Ride Rough: A Roughstock Riders Novel

Chapter 3-1

Chapter Three

The alarm beeping from the corner of the room sounded like an Amber alert. Trace tossed back the covers with a groan. He ached. Everywhere. Every bone, every sinew in his body felt like lead. Every muscle yelled at him in protest as he dropped his feet over the side of the bed and rolled to sit. "Shut up," he snapped at the alarm still blaring its punishing beeps. With a clench of his jaw, he squeezed the muscles in his legs, forcing them to submit to his will, and rose, lurching across the floor to slam his hand against the button and silence the obnoxious noise. Trace exhaled a sigh of relief as silence blessedly stole through the cabin.

What in the hell was he doing? It was only day four. He'd only been working at Resolution Ranch for four days. How in the hell was he going to manage a month? Let alone six? Let alone a year? What god did he need to start praying to, to end the agony ripping through his body? Trace blew out a rough breath and rolled his shoulders. Coffee. Coffee would help. And this morning, by god, he was determined to be ready before Sterling pounded on the door. He swore the foreman was f*****g with him. The first morning, Sterling had banged on the door at five a.m., yanking Trace out of a dream he was fairly certain involved G-strings and tanning oil. Not wanting to come off as a slacker, he'd set his alarm for ten minutes earlier the next morning. Sterling still jarred him out of bed. The same thing happened again the third morning, though Trace had set his alarm even earlier. They were clearly hazing him, but no way would he let them think for one second that he expected deferential treatment. They'd made it clear when he arrived they expected him to pull his weight. So even though his hands were blistered and cramped from the hours of shoveling s**t, holding reins, and handling barbed wire, Trace refused to admit he was in pain.

Trace flexed and turned his hands as the aroma of coffee filled the small kitchen, then rolled his shoulders. It was still dark outside, but this morning when Sterling pounded on the door, Trace would be ready. By the time the coffee had filled the pot, Trace was dressed down to his boots, even though his feet ached as much as the rest of him. At four-thirty on the nose, a sharp rap sounded at the door. With a smile, Trace grabbed a second mug, filled it, and swung open the door with a smile. "Morning, sunshine," he said with a triumphant smirk, holding out the steaming mug.

Sterling, who looked a little bleary-eyed himself, propped a hand on the doorframe and let out a chuckle. "Don't mind if I do." The men sipped in silence before Sterling eyed Trace's hands. "We workin' you too hard?"

"Not at all." Trace shook his head, glancing at the red sores across his palm. "Nothing a few Band-Aids can't fix." They hurt like hell, but they'd turn to callouses once they healed.

"Good, 'cause after we finish chores and checking on the cattle, Travis and I thought we'd take you over to the roughstock riding school."

Trace kept his expression neutral. "Oh?" He'd seen Travis' ten-year-old son practicing on the metal drum suspended between the trees down in a ravine behind the main house. The idea of riding a bull captivated him. He'd performed enough of his own stunts in the movies to develop a taste for adrenaline, and in his mind, guys who rode bulls were up there with the best stuntmen in the business. Proving himself as a bullrider would be the perfect healing ointment for his bruised ego. After all, he was great on a surfboard; why wouldn't he be great on a bull?

Sterling flashed him a knowing grin. "We've seen you watching Travis' son Dax practice. It's time for you to get a little taste of the real thing. But be warned." Sterling handed over his empty mug. "I've seen grown men cry like babies after Colt and Cody are done with them. You think ranching's hard? Try riding a bull."

Trace placed the empty mugs in the sink and grabbed his Stetson. "Sounds like a challenge I can't resist."