More than Winning (Cowboys and Angels Book 0) Read online

  More Than Winning

  A Cowboys and Angels Short Story

  Anjelica Grace

  Copyright

  More than Winning Copyright © 2019 Anjelica Grace

  All Rights Reserved In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this work without permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review. This short story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows, and song titles/lyrics throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark. This short story is intended for adults only. Contains sexual content and language that may offend some. Suggested reading audience is 18 years or older.

  Cover Art: Passion Creations by Mary Ruth

  https://thereadingruth.blogspot.com

  Cover Photo: Adobe

  Editing: Karen Hrdlicka

  Contents

  Copyright

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Anjelica Grace

  Follow Anjelica

  Prologue

  Chase

  There is something about the end of rodeo season. The final ride. Final ranking. Coming home to be with my girls full time again for a while. Last year, I loved it. I rode, I was the best in the world, and I came home to enjoy Christmastime and the festivities with my family, having a little more to celebrate and be grateful for.

  This year, it’s a bittersweet return home. On the one hand, I have my beautiful wife, naked and sound asleep in our bed beside me; our little girls are down the hall and will wake up with us finally home. On the other, I finished third place in the world. Third fucking place. The thought makes me grit my teeth in anger again. There were two riders who were better than me this year—according to judges. I hate it—because they weren't better than me. But politics and favoritism always get in the way. And that finish throws a wrench in everything I was hoping for.

  When last season ended, Allie and I spoke about having another baby; she pointed out that being the top bull rider in the world meant more invites to other events, more traveling for me, and she would be left home alone more often than not to raise two little girls and a baby by herself. So, we agreed to wait. I was supposed to win it all this year—two times a champion—then I’d cut back, we could start trying. But that didn’t happen. And as we discussed on our flight home, I can’t quit now. I can’t.

  What we didn’t discuss, though, is the fact I still want to start trying now. I want us to add on to our family so bad, yet it’s so much to ask of her.

  I roll to my side and watch her sleep, gently moving a strand of hair that’s fallen over her face, and smile at the small pucker to her lips, the way she lets out the softest snores. Sliding my gaze down her body, barely covered by the sheet, I wish there was some way what we just finished could grant me my dream, without the discussion and fear of rejection to weigh us down.

  What do you do when the two things you want most in life are in direct opposition to each other? When having one will prevent you from getting the other? What do you do when asking for one, while you plan on continuing the second, is selfish and not fair? I’ve tried to come up with that answer for hours now. And there isn’t a simple one.

  With a glance back over my shoulder toward the clock, I see that it’s nearly five thirty. Working hours. There is no way I'll be able to sleep as it is, so I carefully and quietly roll away from my sleeping beauty, slip on my boxer briefs, and leave her warm and asleep in bed—hopeful that a day of working in the barn can clear my mind of these thoughts, and help me figure out what the hell I'm going to do without dragging her down this hole with me.

  As far as she will know, I’m upset I didn’t win, because any other day, that would be my biggest problem.

  Chapter 1

  Allie

  I watch my little girls chase each other around the kitchen island with reckless abandon, waving their frosting-covered hands in the air, laughing and screaming in delight. Ordinarily, I would be worried they would get smatterings of green and red on the walls and dining room furniture, or maybe they'd stain their clothes, or even attack, covering themselves and each other in frosting, but I can’t be bothered by that today. Not when it’s my first day home after being on the road with their daddy for the last ten days.

  I especially can’t be bothered when it’s the first day we get to really prepare for our Canton Family Christmas. This day has always meant so much, and after losing my parents five years ago today, it’s extra special to me, now. Christmas is the most magical time of the year; that’s something my parents made sure of, starting when I was a young girl. It was our reprieve from normal times. They made sure—no matter what—Christmas was perfect. It’s something I have always cherished because of them, and today my little family will decorate and fully embrace the holiday spirit that will take us through the New Year, just like when I was a girl.

  José Feliciano’s voice is filling the room, and we all pause what we’re doing when our favorite part of the chorus comes along, singing in out of tune unison to the words. Ava throws her head back dramatically, clutching her frosted hands over her apron-covered chest as she sings from the bottom of her very own heart with great enthusiasm; her baby sister, Aubrey, tries her best to copy her, nearly losing her balance in the process. It’s our tradition. One of them, at least. As the final notes of the song blast out of the speakers, I spin and twirl both my girls, kneeling just as the song ends to kiss them each on their foreheads.

  “It’s officially Christmastime, my babies.”

  This song is the song we wait for every year, it’s the one that indicates the season of magic and joy is upon us. It was my mom’s favorite Christmas song and it’s always been mine, too. It’s the song my girls know starts the holiday for me.

  “I’m so ‘cited, Mommy!” Aubrey shouts as she throws her arms around my neck, undoubtedly giving my hair a new streak of red.

  “I am too, baby girl.” I kiss her rounded cheek and then glance at her sister. “What about you, Ava? Are you excited?”

  She nods her head with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes now.

  “What’s wrong, sweet girl?”

  “I wish Daddy were in here with us. He always does cookies, and he’s the one who sings the hard parts of our song.”

  "Oh, baby…" I try to find the right words to explain why he's outside working right now, instead of in here with us. Ava may be an incredibly smart, observant six-year-old, but she still doesn’t understand her daddy’s competitive nature or what the last two weeks meant to him. Because while he's a professional bull rider—one of the best in the world, at that—to her, he is just Daddy. “He’ll be with us later, when we put up the tree. I promise he will make it up to you both. He just needs a little quiet, Daddy time today. Okay?”

  Ava nods her head silently again, and I look between
her wide, chocolate-colored eyes and Aubrey’s ocean blue ones, then I hold my arms open for a big hug. Both girls wrap tight around me, Aubrey again lets her hands fall into my hair while Ava takes more care, keeping her arms outstretched behind me so she doesn’t add to the mess.

  “I love you both sooo much. So does your daddy. We are going to have the best Christmas ever this year. Okay?”

  “’Kay Mommy,” Aubrey says with a big yawn.

  “Okay, Mommy,” Ava adds, pulling back to give me a bigger smile this time. “I love you too. And Daddy.”

  “Me, too,” Aubrey whispers, and rests her head on my shoulder.

  I lean my head against Aubrey’s, knowing she’s sleepy, and we don’t have long before she’s whiny and overtired, and then I wink at Ava. “I think it’s getting to be time to wash your hands and relax for a while. Ava, why don’t you pick a movie to turn on, and you and Aubrey can hop into Mommy’s and Daddy’s bed and watch it, maybe even take a nap so we can stay up later tonight and decorate.”

  Ava grins and runs off, shouting something about The Grinch and how she doesn’t need a nap, she’s not a baby. Aubrey follows her, saying she isn’t one either, as the water turns on and their bickering begins.

  We were so close to avoiding the arguing. Hopefully, it doesn’t last long and they both get a little nap in.

  Chapter 2

  Allie

  Standing in the stable doorway, watching him, the muscles of his back tense and ripple with each scoop of the shovel; rivulets of sweat drip down between his shoulder blades. He's been out here since before sunrise, working himself ragged. I know he's upset over last night's ride and his final placement overall, but the girls would like to have their daddy, and I would like my husband back, before he’s nothing but sore muscles and blistered hands.

  “Hey, Cowboy, did you plan on spending any time with your family today? You missed cookie decorating and “Feliz Navidad” already.”

  He turns his head over his shoulder so our eyes meet and grunts noncommittally, then gets back to the stall before him.

  I hate when he gets this way. The hunch of his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw, and the force he uses with every load he lifts into the wheelbarrow are the telltale signs he’s moping.

  “So that’s a no, then?” I slide the toe of my boot over the dusty wooden floor, leaving a clean line in its wake, and wait for him to answer me.

  “Did I say that?”

  “You didn’t actually say anything; you implied it with your vague, indifferent noise, though. If we're being technical." And I am, because the man can brood and pout with the best of them if I don't call him on his shit.

  The laugh I get in return is music to my ears and encourages my approach. Each of my steps click and clack against the floor, letting him know I’m getting closer and closer, not that he stops what he’s doing or pays me any attention.

  “You’re sulking today,” I say, as I wrap my arms around his firm body from behind, “and you have no reason to be.” I plant a kiss to his back, and the saltiness lingers on my lips even after I’ve pulled back.

  “No reason? Like hell I don’t. Last night should’ve… It would’ve… We would’ve…” he shakes his head and starts again, “We both know I should’ve won. I made my time—eight seconds—and I rode flawlessly. There wasn’t another rider out there who could say that. Not one.”

  I blindly trail my hand down the crease dividing his chest and abs into right and left sides, with my chin rested on his back.

  “Not one. Two. The judges said two were better than you, baby.” I scratch my nails gently along the start of his happy trail, trying to soften the blow of my words with my actions.

  “They weren’t better. They just play the fucking game. Politics. Kissing ass. Asking how fucking high whenever anyone says jump. I don’t do that shit, and I won’t. My skills and ability speak for themselves.”

  He digs the shovel back into the pile in front of us, taking extra care not to elbow me in the process, and loads it into the wheelbarrow, falling silent so the only sounds around us are the horses in their stalls, the barn’s heater kicking on, and the metal of his shovel scraping over the wooden floor.

  “You have to beat the best to be the best, right?”

  He stops moving and nods his head in response.

  “You are the best, Champ. You’ve beaten the best. Were top in the world until last night. But there is always someone else who will come along that’s a little younger, a little more brazen, and a little better. That’s how things work. You aren’t the first to think you can’t be beaten, and you won't be the last. Every man on the circuit has the same ambitions, dreams, and goals that you do."

  "I deserved that win last night, though. And nobody better has come around yet." He drops the shovel and spins to face me; his damp sides and back slide easily against my arms with the motion. "And they won't be better for a long time to come. I'm still in my prime. Training harder, longer, every day."

  I can’t help but shake my head and smirk as I rest my chin on his chest and tilt my head back, trying to rile him up a little and shift his mood. “I don’t know about that. You aren’t training right now. You’re aren’t even working out. You’re moping because you didn’t finish on top last night.”

  His heavy, chiseled arms find their purchase on my shoulders, and his hands link together somewhere behind my head; the heat from his skin radiates toward mine, warming my neck. Then his lips turn up into the cocky grin that roped me in from day one and my breath catches in my chest.

  “Didn’t I?” His arms curl around my neck, drawing me in closer to him, and he leans his forehead on to mine with his piercing blue eyes locked with mine. “Because if I remember correctly, I finished the night exactly there.”

  I can feel warmth creep through my cheeks and down my body, and it would be easy to say it’s because he’s wrapped me up and drawn me into him, but that’s not it. Not at all. It’s from the memories flashing through my mind of us last night. And he’s right, he definitely finished it on top. If I close my eyes, I can still feel him there, the weight of his body covering mine. His lips covering every bit of me he could, and him—every powerful inch—claiming me, demanding control of my mind, body, and soul with each deep surge in and agonizingly slow retreat out.

  A shiver of longing and residual pleasure caresses my body, making him chuckle and say, “That’s what I thought.”

  “You are too much. You do know that, right?”

  He tips his head down, pressing his lips to mine, kissing me softly and teasing just the slightest with his tongue, making me lean in for more, for a small taste, but he pulls back. “Was that too much? I don’t think it was. I would call it just enough. Same as I am enough for you.”

  He steps back and I reach forward, grasping the buckle of his belt and pulling him back to me. “You’re such an ass,” I giggle, and hook my fingers through his belt loops so he can’t pull back again. “You know that wasn’t enough, and I wasn’t done yet. I didn’t even get to start.”

  “Start what? We’re beneath the mistletoe,” he smirks and raises his eyes, indicating the Christmas plant hanging above our heads, “so I was only doing what is customary this time of year.”

  The twinkle in his eye and that cocky grin, he knows exactly what I meant. He knows me better than I know myself, but he's still going to make me say it. I know he is. And he thinks I will, because when it comes to him, there's nothing I wouldn't do. But I don't have to beg. And I don't even have to ask for more. Because I know him just as well as he knows me, and all it’ll take is a little more teasing of my own.

  “Keeping you on top. That’s where you want to be, isn’t it? Because right now, Cowboy, you aren’t on top of anything.”

  His pupils dilate and nostrils flare at my words, I can even see the little tick in his jaw while he weighs his next move.

  In reality, everything happens in a split second, but it feels like we are moving in slow motion when he takes
hold of my hips and starts walking me backward out of the stall, our feet shuffling—left, right, left, right—until I can feel the pressure and prickles from the bales of hay lined up directly behind my calves.

  “I guess I’m going to have to fix that then, aren’t I?”

  He reaches over my head, the muscles in his stomach and arms going taut over me, to grab one of the blankets stored above us. His chest is right in front of my face; the sweat glistening over his skin and the smattering of hair lightly dusted across him have my fingers itching to touch and mouth salivating to taste him.

  “Where are the girls?” he asks gruffly.

  “Nap time. Watching The Grinch in our room,” I answer in a near pant.

  Every part of me is hyperaware of his body in front of me, from the small scar just beneath his collarbone from a fall he took as a boy, to the lone freckle that’s barely visible beside the tattoo extending from his shoulder. Every detail is seared into my mind, mapped out so I can remember it the next time he’s on the road, and I’m home alone with the girls.

  I’m so lost in him that when he slips his hands beneath my shirt, I startle, jerking beneath his touch. I can feel the vibration caused by his chuckle through his body and his hands, where they are moving up over my ribs, carrying my shirt with them.

  “I love when you look at me like that,” he murmurs, as my shirt passes over my face and gets tossed aside. "It's a combination of pure desire and admiration, and it's so fucking hot, because it mirrors how I feel looking at you."

  His calloused fingers graze along the edge of my bra, working it loose behind me, and guiding it down my shoulders and off before he reaches for my jeans; popping their button and dragging the zipper down so his hands easily fit in the waistband where he can lower the denim down my legs. He bends and helps me step free of them, after I kick my boots off, and squeezes my calves gently.