Page 1 of Hard To Fall
CHAPTER 1
COLT
This bull is morethan mean.
I know it the second my hand settles into the rope. And he’s not just mean—he’s pissed. There’s a difference. I’m mean, but mean helps me win; it keeps me focused. This guy is pissed and wants to hurt me for even attempting to ride with him.
The chute rattles beneath us, metal vibrating all around. The bull shifts his weight low and tight, muscles coiling under me like he’s waiting for permission to ruin my day. I tip my Stetson forward and block out the noise, the crowd, and more importantly, the ache already screaming in my knee.
Eight seconds. That’s all I’ve got.
That's all I need.
I lean down and mutter, “Don’t make me regret this.”
The gate snaps open, and all hell breaks loose.
The bull explodes out of the chute, his power slamming up through my spine. He twists hard, bucks higher than he needs to, head snapping like he’s trying to tear me loose by force of will alone. My free arm slices through the air. My thighs lock, and I ride him the way I’ve always ridden—angry, focused, and stubborn as sin.
But the pain hits early. My knee lights up like it’s reminding me I’m twenty-nine and not nineteen anymore, but I just ignore it. There’s no time for this injury anymore. I’ve got to keep this rodeo on the map, and if I’m the only one to do it, my knee can’t quit on me now.
The world narrows to seconds.
One…three...five…
The bull spins left, suddenly and viciously. I shift with him, and the crowd roars, the sound crashing over me like a wave.
Seven…
The buzzer screams.
I let go and hit the dirt hard, shoulder first, then hip. White-hot pain tears up my leg, and I taste blood, but I roll like muscle memory demands and come up on one knee, hat still low on my head, blocking out any potential pictures fans might take that would show I’m hurting.
The bull charges past, pissed that he didn’t win.
I straighten slowly, forcing my knee to behave, jaw set tight. I tip my hat to the stands because fans want a show, and I don’t give them anything less, even when my leg feels like it’s about to fold.
I scan the crowd out of habit, and that’s when I see her. She’s gorgeous, honestly, but that’s not what catches my eye first. While everyone else is on their feet clapping with beer sloshing everywhere, this woman doesn’t cheer. No, she stands still near the rail, sunglasses shoved up into blonde hair that’s coming loose from her ponytail. Her expression isn’t thrilled, and it isn’t scared.
It’s focused.
Like she’s evaluating that bull, or worse, her future problem.
Me.
Her eyes are on me, and I frown, quickly running through the women I’ve met on the road over the years.
Did I screw this one over? Did I not call? Give the wrong phone number?
I shake my head. There’s no time to wonder what her issue is with me today.
I make my way through the gate, throw my gloves on the table, and grab the Gatorade that’s waiting for me. I wait for my score, toss the cup in the pail, and make it three steps before a shadow drops in front of me.
“Hold still.”
The voice is calm and warm, feminine. I stop and slowly look down.
She’s crouched in front of me already snapping on rubber gloves, a small first aid kit next to her. She smells faintly like citrus and sweat, not perfume. No, there’s nothing fake about her. She’s one hundred percent real. And she's kneeling in front of me, causing me to hallucinate.
