Homebound

1. The Cowboy Killer

1

THE COWBOY KILLER

WYATT

“ S he’s gonna have to ride ’em hard,” a cowboy drawls in the rodeo stands.

My eyes slide to the two guys next to me. One has a giant mustache, and the other has one of those old Western bolo ties around his neck. They blend into the crowd with their Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and felt Stetson hats.

Actually, who in their right mind wears a felt cowboy hat in the middle of a Texas summer?

That’s like putting a coat on your head in a dry sauna. They’re sweating more than me, and I have to tie back my hair at the nape of my neck because I’m sweating my ass off.

But I’m sweating for an entirely different reason—nerves, not heat.

I shift my gaze to the arena, where cowboys kick up dust, getting ready for the bull riding. It’s the main event everyone gears up for at the small-town rodeo, and it’s the reason I’m scooting forward on the edge of these bleachers with my eyes glued to the chute, watching, searching for her.

The same her I haven’t stopped thinking about since I left this town three years ago, with my heart all kinds of black and blue. I didn’t expect my chest to hurt this much coming back to Granite Falls, but I can’t stop googling heart attack symptoms, which isn’t all that surprising.

I google everything now that I’m a dad.

“There’s no way she can stay on that bull for all eight seconds,” the mustached cowboy next to me grunts. “She’s been practicing on easier ones, and this one’s aggressive as all get out.”

His friend shrugs. “She’s only got to make it six seconds since she’s in the Women’s Bull Riding League.”

“Yeah, but I hear our little cowboy killer’s been trying to stay on for all eight since she’s gunning for the Pbr draft,” he says.

The Cowboy Killer.

I go rigid at the nickname, scooting closer on the bleachers to hear more of their conversation. The guy sips his beer, curling a lip. “Bet she doesn’t last four seconds on the back of that bull.”

Asshole.

“Bet she only makes it two,” the other one quips.

Make that two assholes.

I pull out a crinkled twenty, giving them my fiercest glare for betting against her. I’d bet my entire wallet on that woman. She saved my life all those years ago, so I owe her everything. “Twenty says she makes it all eight seconds on the back of that bull and then some.”

The cowboys scan my white T-shirt, their gazes fixating on the smashed pea stain left by my daughter, Vienna, this morning. I won’t sugarcoat it... I look like I puked on myself.

Fun times.

Thanks to my twelve-month-old baby girl, my laundry bill is through the roof, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Puke-green pea stains and all. She’s my mini-me—dirty-blond waves, big green eyes, and my cleft chin (or “chin butt,” as both my moms like to call it).

The cowboy with the Western bolo tie nods his hat to me. “I take it you’re a fan of our cowboy killer if you’re willing to go all in on a bet?”

“You could say that,” I huff out.

You could also say that I’ve been obsessed with that woman since I was eight, but I’m not about to get into a pissing contest with these guys. I might play for the NHL, but I’m a lover, not a fighter.

“So, how do y’all know her?” I drawl, aiming for casual and coming up short. My accent always thickens when I come back home.

They smirk at each other.

The guy strokes his mustache. “Our cowboy killer’s got a bit of a… reputation ’round here in Granite Falls.”

I narrow my eyes. He better not be insinuating what I think he is. “For being one of the best bull riders in the state of Texas?”

That damn well better be what he means.

“Nah, she’s been having some trouble staying on lately, so it’s not that…” The cowboy’s smirk deepens.

I don’t like that smug look. Not one bit, and I can already tell I’m going to hate whatever comes out of his mouth.

“It’s for riding cowboys as hard as she rides bulls.” He chortles, his mustache twitching.

It’s the gut punch I was waiting for, but at least that’s something that hasn’t changed. She always had a boy following her around every summer I came back to Texas. I’d give almost anything to be one of those men lucky enough to be with her now.

If she’s still breaking hearts, I’ll gladly hand her mine.

The other cowboy slaps his knee. “She’ll kill you, wreck you up nice and good if you’re not careful, but it’ll be a hell of a way to go. Didn’t you hear what she did to Boone? Poor guy.”

I tense up. Boone Bowman. There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while, and one I’d be happy to never hear again .

“I’d be careful how you speak about her if I were you,” I grit out.

As much as I want to tell these guys off, I grind my teeth so I don’t let any choice words slip out. My baby girl is a little sponge, soaking up every word I say.

I try to limit the cursing, even when she’s not around. Not that I mind a woman who curses. In fact, I like a woman with a dirty mouth. But I don’t want all the parents in daycare side-eyeing me if my daughter goes around squealing fuck.

So unfortunately, that means I can’t say what I’m thinking—and what I’m thinking is that these guys playing cowboy dress-up need a weeklong seminar on how to respect a woman.

The mustache guy slides his gaze to me. “Let me guess… You’ve been wrecked by her too?”

My fists clench, but I stay silent out of respect for her. These small towns and their gossip. It’s not the gray-haired ladies that keep the rumor mills churning; it’s the rowdy cowboys who can’t keep their mouths shut.

The only way to keep a secret in a small town is to tell it to your dog.

They continue talking while my grip tightens and tightens on my knees. Jealousy rips through me the more I hear about all the cowboys she’s apparently wrecked , but I’ve been stuck in the friend zone for over a decade, so I’m used to the feeling. I spent all my summers watching every boy in this town fall at her boots.

Everyone wanted her. But me, I was desperate for her—still am.

Every summer I came back to Texas, she always had some new guy wrapped around her finger, and I was always, without fail, the giant third wheel.

I thought getting my braces off would change things.

I thought having my acne clear up would make her see me differently .

I thought she’d finally notice me after I packed on twenty pounds of pure, solid muscle.

But I’d thought wrong.

So damn wrong.

I blame it on the fact that she’s two years older than me, which in the big scheme of life is nothing, but when you’re fifteen and she’s seventeen? It feels massive.

Not so massive now that I’m twenty-six and she’s twenty-eight, though.

Growing up, she never saw me as anything more than the little boy next door, and for a while that was enough. My parents’ flower farm bordered her family’s property. So every summer, I’d sprint off the airplane and run straight into her waiting arms.

That was our routine.

I’d run, and she’d catch me, but as we got older, things changed. Reversed.

My voice dropped.

She got… curvier.

Soon enough, she was the one jumping into my arms, and I was always there to swing her around, feet dangling, foreheads bumping.

Until I wasn’t.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer shouts.

Cowboy hats rustle in the dusty arena, and I wipe the sweat dripping down my neck. I really should cut my hair, but she always seemed to like it longer.

“Turn your heads to the chute ’cause you’re gonna want to watch this next ride,” he booms. “She’s known for that famous scowl, and tonight, she’s taking on Hammer, a beast that’s thrown off every rider daring enough to face him. You don’t want to mess with her, folks!”

I scan the arena, searching, searching, searching for her.

My eyes dart frantically through the dusty haze carrying the tang of manure on the hot breeze. It’s been over three years since I last looked into her beautiful honey eyes, but I can’t find her. Where is she? Suddenly, I spot her standing by the metal chutes.

My stomach nosedives.

She’s not looking at me, but I’m looking at her, and she’s... Well, she’s magnificent. There’s really no other word for it.

She’s standing there in all her rugged glory with that same fierce determination straightening her shoulders. Bull riders tend to be anywhere from five-foot-five to five-foot-ten, so at five-foot-seven, she’s a good eight inches shorter than me, but she carries herself like she’s the tallest person on the planet.

Those full, perfect lips I’ve only imagined kissing a million times are set in her permanent scowl, but I know exactly where to tickle her to make those dimples appear—the back of her knees and, weirdly enough, her elbows.

Her wavy brown hair is tied back in a braid beneath her straw cowgirl hat, and she’s clad in her patched riding jacket and fringe chaps that hug every curve—and damn, there are a lot of them now.

Way more than she had three years ago.

My mouth goes dry at the thought of dragging my hands along the slopes of her thick, muscular body. I’ve spent too much of my life imagining doing just that.

And those freckles I know are on the bridge of her nose? A man can only handle so much.

She radiates this aura that commands attention, and not because she’s breathtaking, even though she's always been that—beautiful, stunning, gorgeous—pick your adjective.

They all fit her.

It’s her scowl that always teeters on the edge of a smirk as if she couldn’t care less about anyone’s opinion of her, which she doesn’t.

My chest throbs with a painful intensity as she prepares to climb onto the back of a raging two-thousand-pound bull. She’s fearless, and if my baby girl grows up to be just as bold, I’ll have done something right.

The bull thrashes in the chute, and I hold my breath as I watch her strut up to the metal corral. After all these years, it never gets easier watching her face off against a bull, and as much as it scares the hell out of me, I can never look away. She’s risking her life, so she deserves every ounce of my attention.

“Get ready,” the guy says next to me, nudging his friend. “This one’s gonna be a wild ride.”

“Yeah,” the other cowboy comments. “All two seconds of it, since she can’t manage to hang on.”

“Eight seconds,” I grunt, tossing them another glower for good measure. “All she has to do is stay on the bull for eight seconds. She’s got this.”

I repeat the phrase like a prayer and lift the mood ring dangling from the chain around my neck. Kissing the metal, I remember the day I got down on one knee and asked her to marry me. I was eight, and she said no because she wasn’t ready to get married, but I promised to keep the ring until she was, and keep it I did—for sixteen years.

Looking at her now, I realize those feelings have never gone away. I tried all kinds of vices to get her off my mind after I left.

Whiskey. Weed. Women.

They all got me in trouble, but that last one got me my daughter, so I’ll never regret that choice.

But none of them worked.

Because I’ve always been hers... but she’s never been mine.

“Alright, y’all!” the announcer’s voice slashes through my memories. “Let’s bring out our next rider! She’s bold. She’s mean, and she’s got one hell of a scowl. Give it up for Kodie Cutler, the Cowboy Killer!”

The crowd erupts in cheers.

She might be Kodie Cutler to everyone else, but to me, she’ll always be my Dakota.