Page 4 of Slow Burn

I give my head a shake and repeat my mantra, a desperate attempt at regaining my concentration.

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

I nod once at the chute crew, and they release the steer in a clean break.

Willow is close on its heels, her hooves thundering in the dirt, a cloud of dust forming behind us. She’s speed and fury, meanwhile I’m still distracted by Lyla’s presence at the edge of the arena.

Settle… I get Willow into position and lift my roping arm, ignoring the sharp twinge that nabs at it. My mind goes instead to Lyla’s generous hips.

Swing… My fingers unfurl, the rope sliding out of my hand and through the air toward the steer. There’s a swish of long, shiny, dark hair in my periphery, and it’s all I can focus on.

I wait for the loop to land and catch the steer's horns, but at the last second, the animal slips out of my rope, and runs off.

My mind spins, but my thoughts aren’t on the loss or the steer doing its victory lap. They’re on plush, full lips, chocolate eyes, and the way Lyla’s nipples peaked through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.

Vegans taste better… Clearly vegans also don’t believe in wearing bras.

Willow skids to a stop and rears her head as the steer runs off, and the pick up men corral it toward the catch pen. Her frustrated huff of breath brings me back to the present moment.

Fuck.

I glance over at the scoreboard, the letters NT for no time, displayed in bright, bold letters. They may as well flash the word failure across the screen.

That’s what I am, and disappointment sinks like a stone in my gut when I think about what this means. It’s no longer about my ego. It’s no longer about me and my previously held world record.

All I care about now is Wild Sage, the ranch that has been a part of my family for generations. It’s been falling apart around me. The cattle ranch may have been in dire straits before my dad handed over the reins, so to speak, but it’s my responsibility now, and any failures now land solely on me.

It gets harder and harder with each passing day that something fucking breaks or breaks down. Not to mention having to field the onslaught of calls I get, or people knocking on my door looking to buy some–or all–of the property. Developers are practically frothing at the mouth when it comes to untouched land that they can turn into overpriced row homes or condominiums. These days, I’ve been struggling to turn them away.

I turn Willow around, giving her belly a gentle nudge and clicking my tongue. She picks up her feet into a trot and I direct her through the gate being held open by a roughstock worker who gives me a sympathetic nod as we leave the ring.

But it’s not the pity in his eyes that I care about right now. I’m using every ounce of self-control not to look over at Lyla. Her dark stare makes my skin sizzle as Willow and I pass her.

When we reach the stables, I hop off and loosen her cinch before walking her back to find our trailer. Removing her bridle and bit, I replace it with her halter and tie her lead rope to the side of the trailer, while I untack her and start loading up equipment.

I work in silence as Willow munches, but I sense her disappointment at our loss as acutely as my own. She blows a puff of air through her nose, glancing at me sideways like she knows the loss was my fault. As if she knows what this means for me, for the ranch.

“Sorry, girl,” I say, patting her on the shoulder as I come around to look her in the eye, to atone for my mistake.

That’s one thing I’ve always loved about horses. They’re nothing but honest, and they expect nothing but honesty from you.

She huffs another breath, this time stomping her front hoof on the dirt.

“Not good enough, I know. I should have been paying closer attention,” I add.

“How’d you do?” Austin’s voice asks behind me as he gets out of his car. He’s been busy on the ranch today, completing some odd jobs for me, but he said he’d meet me after my run. Austin’s been better about keeping his promises these days.

When I look up, his near-black hair and dark eyes are strikingly similar to the woman who was staring me down mere moments ago. The woman whose curves were my downfall.

I only grunt as a response and turn back to Willow, tugging the quick release knot to bring her over to the trailer waiting for her. Willow climbs up the ramp and gets in the trailer without any fuss, and Austin lifts the back gate to close it with a clunk.

“That bad?” Austin asks, turning to walk around the trailer to the driver side of the truck.

I don’t need to tell him how it went, it’ll be the talk of the town in no time.

“I saw your sister,” I say, evading any kind of conversation about my loss today. Why I decided that Lyla Morgan was a better topic of discussion is beyond me, because I swear Austin can read my thoughts all over my face.

Austin never mentioned that Lyla was coming back into town. He probably didn’t think it was information I’d be remotely interested in. And I’m not. I have more pressing matters to worry about. Dread settles in my gut as I consider the outcome of the rodeo today, the concessions I’m going to have to make yet again to try and keep the ranch functioning.