Page 3 of Slow Burn

My brother’s best friend is handsome, I won’t deny it. His chiseled jawline is covered with stubble, a dark moustache highlighting his stern mouth, and his dark chestnut hair curls out from under his brown suede cowboy hat.

Beck glowers at me, sending me back to the days when we were both kids, teasing each other mercilessly. Well, me teasing Beck and my brother mercilessly. A lot of time may have passed since those days, but still, something comes over me at the expression on Beck’s face.

I glower back at him, and stick out my tongue.

Chapter 2

Beck

It’s a beautiful fuckin’ day for a rodeo.

The sun is shining, a late spring breeze is enough to keep it from being stiflingly hot, the energy in the crowd is palpable. It’s the kick off to rodeo season in Sage Valley, and I’m ready to line my pockets with prize money.

The rodeo draws everyone in the area. Sure, the bull riders and saddle bronc guys attract the majority of outsiders, but everyone in Sage Valley is here to see me. I don’t compete often anymore, not since my shoulder started giving me grief and the ranch started taking up most of my time, so my being here today is somewhat of a special event. But Wild Sage is in desperate need of some repairs and I don’t have the funds to cover it.

Today needs to go well, so I’ve done all my usual pre-run rituals. I started my day as I normally do, with a plain black coffee, watching the sun rise over the Alberta foothills. I gave Willow a once over to make sure she’s in good shape. She looks good today, her dark mane shimmering against the tan colour of her body. I’ve coiled my rope exactly six times, and I’ve been repeating my pattern in my head like a mantra.

Nod. Break. Settle. Swing. Dally. Step down. Trip. Tie.

Steer roping used to be second nature to me. I was a household name in my heyday. I can be eight seconds flat on a good run. It’s why I’m hardly even phased when I spot a woman across the arena, standing next to the exit gate, wearing a t-shirt that says Vegans Taste Better across the back.

The keyword is hardly.

I scoff under my breath.

There’s always one. Always one idealist with their head in the clouds, come to vilify a centuries old tradition of ranching in Sage Valley. Our way of life, and the only life I’ve ever known.

My run is minutes away, and I’m trying to focus on every steer leaving the chute to study their break, but my gaze keeps wandering over to the tall brunette, standing with her back turned to me and one hip popped, leaning against the metal fence.

I glance up, scanning the crowd and trying to keep my gaze far away from the protester. Normally, I don’t pay them any mind. But I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn to her waist, the way it curves in and disappears into snug fitting Wrangler jeans.

Wrangler jeans. It’s almost an abomination, a rodeo protester wearing Wranglers. But damn the pockets on the back make her ass look incredible.

Recognition tugs at the back of my mind as I see who she’s standing with: Sutton Hayes, the vet.

Sutton and I know each other well. Owning a cattle ranch means that she’s on my speed dial. And I can’t help but wonder about the way she’s looking up at the protester with such familiarity.

Eyes up, Hollis.

Willow shifts beneath me, nickering softly as if she knows I’m distracted. Sometimes I think Willow takes competing more seriously than I do. I grab my lasso and her reins in one hand, and reach down to pat her tawny shoulder with the other.

“We got this, girl,” I murmur, giving her a gentle squeeze with my heels and steering her closer to the chute. I take a steadying breath as we get closer to the arena, and the officials ready the steer behind the gate next to me.

A movement in my periphery catches my attention. My eyes flick away from the steer and over to the brunette standing on the sidelines. Time moves in slow motion, and for a second I’m caught by the hypnotizing sway of her hips as she turns toward the arena. Her head snaps towards me.

It’s my fatal move, letting my eyes wander away from the ring and over to her. Now, the focus I had going into my run has all but vanished, because my senses are homed in on the way her dark eyes pierce me from behind the fence.

Dark eyes that I would know anywhere.

Dark eyes that I haven’t stopped thinking about since my childhood.

Dark eyes that are very, very off limits.

Because they belong to Lyla Morgan, my best friend's little sister. And she’s nothing but trouble.

The second our eyes meet she sticks out her tongue, exactly like when we were kids. My self-control slips a little, and the corner of my mouth tugs upward.

“You ready to go soon, man?” the official readying the steer asks.