I clear the fence in one smooth leap, adrenaline still surging through my veins as the crowd erupts. The announcer's voice booms over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, that's Grant Taylor with a score of 92! Our hometown champion does it again!”
I tip my hat to the crowd, flashing the smile that's graced more than a few billboards for my family's ranch. My shoulder protests the motion—sharp, hot—but I grit my teeth and roll it once, swallowing the ache like it’s nothing more than a stubborn fly buzzing around, momentarily forgotten in the rush of victory.
Connor is the first to reach me, slapping me on the back with enough force to make me wince. He’s the second-oldest Taylor boy—the one who decided early on that dirt under the nails and sunburnt skin wasn’t the only way to carry the family name. Ranching? He respects it. Grew up mucking stalls and fixingfences same as the rest of us. But he always had a sharp eye for leverage, for turning grit into gold. While the rest of us were learning how to rope cattle, Connor was figuring out how to rope opportunity. Always dressed one notch above the room, with short, neatly cut brown hair and piercing blue eyes that don’t miss much—except, ironically, when women are trying to flirt with him. Which is often.Veryoften.
Connor runs a string of businesses across Wellington, one of which being a Branding Agency we own together. He’s the kind of man most folks wish they were and never admit it. Loyal. Strategic. Quietly powerful.
Taylor-blooded. But walking a path he carved for himself.
“Thought that last spin had you for sure, brother” he says, grinning.
“Please,” I scoff. “Diablo and I have an understanding.
He tries to kill me, I make him look good trying.”
Ryan approaches next, more reserved than Connor but still sporting a proud smile. “Good ride. Dad's already bragging to everyone within earshot.”
I glance over to where our Dad stands, surrounded by his usual crowd of ranchers and rodeo enthusiasts, gesturing wildly as he recounts the ride as if they hadn't all just witnessed it.
“Bet he is,” I say, laughing.
As we walk toward the gathering area, a group of women approach, all smiles and batted eyelashes. I recognize a few from previous rodeos—rodeo groupies, as Connor calls them.
“Grant, that was amazing!” A blonde whose name I can't remember touches my arm. “Are you coming to the after-party at The Whisky Barrell?”
Before I can answer, another woman—Moira, no Michelle, I think—steps forward. “Or we could have our own private celebration.” She slides a piece of paper into my front pocket, her fingers lingering longer than necessary.
I flash them my practiced smile, the one that doesn't quite reach my eyes but seems to work just fine on most women. “Ladies, I appreciate the offers, but family tradition dictates I celebrate with the Taylors tonight.”
Their disappointed looks are interrupted by my father's booming voice as he approaches.
“Son! There you are!” He throws an arm around my shoulders, making me suppress a grimace as he hits the sore spot. “And I see you've already attracted your fan club.”
The women giggle, clearly charmed by Dad's lack of filter.
“Eric Taylor,” he introduces himself, though everyone in a hundred-mile radius knows exactly who he is. “You know, if my son weren't so damn stubborn about staying single, one of you lovely ladies might have a shot at becoming the next Mrs. Taylor.”
“Dad,” I warn, but he ignores me.
“Though fair warning—Taylor men are like bulls. Hard to ride and even harder to tame.” He winks, and I resist the urge to disappear into the ground.
The women laugh, though Missy looks like she's taking his words as a personal challenge.
“If you'll excuse us, ladies,” I say, steering Dad away. “Duty calls.”
“Was just having a bit of fun,” Dad protests as we walk toward the family.
“You're incorrigible,” I tell him, but there's no heat behind it. That's just Dad—inappropriate humor and all.
“Got you away from them, didn't I?” He grins, and I realize he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Your Mama’s waiting. Says she needs photographic evidence of her son's triumph to show the book club ladies.”
My Mom is waiting with Lily and Christian, her phone at the ready. When she spots us, she waves frantically.
“There's my champion!” She pulls me into a hug that I return one-armed, keeping my right shoulder carefully angled away. “That was incredible, sweetheart!”
