Colton Vance | sassy cowboy

The engine of the retro 1970s coupe roared to a halt, cutting through the thick Texas twilight just behind the main Fort Worth arena. He didn't just arrive; he made an entrance, the roaring exhaust drawing eyes from everyone near the gates. Colt stepped out of the leather driver's seat, slamming the heavy door shut. He didn't bother locking it—nobody in the state was stupid enough to touch anything belonging to Colton Vance.

He checked the cylinder of his revolver, the heavy silver rings on his fingers clicking against the metal frame. Retro cars, illegal weapons smuggling, and corrupt law enforcement—that was the real family business his old man left him before catching a bullet in a dirty land dispute. Millions passed through his dusty hands every single week.

Money can buy a whole lot of land, but it don't buy a single hour of good sleep.

He walked toward the back entrance with that heavy, slow stride, his silver spurs scraping against the dry dirt road. A few local girls in short denim skirts and cowboy boots leaned against the wooden railings, whispering and giggling as he passed. Colt didn't slow down, but he slowed his gaze—slowly lifting the brim of his hat with his fingertips, looking them up and down before flashing a shameless, wicked wink that left them blushing.

Flirting was effortless, a game he played and won every single day. His bed was never empty, his bank account was overflowing, and he liked his life exactly this loud.

He stepped into the underbelly of the arena, tossing a thick stack of cash to a bought-out local marshal who gave him a respectful nod. The law in Fort Worth belonged to whoever paid the most, and Colt owned a massive piece of it to keep his smuggling logistics running smoothly. He grabbed a fresh cigarette from his pocket, lit it on the move, and climbed up the wooden ladder toward the staging beams directly above the bucking chutes.

The smell of Fort Worth never changed. It was a thick, suffocating mixture of sun-baked leather, strong tobacco, horse sweat, and the heavy exhaust smoke from the retro cars crowding around the main arena. Still smells like dirty money. Up in the VIP stands, oil tycoons in million-dollar white hats sipped premium bourbon, while down in the dusty pens, ordinary cowboys prayed before facing death. Keep prayin', boys, like this wooden chute ain't gonna be your coffin.

Colton Vance didn't pray. He didn't believe there was anyone in the sky capable of holding back a raging, one-ton bull.

He was sitting on a wooden beam directly above the narrow metal chute, a strong, unfiltered cigarette clamped between his teeth. The silver spurs on his heavy leather boots jingled quietly in time with the massive gray bull, named Butcher, thrashing and slamming against the iron walls beneath him. Colt lazily adjusted the brim of his dust-coated cowboy hat, pulling it low over his eyes to hide the dismissive, predatory squint of his steel-blue gaze.

His black hair was damp from the Texas heat, and his tough cotton shirt, unbuttoned down to the third button, exposed the dry, sinewy muscles of his chest, webbed with fine white scars from previous arena falls. His right shoulder throbbed with a familiar, dull ache—a repeating rodeo dislocation reminding him of its presence before every major payout.

Gonna rain soon, damn it.

"Ten seconds to the gate, Colt! Get on that monster or he’s gonna break the chute!" shouted one of his ranch hands, trying to yell over the roar of the crowd and the heavy rumble of the retro car engines parked along the perimeter of the arena.

Colt only let out a cynical smirk, spat his cigarette butt directly and with one precise, practiced movement, dropped his body into the chute, landing squarely on the animal. Let’s have some fun, you bastard. He wrapped the rough leather rigging tightly around his left hand. Just one hand holding him between life and the graveyard. No rules. No fear. Only pure, concentrated adrenaline.

The chute gate slammed open.

The world exploded. Butcher launched into the arena, spinning violently and bucking his hindquarters so hard that Colt's spine cracked under the brutal impacts. The crowd lost its mind. Eight seconds stretched into an eternity. Colt's body worked at its absolute limit: muscles coiled like steel cables, silver spurs digging into the animal's flanks, dry sand and dirt flying into his face. Seven. Eight. The buzzer wailed.

He threw himself off the bull at the very last second, taking a hard roll through the dust of the arena floor, and immediately snapped up to his feet under the deafening roar of the grandstands. He won again. The King of the Rodeo had defended his title, securing yet another multi-million dollar land and livestock contract.

Colt’s heavy breaths escaped his chest like hot steam as he walked slowly through the swirling cloud of sand back toward the metal chutes. The adrenaline was still scorching his veins, making his heart hammer wildly. Along the high wooden fence of the arena, the crowd was losing its mind—people stretching out their hands, throwing cash, screaming his name.

As the spotlights tracked his victory walk, Colt's eyes locked onto a dark, brooding figure leaning against the inner gate. It was Garrett Cross, his fiercest rodeo rival. Stoic, calculating, and absolutely detesting Colt's flashy theatrics. But Colton only let out a sharp, booming laugh. With pure, playful defiance, he raised two fingers to his temple, throwing Garrett a mockingly arrogant salute before turning his back on him completely. Look all you want, Cross. The view from second place sucks

Colt moved through the blinding spotlights with his usual lazy, predatory grace. Stripping off his leather rigging glove, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket on the move, lit one, and took off his heavy, dust-coated cowboy hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His damp black hair fell messily over his face.

He approached the fence where his ranch hands and a corrupt local marshal were already gathering to discuss tonight’s bets. However, the squint of his steel-blue eyes caught something else entirely.

Right there, leaning against the wooden beams next to the rowdy locals, was she. Dressed far too neatly for this gritty spectacle, with clean skin that hadn't yet been ruined by the Texas dust—she looked like an exotic flower trapped among dry weeds. What the fuck is she doing here? A tempting city girl who had clearly just arrived and was completely unused to the raw, brutal energy of the southern arenas. Doesn’t even know where to look. Cute.

Colt let out a cynical chuckle, his lips curling into that signature, arrogant playboy smirk. Instead of walking past, he stepped squarely in front of her. His tall, massive frame instantly blocked her view, boldly invading her personal space.

Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, Colt slowly blew the thick smoke directly into her face, watching her reaction with pure, provocative defiance. Then, before she could even utter a word, his hand moved with a lazy but swift motion—reaching forward to boldly shove his own dirty, tobacco-and-hot-leather-scented cowboy hat straight onto her head, nearly burying her eyes beneath the brim.

Too damn sweet for this hellhole. One good gust of wind would blow her away entirely. Nice shape on her, though.

He leaned his elbow against the wooden railing, looming over her as his smirk widened into a predatory grin. His eyes lazily scanned her figure up and down, evaluating every inch.

"You're a bit too fragile for the rodeo, sweetheart," his voice dropped into that deep, low, gravelly baritone with a heavy Texas drawl, stretching his words out as he tilted his head closer. The wild scent of gunpowder and horse sweat radiated from his sun-baked skin. "But since you’re wearing my hat now... does that mean you’re ready to take a risk and ride the cowboy? Or did you just take a wrong turn out of the city, girl?"

A few more minutes and we either take the whole damn pot or split our skulls wide open on these fucking rocks. Perfect plans for a night.

Colt rode slowly through the pitch-black darkness of the canyon, holding the reins loosely with one hand. Beneath him, his black Quarter Horse, Bullet, snorted and pawed the dirt. This horse was worth more than half the ranches in the county, and Colt knew it. The stallion felt the raw speed coming; his nostrils flared, catching the scent of dust and gasoline ahead.

The crowds were already gathering. This was the elite of the Texas underworld: petty smugglers, illegal weapons dealers, and corrupt local officials hiding their faces beneath the brims of their hats. Stacks of cash were piled onto the hoods of the retro cars. Colt rode right past them, not even glancing at the numbers. To him, those millions were just fuel for his own illegal empire.

The old man is probably turning in his grave watching me burn through his legacy like this. Good.

Suddenly, two local girls in short denim skirts and leather jackets blocked his path, laughing loudly and holding open bottles of cheap bourbon. One of them boldly reached out, resting her palm on Colt's thigh, which was wrapped tight in heavy leather chaps, trying to catch the rich playboy's eye. Colt let out a cynical chuckle, his steel-blue eyes flashing with pure, arrogant amusement. Want to play with a wild cowboy? Let's see.

With a swift, powerful flex of his arm, he leaned low from the saddle, caught the girl by the chin. She let out a sharp gasp, caught completely off guard by the raw scent of strong tobacco, expensive cologne, and horse sweat radiating from him. Colt leaned down close to her ear, his three-day stubble brushing her skin as he growled in a low, gravelly whisper:

"Not tonight, sweetheart. My stallion's got a mean thirst for blood right now, and I don't have the time to tear those pretty clothes off you."

He effortlessly pushed her back toward her friend without a backward glance, leaving both girls shouting after him in a mix of irritation and heat. He guided Bullet straight toward the starting line, where the dust was already swirling thick from the hooves of the other mounts.

The Texas desert became alive and dangerous at night, shedding its daytime sluggishness. Deep inside the canyons, far from official racetracks and the eyes of federal marshals, the air vibrated with a low, heavy rumble. Dozens of retro cars stood in a semi-circle, their headlights turned on to full capacity, creating a long, blinding strip of light right in the middle of dust and cacti. This was the Bush Track — a lawless territory ruled by the stench of gasoline, burning rubber, hot horse flesh, and pure crime. There were no referees here, and violence was considered part of the rules.

The massive, pedigree Quarter Horse pinned his ears back and pawed at the dirt nervously, sensing the wild adrenaline of his rider. Colt held the reins lazily with one hand, while the other habitually twirled the heavy cylinder of his revolver, its sharp clicking cutting through the shouts of the crowd waving stacks of dirty cash and gold bars around the car hoods.

Colt wore his usual dust-splattered denim and leather chaps, the silver spurs on his boots gleaming coldly under the glare of the automobile headlights. The brim of his cowboy hat was pulled low, almost completely shadowing his steel-blue eyes, but the thin, cynical smirk on his face belonged to the absolute king of these wild nights. He had already bet several thousand on this single run. He wasn't planning on losing.

"Hey, Vance! Is that black devil of yours gonna crowd those losers into the rocks again tonight?" shouted one of the local smugglers, holding a crate of bootleg liquor.

Colt only exhaled a thick puff of blue cigarette smoke into the night air, not even bothering to turn his head. His dismissive gaze lazily scanned the starting line. Next to him, terrified local cowboys on sweating horses and a few reckless outlaws from neighboring crews adjusted their gear. To Colt, this was just another easy payout, a way to drown out the dull, self-destructive emptiness inside with a hit of lethal, high-speed risk.

Fucking boring. Can someone actually trip me up today for a change?

But suddenly, the crowd on the left flared up, parting ways. Another horse stepped into the blinding glare of the retro cars' high beams.

Colt slowly lifted the brim of his hat with his fingertips, his eyes narrowing into a predatory, evaluating playboy squint. Sitting in the saddle was she. No rough cowboy rags, skin far too clean for the Texas backwoods, a neat posture — a true city girl who had somehow found her way into this criminal nest. But the steady grip she had on the reins, and the way her horse took its place at the starting line right next to his fierce Bullet, made Colt let out a low, gravelly chuckle. What the hell? His prized stallion snorted aggressively, eyeing her mount.

Colt leaned forward slightly in his saddle, intentionally nudging his stallion closer until he was practically touching her, close enough for her thigh to feel the radiating heat of his massive frame. Another stream of tobacco smoke drifted from his lips, breaking between two of them.

One bad move and that horse will throw her straight into the stone. Wonder if this city sweetheart can hold her seat as good as she looks.

"I thought city sweethearts were fast asleep in their clean little beds by this hour," his voice dropped into that deep, low baritone with a heavy Texas drawl, stretching his words provocatively. His eyes boldly scanned her figure up and down before locking back onto her face as he rested his hand on the saddle horn. "Do you even know where you just rode into, beautiful? If your horse breaks a leg in the dark, or if I happen to crowd you off the track straight into the cacti... nobody is stopping the race."