Page 43 of Buckin' Around

Chapter 11

Spencer

Ipull into Brady’s driveway thirty minutes after leaving work. The long drive ends at his small family ranch that makes hay while the sunshine, literally, has gravel popping under the tires.

He’s sitting on the porch swing, duffel at his feet and hat over his face. There’s no cutting and baling in this season, so I can only assume he’s been up with his small stud herd since early this morning.

A good way to earn a living, if you can manage it, but the early starts are not my thing. Six is my early limit. Before Ivy, the only reason I was awake after midnight was to get laid.

I pull up and kill the engine. Brades doesn’t move. He must actually be asleep. Climbing out, I walk over the gravel driveway to the porch, pluck up his bag, and toss it over my shoulder.

“Come on, old man, before your bones set on that seat,” I say.

A low gravelly groan is muffled by the hat as his arm lifts, sliding the hat down his face.

He looks . . . exhausted.

“Long night, hey?” I offer.

He leans forward and hangs the hat between his knees. “You could say that.”

“What, is it calving time or something, bud?”

“Ah—”

His phone buzzes by the seat, the screen lighting up. He grabs for it and clicks the screen off, shoving it in his chest pocket.

I shift on my feet. “Alright, Brades, take it easy. I’m not the phone police. Christ, someone needs some sleep.”

He huffs a cynical laugh. “You oughta talk. How’s your little addition going?”

“Her name is Ivy. And Riley has her sorted.”

“Stacey’s friend from campus?”

Um, okay . . .

“How—”

Brade’s gaze flickers around the porch like he’s hunting for something no one else can see. “I, ah, ran into Stace in town yesterday. She updated me on your tiny situation.” He rises from the seat and shoves his hat on his head. “Dude, how did that happen?”

“Well, when two people love each other, Brades...” It’s all I can do to give him a shit-eating grin to hide the total annihilation I feel every time I think about Ivy. About my future. About the fallout to come when my parents find out.

I cross the driveway and toss his bag into the backseat with my own.

Brady is climbing into the passenger seat as I round the front of the truck and slide into the driver’s seat. I close the door and grip the wheel, staring out the windshield at nothing.

“I don’t know, Brades. I thought I was careful.”

“A broken condom or something, then?”

“Maybe. Or maybe someone fucking lied.”

I fire up the engine. We roll down his drive in silence before I turn onto the highway heading for the next PBR event. This one, our places on teams are riding on every buck out of the chutes.

It’s never been essential that I make a team. I don’t need the money, not like Brades, Jonesey, and even Knox. But something in my gut is warning me to make sure I get on one of those teams. A man needs a backup plan, after all.

The crowd’s noise splits the frigid night air and sends the sound of chaos over the chutes to where we stand. Stretching one foot on the rail, I squat back. My shiny silver chaps with silver tassels sway and brush over the dirt.