1001 Dark Nights (2 page)

“Should we be on suicide watch?” Wyn said hesitantly.

Sutton had a mental break the last time he’d been injured, so his family kept an eye on him, and he knew how lucky he was to have that support. “Nah. It’s just this sitting around, healing up stuff is driving me bugshit crazy.”

“The way to deal with your boredom ain’t to get in the cage with your demon and go another round.”

Sutton squinted at Cres. “You callin’ my horse a demon?”

Cres rolled his eyes. “No, dipshit. Your demon is the need to prove yourself. Regardless of the cost.”

His gaze met his youngest brother’s. Growing up, Wyn and Cres joked about Sutton being the mailman’s kid because he was the only one of the three boys with blue-green eyes. Both his brothers and his parents had brown eyes. Sometimes he wondered if that outsider status is what lured him into the world of professional rodeo and away from working on the family ranch.

He sighed. “I appreciate your concern, I really do. I’m just frustrated. Makes it worse when I hafta deal with Dial. He’s a temperamental motherfucker on his best days. I don’t trust anyone to work with him after that last go around with the so-called ‘expert,’ which means he ain’t getting the proper workout for a horse of his caliber.”

“A few months cooling his hooves shouldn’t have changed his previous training that much. Breeders take mares out of bucking contention, as well as barrel racing, when they’re bred. Sometimes that’d be up to two years.”

“I know that. But Dial? He ain’t like other horses. Gelding him didn’t dampen that fire; if anything, it increased his orneriness.”

“I’d be ornery too if some dude sliced off my balls,” Wyn said with a shudder. Then he looked at Sutton. “So that other bulldogger, the guy with the weird name...what happened the weekend he borrowed him?”

“Weird name.” Sutton snorted. “That’s rich coming from a guy named
Wynton
.”

“Fuck off,
Sutton
,” he shot back. “I think Mom was high on child birthin’ painkillers when she picked our names.”

“Probably. You talkin’ about Breck Christianson? He tried to help me out during the Western Livestock Show in January while I was still laid up.”

“Yeah. Him.” Wyn looked at Cres. “Don’t know if I ever heard you talk about what went down that week you were there with him and Dial.”

Cres rested his forearms on the top of the fence and his hat shadowed his face. “It was a damn disaster in the arena. Dial wouldn’t do nothin’. Seriously. That high-strung bastard stayed in the damn chute. The one time he left the chute, he charged the hazer’s horse. Breck traveled to Denver specifically to get a feel for Dial before the competition, but he ended up sticking with his own mount.”

“Huh. Surprised you stayed in Denver for the whole stock show since it meant you had to take care of demon horse while you were there.”

Cres shrugged. “I never get to see the behind the chutes action for a week-long event. It was interesting and everyone was friendly.”

“So Breck took good care of you?” Sutton asked.

Cres choked on his beer.

Wyn patted him on the back. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”
Cough cough.
“A bug flew in my mouth.” Another cough. “Breck introduced me around.”

Sutton nudged his shoulder. “Breck introduce you to his buckle bunny pussy posse?”

Before Cres responded, Wyn interrupted. “Cres wouldn’t know what to do with the ladies. The kid is all work and no play. He probably spent all his time hidin’ in the horse trailer.”

“I ain’t a kid,” Cress said tightly. “And don’t assume you know what I got up to because you don’t. Anyway, Breck knows everyone.” He looked at Sutton. “He introduced me to Saxton Green, that other bulldogger you get mistaken for all the time. He’s built like you, even looks like you, but he sure don’t act like you. That man is fuckin’ wild.”

Sutton groaned. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to defend myself against something Saxton did? It sucks. That’s about the only time I don’t mind that the other competitors call me ‘The Saint.’”

“Other competitors, and everyone else involved with the rodeo circuit, including the women, call you ‘The Saint’ because you’re the one who acts like a freakin’ monk,” Wyn pointed out helpfully. “Damn man. How do you turn down all that free pussy?”

“It ain’t free, trust me,” Sutton retorted.

“Wyn, leave him alone,” Cres said. “Stop acting like you’ve got it rough and ain’t getting your fair share of tail. Women are lined up in your driveway to get a piece of you.”

Wyn smirked and raised his beer. “It’s good to be me.”

Cres rolled his eyes. “Oh, and I also met the couple who raised and trained Dial before you bought him.”

That piqued Sutton’s interest. “Chuck and Berlin Gradsky? Really?”

“They were in the arena when Breck was having a hard time with Dial. Neither of them even tried to step in. They said the only people who had any effect on him was you and their daughter who’d trained him.”

London Gradsky. He hadn’t thought of her in a couple of years. The surly brunette who’d thrown a shit fit when her parents had sold Dial to him rather than just continuing to let him compete on the horse. She’d accused him of taking advantage of her parents, caring about his career above the welfare of the animal. Then she’d launched into a diatribe about how self-absorbed he was for pushing to have the stallion castrated without considering the long-term gains for breeding. After calling him a dickhead whose belt buckle was bigger than his brain, she’d stormed off.

Chuck and Berlin explained away her behavior, fondly referring to her as their headstrong filly. They were proud that she’d struck out on her own as a horse trainer rather than just expecting to get a primo position at Grade A Horse Farms because her parents owned the business. But still, London’s accusations had stung. What he wouldn’t give for her expertise now. Although it’d been three years since their altercation, he doubted the feisty firecracker would let bygones be bygones. “Well, it’s obvious I need help.”

“What about that Eli guy?” Wyn said. “Didn’t you say he’s some kind of Native American horse whisperer?”

“Eli is top notch. But Dial’s temperament is particularly bad around other horses. He took a chunk outta the alpha horse the one time I left him there—this was after Eli put him in a pasture by himself and he jumped the fence. So Dial is no longer welcome.”

“I have faith you’ll figure something out that doesn’t entail you bein’ on the dirt with him.”

Cres straightened up and moved to toss his bottle into the shooting barrel. “To be blunt, as much as we care for our animals, bro, they are tools. Tools are replaceable. You are not. This last time you nearly went into kidney failure, liver failure, and they talked of removing your spleen. Both me’n Wyn would’ve offered up a kidney or even a damn lung for you. You know that. We’d rather not have to face that choice again.”

“We’re askin’ you not to do something that’ll put you back in the hospital for another six weeks followed by months of recovery.” Wyn gestured to the ranch house and the area around them. “You’ve got a nice place to hang your hat, money in the bank, the kinda looks that get any woman you want into your bed, and family nearby. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that life.”

Sutton watched his brothers drive off. He put the three bottles left from the six-pack into the fridge in the garage, knowing he’d be less tempted to drink them all if he had to leave the house to get them.

He changed clothes, flipped on the ball game for some background noise, and snagged his laptop. He typed London Gradsky in the search engine. The top result read:

London’s Bridge To Training A Better Horse

Seriously? That was the worst fucking business slogan he’d ever heard. He clicked on the link.

Hers was a simple website. Contact info via e-mail or phone. Testimonials about her training successes. Links to horse brokers and breeders—no surprise Grade A Horse Farms topped the list—but nowhere did London list her lineage. Interesting.

Lastly, he saw a page with a schedule of summer events.

Sutton scrolled the page. Evidently, London put on training clinics on the weekends during the summer at local fairs and rodeos. For fifty bucks, she’d spend thirty minutes assessing the horse and rider before offering training recommendations.

The cynical side of his brain remembered her cutting words to him and weighed in with:
What are the odds she recommends herself as the horse trainer who can miraculously fix bad habits and riders?

But his optimist side crawled out of the dark hole it’d been hiding in since the accident and countered with:
Her business wouldn’t last long if she didn’t get results, and the horse training world in Colorado would shun her if she was a shyster.

It looked to him like she’d been putting on these summer clinics for at least a couple years. And every time slot was booked, as well as several people on standby for an open appointment. He scrolled down to the current week’s schedule and his heart skipped a beat.

Score.

She’d be in Fairfax, Colorado, this weekend. That was only thirty miles from here. And score again. Her last slot of the day was still open.

With zero hesitation, he typed in D.L. A-ride and hoped liked hell she had a sense of humor.

And that she wouldn’t chase after him with a horse whip when she realized who he was.

Chapter Two

Worst. Morning. Ever.

London Gradsky glared at the busted coffee maker. She’d spent twenty minutes fiddle-fucking around with the thing to try and get it to work. Giving it up as a lost cause, she’d chucked the whole works outside.

No coffee in her cozy camper meant she had to go to the exhibitors’ and contestants’ tent to get her morning jolt of caffeine. Since she’d just planned on quickly ducking in and out, she hadn’t combed her hair, washed her face, brushed her teeth, or changed out of her pajamas.

And motherfucking, son of a bitch if
they
weren’t there, Tweedledee and Tweedletwat. Making cowpie eyes at each other while people looked at them with indulgent smiles. She could almost hear the collective sigh of the women in the tent when Stitch gently wiped a smear of powdered sugar off Paige’s cheek then kissed the spot.

Paige giggled and nuzzled him. Her tiara caught on the brim of his cowboy hat, which sent the newly anointed golden couple’s admirers scurrying forward to help them out of such a huge pickle.

Of course no one pointed out how stupid it was that Paige actually
wore
a fucking tiara to breakfast. The man-stealing bitch probably wore it to bed. Then London drifted into a fantasy where Paige had donned the tiara when she gave Stitch a blowjob and it cut the hell out of his abdomen.

“Sending eye daggers at her while eye fucking him ain’t smart, London,” her on-the-road partner in crime Melissa “Mel” Lockhart said behind her.

“I’m not eye fucking him, I’m eye fucking him
up
.”

“Doesn’t matter, because that’s not how anyone will see it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

London allowed herself to be led away. As soon as they were out of screeching range, she exploded. “How in the fuck am I gonna survive this summer, Mel? When every time I turn around I see them sucking each other’s faces off? What does he see in her?”

Mel didn’t answer. She appeared to be hedging, which was not her usual style.

“Just spit it out.”

“Fine. That girl is a bonafide beauty queen. Everyone says she’ll be the next Miss Rodeo America and people treat him like he’s a prince—the heir apparent to take that All Around title at the CRA Championships in a few years. They are a match made in PR heaven. What don’t you get about that?”

“I don’t get how that asswipe could dump me, via text message, after he does one fundraiser with her because it’s true love? Bullshit. No one falls in love in a night.” London paced along the metal fencing. “I wanna choke her with her stupid ‘Miss Rodeo Colorado’ sash and then tie it around his dick until it turns blue and falls off.”

Mel’s hands landed on London’s shoulders and then she was right in her face, her brown eyes flashing concern. “This has gotta stop, London. What the hell did you see in him anyway? He’s looks like Opie from
The Andy Griffith Show
. I think the only reason you ended up with him in the first place is because you were lonely and wanted a dog.”

“He’s a damn hound dog who needs to be put down,” she muttered.

“Not true, because we both know that man did not rock your world or even the damn camper when you two got down and dirty. He doesn’t know how to be a horndog.”

London couldn’t argue that point.

“Seriously sista, you’re starting to scare me with all these violent scenarios you spout off like horror poetry. Stitch scratching an itch with Paige the underage is not the end of the world. I think the real issue here is you need to get laid by a man who knows what he’s doing. And you’re putting out this I-will-rip-your-dick-off vibe to any man who starts sniffing around you.”

That wasn’t true…was it?

“Find a hot guy and fuck him ’til he can’t walk. Then you’ll be back to strutting around with your head held high instead of acting like a whipped pup.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am. Now take a minute and breathe.”

London closed her eyes, inhaled for ten counts, exhaled for ten, and reopened her eyes to gaze at her friend.

The freckle-faced redhead wore a smug look. “Better?”

“Much. Thank you.” Then her gaze narrowed. “Hey, you just did that thing my mother always does. Did she give you instructions on how to get me to cool off?”

“Yes, and I asked her—but she didn’t offer up her magic mom trick freely.”

“When were you hanging out with my mother?” London demanded.

“Uh, since she
owns
my cutting horse, I see her more than you do.”

“She may own your horse, but I trained Plato so he’ll always love me best.”

“Even my color blind horse can see what you’re wearing is all kinds of wrong because you look like a leprechaun hag. Where
did
you get those god-awful green pajamas?” Mel leaned closer. “Do they have frogs on them? And sweet baby Jesus on a Vespa...are those frogs baring lipstick-kissed butt cheeks?”