Eight-Second Ride: Willow Bay Stables, #2

By Anne Jolin

Owen Daniels lives his life eight seconds at a time.  The thrill of anticipation that comes with sitting on twelve hundred pounds of untamed power is unparalleled. The adrenaline rush that floods his system when the chute opens is one of life’s most unique and natural highs.

Ride eight seconds bareback on a bucking bronco—that’s his life.

When Owen’s stock horse, Remington’s Lady, is injured midway through the rodeo circuit, he trailers her back home to Willow Bay, Alberta, to remain in the care of the local vet, Ray Brookes.

Months later, with a truck bed full of buckles, Owen comes home to collect his Lady from the man he trusted to help her recover. Only Ray happens to be short for Rayne, and Rayne happens to be a woman.

And this woman wants nothing to do with a cowboy fresh off the circuit. As far as she’s concerned, he can take his buckles, boots, and spurs right back on out of her life.

Will Rayne keep them from holding on to their eight-second ride? Or will love buck out of the chute in time for a perfect score?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Jolin
• Release date: Jul 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519900579

Book preview

Eight-Second Ride

Copyright © 2016 Anne Jolin

Cover Design: Sara Eirew

Cover Photo: Furious Fotog

Cover Model: Justin Keeton

Editors: PREMA Editing

Formatting: Champagne Formats

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Quote

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Playlist

Other Books

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Rein In

Dawson Creek Stampede

Dawson Creek, British Columbia - 2004

THE SOUND OF STOMPING BOOTS ripples through the crowd, and I can hear the rattling roar of steel on steel in the chute. One last ride and he’d be done, for good.

The announcer calls the name I’ve been anticipating, and I can see him, lifting his cowboy hat toward the arena. He waves it into the air, and as he finally returns it to his head, he tips the brim in my direction with a wink.

Women hoot and holler, the steady swoon of hearts ensuing.

He’d done this since the beginning and in step with our tradition, I stand on the seat of the bleachers and blow him a kiss. Catching it with his left hand, he tucks my lips into his back pocket.

I’m an ass kisser, who knew?

The announcer then calls the name of the bronc he drew, Hell’s Gate, and the beat of my heart accelerates. It was the worst horse he could have pulled, but we all knew it wouldn’t stop him from riding. It gave him a better chance at a high score; even I knew that.

Steel smashed together as twelve hundred pounds of raw power is caged into the bucking chute.

The heel of his boot swings over the height of the pipe enclosure, followed by his lean yet wickedly tight body.

He was born for this. Always had been, always would be.

Settling onto the black horse’s back, he adjusts the protective vest over his chest. His right hand slides under the leather and rawhide rigging, adjusting his grip within the handle until the leather of his glove is firmly secured. The heel of his boot drove down as he raised his right arm above his head.

The roar of the crowd settled into an adoring hush in anticipation.

Waiting.

His taunt body grew still.

I stopped breathing.

He jerked his chin down, and the gate to the chute swung open, crashing into the wall of the ring.

Hell’s Gate erupted like the demon within.

One second.

The horse was indeed spectacular, bucking erratically and spectacularly. My cowboy leaned back and spurred with each jump in rhythm.

Two seconds.

I stood back up on my seat, as the audience grew enthralled in the performance, barely hearing their shouting over the sound of my heart.

Three seconds.

I looked at the clock again.

Four seconds.

Halfway there, baby.

Hell’s Gate jerked abruptly. My cowboy’s head flew forward, and the crowd gasped as his face connected with the powerful neck of the wild horse.

His cowboy hat fell to the floor of the dirt ring.

Five seconds.

My hands flew to cover my mouth as he lifted his head, blood spilling from his nose as the gelding settled into a spin.

Six seconds.

He was too disoriented and his body thrashed in unison with the horse.

Seven seconds.

I jumped from my chair and ran down the stairs of the bleachers, my eyes never leaving his loose body as it began to slide.

Eight seconds.

The crowd roared and the buzzer sounded.

Something was wrong. He wasn’t jumping from the horse.

I searched his frame as my muscles burned.

His hand was still caught in the rigging, but his body was going down.

My screams tore through the arena as his weight threw Hell’s Gate off balance and they both went down.

Twelve hundred pounds on him and he wasn’t fighting.

Hitting the railing of the ring, I began to climb when I felt arms around my middle pulling me back.

Hell’s Gate spooked and tried to get up, but he was injured.

The medics were being rushed into the ring as rodeo personnel approached the terrified horse.

Screams in the arena were drowning out mine as my nerves gave way to sobs.

Hell’s Gate moved again, this time coming free.

A man lunged for him, and he bucked, his hoof hitting my cowboy in the back of the head.

Tears streamed down my face as the arms around me grew weaker.

Medics began to work on him, and the ambulance on standby drove into the ring.

Hell’s Gate let out a sound that was crippling as he fell to the ground, his injuries severe.

Climbing into the ring, I collapsed on my knees in the dirt just feet away from the still body of my cowboy.

My fingers curled around the brim of his hat, and I pulled it to my chest.

Please, God, I prayed into the chaos. Don’t take him from me.

He stayed on for eight seconds, but he stayed gone long after that.

Willow Bay, Alberta – September 2014, Present Day

HOME.

I’d heard men across the country say that word like it didn’t mean nothin’ to ‘em. Sure as shit did to me. There wasn’t nowhere else I’d rather hang my hat than this flat prairie land.

Least that’s what I’d been thinkin’ as the headlights of my pickup shined on the sign hangin’ above the gate on this long, familiar gravel driveway.

Willow Bay Stables.

Readin’ those three words won’t ever get old.

Jumpin’ down from the truck, I unhinged the lock and pushed the gate open just wide enough to fit the truck and trailer through. Like a well-oiled machine, and like a man that had been doin’ this for the better part of his life, it only took me a minute or two to pull through and lock up behind me.

It was dark, which meant considerin’ it was the tail end of summer, it was also late in the evenin’ and quite possibly borderin’ on night. The days were long ‘round here come the summertime, but that didn’t save me from bein’ late as all hell for dinner. Took me longer than expected to clear the fires up north of the Province in Fort McMurray. Entire highways gridlocked in traffic. Been one of the saddest things to ever happen in this country. People losin’ and leavin’ their homes with nothin’ but the gas in their tanks and the arms of their families ‘round them for comfort.

Passin’ through the large clearing of trees and off to the right, I saw the lights of the main house come into view, and hell if comin’ home wasn’t the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.

And I’m a man who’s seen a lot of pretty things, if you know what I mean.

The house wasn’t nothin’ fancy, but it wasn’t small either. The rancher took up nearly the entire crest of the rolling hill it sat on and a porch I helped build, when I was just shy of ten, wrapped around the entire thing. Though it was dark, I could have drawn every edge of the stone rock face and logs that built the home I grew up in.

Momma had wanted it to match the stables, and Dad had done it just to make her smile, right down to the forest green tin roof. The one that even in the moonlight, you couldn’t help but love.

Some of my favourite memories of her lived in this place. Though, seemed like a lifetime since she passed.

The girls stepped out of the screen door and onto the porch as the truck rolled in to park. They were always waitin’ on me. Didn’t matter that I was the oldest. I loved my baby sisters more than any buckle I’d ever won.

Much as I looked like Dad, they looked like her, our momma. The three of ‘em all had white-blonde hair and blue eyes, heartbreakers every time.

My boots barely hit the ground when Aurora’s body throttled into mine, nearly knockin’ the ten-gallon hat right off my head.

You’re home! she hollered in my ear as her arms wrapped around my neck.

I lifted her up into the air with a squeeze. Sure am, Sis.

Did you bring them? The excitement radiated off her in waves as she pulled back to look at me expectantly.

Jerking my chin to the backseat, I winked. Always do.

Over her shoulder, I saw London’s pregnant frame waddling down the steps to the front yard. Her husband, Branson, tried to help, but she swatted him away. I’m pregnant, not an invalid, Tucker, she growled. In the short time they’d been together, he’d become accustomed to her attitude. Dad hadn’t raised no wallflower daughters.

Aurora disengaged herself from me to rummage for the rhubarb I brought her, and for London to take her place.

Hey, Bridge.

Her body, more petite than that of our younger sister’s, even nearly seven months pregnant, was enveloped in my large frame.

I’m about as wide as one, she whined into my flannel shirt.

I’d been callin’ her Bridge since we were kids. Crazy girl was always fallin’ off horses. Thought she could ride anything back then, so I’d taunt her, London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down… Just stuck, I guess.

Chuckling, I put a hand on her belly. I was gonna say wide as the barn, but a bridge works too.

London burst into tears.

Lord love a duck, London. I was only teasin’. I squeezed her shoulders.

Branson appeared behind her, and I transferred London into his arms. Don’t take it personally. She does this a lot lately. He stifled a smirk.

London sniffled and smacked him in the chest.

Where’s the old man? I asked, finally kickin’ the truck door closed behind me.

He’s on the phone. Somethin’ about the hay for winter. Aurora’s voice sounded from the back of my truck where she appeared with the rhubarb she begged me to bring home.

That girl was in love with everything that was bakin’.

Just as if his ears were burnin’, Dad stepped out onto the porch.

Sorry, son. He shook his head, comin’ toward me. Been busier than a cat burying shit on a tin roof around here.

Chuckling, I hugged the man who raised me.

Larry Daniels was the salt of the earth. The man loved his kids, did right by those who needed it and missed the love of his life with all that he was.

At thirty-one, I’d grown into a spittin’ image of our dad. Only difference in our looks were the tattoos I’d gone and got over the years.

Well, come on then. No use loitering around out here and heatin’ the whole town. He turned and climbed back up the porch steps.

London bumped me with her shoulder as we followed. We missed you.

Missed you too, Bridge.

It was amazin’ how long you could be gone from a place and yet it never stopped feelin’ like you belonged there. Something about this house was like that.

We all moved into the open kitchen and dining area, in a way that was habit. The girls bustled around our dad as the three of them pulled food from nearly everywhere in sight—the fridge, the microwave, and the oven.

The table was set, but my fingers wandered to the cake that was cooling on the counter. Wasn’t a secret to anyone that I had a sweet tooth, and in more ways than one.

You touch that cake before dinner, and I’ll kick your ass into next week, Aurora snarled, pulling it across the counter toward her.

Raisin’ my hands in surrender, I backed up to the kitchen table. Easy, killer.

She placed a glass lid around the frosted cake and shook her head at me.

Banter was a practiced pastime growin’ up, and it