Page 39 of Tame Our Wild

Keeping my brain in check was a workout in itself.

Then, we did half an hour of easy training on the mechanical bull on the main floor in the barn. I say easy, but I’m thirty-four. After years of giving my body over to this unrelenting sport, I feel like I’m fifty at the end of each day. By the end of this week, I’ll be damn near close to walking like I’m eighty once I let myself be tossed around and hurled into the dirt.

I may be complaining about it, but I welcome the pain—look forward to it.

I find pleasure in the way my muscles burn and the unique form of nausea that comes with competing in a high-impact sport. Those moments don’t happen all the time, but when they do, I sit there like a psychopath, soaking in the agony. Like a few years ago, when I broke three ribs. I was sprawled across the ground, clutching my side, chuckling maniacally through the pain as the medical team gathered around me, feeling closer to Paisley than I had in a long time.

Sometimes, I try to understand the pain my sister went through. At least that’s how I try to process it. Bull riders are a reckless bunch, and I couldn’t blame Paisley for wanting to get back out there and prove she was fine.

But nothing can prepare you for how fast life can change. Paisley’s concussion when she got tossed headfirst into a fence when we were seventeen wasn’t something to mess with. She rested. She waited. She told me she was ready to start again, and I believed her. Never did I think that one injury could morph into something life-altering for both of us.

“Colson!”

I freeze, wondering if I heard my name being called somewhere in the house over the whizz of spray from the showerhead. A few more moments pass, and I let it go, cupping my hand under the shampoo dispenser. I rub it in my hands and start to scrub my hair when a knock at the door solidifies my muscles.

A fist raps against the bathroom door. “Colson!” Shit. Yep. Harlow is yelling my name, and she sounds pissed. “You need to come downstairs. You have a visitor.”

A visitor? I never get those out here; it’s one of the perks of owning a fifty-acre ranch. “If they’re trying to sell something, tell them to leave,” I holler back.

“Well, you’d better get your ass out then. I’m getting uncomfortable being alone with him.”

The fuck.

“I’ll be right down!” I growl, ducking my head under the showerhead to quickly rinse the soap out of my hair.

Harlow doesn’t say another word, so I take it as a hint that she marched away like she always does when her attitude appears and she’s annoyed with me.

I enjoy it more than I should.

When I step out of the shower and dry off, I don’t bother with a shirt and toss open the door, heading downstairs. I’m fastening the button of my Wranglers when my eyes clash with a pair of furious green ones, stopping me in my tracks. Matt glares at me from my living room with his hands braced on his hips.

Harlow stands at the kitchen island in a pair of sleep shorts and a T-shirt with a mug of coffee, her gaze curiously bouncing between my best friend and me. “Um, I’m going to go finish packing for this weekend.”

Without saying another word, she paces across the living room and awkwardly slips past me on her way upstairs. Even the slightest brush of her skin against my arm has my pulse accelerating.

When she’s out of earshot, he lashes out. “You want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?” Matt’s hardened glower sears into me like hot iron against steel.

I take the rest of the steps down and nod toward the front door. “Let’s take this outside.”

“You think that’s going to keep her from hearing me chew your ass out?”

“Fine, we’ll do this here,” I growl.

“At least now I know why you’ve been ignoring me the last few days! Once I realized you weren’t going to answer, I figured our travel plans were as usual. But when I walked in, PBR’s Sweetheart was lounging on your couch like she owns the damn place. I walked out and back in because I thought I was hallucinating.” His eyes narrow. “Are you fucking her?”

Plopping onto the couch, I prop my arm over the back and blow out a breath. “No.”

Matt gives me an unconvinced look. “Then why else would Harlow be here? You hate each other, and there’s no other reason.”

“I’m coaching her.”

He stills. “You’re bullshitting me.”

“He’s not.” Harlow’s loud voice carries down from somewhere upstairs.

Leaning over, I brace my elbows on my knees, lowering my voice. “Aaron Jackson died, Matt. Her coach. You and I both watched her leg break two years ago, and she’s back, still a rookie. There’s too much of this season left. She needs a coach, and you know it.”

“Last time I checked, you’re still competing.”