Page 13 of September’s Cowboy Travis

Mustang Mountain had made up its mind about me years ago, and I'd given people plenty to work with. Drinking. Fighting. Women. I couldn't blame anybody for remembering the shit I'd actually done.

It would've been nice if they noticed I hadn't done most of it in a long damn time.

Kaycee watched me for another second. “That surprised you.”

“No.”

Her mouth curved. “Liar.”

One of the guys at the chute yelled my name before I had to answer.

Kaycee looked toward the arena. “Are you practicing?”

“Yeah.”

“So this is my demonstration.”

“I thought you wanted convincing.”

“I want to understand the invoice.”

“Sure.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling when I reached for my gloves.

I took a few steps toward my horse before looking back. “So, are you staying?”

The question came out more serious than I'd meant it. Kaycee glanced toward the office, where somebody was standing on the steps waving a clipboard at Jace, then looked back at me.

“I'll watch.”

I'd ridden in front of packed grandstands without caring who sat in them. Now I wanted to know exactly where one woman was standing before a practice run nobody else would remember tomorrow.

I climbed into the saddle before I could waste much time on that.

Once my horse settled under me, the rest of the grounds fell away. I shortened the reins, set my feet, and felt him come up under me as the steer shifted behind the gate.

Then it opened.

The steer broke hard. My horse came alongside while the hazer held the opposite side, and I leaned out, dropped from the saddle, and hit the dirt moving. My hands caught the horns. The steer dragged me another step before I planted my heels and turned him.

He went down clean.

Someone called the time, but I was already looking toward the rail. Kaycee stood exactly where I'd left her, one hand hooked over the top board. Watching me.

I handed my horse off and headed toward her while my breathing settled. Dust coated my boots and stuck to the sweat along my forearms. Kaycee's gaze started there, moved over my jeans and chest, then finally made it to my face.

“Are you convinced yet?”

She blinked. “I'm convinced you have questionable judgment.”

“The look on your face says something else.”

“My face isn't part of this conversation.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “It was impressive.”

I grinned.

“And incredibly stupid.” She reached up. Her fingertips brushed my cheek, wiping away a streak of arena dirt. She looked at the brown smear she'd left across the pad of her thumb, then back at me. Her glasses had slipped slightly down her nose, and her hand stayed between us like she'd forgotten what she'd meant to do with it.