Roped In

Copyright Information

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Roped In

Third edition

Copyright © 2014, 2016, 2020 Marie Sexton & L.A. Witt

First edition published by Amber Quill Press.

Second edition published by Riptide Publishing.

Cover Art and Interior Graphics by L.C. Chase

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact L.A. Witt at gallagherwitt@gmail.com

ISBN: 978-1-64230-080-2

Graham and his roping partner, Jackson, have been friends since they were boys. They've ruled the rodeo scene for ten years running, but lately, Graham’s heart isn’t in the game. He’s tired of the bruises, the cowboy mentality, and the animal rights activists who picket every event. He's also tired of being in love with Jackson, and nothing’s been the same between them since their disastrous drunken encounter the year before.

Then Graham has a run-in with one of the rodeo protesters, and everything changes. Kaz is young, idealistic, and sexy as hell. But he's also a know-it-all, animal-loving vegan, bent on saving the world one cow at a time. They have next to nothing in common, but Graham can't stop thinking about what might happen if they can stop butting heads long enough to give it a try. Unfortunately, no matter how attracted Graham is to other men, he always panics and runs when the clothes start to come off. But Kaz has an idea for getting Graham past his nerves and into bed.

All they need is a bit of rope.

This book was previously published.

About Roped In

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

About the Authors

Fucking animal rights activists. I kept my voice low, patting Angel’s neck while I nodded in the direction of the noisy protesting outside. Do they seriously have nothing better to do?

Jackson snorted. He adjusted Petty Cash’s halter and glared in the same direction. For a bunch of morons obsessed with animal cruelty, you’d think they’d be smart enough to make all that racket a little farther from the goddamn barns and trailers.

I nodded and kept stroking Angel’s neck. She was mellow at the moment, munching happily on a treat despite the noise, but getting into the trailer was one of her least favorite things in the world. The mare was a spectacular roping horse, didn’t shy at all at the chaos in and around the arena during the rodeo, but God help us when it came time to load her. A group of assholes waving signs and shouting wasn’t going to help.

What do you think? Jackson asked. Wait ’em out, or just go?

Let’s just go. I glanced at Angel, then at him. Tell you what, I’ll pull the trailer around by the other side of the barns, and we’ll load them there.

Jackson nodded. Sounds good.

I left Angel in her stall and headed toward the chanting and stomping.

Jesus. They were out in force tonight. Two weeks ago, there’d been maybe a dozen of them. Apparently they’d gotten the word out to their buddies this time, because the crowd was huge.

Some of the other competitors had engaged them off and on throughout the weekend, and the entire event had been peppered with shouting matches, cowboys and hippies getting right up in each other’s faces. I didn’t know how any of them heard a single damned word, because all I heard was noise.

And the best part? They were blocking the road I needed to use to move the truck and trailer. Shit.

I was pretty sure a pair of high beams and a diesel engine would persuade them to move, though, so I started shouldering my way through the mass of people.

Hey. One stopped me with a small but strong hand on my arm. What the fuck is the matter with you people?

I turned and found two of them facing me. One hung back a step, his arms crossed. But the nearer one—the one who’d grabbed my arm—caught me off guard. He looked more like a skateboarder than a hippie, and obnoxious as he was, he was cute. Holy shit. Really cute. Any comeback I might’ve had died in my throat because I was too busy noticing the way his dark hair fell over his blue eyes, and the way his you want some of this? posture drew attention to the low-slung jeans on his hips.

He moved in closer. I asked you a question, cowboy.

He had, hadn’t he? And hell if I could remember what it was.

I cleared my throat. I beg your pardon?

He stepped even closer, and thoughts of whether or not he was attractive disappeared. My adrenaline surged. His stance and his expression issued a blatant challenge, bringing to the surface every fight instinct, but no flight at all. His buddy was still watching, clearly ready to back him up, if need be. You people make me sick. Tying up innocent calves like that? Forcing your horses to—

Forcing my horses to what? I snarled. Put up with protesters who scare her and make her even more claustrophobic?

Oh, your horse is claustrophobic? But you still put her in a box, don’t you? He pointed sharply at the trailers.

You have no idea what—

Hey. Jackson’s booming voice silenced us and half the people around us. Let him through, you fucking hippie faggot.

Great. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse. A little backup might have been nice, but Jack was the last person I wanted involved. He took every bad cowboy stereotype and turned it up to eleven. And the irony of him using faggot as an insult wasn’t lost on me. I knew a thing or two about Jackson Fredericks.

I could kick your asses for you, he yelled, then feed them to the cows, you little shits. How’d that be?

Yeah. Jack had a real gift for diplomacy.

But at least it gave me a chance to squeeze through the crowd toward my truck as the hippies turned to look at him. All but the cute one. He dropped his Rodeo Is Torture sign to follow me.

Wait. Once we’d cleared the push of the crowd, he moved in front of me to block my path. He was alone this time and standing so close, I could feel the heat coming off him. Best not to think about that. You didn’t answer me. If your horse is claustrophobic, why do you put it in a box? Has it ever occurred to you how cruel that is?

I forced out a breath and ticked the points off on my fingers. "First, my horse is a she, not an it. Second, horses are prey animals, so being in a hostile crowd is going to trip her fight or flight instinct. And third, being in a box isn’t the issue. She rather enjoys what she does in the arena, even if she doesn’t care for the process of getting into the fucking trailer, especially with all this racket—I pointed to his screaming, sign-waving associates—making things worse. Do you realize how much all your noise echoes inside the trailer?"

He stopped short, blinking as if in surprise. I supposed none of that had ever occurred to him, especially the part where a group of self-righteous protesters could actually be aggravating the situation rather than helping.

Score one for the cowboys.

"Now can you move out of the way so I can get my trailer and take her home? She’d love nothing more than to get back to her own barn and her own stall so she can eat and get some rest."

Oh. He took a step back, giving me a bit of space. I was relieved the fight seemed to be leaving him, but also disappointed to have him move away. It reminded me of my purpose, though—fetching the trailer.

Assuming he was going to let me pass.

I waited, and we watched each other warily, our script suddenly lost. When he didn’t say anything else, I brushed past him. He let me take one step toward my truck before he spoke again. And what about the calves? I suppose you’ll tell me they like being roped by their necks and hog-tied?

I sighed in frustration. No, I conceded, turning to face him again. They probably don’t. But cows aren’t exactly the smartest creatures on this green earth—

They’re stupid, so it’s okay?

I only meant we’re not hurting them. Not the way you damn animal rights activists like to think. Now, are we done? Because if you really want to discuss what is and isn’t cruel around here, I’d be happy to sit down and talk like civilized adults. But this? I gestured toward his group of protesters, who had amped up their noise after Jackson’s antagonism. This isn’t dialogue. It’s just noise, and it isn’t helping anybody.

"And how about your homophobic buddy calling me a faggot? Does that count as dialogue?" he growled, the hostility in his voice and posture shifting to something decidedly more personal than his anticruelty protests.

What the hell? Had Jackson stepped on a nerve? God knew he’d stepped on that nerve with me a few more times than I cared to admit. We made a spectacular pair in the arena, but definitely didn’t see eye to eye on certain topics, so I knew how much those comments stung even when they were only thrown around to get a rise out of people. Jackson had no way of knowing if this kid was gay or not. He just knew calling someone a faggot was enough to lift some hackles. That’s his way of blowing off steam. He doesn’t mean anything by it.

Except maybe he did.

The kid’s eyes narrowed and his lips pulled tighter. Then he exhaled and shook his head. Go fuck yourself.

Before I could respond, he turned on his heel. His friend greeted him with an arm over his shoulder, and the crowd swallowed them both. I stared at the space he’d occupied, wishing I’d handled it better. I could make excuses for Jackson all night, but that had been some genuine hurt in the kid’s eyes.

So he’s cute and he’s gay?

I shook my head and headed toward the truck. No point in even entertaining that thought. Cute and gay or not, the kid thought I was a monster. He probably thought my lack of protest against Jackson’s comments meant I agreed with him.

I dug my keys out of the pocket of my jeans and climbed up into the cab. The engine roared to life, and quite a few heads turned. Some people nudged their friends and gestured back at me. I turned on the headlights—high beams and all—and revved the engine hard so the people in front of me knew I meant business. I inched forward, and the front edge of the mob started moving aside to give me space.

That wasn’t to say they stopped shouting and protesting. They smacked their signs against the truck—one scratch on my baby’s paint, and I swear to God—and they shouted, but at least they let me through. I wasn’t looking for the kid. I was too busy making sure I didn’t run any of the other damn fools over. They were letting me pass, but it wasn’t as if I’d parted the Red Sea.

Just as I cleared the last of them, though, I looked over, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t lock eyes with him. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t waving a sign. He looked right at me, holding my gaze for a second, then slipped back into the group and disappeared.

Gripping the wheel tighter, I made myself face forward and not search for him again. I focused straight ahead until I was