When Roses Collide

Chapter Forty-Three

Harley blew out a frustrated breath and sharply yanked Odin to a hard stop. The stallion skidded to a halt and tossed his head, annoyed at being handled so roughly. Feeling a twinge of guilt for her heavy handiness, she gave him a pat on his smooth, sweaty black coat and headed over to where Aden stood leaning against the corral fence. By the look of displeasure on his face, she could tell he wasn't dazzled with her last run.

"What was my time?" she asked, taking off her cowboy hat and wiping the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand.

Aden lifted the stopwatch. "Sixteen seconds. But since you knocked over the second barrel...again...you can add on another five second penalty to that."

Harley cussed under her breath, but not quietly enough for Aden to not catch it and he lifted an unimpressed eyebrow at her. Slamming on her hat, she squirmed in the saddle.

"Odin keeps cutting short," she snapped. "If he keeps knocking me into it, I'm not going to have a kneecap left. He's too fresh and too barn sour. He's been spoiled rotten since we moved here. With the way Tanner has been feeding him he's gotten fat, sassy and lazy."

Aden simply started at her until her tirade was over. "It's a poor musician who blames his instrument," he said softly, his brown eyes narrowing at her slightly.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're the one cutting the turn too close, not Odin. You're head isn't in the game, Harley." He crossed his beefy arms over his chest, the intricate pattern of the dark tribal tattoos standing out in sharp contrast against his tanned skin. "If you're head isn't in it, then you can't expect his to be either."

Harley opened her mouth to protest, but quickly closed it. He was right. There was no sense in arguing with him when she knew damn well it wasn't Odin's fault. The blame rested purely on her shoulders. Anything that came off her tongue right now would be nothing more than a lame excuse and she knew it. Besides, excuses where as productive as pissing in the wind. You might think you're being clever, but in actuality, you are going to only end up pissing on yourself in the long run.

"Come on, sweetheart, talk to me. What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?" Aden pushed himself off the fence and walked up to her, laying his big palm on her thigh as he looked up at her. "This whole rodeo thing was your idea. Are you having second thoughts?"

Harley's gaze went to the practice barrels sitting in the arena to avoid his questioning scrutiny. Well...they went to the two that were still sitting upright anyway. She didn't have any qualms about entering the Gypsy Rose into the Rancher's Rodeo. Despite her boy's worry and complaining, she knew in her gut competing and winning the competition would go a long way to gaining the respect of the town. No...she was adamant they would compete. She wasn't having second thoughts about her decision. Harley Stewart didn't run...and it was time certain people in town learned that lesson.

Neither was she having any post-traumatic flashbacks Bo was worried she'd suffer from. She had no fear when she approached those barrels. In fact, she had missed the thrill of riding low in the saddle, the intense connection between horse and rider, the split second timing and the roar of the applause from the crowd after a good run. She felt extremely lucky to not harbor any fear or anxiety after what she had been through. Some riders who had survived the kind of accident she had, never were able to step up into the saddle again, their terror keeping them paralyzed. Harley knew she was fortunate, she couldn't imagine life without never being able to throw a leg over a horse again.

No...her problems wasn't the upcoming rodeo. All her woes lay at the feet of a smooth talking cowboy who looked like Adonis and made her heart beat like a snare drum...who hadn't called in the three days. Hadn't called. Hadn't come by. Hadn't even dropped a damn note...nothing. It was like he had simply been a figment of her imagination.