Ride Rough Read online

  "I HAVE NO FUTURE," he shouted back, then yanked the car to the side of the road, slamming on the brakes. He let out a rough exhale, heart pounding. Jeezus, his hands were shaking. What in the hell had he just admitted? In an instant, his future spun out before him, empty. What did he have to look forward to? A decade more of action movies? If he was lucky? More parties? Did he really want to turn into that guy, the one who thought he was the life of the party, when in reality, he was the laughingstock? He'd been to those kinds of parties when he was younger... it wasn't pretty. It was pathetic, watching some has-been with thinning hair reliving the glory days and behaving like he still had it. Whatever it was. With the exception of Portia, he'd never bothered to make friends with his colleagues, or even his girlfriends. Instead, he'd surrounded himself with ego-fluffers. People who didn't pry into his personal life or demand anything except his wallet. Was that his future? His stomach lurched. What in the hell had he done with his life?

  "Oh, hon," Portia said softly.

  "Don't," Trace said even softer, throat prickling. He didn't want her pity. He could take anything but that. He ran a hand over his head, fingers stopping at the rubber band that held his bleach blond locks in check. "Look, I'll figure something out. I just need a few days."

  "Uh-huh," she hummed. "We both know you never do well between projects. If you go to crazy town now, you'll end up in jail. Or worse," she cautioned.

  "Let me guess," he went for full-on sarcasm. "This crazy-assed idea you're convinced is brilliant is going to save me?"

  "As a matter of fact," she shot back tightly. "It is brilliant. But it's up to you whether or not you want to listen. And as for saving you," she added darkly. "This time, Trace, you're going to have to save yourself."

  Chapter Three

  The alarm beeping from the corner of the room sounded like an Amber alert. Trace tossed back the covers with a groan. He ached. Everywhere. Every bone, every sinew in his body felt like lead. Every muscle yelled at him in protest as he dropped his feet over the side of the bed and rolled to sit. "Shut up," he snapped at the alarm still blaring its punishing beeps. With a clench of his jaw, he squeezed the muscles in his legs, forcing them to submit to his will, and rose, lurching across the floor to slam his hand against the button and silence the obnoxious noise. Trace exhaled a sigh of relief as silence blessedly stole through the cabin.

  What in the hell was he doing? It was only day four. He'd only been working at Resolution Ranch for four days. How in the hell was he going to manage a month? Let alone six? Let alone a year? What god did he need to start praying to, to end the agony ripping through his body? Trace blew out a rough breath and rolled his shoulders. Coffee. Coffee would help. And this morning, by god, he was determined to be ready before Sterling pounded on the door. He swore the foreman was fucking with him. The first morning, Sterling had banged on the door at five a.m., yanking Trace out of a dream he was fairly certain involved G-strings and tanning oil. Not wanting to come off as a slacker, he'd set his alarm for ten minutes earlier the next morning. Sterling still jarred him out of bed. The same thing happened again the third morning, though Trace had set his alarm even earlier. They were clearly hazing him, but no way would he let them think for one second that he expected deferential treatment. They'd made it clear when he arrived they expected him to pull his weight. So even though his hands were blistered and cramped from the hours of shoveling shit, holding reins, and handling barbed wire, Trace refused to admit he was in pain.

  Trace flexed and turned his hands as the aroma of coffee filled the small kitchen, then rolled his shoulders. It was still dark outside, but this morning when Sterling pounded on the door, Trace would be ready. By the time the coffee had filled the pot, Trace was dressed down to his boots, even though his feet ached as much as the rest of him. At four-thirty on the nose, a sharp rap sounded at the door. With a smile, Trace grabbed a second mug, filled it, and swung open the door with a smile. "Morning, sunshine," he said with a triumphant smirk, holding out the steaming mug.

  Sterling, who looked a little bleary-eyed himself, propped a hand on the doorframe and let out a chuckle. "Don't mind if I do." The men sipped in silence before Sterling eyed Trace's hands. "We workin' you too hard?"

  "Not at all." Trace shook his head, glancing at the red sores across his palm. "Nothing a few Band-Aids can't fix." They hurt like hell, but they'd turn to callouses once they healed.

  "Good, 'cause after we finish chores and checking on the cattle, Travis and I thought we'd take you over to the roughstock riding school."

  Trace kept his expression neutral. "Oh?" He'd seen Travis' ten-year-old son practicing on the metal drum suspended between the trees down in a ravine behind the main house. The idea of riding a bull captivated him. He'd performed enough of his own stunts in the movies to develop a taste for adrenaline, and in his mind, guys who rode bulls were up there with the best stuntmen in the business. Proving himself as a bullrider would be the perfect healing ointment for his bruised ego. After all, he was great on a surfboard; why wouldn't he be great on a bull?

  Sterling flashed him a knowing grin. "We've seen you watching Travis' son Dax practice. It's time for you to get a little taste of the real thing. But be warned." Sterling handed over his empty mug. "I've seen grown men cry like babies after Colt and Cody are done with them. You think ranching's hard? Try riding a bull."

  Trace placed the empty mugs in the sink and grabbed his Stetson. "Sounds like a challenge I can't resist."

  May

  * * *

  "You ready?" Jaxon Boyd asked, pulling the bull rope tight across Trace's hand.

  Trace answered with a grunt. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like alcohol, making him the slightest bit jittery. No way would he admit to a seasoned pro like Jax that he was the least bit nervous.

  "Relax. The odds are one-hundred percent the bull is gonna buck you off. It's when, not if. Now, the odds of you stayin' on for eight seconds, they're a little less shitty, but still losing." Jaxon's white teeth flashed. "But I've beat losing odds before, and so can you."

  "Remember," Tony Cruz added from the other side of the chute where he was acting as gateman, "the bull's not predictable like the practice machines, but the principle's the same - keep your hips driving forward, keep your balance arm in line with your ear, and show this bull you're boss."

  Trace nodded, positioning his hips practically on top of his left hand gripping the rope. Tony and his best friend Robbie Capizzi were local firefighters who moonlighted on the Prairie Circuit when their schedules allowed.

  Robbie, perched next to Jax, leaned over the chute and put in his two cents. "Now, put your right hand on the rail and drive forward when you nod, so you're moving with the bull."

  "Okay, go," Trace called, pulling himself forward like Robbie had instructed as the bull charged from the gate bucking and spinning. His focus narrowed to the bull gyrating beneath him, back legs up, twisting left, once, twice, until a hard twist to the right got him off-center and he flew through the air like a rag doll, landing on the ground with a thud hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

  "Get up, get up," Colt hollered from across the arena. "You want that bull to stomp on you?"

  Cody, acting as bullfighter, yelled his agreement, chasing the bull to the far side of the arena and out the gate.

  Trace swallowed a groan and rolled to his knees, then stood, shaking his limbs as he jogged over to the rail where Colt perched, smirking. "I don't know how I was supposed to keep my hips forward when it was spinning like a top."

  "That's why you practice, pretty boy. Now, shake it off and tell me what you did wrong."

  Trace huffed out a chuckle and scraped a hand against his beard. "Dude, it happened so fast, I have no idea."

  "We'll watch the video later. Your balance arm swung in front of you and pulled your hips off-center when the bull twisted. You up for another ride? We've got time for one more before we wrap."

  "You bet." Trace turned and jogged ba
ck to the chute where the next practice bull was loaded. Sterling hadn't been shitting him. Three weeks in, he could say fundamentally, without a doubt, bull riding was the hardest damn thing he'd ever tried. All those stunt guys he'd admired on set, the ones that made him look like a total badass on screen, had nothing on an average bull rider. The guys in this arena were beasts and he was determined to be one of them, because this was seriously the most fun he'd had in months. Trace clambered up the rail and dropped into the chute again, taking care to make the bull aware he was there, before settling himself on its back and drawing a glove back and forth over the rope to make the rosin nice and sticky.

  "Colt go over what you can improve?" Jax asked.

  "Gotta keep my arm from swinging forward. Keep my elbow low." He liked that Jax always spun his critiques positively. The guy never bragged, even though, according to Tony and Robbie, he'd placed in the money two years running at the National Circuit Finals, and he'd been a contender at the NFRs in his early twenties until an injury had sidelined him.

  "So if you work to keep your shoulder from dipping, that will help. All the movement comes from the trunk first. If your shoulder moves out of line, the arm has to follow."

  There was so much to remember. How did these guys ever keep it all straight? And for only eight seconds? Somehow, someway, he was determined to prove himself to this bunch. In the month he'd been at the ranch, it was as if even he'd forgotten Trace Walker, ranch hand and aspiring bullrider was actually Trace McBride, movie star, hiding from the paparazzi while trying to get his life back on track. That was a good thing, right? It still felt too new, too foreign, that he was in a place where people took him at his word and didn't expect anything from him. He didn't trust it... yet. But it was the kind of thing he could get used to.

  "Got it." He slipped his hand underneath the bull rope while Jax tightened it and wound it around his wrist.

  "Keep your focus," Jax warned. "Remember, this is mostly a mental game."

  Trace pulled forward and gave the nod for the chute to open. The bull burst out with a twist, bucking back and forth. For the first time, fear didn't take over. For every turn and twist the bull made beneath him, Trace remained focused on keeping his elbow low and driving his hips forward, even though it felt like his spine would snap in two. The bull bucked again, and for the blink of an eye, his focus wavered. That was all it took, and once again, Trace flew ass over teakettle and landed face down in the dirt.

  "Get up, get up!" Colton shouted.

  Trace popped up and stumbled forward, head spinning, barely missing the angry horns of the bull.

  Along the rails, Tony, Jax, and Robbie whooped and hollered. "Six seconds," Tony yelled with a face splitting grin. "That's your best yet."

  Trace grinned back, pumped his fist and shouted, elation surging through him. "Hell, yeah." He wanted to strut and pound his chest. That felt fucking amazing.

  "Don't get ahead of yourself," said Colton as he crossed the arena to where the rest of the cowboys were. "You still haven't made it to the buzzer. But you'll get there," he added with a grin and clapped Trace on the shoulder. "If you can stay on for six seconds, you can make it to eight."

  Trace's chest warmed under the rodeo star's praise. Colton had hung up his pro-rodeo spurs for family life, but never missed an opportunity to hop on a bull and show the group how it was done. "I aim to."

  "Ladies called, and they're saving a table for us at Mike's, so let's get all this equipment put away and call it a day."

  Trace vaulted over the rails and joined Tony in pushing one of the practice bulls back into the large barn.

  "You gonna join us, this time around?" Colton asked casually as he joined Trace. "Wouldn't hurt for you to get to know the guys a little better."

  It was on the tip of his tongue to decline, like he'd done all the previous times over the past month. Sterling, Jason, and Travis' collective warning echoed in his head. Keep a low profile. Stay away from the local color. He knew exactly what they meant - no letting loose, and definitely no ladies. But most of these guys were married, some even with children. Trace couldn't imagine them getting into the kind of crazy he was used to in L.A. Tony and Robbie pretty much lived at the fire station, and Jaxon was a math teacher at the high school. Not exactly rabble-rousers. In his old life he would have dismissed every one of them. But now the shoe was on the other foot. If he was honest, he envied the easy camaraderie he'd observed between them, the natural trust they placed in each other. Portia had admonished him to make friends. Was this what she'd been talking about? If it was, he sure as hell couldn't do that sitting alone on the porch of his bunk house, teaching himself the guitar. And dammit, he was tired of his own company. It wouldn't hurt this once, would it? He squared his shoulders. "Sure, okay, why not?"

  Chapter Four

  June - the next morning

  * * *

  "I think you should look at this as a positive, CiCi," Cecilia's little sister Mariah encouraged. "Take some time off, reassess your life goals... have a fling," she added with a snicker.

  Cecilia snorted, blinking extra to stay alert. She'd been driving all night, and desperately needed caffeine. Calling her sister had been the next best thing. "When was the last time you were home?"

  "Christmas, same as you."

  "So you are aware there's nothing remotely close to fling material in Prairie, Kansas?"

  Mariah giggled. "Come on, there's gotta be Tinder for Ranchers. I'm sure you'll find someone you can swipe right for."

  "Not amused, sis. Not amused." Although Cecilia couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. "If I can't meet someone the old-fashioned way, I'm not interested."

  "But you have to admit, it's a good way to find a no-strings-attached fling."

  "Just like you did? Hello pot, meet kettle." Cecilia wrinkled her nose. "Not everyone's as lucky as you are, sis."

  "Ha," Mariah exclaimed sharply. "You forget I nearly married the d-bag of the year. But yes," her voice softened. "Harrison is by far and away the best thing that ever happened to me."

  "So why not marry him?"

  Mariah giggled again. "I'm not considering anything until I stop traveling with the women's National Team. You know as soon as there's talk of a wedding that Mom and his mom will go nuts with the planning, and I can't handle that right now."

  Cecilia envied how methodical her sister was when it came to her life goals. Mariah had been that way since they were kids, steadily checking off the things she'd wanted to accomplish and not letting anyone stop her. Cecilia's passion for truth and justice and had driven her into journalism, yet where had she ended up? A thirty-year-old spinster, driving a dilapidated 1993 Volvo with 235,000 miles on it back to her hometown in the middle of nowhere, with no life boxes checked off. No Pulitzer, no relationship, not even a cat. And now? No career, either. "I'm so tired of beating my head against a brick wall."

  "Then don't. Why not freelance? Or do something completely different. Start a lifestyle blog."

  "About ranching? Cowboys? You know that stuff's not me. I'm better off applying to be a war correspondent."

  "Oh please don't do that. I'd die of worry. I'm telling you, freelance. Write the stories you want, be as creative as you want. Start horseback riding again. Do things you've always wanted to try and never had the time. Fix up the house for Mom and 'Buelita. Lord knows it could use some updating, and you were always good at that kind of stuff. They're not going to be back until close to Christmas, so you'll have plenty of time. And send your big story to Vanity Fair or Rolling Stone or The Atlantic Journal or something. I bet one of them will jump on it. It's too juicy not to pick up."

  "That would show Bob."

  "Exactly. And Charlie the Cheater," Mariah added scornfully, using the nickname she'd come up with for Cecilia's ex. "Don't let those guys get you down. You're a great journalist, sis. You can do anything. I know you can. Are you almost to Prairie?"

  God, she loved her sister. Mariah was relentlessly positive, and
it never failed to rub off on her. Hope began to creep back into Cecilia's tired, bruised heart. "Just about. I figured I'd hit Dottie's Diner and drown myself in a pot of coffee before going to talk to Mr. McCabe about a job."

  "Do you reeeeeaaally want to do that? You know he'll only let you write up the police blotter."

  Cecilia sighed heavily as she slowed to a stop at Prairie's only light. She hated to admit it, but her sister was probably right. There wasn't enough news in Prairie to justify more than one writer. "I don't know, I guess? Maybe I could put Prairie on the map for something other than tornadoes and rodeos."

  "How about the diner? At least you'd meet people, and you wouldn't be writing fluff. And maybe," Mariah's voice turned sly. "You'll overhear a story you can run with."

  "Okay, fine, I'll think about it," she said as she pulled into the gravel parking lot adjacent to Dottie's Diner and cut the engine as she said goodbye to her sister. It was seven minutes past six a.m., and already the parking lot was full of pickups. All the local ranchers coming in for a cuppa and maybe some eggs or pie, before heading back to their ranches for the next round of work. Cecilia exited the car and smoothed her skirt, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in her belly. She was still dressed in yesterday's work clothes and she'd forgotten to check her face in the rearview before stepping out. She probably had bags under her eyes and mascara running down her face.

  "Time to face the music," she muttered, picking her way through the gravel in the hopes that the rocks wouldn't slip through the straps of her favorite silver stiletto gladiator sandals. They might rock along the Miracle Mile, but they were a terrible choice for Prairie. At least they gave her confidence, even if her blisters still stung from yesterday's long walk down Michigan Avenue. She rolled her shoulders, straightened her spine and pulled on the door. Above her, the welcoming bell jangled loudly and conversation stopped as she entered.