Whatever.”
Ty moved around her to tighten Gizmo’s cinch before he led the stud into the barn alley. “I hate to run, but I have to check in at the warm-up ring.”
“Go. I’ll be in the stands.”
“Taking notes on how it’s done?” he teased, mounting his horse.
“Nope. Watching arena conditions, checking out how worked up the steers get and gauging what the judges seem to be scoring on most heavily.” She tapped her chin and then met his eyes, grinning. “Oh, yeah. And just how hard I have to bother to beat you.”
Ty laughed. “One of the things I admire most about you, Malone, is your warped sense of entitlement.” The minute the words left his mouth, he knew he’d stepped in it. Her face went stony and her spine ramrod straight. He opened his mouth to say something lighthearted, but she cut him off.
“I had no idea you thought so little of my skill, Covington.” She crossed her arms under her chest and took a step away from Gizmo. “Normally I wouldn’t address such nonsense, but this is one thing I’m compelled to settle. You may consider me ‘entitled,’ but I work every bit as hard as you do, if not harder. I put in just as many hours in the saddle, in the barn and on the computer to perfect my breeding program. No one can claim that’s done with any sense of entitlement since I do it all myself. I’ll pit my work ethic against yours any day.”
She spun on her heel and stalked off, weaving through the crowd with a kind of fluid grace no one else had ever mimicked, let alone matched. For such a petite woman, she seemed taller, more sure of herself than ever. That she hadn’t apologized for her legacy but rather had bitch-slapped him with it raised his opinion of her mightily. And that she’d walked away without sparing him a glance? He shouldn’t find it sexy, but he did. Not many women were built of sterner stuff than that.
Ty wheeled Gizmo toward the warm-up ring and urged the horse into a trot. Once again, he called out apologies for his speed, but he was down to the wire.
The ring loomed closer.
One of the registrars moved to shut the gate for the next round of competitors—his round. He had to make it through before that gate closed or he was considered a no-show. That was not happening.
He spurred Gizmo forward. They sprinted for the gate, the horse’s hooves pounding across the packed dirt and into the softer substrate of the ring before the registrar could respond.
“Sorry,” Ty called, waving a hand in acknowledgment to the officials. He trotted over. “I had a small snafu this morning, but I made it.”
“Barely,” one of the men groused.
“He’s here on time, William,” said a woman next to him, eyeing Ty with open interest. “Leave him be. Name?”
“Tyson Covington and Doc Bar’s Dippy Zippy Gizmo.”
She made a note before pulling out Ty’s competitor number. “Need help pinning this to your shirt?”
William snorted and pushed away from the table. “Keep your jeans on, Kathy. I’ll help him.”
She blushed, handing over the number.
Ty dismounted, and the man pinned the competitor’s number across the shoulders of his shirt. “This’ll be your number for every event you compete in. Keep it pinned to your shirt when you’re on your horse for any reason.” He gave Ty a friendly punch to the shoulder and stepped away. “A word of warning, though. You come through that gate at anything other than a slow trot next time, and I’ll see that you’re marked absent on the roster.”
“That’s hardly fair,” Ty said as amiably as possible as he remounted Gizmo.
“I’m not so worried about fair as I am about competitors following the rules. The rules say you’re here before that gate closes.” He held up a hand when Ty started to protest. “Yes, you were here, but only because you ran the last hundred yards. That’s not the spirit of the rule, son.”
“Sir.” Ty tipped his hat and spun Gizmo away, silently fuming at having been called out. What made him the angriest, though, was that the man was right.
He warmed Gizmo up with a small herd of steers. The horse seemed anxious, and Ty worked to first settle Gizmo and then himself. He tried to shake the nagging irritation of having been taken to task twice, first by his friend with benefits and second by a registrar and complete stranger. Neither sat well with him.
The announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker to announce the first competitors. Ty listened to the crowd’s reaction as the first horse and rider hit their marks. The pair left the arena and their score was called shortly thereafter. Not bad, but definitely not strong enough to put the other cowboy on the boards or in the money at the end.
Ty absently listened as the next cowboy put his mount and the selected steers through their paces. He scored far better than the first rider. A contender.
Then it was Ty’s run.
A deep breath, a swift pat to Gizmo’s shoulder, then Ty reined his horse toward the arena entrance.
Showtime.
* * *
KENZIE FOUGHT THE urge to skip Ty’s showing altogether. He’d pissed her off. More than that, he’d hurt her. It wouldn’t have been such a shock if she’d expected it, but she hadn’t. Not from him.
“‘Entitled,’ my ass,” she spat, weaving her way through the crowds that were collectively pushing their way into the bleachers around the arena. She’d never been entitled. In fact, she had never been meant to be the Malone heir, and had no qualms with that particular fact. But the abrupt death of her older brother, Michael, had set her on the undesirable path that forced her to be both daughter and surrogate son to The Malone. Her father. The man who could do no wrong in the Quarter horse community.
Oh, she loved him. Wildly, in fact. He was an amazing father and friend, and most kids never experienced that rare combination. But the reality was that once she’d lost her brother, Kenzie had become the de facto heir to the Malone legacy. It wasn’t something she’d ever wanted, and never, ever at that cost.
It left her trying to fill some big shoes, to live in the darkness of two shadows—Michael’s, the up-and-coming rodeo star who had been the perfect older brother and ideal son, and her dad’s, an infamous horseman who’d always been successful at everything he did. Kenzie wasn’t perfect, and she failed as often as she succeeded. It was obvious to those around her she’d never be as good as they were.
So even insinuating she was either spoiled or entitled was the highest insult anyone could throw her way and was guaranteed a reaction. I’ve earned every step forward I’ve taken. No one has handed me anything.
Okay, yes. There was her trust fund. But no amount of money was worth the price she’d paid. Besides, there was certainly no dollar figure that automatically gave Ty, or anyone, the right to use words that hurt her.
If Michael were here, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have inherited so much money, so no one would dare comment. The crushing sense of obligation to be both perfect daughter and replacement son wouldn’t exist.
Three short beeps sounded. The
