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Prologue

Steer wrestler Sutton Grant knew the instant he threw himself off his horse he was in for a earth of hurt.

He'd miscalculated the altitude and his rate of rotation. The last thing he remembered earlier he hit the steer was he could kiss this year's world championship title skilful-farewell.

He woke up in the ambulance, his head pounding, unable to motion any part of his trunk but his optics.

Fuck.

Try and move.

I can't.

Was he paralyzed?

He couldn't exist.

What if he was? He'd never hurt similar this. Never.

But the fact he could feel pain had to be good, right?

Peradventure the intense pain is your body shutting downwardly.

If he was paralyzed, who would shoulder the burden of caring for him for the rest of his life? He didn't have a wife or a girlfriend. Would responsibleness autumn to his family?

Oh, hell no. He'd put them through enough with his last rodeo mishap.

Mishap? Don't y'all mean accident that kept you out of commission for a year? Do yous remember living at abode and seeing the worry on your parent's faces?

That'd been worse than the months of concrete and mental recovery. And then he'd had the added burden of seeing their happiness vanish afterward he'd healed and had informed them he planned to return to the sport.

His mother's voice drifted into his memory. You're even so going to do this fifty-fifty if it hurts, maims, or kills you? He'd responded, Even then.

He still saw the tear tracks on her confront, the subtle milk shake of her caput. And he'd yet gone off anyhow, chasing the gold buckle, putting his trunk through hell.

I take information technology back! I didn't mean information technology!

Right and then and there, Sutton fabricated a deal with God:

Delight Lord, if I survive this with my body intact, I swear I'll give up bulldoggin' forever. No lie. I'll be done for proficient.

White lights blinded him and for a brief instant, he thought he'd died. A voice he'd never heard before whispered to him, promise accepted.

Then darkness descended again. The last affair Sutton remembered was wiggling his fingers and toes and whispering a prayer of cheers.

Chapter 1

Eight months later...

"Yous ain't supposed to exist out there doin' that," Wynton shouted.

Sutton looked across the paddock at his older blood brother and scowled. He tugged on the reins just his horse Dial wouldn't budge. Damn stubborn horse; he had to exist role mule.

"I've got a ridin' crop y'all tin can infringe," his younger brother Creston yelled from atop the corral fence.

"I'm surrounded by smartasses," Sutton informed Dial. "And apparently I'thou a dumbass because I never acquire with you, do I?"

Dial tossed his mane.

Later on he climbed off his horse, Sutton switched out the flake and bridle for a pb rope. Then he opened the gate betwixt the paddock and the pasture, playfully patting Dial'due south flank as the grayness dun tore off.

Dial actually kicked upward his hooves in glee as he galloped away.

"Yep, I'll miss our special time together too, asshole."

Asshole. Man, he was punchier than he realized if he was calling his horse an asshole.

Sutton sauntered over to where his brothers waited for him, surprised that they'd both shown up in the centre of a Friday afternoon—with a six-pack. Wyn and Cres both ranched with their dad, although as the oldest, Wyn had inherited the bulk of the ranch work decisions. It appeared he'd inverse the rule almost working a full twenty-four hour period—every day, rain, shine, snow, come up hell, high water, or wild fire.

"What's the occasion? Y'all hither to borrow money?" he asked.

"Good one. Glad to meet they didn't remove all of your funny bone later surgery," Wyn said dryly.

"Hilarious." Sutton quirked an eyebrow at Cres. "Got something smart to say?"

"Yeah. Yous know you ain't supposed to be doin' annihilation that'll further injure you. When nosotros hadn't heard from you all calendar week, we figured you were up to no adept. And I run across nosotros were right."

"It wasn't like I was bulldoggin'."

"This'd be a different chat if nosotros'd seen you doin' that." Wyn handed him a beer. "We ain't trying to bosom your balls, simply goddammit, Sutton. You lot almost fucking died."

"Again," Cres added.

"Well, I own't dead. But don't feel like I'm alive, either." He sipped the cold brew. Nothing tasted improve on a hot summer day.

"Should we be on suicide watch?" Wyn said hesitantly.

Sutton had a mental break the last time he'd been injured, so his family kept an eye on him, and he knew how lucky he was to have that support. "Nah. It's just this sitting around, healing up stuff is driving me bugshit crazy."

"The way to deal with your boredom ain't to arrive the cage with your demon and get some other round."

Sutton squinted at Cres. "You callin' my horse a demon?"

Cres rolled his eyes. "No, dipshit. Your demon is the demand to prove yourself. Regardless of the price."

His gaze met his youngest brother'south. Growing up, Wyn and Cres joked about Sutton being the mailman'south kid because he was the simply ane of the three boys with bluish-light-green eyes. Both his brothers and his parents had chocolate-brown eyes. Sometimes he wondered if that outsider status is what lured him into the globe of professional person rodeo and away from working on the family ranch.

He sighed. "I appreciate your business organization, I really do. I'g just frustrated. Makes information technology worse when I hafta bargain with Dial. He's a temperamental motherfucker on his best days. I don't trust anyone to piece of work with him after that last become around with the so-chosen 'expert,' which ways he ain't getting the proper workout for a horse of his caliber."

"A few months cooling his hooves shouldn't take changed his previous grooming that much. Breeders take mares out of bucking contention, likewise as barrel racing, when they're bred. Sometimes that'd exist upward to two years."

"I know that. But Dial? He ain't like other horses. Gelding him didn't dampen that fire; if anything, it increased his orneriness."

"I'd be ornery too if some dude sliced off my balls," Wyn said with a shudder. Then he looked at Sutton. "So that other bulldogger, the guy with the weird name...what happened the weekend he borrowed him?"

"Weird name." Sutton snorted. "That's rich coming from a guy named Wynton."

"Fuck off, Sutton," he shot back. "I think Mom was high on kid birthin' painkillers when she picked our names."

"Probably. You talkin' about Breck Christianson? He tried to assist me out during the Western Livestock Show in January while I was still laid up."

"Yeah. Him." Wyn looked at Cres. "Don't know if I always heard you talk virtually what went down that week you were there with him and Punch."

Cres rested his forearms on the top of the fence and his lid adumbral his face up. "Information technology was a damn disaster in the arena. Punch wouldn't practice nothin'. Seriously. That loftier-strung bastard stayed in the damn chute. The once he left the chute, he charged the hazer's horse. Breck traveled to Denver specifically to get a feel for Dial before the competition, but he ended up sticking with his own mount."

"Huh. Surprised you lot stayed in Denver for the whole stock show since it meant you had to take care of demon equus caballus while y'all were there."

Cres shrugged. "I never get to see the backside the chutes activeness for a week-long upshot. Information technology was interesting and everyone was friendly."

"And then Breck took skillful care of you?" Sutton asked.

Cres choked on his beer.

Wyn patted him on the back. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Cough cough. "A bug flew in my oral cavity." Another cough. "Breck introduced me around."

Sutton nudged his shoulder. "Breck introduce y'all to his buckle bunny pussy posse?"

Earlier Cres responded, Wyn interrupted. "Cres wouldn't know what to practice with the ladies. The child is all work and no play. He probably spent all his time hidin' in the horse trailer."

"I own't a kid," Cress said tightly. "And don't assume you know what I got upward to because you don't. Anyway, Breck knows everyone." He looked at Sutton. "He introduced me to Saxton Green, that other bulldogger you go mistaken for all the time. He's congenital like you, even looks like you, merely he sure don't act similar you lot. That man is fuckin' wild."

Sutton groaned. "Do you know how many times I've had to defend myself against something Saxton did? It sucks. That's about the simply fourth dimension I don't mind that the other competitors call me 'The Saint.'"

"Other competitors, and everyone else involved with the rodeo excursion, including the women, call you 'The Saint' because you're the ane who acts like a freakin' monk," Wyn pointed out helpfully. "Damn man. How do yous plough down all that free pussy?"

"Information technology own't gratis, trust me," Sutton retorted.

"Wyn, leave him solitary," Cres said. "Stop acting like y'all've got it crude and ain't getting your fair share of tail. Women are lined upward in your driveway to get a slice of you."

Wyn smirked and raised his beer. "It's skillful to exist me."

Cres rolled his eyes. "Oh, and I also met the couple who raised and trained Punch earlier you bought him."

That piqued Sutton's interest. "Chuck and Berlin Gradsky? Actually?"

"They were in the arena when Breck was having a hard time with Dial. Neither of them even tried to step in. They said the only people who had any effect on him was y'all and their daughter who'd trained him."

London Gradsky. He hadn't thought of her in a couple of years. The bearish brunette who'd thrown a shit fit when her parents had sold Dial to him rather than just continuing to let him compete on the horse. She'd accused him of taking advantage of her parents, caring about his career above the welfare of the animal. Then she'd launched into a diatribe about how self-absorbed he was for pushing to have the stallion castrated without considering the long-term gains for breeding. After calling him a dickhead whose belt buckle was bigger than his encephalon, she'd stormed off.

Chuck and Berlin explained abroad her behavior, fondly referring to her as their headstrong filly. They were proud that she'd struck out on her ain equally a horse trainer rather than just expecting to go a primo position at Grade A Horse Farms because her parents owned the business organization. But still, London'due south accusations had stung. What he wouldn't give for her expertise now. Although it'd been three years since their altercation, he doubted the feisty firecracker would let bygones exist bygones. "Well, it'southward obvious I need help."

"What about that Eli guy?" Wyn said. "Didn't you say he's some kind of Native American horse whisperer?"

"Eli is peak notch. But Dial's temperament is especially bad effectually other horses. He took a chunk outta the alpha horse the in one case I left him there—this was after Eli put him in a pasture by himself and he jumped the fence. So Dial is no longer welcome."

"I take faith y'all'll effigy something out that doesn't entail y'all bein' on the dirt with him."

Cres straightened up and moved to toss his bottle into the shooting butt. "To be blunt, as much equally nosotros care for our animals, bro, they are tools. Tools are replaceable. You are non. This last time yous most went into kidney failure, liver failure, and they talked of removing your spleen. Both me'n Wyn would've offered upward a kidney or fifty-fifty a damn lung for you. You know that. Nosotros'd rather not accept to face that choice again."

"Nosotros're askin' you non to practice something that'll put you lot back in the infirmary for some other six weeks followed by months of recovery." Wyn gestured to the ranch business firm and the expanse effectually them. "Y'all've got a nice identify to hang your hat, money in the bank, the kinda looks that get whatever woman you desire into your bed, and family nearby. Ain't nothin' wrong with that life."

Sutton watched his brothers drive off. He put the iii bottles left from the half dozen-pack into the fridge in the garage, knowing he'd be less tempted to drink them all if he had to get out the business firm to become them.

He inverse clothes, flipped on the ball game for some background noise, and snagged his laptop. He typed London Gradsky in the search engine. The top result read:

London'south Bridge To Training A Better Horse

Seriously? That was the worst fucking concern slogan he'd ever heard. He clicked on the link.

Hers was a simple website. Contact info via e-mail or phone. Testimonials about her preparation successes. Links to horse brokers and breeders—no surprise Grade A Equus caballus Farms topped the list—but nowhere did London list her lineage. Interesting.

Lastly, he saw a folio with a schedule of summer events.

Sutton scrolled the page. Patently, London put on training clinics on the weekends during the summer at local fairs and rodeos. For fifty bucks, she'd spend 30 minutes assessing the horse and rider before offering training recommendations.

The cynical side of his brain remembered her cutting words to him and weighed in with: What are the odds she recommends herself as the horse trainer who can miraculously set bad habits and riders?

Merely his optimist side crawled out of the nighttime hole it'd been hiding in since the accident and countered with: Her business wouldn't last long if she didn't get results, and the equus caballus preparation world in Colorado would shun her if she was a shyster.

Information technology looked to him like she'd been putting on these summer clinics for at least a couple years. And every fourth dimension slot was booked, as well equally several people on standby for an open appointment. He scrolled down to the current week'southward schedule and his heart skipped a shell.

Score.

She'd exist in Fairfax, Colorado, this weekend. That was merely 30 miles from here. And score again. Her last slot of the day was still open.

With goose egg hesitation, he typed in D.L. A-ride and hoped liked hell she had a sense of humor.

And that she wouldn't hunt after him with a horse whip when she realized who he was.

Chapter Ii

Worst. Morning. Ever.

London Gradsky glared at the busted java maker. She'd spent twenty minutes fiddle-fucking around with the affair to endeavor and get it to work. Giving it up every bit a lost cause, she'd chucked the whole works outside.

No java in her cozy camper meant she had to get to the exhibitors' and contestants' tent to become her morning jolt of caffeine. Since she'd simply planned on quickly ducking in and out, she hadn't combed her hair, washed her face up, brushed her teeth, or changed out of her pajamas.

And motherfucking, son of a bowwow if they weren't at that place, Tweedledee and Tweedletwat. Making cowpie optics at each other while people looked at them with indulgent smiles. She could nigh hear the collective sigh of the women in the tent when Run up gently wiped a smear of powdered sugar off Paige's cheek and then kissed the spot.

Paige giggled and nuzzled him. Her tiara caught on the skirt of his cowboy hat, which sent the newly all-powerful gilded couple's admirers scurrying forward to assistance them out of such a huge pickle.

Of course no one pointed out how stupid it was that Paige actually wore a fucking tiara to breakfast. The man-stealing bitch probably wore information technology to bed. Then London drifted into a fantasy where Paige had donned the tiara when she gave Stitch a blowjob and it cut the hell out of his abdomen.

"Sending middle daggers at her while eye fucking him own't smart, London," her on-the-road partner in crime Melissa "Mel" Lockhart said behind her.

"I'm not eye fucking him, I'm heart fucking him upwardly."

"Doesn't affair, because that'due south not how anyone will see it. Come on, let's become out of here."

London immune herself to be led a

way. As presently equally they were out of screeching range, she exploded. "How in the fuck am I gonna survive this summer, Mel? When every time I plow around I see them sucking each other'due south faces off? What does he see in her?"

Mel didn't reply. She appeared to be hedging, which was not her usual style.

"Only spit it out."

"Fine. That girl is a bonafide beauty queen. Everyone says she'll be the next Miss Rodeo America and people treat him like he'south a prince—the heir apparent to have that All Around title at the CRA Championships in a few years. They are a friction match made in PR heaven. What don't you lot go about that?"

"I don't get how that asswipe could dump me, via text message, after he does 1 fundraiser with her because it'due south true beloved? Bullshit. No one falls in love in a night." London paced along the metal fencing. "I wanna asphyxiate her with her stupid 'Miss Rodeo Colorado' sash and and so tie it effectually his dick until information technology turns blueish and falls off."

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