Chapter 9
Maggie
My inbox is crowded with requests from the Pbr, deadlines for each event that have only now come through. They’re either highly unorganized or my patchy internet service on the road is turning out to be a bigger problem than I thought.
Country music thumps away outside my van. The after-party is in full swing with one of the largest crowds I’ve seen so far this year.
Me? I’ll be here, editing and sorting images to the early hours of the morning now that I have multiple missed deadlines.
I should have cottoned on when I didn’t hear anything from the Pbr for the first month of the circuit.
They have been paying me consistently, so it figures they have been wanting their images.
God, I feel terrible.
An ache in my gut sends a vicious snaking sensation through my limbs. If I’m going to sort through all these images by location and event, then cowboy, I’m going to need a barrel of coffee.
Resigned to a long night, I throw on a coat and slide the van door open. I sit on the step and pull on my boots. Past the tree, the interior to Hadley’s Chevy is lit up. Probably getting his tip wet with some buckle bunny.
The thought wedges in my brain like a splinter under a fingernail.
I weave through the crowd until I come to the bar.
A few of the faces sitting here have become familiar, but many are locals enjoying the rodeo that’s come to town.
Like a dangerous, ferocious circus. Hell, we even have our own clowns in the bullfighters.
At the end of the day, it’s income for the cowboys.
Entertainment and revenue for the local folks.
There are worse communities to be a part of. But that brings me back to the one thing that ties me to rodeo that I wish didn’t. Evan Gallagher. Rodeo star. Reluctant father.
Deceased, leaving behind his wife and daughter to fend for themselves.
“Can I help you, hon?” A voice pulls me from my bleak reverie.
“Um, coffee, please.”
“Small or large? That’s all we got.”
“Two large, please.”
She raises a brow at me but turns back to fill two oversized foam cups with the steaming dark liquid. She pops a top on each and slides them over the bar to me. “Ten dollars, hon.”
A small EFTPOS machine appears in her hand, and I pull my wallet from my back pocket and tap my card. “Thanks.”
A curious expression drops over her face before she smiles. “Enjoy your long night.”
“Thanks again.”
Weaving my way back through the crowd, clutching my precious caffeine to my chest, I make it safely to the other side of the partygoers and round the truck hosting the band.
A dark figure leans on the back of the semi. His black hat down, fingers prized over a strand of grass between his teeth.
Original. I roll my eyes.
I’m not sure, but I’m guessing it’s Jones. Probably dropped off his one-night stand and here to find another.
I duck my head and pick up my pace, not wanting to waste a moment on someone who doesn’t want my help. Lord knows he needs it . . .
“Looks like you’ve got nothing but time on your hands, baby.”
The voice is all wrong.
It takes me a moment to place it.
Knox.
Shit.
He straightens and pushes off the semi and closes in. His phone lights up and he glances at the message, sadness tugging at his features before he schools it back.
I don’t stop, but he’s too quick, blocking my path as he grips his phone and clicks the screen off. “What’s the hurry, Maggie?”
His gaze travels up and down my body.
Heat flushes my skin, and not in a good way.
“Get out of my way,” I hiss.
He chuckles.
“You’re all set for company in that tiny little van of yours. Hell, I could take the edge off after tonight.”
I huff a rough sound. “Yeah, must be so awful winning every single weekend.”
The smile gracing his face almost makes him look handsome.
He shifts closer. “Come on, Mags, no strings. Just some fun.”
Urgh, the way I loathe this whole conversation. “No thanks.”
I mean, it has been a while, but no, not with him.
“Night, Knox,” I say as calmly as I can, stepping around him.
I make it two steps before his hand wraps around my biceps. I stop dead in my tracks. Tempted to toss my steaming coffee at him, I resist . . . just.
“You know I can make you feel good, ba—”
“Take your fucking hand off her.” The low growl lacing the words sends a shiver through me. I snap my head up to find the source—Hadley stalking toward us, hands curled to fists.
Behind him is Brady, who folds his arms over his chest as Hadley closes in on Knox. It’s now I realize Knox smells like alcohol. He’s probably just drunk. He sways as he steps into Hadley’s space. His phone drops from his hand, the screen lit up with his call list.
The last call he made was to someone called “Joshie Boy.”
I tug my arm free. Glancing back between the two of them, I raise a hand. “It’s fine. Everybody just calm the hell down. Night, Brady.”
I walk past the three cowboys and head for Betsy.
A yawn slips out as I slide her door open. Glad I didn’t toss my coffee at Knox for multiple reasons, I set the cups down on the small table inside and slide the door shut. I’ve been in worse pickles than a drunken cowboy with questionable intentions.
Interesting the way Hadley took it upon himself to intervene.
Logan’s been busy telling me the backstories of every cowboy on the circuit, and so far, I know Hadley Jones is big brother to three sisters. So it figures, I guess. Probably second nature to him by now.
Logan seems to know more about the rest of the circuit than everyone else put together. As much as it pains me to say, this crew is starting to grow on me.
A sentiment I never thought I’d ever entertain.
After the things I’ve seen and the history with my dad, my perception of these men was not great to start with.
Putting your neck on the line for money, for sport .
. . It’s a waste of life. A slap to the face of all the people in our world struggling to survive, when these cowboys put themselves in danger on purpose, for money.
For . . . glory.
For fun.
Heat rises in my chest.
My eyes flutter shut. I’m here to do a job. Not to judge or pick a side.
Besides, I’m starting to see the value. As Cap used to say.
With that morbid thought, I reset my attention to my laptop and the thousands of photos I need to sort, cull, edit, and categorize per event.
I sip the first coffee and get to work.
“One minute, Gallagher,” a voice drawls. In the smoky darkness, a twisted face stares at me. The disgust, the pure hatred in their gaze chokes out my last breath.
I spin, but run face-first into cold, hard metal.
Shit.
The walls start closing in around me. The face, now inches from mine, snarls. “One minute . . . Now you know the value.”
Staggering backward, my foot hits something solid. Something like a limb.
I snap my eyes down.
A khaki-covered leg lies on the ground, severed from its body.
A soundless scream rips through my throat.
A hand closes over my mouth.
The ground shakes.
I can’t move—
“Maggie!”
I thrash against the restraints that have suddenly appeared.
“. . . Wake up, Maggie.” The gruff voice tugs me upward.
I jerk up off the bed, hands grappling at my chest.
I can’t breathe.
“You good?” Hadley dips his chin.
I blink.
How the—
“Ho-how did you get in here?” I choke.
“The door was unlocked.” His gaze sweeps over my bed covered in papers. My laptop has fallen from my lap to the side of the bed, and two empty coffee cups sit on the small table.
“I-I fell asleep . . .”
Hadley runs a hand through his hair, and it’s then I realize he’s not wearing a shirt. His face drops into a frown. “You have nightmares often?”
“Sometimes. Occupational hazard,” I utter.
“How so?” His face twists as it tilts.
“You want me to explain the effects of PTSD to you at”—I tap my phone to check the time—“three twelve in the morning?”
He clears his throat. “Guess not.”
“I’m fine. You can go back to your truck, Jones.”
But he hesitates.
So I give him a reassuring smile, tugging the blanket around my shoulders before removing the laptop from my bed and tidying up the papers into a stack and placing them on the small table with the computer.
Hadley steps out of the van but turns back to say something, tapping the side of the Betsy with a hand. With a shake of his head, he moves to leave.
“Hadley.”
He spins back. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He gives me a curt nod and wanders back to his truck. Still shirtless. Still a bull rider.
It hits me the second I get up to close the van door . . . that was almost friendly? And was he . . . concerned?
Color me surprised.
Another four hours later I’m up and dressed and packing up the van, ready to move to the next event two towns over. I don’t know how these cowboys do this year in and year out. The suitcase lifestyle is not my favorite thing.
A knock comes on the van door as I’m storing away my work stuff under the small bunk bed. The door is open, so I spin around and find Hadley standing a few feet away, two coffees in his hands.
Climbing down the two steps to the ground, I wrap my cardigan around my shoulders and offer him a warm smile. “Morning.”
“Coffee. Thought you’d need it.”
He hands me a large to-go cup. I take it, my fingers brushing over his.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
He shifts on his feet, not saying anything for a beat, before, “Can I ask you a question?” He tilts his head to one side, studying my response.
“Depends what it is.” I scrunch my nose up before taking a sip.
The coffee is hot and bitter. The way I like it.
“How do you get PTSD from being a photographer?”
“That keep you up all night, did it?” I say with a chuckle.
At least I wasn’t the only one who got little-to-no sleep.
“Maybe.” He sips his coffee.
“I don’t think we have that kind of relationship yet, Jones.”
He smiles now, a wide, happy grin. Which sends my head reeling. How does that make him happy?
He must read the confusion on my face because he repeats, “Yet.”
“Ah,” I breathe. I’d take it back but the way he’s looking at me is . . .
Intense.
“Hads!” Brady comes barreling across the grounds, his collar up on his jacket, flinging his keys around his forefinger. “You want to carpool this time?”
Hadley glances at me then turns toward Brady. “Nah, bud. I’m good. My old truck never lets me down.”
“That—” Brady starts.
“I’m good, Fawkner. See you there.”
Brady ducks his head, but a grin pokes out. “Sure thing. Try not to be too late, hey?”
The comradery is really something between these two. I sip my coffee, and Hadley turns back. “Guess I’ll see you there.”
He tips his hat. Literally.
I will never get used to the old-school ways these cowboys have instilled in them.
I finish packing up and climb into the driver’s seat twenty minutes later. I fire up Betsy as Hadley is rolling up his bedding. I sit while she idles, winding the windows down and letting her warm up a little before heading for the gate.
On my way out, I see Hadley climb into his truck. Closing a hand over the wheel, he moves as if turning the ignition. The truck barely rumbles before spluttering out altogether.