“You’re already the death of me.” She took the first set of reins in hand and then reached for the second horse. As she rose onto the saddle and balanced herself, she perched her other foot on the opposite horse’s saddle, trying not to watch Jericho but unable to stop.

When they were both situated, having tested their mounts, he muttered, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

She wanted to tell him it was too late, that the stupidest thing she’d ever done was allow herself to care about him. But she focused on the opposite end of the field. “I’ll be fine. I’ve been doing this for weeks. You’re the one who needs to watch out for yourself.”

The gun went off with a resounding echo, and she wasted no time in urging her horses forward with the controlled speed she’d perfected. She glanced sideways at Jericho to find that he was riding neck and neck with her. His tempestuous blue eyes collided with hers. His dark fury only added to his devastatingly handsome appeal, and she couldn’t keep at bay the thrill of knowing she was competing against him.

From a distance, she could hear the calls and cheers from the crowd, but she was too aware of Jericho and the race. She wanted to beat him so badly and show him she was every bit as talented as he was. At the same time, she didn’t want him sore at her. Maybe she ought to slow down and let him take the lead.

Before she could wrap her mind around her shifting emotions, Jericho pushed ahead of her. He guided his horses fluidly, almost as if he could communicate with them the same way Brody could.

In the next instant, however, Jericho’s foot slipped from the horse on his right. Rather than acting quickly and correcting himself, Jericho fumbled with the reins. The horses veered apart, leaving him hanging perilously in midair. Even as fear for his well-being gripped her, she pulled ahead and charged the last of the distance toward the finish line. As she crossed over, she glanced back in time to see Jericho easily right himself.

Surely he hadn’t. But from the way he avoided making eye contact with her, she had no doubt he’d purposefully thrown the race.

She hopped down even before the horses had come to a complete halt. She stomped the ground, the heat of her temper rising swiftly. He’d let her win. The Gila monster. The Mexican dog. The desert varmint. A dozen more heated words pressed for release. She started toward him, her fists balled, her body taut with the need to haul into him.