a full minute.
True Grit executed another gravity-defying buck, his goal to fling Ace over his head and into the stands. By some miracle, Ace hung on.
The buzzer went off. Instantly, Flynn was out of her seat. “He did it!”
Applause and cheers broke out from the crowd as the pickup men surrounded Ace, hauled him off the horse and deposited him—still in one piece, thank God—onto the ground. As Ace walked across the arena, he picked up his hat from where it had fallen and waved it at the crowd.
Flynn started toward the aisle.
Her father grabbed her wrist, waylaying her. “Where are you going?”
To congratulate Ace, but she didn’t want to tell her father that. “Walk Fancy Gal.”
“Don’t you want to see Ace’s score?”
It didn’t matter to her, only that he’d finished. “Sure.” She sat back down.
A few seconds later, Ace’s score was blasted from the speakers while simultaneously appearing on the scoreboard.
“Eighty-three,” her father muttered. “Not great, not bad.”
“Pretty good for someone who only competes occasionally.”
“I’m glad to see him get Fancy Gal and whatever other horses he wants.”
“Not Hoyt Cammeron?”
“Hoyt was never interested.”
“What!” Flynn stood, braced her hands on her hips and glared at her father. “Then why the bet with Ace?”
“It was for you.”
“Me?”
“I wanted to see how bad he wants you. How hard he’s willing to fight.”
“This was about the horses,” she insisted.
“No, it wasn’t. And he knows it, too.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe so.” Her father wore a smug smile. “But now we have an answer.”
* * *
ACE REACHED FOR HIS RINGING cell phone, groaning in agony as every muscle in his body rebelled. Gracie’s number appeared on the display. “Yeah,” he barked.
“You said to call you when Flynn McKinley arrived.”
“Thanks. Have her meet me at the main paddock.” He disconnected, let his phone drop onto the mattress and didn’t move for a full two minutes.
Finally, when he’d mustered enough strength, he pushed to a sitting position with the agility of a ninety-year-old man and lowered his feet to the floor.
Two days since the Western Frontier Pro Rodeo, and he still hurt like a son of a bitch.
Lasting eight seconds in bareback bronc riding and winning his bet with Earl had been great. Finishing in seventh place and beating out his brother and cousins, even better. He didn’t even mind buying a steak dinner for his friend Austin, who’d finished second.
Thank goodness Ace hadn’t qualified for the finals on Sunday. He’d be a cripple. Colt, Beau and Duke had been left with overseeing the loading of the livestock for the long, long return trip home during which Ace had suffered their endless ribbing. Deserved ribbing.
What had made him think he could compete once or twice a year and not come away feeling as though he’d gone for a joyride inside a cement mixer?
Rising from the bed, he tucked his shirt into his pants, put on his boots and grabbed his hat off his dresser. Break time was officially over.
He hobbled through the adjacent sitting area and out a door that lead to an enclosed patio. Some years ago, when it became apparent Ace would be staying on the ranch and helping his mother, he’d remodeled two of the downstairs bedrooms into a master suite with a private outside entrance. That way he could come and go at all hours, one of the hazards of being a vet, without disturbing the rest of the household.
Plus, Ace liked his solitude—until lately, anyway.
Waking up next to Flynn had been nice, her smooth, warm curves snuggled next to him, her hand folded inside his even in sleep.
Then he’d realized what a mistake he’d made. Not sleeping with her, but letting her get close. Letting her glimpse the raw need he ruthlessly kept concealed behind a competent, take-charge exterior.
Ace wasn’t weak like his father had been. He wouldn’t use alcohol or berate others to compensate for his insecurities.
His Polaris sat parked beside the patio entrance in its usual spot. The all-terrain vehicle was his usual mode of transportation around the ranch when not riding a horse.
There would be no riding horses for several more days if the ibuprofen he’d been swallowing like Halloween candy didn’t kick in soon.
Starting the Polaris, he drove to the paddock, the same paddock where they’d put Wally Dunlap’s mares after the auction. The drive took only a few minutes. A bumpy, excruciating, teeth-grinding few minutes.
He expected to find Earl or one of the McKinley hands with Flynn, only she’d come by herself.
“Thanks, Gracie,” he told the ranch hand