Cowboy Strong. Kelli Ireland
my phone and why didn’t that alarm go off?
He’d last had his phone in his robe. He dug through the pockets. Not there.
Didn’t matter. There wasn’t time to hunt it down. The rules required him to be ready and warming up thirty minutes prior to his call time. He had less than an hour before he and Gizmo were due in the competition arena, less than twenty-five minutes before he had to be in the warm-up ring.
Yanking on jeans with one hand while he tried to pull on his shirt with the other proved fruitless and forced him to slow down. Man, he had not wanted to start nationals this way. He got himself together and sprinted from the room, rode the elevator to the lobby and raced through the crowds. He uttered apologies as he clipped folks left and right.
Another glance at his watch as he waited to cross the street to the temporary stalls said he had thirteen minutes to prep Gizmo and get him to the ring.
Damn it. Not enough time.
The light changed and he kicked into an all-out sprint through even heavier crowds. His stomach plummeted when—from twenty yards away—he saw the top of the Dutch door was already open. He slid to a stop in front of the stall...and gaped.
Kenzie stood there casually brushing the horse’s tail. Gizmo had been saddled up, his reins looped over the wall-mounted hitching ring. His splint boots rested in the tack bucket she’d hauled out with her.
“What are you doing?” The question whipped across the distance, sharp enough to cause Gizmo to bob his head and paw the ground in protest.
“Why, I’m putting pretty polka-dot bows in your manly horse’s tail before I paint his hooves ‘I’m Not Really a Waitress’ red by OPI, of course,” Kenzie answered, just as brittle. “That way you might fool the steers, mesmerizing them with his handsome appearance. Just a hint? Right here, a ‘thank you, Kenzie’ wouldn’t be inappropriate.”
Ty stared at her, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline. “You’re such a smart-ass.” Grabbing the splints, he knelt in front of his horse and, moving quickly, yanked the Velcro straps in place.
“And you’re behaving like a real jackass.” She tossed the steel comb at him. “I came down to feed Indie and saw you hadn’t taken care of Gizmo. The longer you went without showing up, the more I began to think it might be helpful if I lent a hand. I actually just called your cell to make sure you were up. My bad, seeing as you clearly have this under complete control. I suppose I should tell you to ignore the voice mail where I yell at you to get your butt in gear.”
She moved past him and he instinctively stood and grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you are,” she bit out. “Now let go.”
He tightened his hold. “No. Look, Kenzie. I’m truly sorry. You have to understand, I need this...”
Her brow furrowed when he trailed off. “Need what?”
He stopped himself just short of explaining the prize money was necessary for him to expand his breeding operation, and he was glad. As a Malone, she wouldn’t understand his desperation to claim the prize money. It fueled his drive every day. Instead of answering, he shifted his approach. “I appreciate that you stepped in and helped.” He shrugged, the skin across his shoulders tightening until it was too small to comfortably cover his large frame. “Thank you.”
She eyed him with open disbelief, as if she knew it hadn’t been what he’d started to say. In the end, though, she let it go with a “Sure. 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