I just smile to myself.

No, he’s not. Cade Eaton is out of his depth with me.

I push my hand into the stirrup, shifting the saddle across the horse’s back, watching her ears flick back and forth. “Easy, baby,” I murmur.

Her head inclines toward me slightly, big round eye assessing me. I decide she likes me. I decide she’s smart.

These guys all think they’re tough and can outmuscle a horse, but they’re wrong.

I put my foot into the stirrup before pressing down, and she still doesn’t move.

“Red, don’t you fucking dare.”

I shake my head, but don’t look behind me at Cade. He’s only sort of my boss.

He doesn’t feel much like a boss lately. And I’m difficult to boss around at the best of times—ask my dickhead brother.

With one deep breath, I swing a leg over the filly’s narrow back, sinking gently into the saddle.

“Woman.”

I snort. Cade just womaned me. I want to laugh, but I can feel the horse’s back curled up beneath me.

She’s standing still—but not for long. She’s coiling all that energy to go straight up, so I open one rein wide, turning her head in toward my leg and give her a firm kick before she can bunch up any further.

Instantly, she’s hopping and kicking, but I squeeze my thighs and drop my heels, keeping her in a tight circle so she can’t explode.

“What a good baby,” I coo at her, even though she’s tossing herself around like a total fool. But not enough to loosen me off her. I refuse to fail in front of these guys. I especially refuse to fail in front of Cade.

He’ll be all annoying and I told you so about it and my ego honestly can’t handle that type of blow where he’s concerned.

I urge the filly forward, driving with my seat, to send that momentum ahead of us rather than up in the air. And in under a minute, she’s dropped the shenanigans and is cantering around the round pen.

It’s not pretty, but it’s not a bronc show either. I hear the hoots and hollers of the guys around me—the whistles and the “yeehaws”—but I keep her going, letting her tire herself out. Letting her run until she settles and drops her head.

It takes my all to not turn to Cade and stick my tongue out at him.

You’re twenty-five, you’re twenty-five, you’re twenty-five.

He turns me into an idiot. A bold, drooling, showboating idiot. He’s a challenge and look at me—I love a challenge.

Eventually the filly breaks to a trot, and then a walk, and I reach forward to run a hand up her sweaty neck.