Chapter 7
Maggie
Oh, lucky me.
Fuck my damn luck.
Why couldn’t the fancy black pickup stop? Did it have to be Hadley?
Internalizing a groan, I fold my arms over my chest as Hadley Jones kills his engine and pushes out of the driver’s door of his older model two-toned Chevy. For some reason it looks familiar?
He adjusts his cap on his head, and I have to drop my focus to the ground.
No . . . way.
He’s a bad-tempered loser.
I can’t stand him, and he makes it very clear I’m not allowed anywhere near his chute. Or his personal space, to be more specific.
“Maggie?” He closes in, looking at the back of my van, currently open as steam hisses and spins from its overheated ancient engine space.
“I’m fine. Hop back in your truck, Jones.”
“Seriously?”
Now his gaze meets mine.
I shove my hands in my back pockets, thanking my lucky stars I wore jeans and a long shirt today. Because standing on the side of the road broken down in a skirt would have been humiliating, to say the least. More so since he was the one to pull over and check on me.
“Yup, I’m good. She overheated. I’ll wait her out.”
“If you say so.” The words are short and harsh. Instead of getting back in his truck and getting the hell out of my little patch of side of the road, he stands there, those brown eyes swinging from me to the overheated engine. “Yeah, but—”
“Nope. I’ll wait for the next redneck to pull over, thanks.”
His brows drop. “Suit yourself.”
He turns on his heel and climbs on up into his truck, firing it up. He backs up a little before indicating to merge. His hand hovers over the gear shift stick as his stare burns into me. With a subtle shake of his head, he slides the pickup into gear and rolls back onto the highway.
His gaze doesn’t leave me as he drives past, not gaining speed. Something like confusion and frustration tangle through his expression. He rubs his jaw as he passes the van, and I swear I hear him growl. He drives on, slowly picking up pace.
As his truck shrinks along the highway, I sigh. I mean, I do have to wait for Betsy to cool down, and company would have been nice. Who knows who else is going to come roaring down this old highway?
Shit. I shouldn’t have been such a bitch. That’s the first civil interaction we’ve had after trying our best to stay out of each other’s way since my first event.
It’s only now I realize why his truck felt familiar. It was parked by the old oak tree on that first night. He was the guy sleeping in his truck.
Oh.
Ohhhh . . .
My attention shifts to the stretch of highway he just disappeared down.
Nope, this changes nothing.
Not a thing.
He’s still an ass. He’s still making my job harder.
When the hissing stops, I pour the last of my water on Betsy’s overheated parts. Poor old girl, she was trying to tell me. The distinct tang of oil had flooded the living compartment, wafting into the front cab at least twenty minutes before she spluttered out.
The hiss returns as the cool water bubbles, boils, and evaporates, ultimately helping to cool her down.
She’ll take at least another half hour to be ready to go.
So I go back to my perch on the side step.
Grabbing my camera, I power it up and flick through the images I’ve taken over the last few weeks.
Some great shots. Some behind-the-chutes images. Some action shots.
I wonder if the riders would want copies of these?
I could use the extra income . . .
I set a timer on my phone for thirty minutes, and between snacking and sorting through my photo gallery, the time vanishes quickly.
I pack up the camera and slide the side door shut before closing Betsy’s engine cover. It’s still pretty hot to the touch, and I beg her to behave and hold out so we can make Taber before nightfall.
The last thing I need is to break down again and be stuck on the side of the road overnight. With another silent plea to my old girl and traveling companion, I turn the key in the ignition.
She falters but starts, and I kiss the steering wheel.
“You can rest for two whole days when we get there, Bets, promise.”
Shifting her into gear, I indicate and turn onto the highway.
Taber rodeo, here we come.
The rodeo grounds are packed when Betsy and I finally make it. Taking it a little slower than usual, I send her across the grassy area by the back of the arena and find one of the last good spots under a weeping willow-type tree.
It’s only after I kill the engine and push from the van that I see the two-toned Chevy the next tree down. A little further away than last time, but still too close for my liking.
The rodeo has started, and . . . I’m late.
I grab up my camera bag and run for the small white building behind the arena which I assume is the office. I need to sign in and pick up my press pass. Safety is paramount at these events and that includes having everyone accounted for at all times.
I burst through the door to find a young girl and an older woman who are definitely mother and daughter sitting at a table covered in papers and such.
“Maggie Gallagher, photographer. So sorry I’m late!” I slide to a halt by their table.
The older woman slides her glasses down her nose. “Yes, you are. Another two minutes and Levi was sending someone back down the highway to go find you. Better run over there quick smart, young lady, so he knows you’re here.”
What? How would Levi know I was stran—
She hands me the press pass, and I throw it around my neck, tugging it down. I’m already over the threshold as I yell over my shoulder, “Thank you!”
I leg it to the arena, weaving my way through cowboys, and slow when I get to a lineup of horses and their cowgirls waiting for their run at the barrels.
I should take that shot one day. From behind, rumps in line, waiting on their fastest time . . .
I can’t help the smile blooming over my face as I make it past the horses and rodeo folk milling about, getting things in order for each event, and I reach the chutes.
Levi stands in the center of a crowd of cowboys with their heads down.
It looks like they’re praying, but I can hear him preaching.
The pre-ride pep talk.
The teams have most likely already had one from their coaches. This is mostly for the guys who didn’t make the draft.
My gaze snags on a black hat still tilted down. His wide footed stance, hands clasped together in front of him. No sponsorship logos on his shirt like the majority of the other riders.
Jones.
I would feel bad for the guy, but since he’s a horse’s ass—literally—I do not.
The second the thought registers, a tiny pang of guilt nips at my stomach. He did pull over for me earlier . . .
He also won’t let me do my job and take his picture. Not to mention the first interaction we had after the flash incident.
I shake my head, dislodging the memories annoying me more than they should.
The preaching has stopped. Somehow, I don’t remember when, I took to standing with my hands clasped like the cowboys.
A fresh wave of heat flushes my face, no doubt seeing it turn crimson as I look up to see every single one of them staring at me.
“S-sorry, am I-I in the wrong place again?” I stutter.
A stone grows in my throat, when their faces don’t change, their gazes not moving from my own.
Levi chuckles. “I said, glad you could finally join us, Maggie.”
“Oh,” I utter. “Thank you?”
Some of the cowboys scoff a laugh, their gazes dropping to the dirt.
Kade Knox is smirking at me, which burns a hole right through me. Jones . . . is staring at me, his jaw pulsing as he pulls his Tiffany glove onto one hand. His left hand, meaning he’s right-handed. I’m slowly picking up the little details.
“Sorry I’m late . . .” I offer to Levi but he waves me away, turning back to the cowboys as they wander to the rails, stretching, wrapping, and strapping and going through their pre-ride rituals.
Walking through the long narrow space behind the chutes, I snap images of bull riders in their natural habitat. I mutter to myself in my best David Attenborough voice, “And here, the males in their natural habitat. Preening before the mating ritual of the bull ride.” I scoff through a quiet laugh.
Brady gives me a sideways look and a raised eyebrow as he places a foot on the rail and straps something like duct tape around his ankle.
With his hat down and his body bent at forty-five degrees, he looks like he’s in the throes of worship to this thing called rodeo. Dialing up the ISO, I snap the picture.
No flash.
I double-check it on the view screen. Perfect.
As I look back up, a black hat on a fully vested cowboy scowls down at me. “Hope you’re not taking favorites with those shots.”
Kade.
I want to sigh so badly right now.
“I don’t have favorites, Knox. You all annoy me equally.”
“Sponsorships ride on press time and exposure. Those shots have to be doled out fairly. If not . . . Well, I guess I’ll have to report to Levi about you and Jones.”
I do it. A sigh rips through my throat sounding more like a groan. “God, you are so far off the map.”
He steps closer still. “You mean to tell me the little damsel-in-distress move back down Highway 2A was legit?” He raises an eyebrow before his dark eyes narrow beadily.
“I was taking a rest break. Back the fuck up.” The words come out louder than I intended and heads pop up, gazes shooting my direction instantly.
“Knox. Draw time.” Levi stands, arms crossed, by the first chute.
The man misses nothing. Tonight, he has an earpiece and a wire. A little more sophisticated than the last few events. I look around Knox, purposely ignoring him, and find the crowd is much larger. Like twice the size.
A pair of older men in Stetsons and Wranglers hover by the holding pen discussing something intently.
“What’s going on tonight?” I ask.
Knox simply huffs a sound and walks back to the rails.
A swish of tattered denim comes to a halt beside me.
A white-painted face and overdrawn creepy smile fills my focus as a rodeo clown adjusts his hat and runs his thumbs up and down his neon braces that I doubt are actually holding his clown skirt up.
“Team scouts are out again. Apparently a few teams are short after injuries. Maybe our boy Jonesy stands a chance tonight.”
He beams down at me, looking utterly ridiculous in his bullfighter costume. It takes a while for his words to sink in.
“Maggie, right?” He holds out a hand.
“Logan?” I think that’s what I heard the other cowboys call him.
“Yep. Layla’s much better looking twin.”
“Oh, is she here?” I look around like an idiot as if she’d be behind the arena, too. Of course I do. How many times can I screw this up?
“Actually, she just rode. Barrels. I’ll introduce you. The circuit can be lonely all by yourself.”
“Oh, I—”
“It’s no hassle. Besides, this lot are more inclined to want into your bed than your good graces.”
At this point, my cheeks are down to ashes. So when the telltale heat of a blush hits for the third time in twenty minutes, I ignore it.
Cowboys mull about Levi and his clipboard, the draft for who gets what bull becoming a heated discussion.
Logan playfully punches my shoulder and finds a clear patch of dirt to start stretching. I snap a few of him lunging and star-jumping. He’s nimble and uber fit, by the looks of it. God knows he needs to be, putting himself in front of a runaway freight train for a living.
Man must be madder than the fools topside of said raging freight trains, if you ask me.
There are so many ways this can go wrong.
One mistake. One fumbled footfall. One second of not paying attention can cost you everything with bull riding.
At least, that’s what it cost Mom and me.