Kelli Ireland - Cowboy Strong

Ty wheeled Gizmo toward the warm-up ring and urged the horse into a trot. Once again, he called out apologies for his speed, but he was down to the wire.

The ring loomed closer.

One of the registrars moved to shut the gate for the next round of competitors—his round. He had to make it through before that gate closed or he was considered a no-show. That was not happening.

He spurred Gizmo forward. They sprinted for the gate, the horse’s hooves pounding across the packed dirt and into the softer substrate of the ring before the registrar could respond.

“Sorry,” Ty called, waving a hand in acknowledgment to the officials. He trotted over. “I had a small snafu this morning, but I made it.”

“Barely,” one of the men groused.

“He’s here on time, William,” said a woman next to him, eyeing Ty with open interest. “Leave him be. Name?”

“Tyson Covington and Doc Bar’s Dippy Zippy Gizmo.”

She made a note before pulling out Ty’s competitor number. “Need help pinning this to your shirt?”

William snorted and pushed away from the table. “Keep your jeans on, Kathy. I’ll help him.”

She blushed, handing over the number.

Ty dismounted, and the man pinned the competitor’s number across the shoulders of his shirt. “This’ll be your number for every event you compete in. Keep it pinned to your shirt when you’re on your horse for any reason.” He gave Ty a friendly punch to the shoulder and stepped away. “A word of warning, though. You come through that gate at anything other than a slow trot next time, and I’ll see that you’re marked absent on the roster.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Ty said as amiably as possible as he remounted Gizmo.

“I’m not so worried about fair as I am about competitors following the rules. The rules say you’re here before that gate closes.” He held up a hand when Ty started to protest. “Yes, you were here, but only because you ran the last hundred yards. That’s not the spirit of the rule, son.”

“Sir.” Ty tipped his hat and spun Gizmo away, silently fuming at having been called out. What made him the angriest, though, was that the man was right.

He warmed Gizmo up with a small herd of steers. The horse seemed anxious, and Ty worked to first settle Gizmo and then himself. He tried to shake the nagging irritation of having been taken to task twice, first by his friend with benefits and second by a registrar and complete stranger. Neither sat well with him.

The announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker to announce the first competitors. Ty listened to the crowd’s reaction as the first horse and rider hit their marks. The pair left the arena and their score was called shortly thereafter. Not bad, but definitely not strong enough to put the other cowboy on the boards or in the money at the end.

Ty absently listened as the next cowboy put his mount and the selected steers through their paces. He scored far better than the first rider. A contender.

Then it was Ty’s run.

A deep breath, a swift pat to Gizmo’s shoulder, then Ty reined his horse toward the arena entrance.

Showtime.

* * *

KENZIE FOUGHT THE urge to skip Ty’s showing altogether. He’d pissed her off. More than that, he’d hurt her. It wouldn’t have been such a shock if she’d expected it, but she hadn’t. Not from him.

“‘Entitled,’ my ass,” she spat, weaving her way through the crowds that were collectively pushing their way into the bleachers around the arena. She’d never been entitled. In fact, she had never been meant to be the Malone heir, and had no qualms with that particular fact. But the abrupt death of her older brother, Michael, had set her on the undesirable path that forced her to be both daughter and surrogate son to The Malone. Her father. The man who could do no wrong in the Quarter horse community.

Oh, she loved him. Wildly, in fact. He was an amazing father and friend, and most kids never experienced that rare combination. But the reality was that once she’d lost her brother, Kenzie had become the de facto heir to the Malone legacy. It wasn’t something she’d ever wanted, and never, ever at that cost.

It left her trying to fill some big shoes, to live in the darkness of two shadows—Michael’s, the up-and-coming rodeo star who had been the perfect older brother and ideal son, and her dad’s, an infamous horseman who’d always been successful at everything he did. Kenzie wasn’t perfect, and she failed as often as she succeeded. It was obvious to those around her she’d never be as good as they were.

So even insinuating she was either spoiled or entitled was the highest insult anyone could throw her way and was guaranteed a reaction. I’ve earned every step forward I’ve taken. No one has handed me anything.

Okay, yes. There was her trust fund. But no amount of money was worth the price she’d paid. Besides, there was certainly no dollar figure that automatically gave Ty, or anyone, the right to use words that hurt her.

If Michael were here, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have inherited so much money, so no one would dare comment. The crushing sense of obligation to be both perfect daughter and replacement son wouldn’t exist.

Three short beeps sounded. The competition clock. She slowed. Stopped. The crush of people worked their way around her. The first competitor was in the arena and working his, or her, group of calves. Applause followed the spectators’ collective gasp.

What had happened? Curiosity ate at Kenzie. She moved with purpose toward the arena and then into the stands.

She slipped into the Malone arena-side box, bought with Malone money, respected because of the Malone name. Not hers—not yet—but her father’s. He’d been a national champion in cutting, reining and roping, and his high score still stood. She’d grown up proud of him. Now? She wanted to beat him.

A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips at the same time someone opened the box and walked in, folding down the stadium seat beside her. Years in the man’s presence told her who it was before she even looked into his sun-lined face. “Hey, Dad.”

He slid down in his seat before draping an arm around the back of her seat. “You here to figure out a way to win or for the eye candy?”

“Dad!” The word escaped her on a rush of laughter. “You don’t say things like that to your daughter.”

“Hey,” he exclaimed. “I’m hop. I know what’s what.”

“That would be ‘hip,’ and no, no, you don’t.”

He gently cuffed the back of her head. “Smart-ass.”

He shifted his attention to the ring. “So who’s our biggest competition this year? Still that Covington man from New Mexico? Didn’t they get into some financial trouble, have to set their place up as a dude ranch to salvage it or something?”

Kenzie fought to keep her face straight. It wasn’t that her dad didn’t respect the hard work the Covingtons had put into saving their ranch. What bothered him was that, when he’d heard Gizmo’s owner was in financial straits, Jack Malone had made a fair offer for Gizmo in an effort to help a fellow cowboy out. Even more, though, he’d wanted to get his hands on the stud horse. He hadn’t taken Ty’s rejection well. Of course, Ty hadn’t taken the gesture as it was—at least mostly—intended, either. She’d never talked to either man about it directly, but she’d heard about it from both of them and more than once.

Her father didn’t press for an answer right then, so she settled into her seat, watching the first competitor struggle to keep his calf separated from the herd. Horse and rider were out of sync. It took less time for him to lose the calf than it did for the rest of the herd to scatter. A mild round of clapping ceased when, in a fit of irritation, the rider viciously yanked the horse’s head to the side and spurred him out of the arena.