Riding the Circuit: Riding Cowboy Flats, #3

By Julia Talbot

Rodeo cowboy Frost Barton spends most of his time on tour, and that's the way he likes it. But when his dad dies suddenly, Frost returns to southern New Mexico to attend the funeral and help his mom decide what to do with their small family ranch. Frost is already considering retiring from bull riding and planting his itchy feet in the ground. Meeting horse trainer Matt Morales just adds another pull in that direction, though Frost still isn't sure he's ready to give up the circuit—even if Matt makes settling down look mighty tempting.

Matt is old enough to know better, but he falls for Frost anyway. They only have so much time to spend together before Frost goes back on tour, but Matt believes they might have something special. He keeps the home fires burning while Frost earns his living, but Matt hopes he can convince Frost to come home—to stay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Turtlehat Creatives
• Release date: Jul 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781942831990

Book preview

1

F ucking rodeo cowboys. I hate those assholes. I don’t care how much goddamned money they make. The old man spat on the ground, then turned a rheumy blue eye on Frost, who hunched his shoulders up around his ears.

He knew old Gus Lucero was talking about him. He was the only one at this funeral who rode the circuit full-time, and he was sure enough the only one who made any frickin’ money in this crowd.

You figure he’ll go again after the funeral? Gus’s companion asked. Junior Carran was a long, tall drink of water who still stood pretty upright for someone who had to be in his eighties.

Yeah. Gus warmed to his subject. He’s rodeo trash. He don’t know no better. It’s an addiction.

He wanted to snap He’s right here, but he didn’t bother. No one was changing Gus at this point in his life, and Frost knew better than to argue with that.

Frost Barton looked at the coffin on the stand next to the fresh grave. His father had been the same way. No telling that old man nothin’. Now no one was telling Frost’s pop anything anymore, and their last words had been angry.

He blinked, blocking out whatever the old men had to say. Nothing they could do could hurt him worse than knowing he would never have the chance to make up with his pop.

The preacher stopped droning on and on, finally inviting them all to come up and pay their final respects. His momma stepped up first, placing a small bottle of tequila on the casket. That made Frost smile because his pop had sure embraced his new native land when him and Momma had moved to New Mexico the year before Frost was born.

He stepped up next because he deserved the honor, even if no one but Momma believed it. Frost carried a tiny chile ristra, because Pop loved his ranchero sauce.

The nieces and nephews came next, all in from San Angelo. Pop’s sister Estelle had come to the funeral at the church but had skipped the graveside to go cook. She wanted to make a sheet cake, she said, and chicken spaghetti. Frost reckoned the locals would be horrified. They wouldn’t get it at all. Maybe she would make chili or King Ranch casserole too.

Maybe Frost would stop at Rudy’s and pick up some brisket. He heard they’d opened one now.

He stepped aside, craving a cigarette, knowing he couldn’t let himself have one. Thirty was old in the bull riding game, and he had a collapsed lung two years ago. Smoking was no longer an option.

Someone stepped up beside him, the smell of Old Spice making him glance up, thinking his pop was back from the dead.

You look like you need a beer, buddy.

The cowboy standing beside him was Tate, who was kinda halfway between him and his pop, age-wise. Maybe forty, he had a towhead and blue eyes and had been around as long as Frost could remember. He had a bitty ranch out in Jackass Flats, where Frost’s family’s place was out in Doña Ana.

I could use one, for sure. You coming to the feed?

I am. I got—well, my friend Dave. Can he come?

Something about Tate’s tone made him raise a brow. It reminded him of when Tucker Jones and Barnaby Rollins said they was just riding partners and good friends, not nothin’ gay.

You got yourself a feller, Tate? He’d been away more than he’d been home, but he thought he remembered his momma saying something about Tate getting a roommate years ago now. How had Frost never met the man?

Yep. Tate’s cheeks went pink, but he grinned. I cain’t believe you’d never met him. We been shacked up since the year you went out on the circuit. You just ain’t been home.

You gonna start on that rodeo trash shit too? He raised his other eyebrow so both was up near his hairline.

Nope. Tate glanced back at Gus and Junior, a scowl crossing his face. Busy old beavers.

Do we have beavers in New Mexico?

Hell if I know.

You two stop jawing loud enough to wake the dead. His momma poked Tate on the arm. Someone take me back to the house. If I have to wait for that limo driver, I’ll be here ’til dawn, and I can’t let Estelle ruin the enchiladas with that damned canned chili.

I can take you, Frost said. He looked back at Tate one last time. I’m counting on that beer and meeting that Dave.

You got it. Tate waved.

He took his momma’s arm and led her off to his pickup, helping her up into the cab since she was wearing slick shoes with heels. They sat there and he turned on the engine, letting the air blow on them. Frost gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles going white.

Momma—

Don’t. She cut him off firmly. Not right now. Whatever it is. I don’t need apologies, and platitudes is just gonna make me hit you.

His shoulders eased right down from around his ears. Yes, ma’am. I was thinking of getting Rudy’s.

You can do that tomorrow. We’ll need it then, after the locusts pick us clean.

Okay. I just don’t want you to have to cook too much.

You sound like your pop. It will keep me busy. I like to feed a working, and you know it.

I do. He sighed. I love you, Momma.

I know, son. She smiled, tired lines springing up around her mouth and eyes. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.

He knew she meant he shouldn’t be wishing he’d made up with his pop, but he couldn’t help it. Hell, he’d sent cash home every time he’d been in the money, but no one seemed to think that was a good thing but him. He finally got the truck in gear, heading back to the house he’d grown up in but had spent little time in the last ten years.

The first two years on the circuit, he’d come home every holiday but Cowboy Christmas, as the Fourth of July was called in his circles. After that he’d made either Thanksgiving or Christmas, and he’d almost wanted to stop doing those just so he wouldn’t have to see his momma cry every time he loaded his go bag and his gear in his truck.

You’re getting too old to ride the circuit, Pop had said last time Frost had been home. You need to come on home. I ain’t getting any younger.

He’d just looked at Pop askance. You’re fifty-seven.

So?