Ride Rough - Tessa Layne Page 0,4

So even though his hands were blistered and cramped from the hours of shoveling shit, holding reins, and handling barbed wire, Trace refused to admit he was in pain.

Trace flexed and turned his hands as the aroma of coffee filled the small kitchen, then rolled his shoulders. It was still dark outside, but this morning when Sterling pounded on the door, Trace would be ready. By the time the coffee had filled the pot, Trace was dressed down to his boots, even though his feet ached as much as the rest of him. At four-thirty on the nose, a sharp rap sounded at the door. With a smile, Trace grabbed a second mug, filled it, and swung open the door with a smile. "Morning, sunshine," he said with a triumphant smirk, holding out the steaming mug.

Sterling, who looked a little bleary-eyed himself, propped a hand on the doorframe and let out a chuckle. "Don't mind if I do." The men sipped in silence before Sterling eyed Trace's hands. "We workin' you too hard?"

"Not at all." Trace shook his head, glancing at the red sores across his palm. "Nothing a few Band-Aids can't fix." They hurt like hell, but they'd turn to callouses once they healed.

"Good, 'cause after we finish chores and checking on the cattle, Travis and I thought we'd take you over to the roughstock riding school."

Trace kept his expression neutral. "Oh?" He'd seen Travis' ten-year-old son practicing on the metal drum suspended between the trees down in a ravine behind the main house. The idea of riding a bull captivated him. He'd performed enough of his own stunts in the movies to develop a taste for adrenaline, and in his mind, guys who rode bulls were up there with the best stuntmen in the business. Proving himself as a bullrider would be the perfect healing ointment for his bruised ego. After all, he was great on a surfboard; why wouldn't he be great on a bull?

Sterling flashed him a knowing grin. "We've seen you watching Travis' son Dax practice. It's time for you to get a little taste of the real thing. But be warned." Sterling handed over his empty mug. "I've seen grown men cry like babies after Colt and Cody are done with them. You think ranching's hard? Try riding a bull."

Trace placed the empty mugs in the sink and grabbed his Stetson. "Sounds like a challenge I can't resist."

May

"You ready?" Jaxon Boyd asked, pulling the bull rope tight across Trace's hand.

Trace answered with a grunt. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like alcohol, making him the slightest bit jittery. No way would he admit to a seasoned pro like Jax that he was the least bit nervous.

"Relax. The odds are one-hundred percent the bull is gonna buck you off. It's when, not if. Now, the odds of you stayin' on for eight seconds, they're a little less shitty, but still losing." Jaxon's white teeth flashed. "But I've beat losing odds before, and so can you."

"Remember," Tony Cruz added from the other side of the chute where he was acting as gateman, "the bull's not predictable like the practice machines, but the principle's the same - keep your hips driving forward, keep your balance arm in line with your ear, and show this bull you're boss."

Trace nodded, positioning his hips practically on top of his left hand gripping the rope. Tony and his best friend Robbie Capizzi were local firefighters who moonlighted on the Prairie Circuit when their schedules allowed.

Robbie, perched next to Jax, leaned over the chute and put in his two cents. "Now, put your right hand on the rail and drive forward when you nod, so you're moving with the bull."

"Okay, go," Trace called, pulling himself forward like Robbie had instructed as the bull charged from the gate bucking and spinning. His focus narrowed to the bull gyrating beneath him, back legs up, twisting left, once, twice, until a hard twist to the right got him off-center and he flew through the air like a rag doll, landing on the ground with a thud hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

"Get up, get up," Colt hollered from across the arena. "You want that bull to stomp on you?"

Cody, acting as bullfighter, yelled his agreement, chasing the bull to the far side of the arena and out the gate.

Trace swallowed a groan and rolled to his knees, then stood, shaking his limbs as he jogged over to the rail where Colt perched, smirking.