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Not only will I be wearing his shirt, but now he's speaking about my bra. My blush intensifies and to make matters worse my nipples harden. Jesus, at this point, I’m praying little green aliens land to take me back to their mother planet.
“Keep your eyes up,” I demand pointedly.
“Scouts honor,” Ryder says.
I let go of my shirt, holding my hands up as I keep my eyes on his, making sure he's keeping his word. Surprisingly, he does as he slips the shirt on my head and arms.
The shirt is much looser than I expected, with Ryder being tall and muscular. I look down to see the baseball logo for the Houston Astros.
“Are you sure you don't care if I wear this? I mean you wear it before every game for good luck…”
“How do you know that?” he asks, slightly tilting his head as his eyebrows furrow.
I could tell him because I notice way too much about him, but that would be crazy bold of me. “Uh… Emmie must've mentioned it. Is she wrong?” I ask, covering my random knowledge about him.
"Nah," he says, smiling. “It’s silly, but I think the shirt brings me good luck. I didn't realize Emmie would notice why I wore it, though. Baseball seems to bore her. I'm glad she notices things like that about me. Well, I better go."
I start to reach in the locker to get my books, but he puts a hand on my shoulder. The warmth from his hand feels like a brand through the worn fabric of the shirt.
“Woah, before we both get concussions, stop right there. I'll get them,” he teases as he picks them up, handing them to me.
“Thanks, Ryder.”
“No problem. See you around, Buttons,” he jokes, laughing as he walks away.
I gasp in surprise.Oh God…
Ryder
Driving in my vintage 59' Chevy Apache truck, all I could really want on such a nice summer day is some air conditioning. This old ivory and turquoise truck is my favorite possession. Still, in the Wyoming summer heat, I would give anything for some damn cool air. Of course, it’s even hotter in Texas most of the time and that hasn’t made me find another ride. I mean, it has power steering and that's enough in the grand scheme of things.
I'm almost home. I should be happy, but the closer I get, the more I fill with dread. Being home means my father spends most of my visit time asking when I will give up my nonsense dream of baseball and start helping out with our family ranch. All of my brothers have done that—which makes the fact that I haven’t even worse in Dad’s eyes.
He's never understood that no part of me wanted to own a ranch, let alone help out on one. I hate mucking stalls, and while the horses are beautiful, there are only three things I like to ride—my motorcycle, my truck, or a beautiful woman.
It’s the same issue when he talks about me joining the rodeo circuit. He’s convinced I’d be a millionaire if I applied myself and joined the PBR. The truth is, he’s probably right. I am a damn good bull rider. It comes natural to me. I know I could do it, but I’m alsohighlyaware that it would make me miserable.
Baseball is what I love. It always has been. There's a fever in my blood for it. I know I didn’t make the big league, but I still get to do what I love. Plus, I make more than enough to pay bills and live comfortably. My father never seems happy with that. None of my family is really, except my mom. Of course, she would support me no matter what. She always has.
I turn off the main street to the long, winding dirt road leading to the house. I pass through the gate with the giant iron sign.Double M Ranch.This place gets bigger and greener every year. Even from the road, I can tell the hay fields have expanded at least another five acres from the last time I was here. All the buildings look like they just got a fresh coat of paint and new roofing. It's really coming along. I can remember when we had only room for five horses at a time. I was little back then and barely able to carry the feed buckets first thing in the morning with my father.
The ranch began as a place to train and board horses. Eventually, Dad expanded the barn and pasture so that we could house twenty horses at a time. He broadened the scope of the ranch into giving riding lessons to tourists. We’re not far from a popular tourist destination and people seem to flock to our town to get a taste of authentic cowboy life. Once the ranch was big enough that we were running out of acreage, Dad purchased more, and we began growing corn and hay. That led to raising cattle. Now, the cattle alone keep the ranch in the black. My father knows ranching, and good ranching is good business. Over time, this place has become one of the biggest family-run ranches in Wyoming.
Dust swirls into my open window as I get closer to the main house, making me cough. Just another sign that I don't belong here. I always forget how dusty everything is. I may not enjoy being on the ranch, but I had to come. Last year, the team and I were gone for a week overseas in Japan, and I missed my mom's birthday. I hated not being able to see her in person. Facetime calls just aren’t the same.
Pulling into the driveway behind my father's beat-up old pickup we all nicknamed Betsy. I let out a sigh. I might dread being here, but I do love the feeling of home when I look at the old farmhouse. I get out slowly. I feel guilty for the dread I felt coming here and even more guilt that it has been so long. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t remember anything good ever coming from a visit.
I don't even have time to close my door before Tucker, Dakota, and Cane come out onto the porch. It figures I would get here just in time for dinner, meaning everyone is here and waiting. I love my brothers, but that doesn't mean we see eye to eye. Usually, they take my father's side and rag on me about quitting baseball and working on the ranch. The worst of the three is probably Tucker. He’s the oldest and takes it on himself to play a second father—not that we need one.
Cane gives me a lazy smile. “Would you look at what the cat drug in?” Of course, he would be the first to speak. He’s the middle child and the easiest to get along with. He will avoid conflict at all costs.
“I like your ride, little brother,” Dakota responds with a smirk. I roll my eyes. Dakota is the second oldest and just as much of a hard ass as Tucker. At least the two of us can meet on middle ground. That’s something that Tucker and I never manage.
Jase comes out, looking me up and down. “You're looking a little rough there, Ryder.” Jase is right above me in the line of brothers. He's the jokester, but he will be the first to knock someone out if they disrespect someone he loves.
I'm the baby of the family. That's part of the problem. They all want to act like I need my hand held, life advice, and coddling. I yank my old duffle out of the bed of my truck, slinging it over my shoulder. I get a slap on the back and a bear hug from each brother. They welcome me home as I make my way up the steps on the old wrap-around porch.
My father built the old farmhouse for my mother when they got engaged with the white wooden panels and black shutters on the windows. He even bricked the three chimneys to heat the house through the winter. Everything looks the same down to the old porch swing, except it looks like everything else, and got a facelift recently with new boards, a coat of lacquer, and fresh paint. It looks damn good.
