Rough Stock (Lost Creek Rodeo #3) - Heather B. Moore Page 0,2
of a man. Westin might be a rodeo man, but he always respected those who took their sport seriously. Grizz was one of those guys.
As the next batter stepped up to the plate, Westin returned to the event schedule on his phone. Last night, he’d ridden Spitfire at a northern Texas rodeo. He’d lasted the eight seconds and earned the first-place purse. Not too shabby.
There hadn’t been time to celebrate the win. Or his birthday. He had another rodeo to get to. Besides, he never celebrated his birthday anymore, because it was also the anniversary of his dad’s death. And frankly, Westin’s dad had been everything to him. Bud Farr had been a rodeo legend in his own right, only the second cowboy to score a 100-point bull ride in history. Wade Leslie had been the first. And Westin planned to be the third. In honor of his dad’s memory, of course.
At the age of twenty-eight, Westin might be on the older end of the spectrum as far as bull riders went, but he’d been a late bloomer in everything, including attending Sam Houston Community College, the agricultural college in a small Texas town that utilized the Lost Creek rodeo arena for the college rodeo team. A group Westin had been able to open up to. The guys shared his grief about his dad. Heck, they’d all idolized him, and now his former college buddies were all well into their own rodeo careers. The Original Six, they were called by some.
And in just a few hours, Westin would be rolling into Lost Creek again—a town with so many good memories. He couldn’t wait. The riders weren’t all confirmed, but he was hoping that more than just Ford and Eric would be there. Ford was a hockey player turned rodeo star. They never tired of razzing him about that. And Eric, a good ole Wyoming kid, was the salt of the earth. Ryan Prosper would also be there; he was local to Lost Creek. In fact, his sister, Kellie, had turned part of their family ranch into some sort of women’s recovery center. Ryan wouldn’t be entering any rodeo events because of a career-ending injury, so now he was the designated host for anything in Lost Creek.
A text buzzed on Westin’s phone, and he opened the group app where the Lost Creek boys posted their latest and greatest news. Or sometimes just ribbed each other. They called their group text “The Chute.” Fitting.
Who’s in the house tonight? Lars had written. He was even older than Westin, and Lars always made a point to complain about the Texas heat, being a Montana boy.
You coming to Lost Creek, Montana? Ford wrote back immediately.
Lars: What if I am? You got dinner arranged?
Ryan’s cooking for us all, Ford said.
Ryan: What???
Westin laughed. This was too good to miss. Another crowd roar sounded from the television in the corner of the truck stop café, and Westin slid out of the booth where he’d eaten a heated egg and sausage sandwich. All in all, it had been a decent stop. Westin never bothered with hotels since it was a hassle to check in and out, not to mention tough on the old wallet. He dumped his wrappers in the trash, then headed outside to his truck, reading texts as he went.
Your town, you cook, Ford continued.
Ryan: Sure, whatever. How many of you yahoos are coming tonight? You probably heard that Knox Prosper is riding the bulls—and he’s Westin’s number one competition. Can’t let a good event go to waste. West? You on your way? Heard about the win last night. Congrats, man. You’re going to give Knox a good run.
On my way, and thanks, Westin typed.
If Lars is coming, then we only need Reid, and it will be epic, Eric wrote.
Eric, baby, you finally opened your baby blues and joined the rest of the civilized world? Lars wrote.
Eric: Been up since five, even though I’m no longer milking cows. Can’t seem to shake the habit.
A series of laughing emojis followed, plus one with a mooing cow.
Ford: Reid. Stop watching the grass grow. You coming to Lost Creek?
Reid: Don’t know. Can’t think with all these texts blowing up my phone.
Time’s up. You in or you out? Ford could be persistent, to say the least.
Westin started up Bessy—his truck. She was over the hill, but he wouldn’t part with her for anything. Her cherry red color and immaculate interior were his pride.