Riders block, p.1
Rider's Block, page 1
Rider's Block
Waitlyn Andrews
Copyright © 2024 by Waitlyn Andrews
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [include publisher/author contact info].
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Janna Steagall
First edition 2024
Contents
Dedication
Preface
1. Chapter One
“Even if It Breaks Your Heart,” Eli Young Band
2. Chapter Two
“Dirt,” Florida Georgia Line
3. Chapter Three
“Cowboy Take Me Away,” The Chicks
4. Chapter Four
“Chicken Fried,” Zac Brown Band
5. Chapter Five
"I'm in a Hurry to Get Things Done," Alabama Band
6. Chapter Six
"XX’s and OO’s, (An American Girl)" Trisha Yearwood
7. Chapter Seven
“Barefoot Blue Jean Night,” Jake Owen
8. Chapter Eight
“Blow My Mind,” Big & Rich
9. Chapter Nine
“Spin You Round,” Morgan Wallen
10. Chapter Ten
“Beer Never Broke My Heart,” Luke Combs
11. Chapter Eleven
"Texas Hold ’Em," Beyonce
12. Chapter Twelve
“I Remember Everything,” Kacey Musgraves
13. Chapter Thirteen
"If You’re Going Through Hell," Rodney Atkins
14. Chapter Fourteen
"High Horse," Kacey Musgrave
15. Chapter Fifteen
“American Pie,” Don McLean
16. Chapter Sixteen
“Wide Open Spaces,” The Chicks
17. Chapter Seventeen
“Ready to Run,” The Chicks
18. Chapter Eighteen
“Somebody Like That,” Tenille Arts
19. Chapter Nineteen
“Bye-Bye,” Jo Dee Messina
20. Chapter Twenty
“Raining on Sunday,” Keith Urban
21. Chapter Twenty-One
“Neon Stars,” (cowboy lullaby) Morgan Wallen
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
“Days Go By,” Keith Urban
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
“Stars Like Confetti,” Dustin Lynch
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
“What If,” Kane Brown and Lauren Aliana
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
“Chasin’ You,” Morgan Wallen
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
“I Want Crazy,” Hunter Hayes
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
"I Don't Dance" Lee Brice
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
"Wish You Would," Tyler Hubbard
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
"Meant to Be," Bebe Rexha + Florida Georgia Line
30. Chapter Thirty
"Light On In The Kitchen," Ashley McBryde
31. Chapter Thirty-One
"Tucson Too Late," Jordan Davis
32. Chapter Thirty-Two
"Somethin’ Bad," Carrie Underwood and Miranda Lambert
33. Chapter Thirty-Three
"I'm Gonna Getcha Good," Shania Twain
34. Chapter Thirty-Four
"10,000 Hours," Dan + Shay, Justin Bieber
35. Chapter Thirty-Five
"Eyes On You," Chase Rice
36. Chapter Thirty-Six
"Mercy," Brett Young
37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
"I Told You So," Keith Urban
38. Chapter Thirty-Eight
"Soul," Lee Brice
39. Chapter Thirty-Nine
"Belong Together," Mark Ambor
40. Chapter Forty
"We Should Get Married," Dan + Shay
41. Epilogue
One Year Later
Afterword
Also by Waitlyn Andrews
Dedication
***
I have a few people I want to dedicate this book to, so bear with me.
To my father: The ultimate cowboy who traveled the world to be bigger than his upbringing, but ultimately found his home on a hundred acres with my mom. I grew up knowing him as a city slicker, so it was a wild wake-up call to witness him never miss with a rope.
To my mom: Who wore the red cowboy boots that immediately snagged my father’s heart.
To my uncle: He left this earth too soon, but he’s responsible for teaching the most recent generation of great cowboys. The world misses him, but his legacy is still standing strong.
To my grandfather: Whom I’ve affectionately referred to as the original Marlboro man for as long as I can remember. He was still riding his horse nearing the age of 90, and when people say tough stock, he’s what I think of.
To my grandmother: The East Coast debutante who traded her galas for being the county’s Cattle Queen. She taught me the siren call of The Cowboy can be heard across the country, and that pursuit of a simpler life is never wrong.
To my husband: Who will be wearing a cowboy hat until further notice.
And finally, to all the great country music artists out there. Each chapter has a song that encompasses either a phrase or a vibe to set the scene for the book. The love stories in country music have been a long-time source of inspiration.
Preface
As a self-published author, I take a lot of liberties in my books. I have fewer rules to follow, as they say. Less people vet that what I say.
But in this particular novel the liberty I decided to take—with much research, mind you—is the publishing process. I know my description of some of the elements might be a little off-base to any and all agents, potential publishers, and industry professionals in the space—hi, hello, if that is you, thank you for picking up this book and let’s chat, yeah?—and so I want to be brutally transparent about that.
I also believe in the power of positive thinking and being debt-free (Dave Ramsey person over here, if that is also you, hi, hello) so I wrote my financial goals into this book. But I feel the need to clarify that, as of this moment, as I write this book, the financial position and literary success of Amelia Greene is my goal, my intent, and my attempt at throwing positivity out in the world.
Today, I still have my day job, and while we do follow a well-thought-out budget in our household, it still includes a mortgage. I’ll likely keep my day job until that is no longer the case…but that could, well, that could be a while. But! I’m positive. Our house is hardworking, and if Amelia’s writing journey sounds a little aspirational, that’s because it is. I write a little of myself in each book, and in Amelia’s case, her success is my goal.
But the cowboy part—that is the element I wanted to get right. I grew up cowboy country adjacent. Not truly in the culture, typically a guest, but very observant and eager to hop on the back of a horse. Technically, I was a rodeo sweetheart in my hometown, but as my hometown is also cowboy country adjacent the experience wasn’t as much of a deep dive as my Colorado plains counterparts. Every ranch has their own way of doing things, every rider has something they swear by, so there will always be differences to anyone who’s within the culture and reading about the culture. But the thing I really wanted to get across in this book is a respect for an occupation that redefines stewardship.
Cowboy culture is tough stock. They’re the real deal. Every culture has a glorified version and a realistic version, and because we’ve already established I’m a positive human being who likes to look at the glorified version of everything, I need to go ahead and level-set that not every rancher owns thousands of acres of a well-oiled machine like the family in this book. Not every family gets along so well like the family in this book. Not every snowstorm or tornado results in happy endings like in this book. But that’s the version I chose to talk about. Because while the cowboy culture I grew up with was not that financially glorified, they worked with people who were. And those people were lovely, too. Some might say aspirational.
So, my reader friend, I hope you enjoy planting yourself in a different occupation for a while. A different setting. Full of aspiration. Full of fun, and full of a good time. Happy reading.
xx, Waitlyn
Chapter one
“Even if It Breaks Your Heart,” Eli Young Band
“You’ve never been to Colorado, have you?”
The question comes out in a sigh, as if the last thing in the world my editor wants to do is rock my fragile, fragile ego…but it’s just so bad she has to ask. My book has been denied, again.
“I’ve been to the mountains…” I say, trying to justify that I have, in fact, at least been to the state on a handful of occasions and am not completely inept.
“But you haven’t been to the plains.” It’s a statement, not a question. Sarah, my agent, doesn’t hold back punches…usually. That’s why I trust her. But the way she’s treating me like porcelain doesn’t exactly make me feel all that great.
“Come on, Sarah, just spit it out, it got denied again, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Di d you get any indication as to why it wasn’t believable?”
“They said it was missing your usual…heart…behind it…now before you say—”
I cut her off before she correctly predicts my reaction. “That’s ridiculous—”
“Right…but Amelia, I know you wanted to switch genres and try something new, but this one isn’t sticking, it’s just…not…”
My tenth book is a flop. It’s a flop! An absolute dud. Should have retired after nine but I just couldn’t stop. The pure irony here being that I felt like I put most of my heart into this one. To hear this feedback is like issuing a challenge to me. I will get this one published.
“Alright, I’ll talk to you in a bit when I’ve sorted this out. Thanks, Sarah,” I say with a little more bite than intended.
Denied. By fourteen publishers.
All before I’ve had my morning smoothie to boot. A pure romantic would require I down a cup of black coffee as an author, but I need my leafy greens first thing in the morning and I’ve come to terms with that shift in my life. I still take my coffee black, but not first thing in the morning if I can help it. For “gut health.”
Although sipping my smoothie overlooking the ocean doesn’t have the artistry to it, it does feel SoCal, and if that’s the one cliché I fit in, then I guess I’ll accept it. But even my smoothie can’t calm my stomach right now.
Denied fourteen times.
It’s a relentless chant working its way through my brain as I throw on my running shoes and hit the pavement. Early spring means there’s a chill in the air that coasts along the sea breeze, so I add on a sweatshirt knowing I’ll likely shed it after only a few minutes.
Each step shortens the chant simply to “denied…denied…denied” and I call it quits only after a mile when I come across a familiar lookout point with steps down to the sand.
The beach is already crowded. I love people-watching—occupational hazard, duh. But not today. Today everyone just seems a little too loud, a little too fidgety, a little too much for me and my newly fragile ego. Over the years I’ve hardened my ego to a fine point; you can’t receive one star for “too much cussing” and not develop a colorful opinion of people and harden yourself accordingly.
How such a cynical person could ever be known for romance novels is beyond me, but when I put my head down to write my first book, I emerged two weeks later with almost a hundred thousand words. Apparently I had a story that needed to be told, and it just sort of fell out of me.
Because my day job was in marketing I knew I couldn’t just throw a book to the wind and hope to the literary gods that it would do well. I made a plan. I started marketing months in advance and by the time I was ready for release I moved up the ranks to a bestseller list. It was an encouraging enough process that I kept repeating it. A year after releasing my fifth book, I’d accomplished all of my financial goals and thought I could keep writing for fun. For fun.
I thought it’d relieve the pressure so I could really write about what I wanted. I thought it’d give me room to really spend time to massage out a book that actually felt like it meant something.
I thought it’d make my creativity open up now that I was as financially secure as I could ever hope for.
I thought it was time for me to add in some suspense. Some action! Some real meat on the bones.
But nope. I’ve been pinned. I could always write under a pen name, but by now the publishers have already seen the manuscript.
Fuck.
Wave after wave works its way up to high tide and before I know it hours have passed and my stomach is grumbling again, mad at me for neglecting it for so long. I got stuck in my head, sifting through possibilities of what I can do to add more heart to the story. And yeah, I sneer thinking about it.
Stopping at my favorite sandwich shop on the walk back to my house doesn’t do anything to ease my mind. Not even my favorite sprouts sandwich can soften the sting today. I walk up to order, and it’s a gangly teenage duo behind the counter. I pause before trying to get their attention. They’re being cute, and the detail collector in me is watching how they subtly try to hide how much they’re flirting. They can’t be more than seventeen, just discovering what to do with developing surges of romantic affection.
He makes a joke, she turns the other way to hide her laugh, but that just eggs him on and he keeps talking. Rambling, actually. It’s adorable, I’m rooting for him myself. Internally, obviously.
By the time they realize I’m standing there, their cheeks flush so red they look sunburned.
“Oh, hi,” the girl awkwardly gets out while the guy skirts back to the kitchen. “Sorry about that, what can I do for you?”
I smile my biggest it’s no big deal smile. “Can I get the turkey club with extra sprouts on wheat bread?”
“Sure thing!” The pep is back in her step in no time. I envy that.
How simple life seems when you set out to do the tangible job in front of you. My work is all stuck in my stupid head, and not being able to escape it sometimes drives me a little nuts.
With my sandwich in hand I head back to my tiny beach cottage. Nothing fancy, nothing huge, but it’s all mine. And I mean that so literally I momentarily let my heart swell with a tiny bit of pride at the thought of it. Paying for this place in cash was the most lucrative part of my career, but I’ve seen too many times what can happen to someone in a heartbeat, so even though the bank could loan me a lot of money, I didn’t want debt stress in my life.
So this house is all mine in every way, with no strings attached—except when the government comes to tax me on it, but there’s no escaping that, sadly.
Walking through the front yard’s overgrown garden I desperately try, but fail, to maintain, I keep eye contact on my sunshine-yellow door in hopes that it will distract me from my to-do list that’s starting to pile up. I make it all of three steps in when my hooligan of a cat trips up my legs and nearly sends me flying.
“Not the time, Chester,” I say, looking into those big black dilated eyes. He looks at me like that when he wants to eat my ankles, and I need him to know I’ll accidentally, lovingly, fling him across the room if I feel those tiny teeth sink into my Achilles again.
But he keeps looking up at me. And dammit, I love this thing.
“Alright, no bites, but want some food?” His affirming meow trails off as he beelines it to the kitchen.
The house is small by American standards, but average in California. I have to navigate around several stacks of books on my way to the kitchen, but those stacks are intentional and decorative, thank you very little.
Chester is sitting by his cabinet like a little angel baby trying to show off his best behavior. “See?” his eyes are saying to me. “No need to bite, just pass over the food, woman.”
I do as he nonverbally commands and he pounces on the can in seconds. As if I never feed him. As if he didn’t just have a can two hours ago. Is he starting to get a little fat? Yeah. Yeah, he is. Really fat. But I love fat cats, and I can afford to feed him accordingly, so fat and happy he’s going to be. But, like, a healthy fat. Fluffy, some might say. Full of nutrients.
As I eat my sandwich on the patio, my mind drifts back to the book…but not before I hear the shrill ringtone of the one person who has a special ringtone in my phone, and I sprint back inside to grab it before I miss it. I catch it with seconds to spare before sliding it open and breathing out, “Hi, Mom!”
