Grumpy Cowboy (Single Dad Collection)

“Shit.” Chase snorts, spewing some of his beer all over his shirt. “I guess I’ll just have to wait and see you in hell, then. My dad catches wind we’re out here, and all four of us will be in the back of a cop car. And I don’t know about Cutter and Lynn, but I know for a fact you and I aren’t that fond of the law,” he adds as he jumps down off the fence and crushes the mostly empty beer can, tossing it to the side.

“You mean the law isn’t that fond of us,” I correct.

You’d think with the way Chase talks, we’re still wild, twenty-year-old stallions with something to prove, but I’m thirty-six. I’m a responsible, grown-ass adult now, with a daughter to think about when I make decisions, but back when I was younger, I made a lot of questionable choices and partook in a number of dangerous exploits. The sheriff knows my first name intimately, and Chase Walker was right there with me more than a time or two.

Hell, that’s part of the reason why my dad didn’t want me to stay on the rodeo tour. There was always some sort of trouble, and like it or not, I had a real way of finding it.

It’s also part of the reason Joey’s mama Anna and I weren’t meant for the long haul. I grew up; she didn’t. In fact, she’s still following the rodeo circuit just like she was when we first met. Most likely, drinkin’ and partyin’ and knockin’ boots with a new guy every weekend.

And the only feelings I have about that revolve around our daughter and wishing Joey didn’t have to pay the price for her mama’s immaturity.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Chase agrees. “Anytime I see Sheriff Laycliff in the diner, he gives me more than a small amount of stink eye. Pretty sure he’d be happier if the tour ran yearlong and I never came back home.”

I don’t bother mentioning that at thirty-five years old, pretty soon, he’s going to age out of the rodeo lifestyle anyway. Or that he should probably start trying to make a better impression now if he plans on coming back to Hollow Rock full time.

But nights like this aren’t the time for serious talks of that sort. I’ll reserve the call to reality for an occasion with less company and harder liquor.

Nights like these are meant for laughing, cutting up, and shit-talking.

Which I have no problem doing.

“Well, the sheriff isn’t the only one who prefers not to look at your ugly mug.” I smirk. “Frankly, I’m thankful for the low-light conditions tonight.”

“Fuck you, Jameson,” Chase crows, using my last name for added emphasis. Lynn and Cutter snicker from their spots on the top of the fence rail across the paddock. “You’re sure doin’ a lotta shit-talkin’ for a guy who hasn’t gotten on a bronc yet. Cut, Lynn, and I have all been on a couple tonight. What’re you? Scared?”

I roll my eyes at his baiting and take a swig from my can of Coors. “I haven’t been on a bronc because I’m not an idiot. I’ve got responsibilities to go back to, unlike the rest of you. A ranch to run, a daughter to raise, that sort of thing.”

“Hey!” Cutter yells, offended, although I’m sure it’s only on a very shallow, superficial level. There’s still a smile on his face and a beer in his hand, and if he’d really taken issue with what I’d said, he’d have already been off the fence and headed my direction at full speed.

That’s the thing about most of us cowboys—we’re hotheaded.

Crazy. Wild. Hair-trigger type of people. If we weren’t, we probably wouldn’t get on the backs of angry, thousand-pound-plus animals every chance we got.

“Come on,” Lynn taunts. “All I hear every night on the road is the legend of former bronc rider Rhett Jameson. How unbelievably good he is. How natural his fucking seat seems. How I’ll never live up to his record. How the women wet their panties for him every time he stepped into the ring. I mean, I’m finally in the Oh Great One’s presence, and I’m not even gonna get to see you take a ride?” He shakes his head and turns to Cutter. “It all sounds like bullshit to me. I think Chase has been mooning over a figment of his imagination all these years, Cut. What do you think?”

Cutter smirks, his big mouth curling up mischievously. “I think you’re right, Lynn. I don’t see any champions here. Just a big ole pussy and his favorite admirer.”

They both laugh boisterously, and Chase cuts hard eyes in my direction, clearly more affected by their razzing than I am. It makes sense, though. As of tomorrow, after they leave to head to their next stop on the tour, I won’t have to hear any more of it. Chase, on the other hand, will be eating shit until the end of time if I don’t step up to the challenge plate.