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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Katie Golding

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Craig White

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my father,

  who always said I could be anything and never added “except that.”

  I may be your princess, but you’ll always be my hero.

  Chapter 1

  Billy King—Present Day

  Turns out the world’s a lot bigger than Memphis.

  “Billy! Billy King!” My name is like cracks of thunder on the Spanish wind, and as I cruise past the press corps, I can’t quite feel the relief yet that this is it. It’s over. Flashes from the cameras are too busy sparkling through my helmet’s face shield, shining off my motorcycle and nearly blinding me, there are so many of them. Valencia is already a massive festival, since it’s the last race of the Moto Grand Prix circuit. But in all my years racing, I’ve never seen the press and the fans this excited before.

  I pull off victory lane and stop in the designated winner’s spot, already decorated with royal blue Yaalon Moto everything. The fans are barely held back by the chest-high gate rocking under their hands and their repeated chants of my name. “Billy! Billy King!”

  “All right, y’all, just wait your turn,” I call out to the crowd. My laugh rings with the pure, sweet adrenaline pumping thick through my veins, a testament to battling twenty guys on the racetrack for who’d come out on top. And then beating them all, one by one.

  Life doesn’t get much sweeter than this. Especially since tomorrow, I can finally go home.

  Back to Memphis: the ranch and my saddle, my horse, and my ropes.

  Home to Taryn: her whiskey hair and sapphire eyes.

  I pull off my helmet, and after a quick wave to the fans, I start to find my breath again. I don’t get to keep it long.

  My manager’s unmistakable twang cuts cleanly through the roar of the press corps. “I knew you could make it back, Billy!”

  Frank yanks me off my bike and into a suffocating hug, slapping my back so hard I actually feel it through the armadillo spine of my leathers. At least he doesn’t notice my wince from the pain in an ankle that’s supposed to be long healed by now.

  Telling him I’m hurt will only risk my future even more after what I did. Not that anyone seems to care about the reason why I did it.

  Frank’s too excited to pay attention to my stumble, setting my sponsor-coated Stetson on top of my head, then gripping my shoulders. “Not just first place, Billy! First in the world. Didn’t I always say about putting bull riders—”

  “Did Taryn call? She see it?” I wave toward the press and the fans again, beaming next to my blue motorcycle. They don’t need to know there’s sweat pooling in my leathers, and my feet desperately miss the buttery soles of my Ariat boots.

  Mostly, though, I just miss her.

  Frank clears his throat as I tip my cowboy hat toward the cameras, making sure they capture the names of all the people I’m paid to promote. “She hasn’t called yet,” he mumbles.

  My pulse starts racing for a whole bunch of reasons I still can’t make myself face, and I turn away from the Moto Grand Prix fans, praying no one caught the look I just felt flash across my face. My only hope is to keep clinging to Plan A: act like it didn’t happen, and maybe it didn’t.

  “But she will,” Frank adds in a rush. “You know Taryn. She’s probably just—”

  “Busy.” I shift my helmet to my other hand, wiping sweat off my face. “Busy being mad at me.”

  Suppose she’s right. I never was nothing special.

  “Horseshit,” Frank says. “That woman loves you. And need I remind you, you just won first place at Valencia, Billy. Twenty-five points, and that makes you a damned MotoPro Grand Prix World Champion. Now be happy, would ya? ’Cause you’re starting to piss me off.” He gives me a half grin and takes my helmet from me, slinging an arm around my shoulders. It does nothing to comfort the guilt swirling in my stomach. “Come on, cowboy. You about ready to show ’em what a champion looks like?” He nods toward the wall of reporters waiting to ask me the same questions they always ask.

  “How did it feel to win today?”

  “Were you riding for anyone special back home?”

  “Is it hard being an American in a European sport?”

  I clear my throat and tip up my hat so their lights won’t cast shadows down my too-long nose. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

  Frank claps my back and heads off to organize the interview lineup, and I glance toward the press spot for third place, my twenty-five-year-old little brother already hamming it up for the cameras, probably giving sound clips about his smell-proof underwear again.

  Frank is right. No matter what’s been happening at home, I won here, and I should be celebrating. My knee surgery from two years ago has finally stopped causing me problems, and I’ve worked my ass off to get back to the top of the leaderboard. And like my father always says: I should try to be more like Mason.

  He never lets love get in the way, and he’s as good on a bike as he is at riding bulls. Everyone says so. It’s probably why he’s allowed to keep his hands in both cookie jars, and mine have been firmly tied.

  No more wondering if that bull’s gonna spin or blow when that gate opens. No more wondering if eight seconds are gonna be my last. Now, it’s two red lights keeping me caged and my wrist on the throttle setting me free
.

  Mason finishes his interview, immediately turning to sign a lady’s chest with a marker as red as her cheeks. Until someone walking by bumps his shoulder hard enough that he stumbles, nearly knocking her over.

  “Hey!” Protective instincts blaze through me, and I’m three steps closer than I was a moment ago, my outstretched hand already steadying Mason by the shoulder. My eyes home in on the back of Santos Saucedo from Hotaru Racing, strutting away with a chuckle.

  Mason looks at me, and neither of us has to glance at the surrounding press to know they saw that shit go down. And I’m not about to let our family name get tarnished.

  “What was that, friend?” I call out to Santos, cupping my ear. “We didn’t catch whatcha said.”

  Santos turns and rattles off something in Spanish that makes the press collectively gasp. The nerve of that guy.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, man,” I drawl, acting all guilty. Mason crosses his arms. He’s three inches and a good fifteen pounds littler than me but with twice the ego and ten times the temper. “We don’t speak fifth place.” I flash a grin that is sure to ramp Santos’s annoyance through the damn stratosphere, but he can kiss my ass. Nobody messes with my brother but me.

  A thick hand settles heavy on my far shoulder. “Thanks, y’all,” Frank says behind us toward the press, “but we gotta get Billy and Mason upstairs to get their medals. The Kings’ll have more time to answer questions later, I promise.”

  I salute a scowling Santos, letting our manager sweep us out of the parc fermé and toward the stairs to the podium. The last thing I need is for Mason to back me into another damn corner. Thanks to him, racing’s about all I have left.

  A familiar throb that has nothing to do with leaning my bike through pin-tight turns twists through my insides, my ankle hurting more with every step as I climb the last of the stairs. And three feet from the door that gives me back to the crowd I’ve spent years trying to convince to love me, I find myself desperately wishing they’d just mail me the medal they want to hang around my neck.

  “Showtime, boys.” Frank opens the door to a blast of sound that’s my name on repeat, and since I don’t get a choice, I’m first outside onto the podium.

  The sun is in the wrong spot and the wind doesn’t smell right, but I wave and smile a little harder at the cameras taking my picture. Even though the one person who matters probably won’t ever see them.

  She still isn’t answering my calls.

  No matter what I do, she hasn’t forgiven me, and it’s why I need to get my sorry ass back to Memphis. Running home’s the only way I’m ever gonna get her back.

  * * *

  I’m already sweating in my best pearl-snap shirt despite the cool November air, hinting at the icy December we’re gonna have. I pluck once more at my starched collar, pointing my battered old boots toward the barn, trying to gain some kind of confidence from being in Memphis, even if my body still thinks I’m in Spain.

  My ears haven’t stopped ringing from the end-of-season awards ceremony, my tux a wrinkled mess since I went straight from the televised stage to the Valencia airport. But I’m back under the same Osage orange trees I grew up climbing while my horse munched on the bumpy hedge apples. And when I head inside, the chatter from farmhands is gonna be in English and not the liquid Italian of my pit crew.

  None of it’s making me feel better when I’m about to see her, and I know damn well all she’s gonna do is yell at me, and all I want to do is kiss her and get back to how we used to be. I’ve only been gone a week this last time. But it was a week too long after the way she sent me off.

  I touch my hat in Hargrove tradition as I cross under the homemade “Bless Your Boots” sign hanging above the barn entrance, instantly welcomed by a chorus of sniffs and snorts from the horse stalls I pass. It eases something in my chest that’s been wrong since I last left home for the circuit.

  Since I could kind of use it, I go ahead and stop by Gidget’s stall, hooking my arms over the latched gate. “Hey, buddy.” He stops fluffing his bed of straw, his ears already turned my direction before he lifts his head and stares me dead in the eye. A broad grin stretches across my face when he huffs and starts walking over, his pace extra slow and stompy, clearly irritated with how long I’ve been gone. At least he’s willing to forgive me for it. “I know, bud. I missed you, too.”

  I reach out and stroke the side of his neck, wishing everything was as simple as blazing-fast blue motorcycles and golden horses who only ask that you bring treats before you ride. But like everything else I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with, Gidget isn’t really mine. He’s Lorelai Hargrove’s, the future heiress to the Hargrove Horse Ranch.

  No one except a rancher’s daughter could afford an Akhal-Teke of their own. But no one really cares that I ride Gidget all the time, either. Lorelai is usually too busy training for our next race. She’s Frank’s original rodeo-racing experiment, and she’s fast, feisty, and stubborn. Once the sponsors let her move up from MotoA and into MotoPro with me and Mason, we’re all gonna be screwed.

  “No, I didn’t bring any apples,” I tell Gidget when he starts nipping at my shirt and sniffing toward my jeans. “I’ll bring you some later, though. Promise.”

  “Hey, Gidget. I didn’t know your cowboy was back.” James smiles on his way behind me, leading a silky chestnut mare out the other entrance to the barn. “Glad to have you home, Billy.”

  I return his smile on instinct, tipping my hat in the direction of his silver mustache. “Thank you, sir. Good to be back.”

  “Girls are working Bopper, if you’re wondering. Though you might wanna take a bodyguard with you,” he adds with a rumbly chuckle. “They’re out for blood, those two.”

  I chew on my tongue, knowing better than to bite the hand that feeds my horse. James is married to Lynn, who owns Hargrove Ranch. And I’ve spent the last year very unsuccessfully trying to convince Lynn to sell me Gidget. She won’t budge, though. Because I don’t have the land to keep him on. “Yes, sir.”

  James is still happily making his way out of the barn and looking like he’s whispering to the mare about me. I doubt it has anything to do with my record-breaking win, because whatever it is he says to the horse, he cracks himself up.

  I make a face at Gidget, who’s still sniffing for food in my shirt pocket before I press a kiss to his nose. “Well, buddy, wish me luck.”

  Gidget snorts because we both know I’m fresh out of it. Any last bit of luck I had, I just used up in Valencia salvaging my career. But taking a risk has never stopped me before. Hell, the first time I rode a bull, I was convinced I was gonna die.

  One second was all I got. It was enough, though. I woke up on a stretcher begging my father to let me have another go despite my mama’s tears still running down her cheeks. That next time, I lasted for three seconds before Nova Bomb spun and sent me flying, cracking two ribs and fracturing my collarbone.

  I’m always better on my second attempt—always. Still, Taryn says that’s the worst thing about bull riders: we don’t expect to stay on. It’s just a game of how long we can last until the bull beats us, and it always beats us. But no bull bucking me ever hurt as much as when Taryn did it.

  It’s a long walk toward the training pen, set far enough in the pasture that the colts don’t get distracted by the noise of the barn and the commands of the trainers. But with the wide-open sky and no trees between us, Taryn sees me coming every step of the way.

  I know it, though she pretends she doesn’t—she refuses to look my direction. But she’s sitting a little stiffer in the saddle, the clenched muscles in her long legs stretching her jeans, and accusing me of the crimes she screamed at me from across her kitchen table.

  I cast them out of my mind. I don’t want to be mad, and seeing her sit a horse like that has always sent a freight train barreling straight into my chest. It’s almost as good as when she wakes up slowly nex
t to me, her silky spine long and bare as she reaches for the coffee I’ve already made and set on her nightstand. When I’m lucky enough to be home.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” I drawl to Taryn and Lorelai, taking the last few feet up to the fence of the training pen. My heart’s beating straight out of my chest, a fresh brew of sweat tickling my hairline, and I can’t stop thinking I should’ve shaved. But I couldn’t get my truck here fast enough.

  Lorelai tosses her wildly curly brown hair. “Taryn, I’m heading to the house. Call me later.” She throws me a murderous look before leaving the way I came.

  Taryn still hasn’t said anything, except small corrections to the colt she’s working. Round and round she goes, her hands light on the reins and the sun on her hat but not on her face. Pride laps at my heart from the dirt smeared on her shirt and mud caked up her jeans, everything about her more beautiful than I remember, and so damn hard. A woman who works, every day of her life. A woman who rides.

  I can’t keep the adoration out of my voice. “Hi, honey.”

  She gives two clicks to her colt and turns him the other way, bumping his trot to a canter and testing his different gears. It prods my smile even more, because she knows them all—on a horse, on a motorcycle. She’s even taught me a few tricks that have helped me keep an edge on the racetrack, because she doesn’t only train colts. She also races Superbike eight months a year, and then she comes home to Memphis and barrel races in rodeos.

  I never stood a chance over whether I was gonna fall in love with her. It was always just a matter of how long she was gonna let me hang around.

  “I brought you something.” I pull my medal out of my back pocket and hang it on the fence post. If anyone knows what it takes to earn this, it’s Taryn. And she should have this, more than me. “Hope you like it.”

  On her next pass, she reaches out and knocks my medal off the post, letting it fall in the dirt. “Fuck off, Billy.”

  Frustration simmers in my chest, and I keep watching her, remembering how sweet she was before I ruined it. When once upon a time, she loved me back.