3. Charlotte
3
CHARLOTTE
JONESBORO, ARKANSAS — APRIL
I put Rooney’s saddle inside the back end of my trailer, pulling a brush from the sideboard. The horse box is small, but we both manage to fit. With long strokes, I follow the grain of his coat, chasing it with a gentle hand.
“You did so good,” I coo. He’s got his head in a bucket of oats, undoubtedly searching out the peppermints I hid as a post-race treat. “My best boy.”
We won. Even with our pre-race routine destroyed by riding recovery and the slight pull in my shoulder from hefting a six-foot idiot off the ground, we ran a good race. No, a great race. Having the money from tonight will be a nice addition to my savings, and it’ll get us ready for the next rodeo in Kansas City in two weeks.
As I brush Rooney, giving him extra pets and attention, I let my mind wander to the events of the bronc competition and Wilder McCoy.
The cowboy is good. He rides well with good form and enough flare to keep the judges happy. Drawing Happy Trails as a horse tonight only helped his score, considering half of it comes from her performance, too. She was spitting mad, twisting and kicking in the way the judges like in order to give her high marks, and just the way the competitors like that makes them feel invincible.
Which is exactly what Wilder must have thought he was to choose to ride with a loose mount. I don’t think he realized I knew that the handle wasn’t where it was supposed to be or the way he struggled to get his hand out of the grip.
“Death wish or dumb asshole,” I grumble to myself as I finish up with the brush, checking the oats bucket. Empty. Rooney lifts his head, his velvet lips brushing together in satisfaction as he looks at me. I don’t like how my horse can see through me.
Yes, Wilder McCoy is borderline crazy for the decisions he made tonight. But, he also is ridiculously handsome, and for a split second, just before he opened his mouth, it was nice to have his attention locked on me instead of his adoring fans. Rooney lets out a little breath, in commiseration or understanding, I’m not sure. Resetting my shoulders in resignation to ignore the flutters I begrudgingly admit to having, I take hold of his head collar, bringing my forehead to his broad nose. “Stupid cowboys.”
“That’s not exactly fair. You don’t know all of us, especially me. I was the salutatorian of my high school class.”
There’s a lightness in the voice coming from the window above my head. I look outside to find Wilder leaning against the side of Rooney’s trailer. I lift an eyebrow at him, no clue why he’s standing there. His face breaks with the force of his smile: all straight, white teeth and charm. I narrow my eyes, ignoring the swoop that flies through my stomach at how handsome he is.
“Salutatorian?” I ask in disbelief. I run a hand along Rooney’s side as I walk out the open back door, always letting him know where I am. He likes that. Once outside, I swing the heavy door closed, securing it. As I slide the bolt in place, Wilder comes around the side to stand in front of me.
“Well, it was a small class, I’ll give you that.” He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops. I lean against the door, letting this man dig his way through a conversation I’m not contributing to. He waits. I cross my arms across my chest. “All right. I was homeschooled, and my only other classmate was my cousin. Who’s four years younger than me.”
“Uh-huh.” I push off the back of Rooney’s trailer, turning for the door to my own quarters, which is halfway up the opposite side Wilder appeared on. I pull one arm across my chest, stretching it as I walk.
“You all right?” His voice follows me, and I roll my eyes. He’s not going away, then.
“I hauled some stupid cowboy off the dirt tonight. He was near death, and his grip was shit. I’ll be fine,” I throw over my shoulder as I aim for the tiny steps to my rig.
“Hey.” Wilder’s hand catches my opposite elbow so gently it stops me in my tracks. He turns me back to him, concern etched on his face. I take a beat to look at him. He really does have a beautiful face: clean-cut jaw, startling blue eyes, and full lips. There’s a near frown painting them and a little crease between his brows. All the casually cocky charm has vanished, leaving a man who’s trying his best to be sincere. “I just—well, thanks for that.”
“Wow,” I say, extracting myself from his hold. “That was almost more painful than the pulled muscle. ‘Thanks for that?’ You been working on that long?”
His mouth twists up in a half smile. It’s the first smile I’ve seen from him all night that looks genuine. Given freely like he can’t help himself, not because he thinks it’s what people want from him. It completely transforms him, and I stare in wonder as his shoulders relax and he pulls his hat from his head. His hair, the color of autumn wheat this close, spills from its confines, longer than most cowboys keep it, loose and luscious as it settles across his forehead. He holds his hat, turning the brim as a breathy half chuckle parts his lips. He chases it with a quick swipe of his tongue.
“Damn, Charlie, you’re busting my balls.” He looks at me, humor crinkling the skin around his eyes, but there’s honesty in the easy way he offers his hands up in supplication. “Thank you for getting me out of there tonight. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I answer, then poke a finger at his chest. “Don’t call me ‘Charlie.’”
I don’t actually hate the nickname, and the stupid hormonal part of my brain that likes to remind me it feels good to be paid attention to is practically preening under Wilder’s attention. His aw-shucks, sweet country-boy behavior tickles all the right parts of me, and I hate it. I don’t need a distraction like this. Even one that comes in a beautiful six-foot, Wrangler-wrapped package.
Wilder reaches a hand to rub where I prodded him, his smile stretching across his face and a warm, full laugh filling the space between us. He sets his hat on his head, cocking it to the side as he takes me in, eyes traversing up and down my body like a caress.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks. Before I can point out the obvious—that we’re standing on what amounts to my front porch—he hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “Want to come to the barn dance?”
I wrinkle my nose. The barn dance happens after every evening performance of the rodeo; a free event for ticketed patrons over the age of twenty-one to pretend they can have an authentic “Western experience.” A band plays country covers to a room of half-drunk cowboys looking to blow off steam and fully drunk audience members, some of whom are just looking for someone to blow given the chance. Uncle Tim makes a killing in marking up cheap beer and watered-down liquor, while the performers get to bask in the attention of the buckle bunnies and curious locals.
“I don’t usually go,” I hear myself say. That is not what I should be saying.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re telling me ‘no,’ but I can’t be sure.”
“I really can’t afford the distraction,” I try again. Still not right. But I also can’t really bring myself to wonder why I’m not flat-out refusing.
“The only barrels left tonight are the ones we use as tables, Charlie. Come have a drink with me,” Wilder takes a step closer to me. He smells like rich leather and sweet hay. “You don’t have to stay after that, but let me get you a beer for saving my life.”
I need to turn around and go inside my trailer, and lock the door against the heat radiating off his body. The heat practically coils and settles deep inside me, stoking the near-dead embers of my own fire. Even on my bottom step, I have to look up into his eyes, the blue a shade darker from this angle.
“I’m not old enough for a beer.” My mouth runs away from me, my brain scrambling to catch up. Wilder takes a half step back. “I just mean, my twenty-first isn’t until next month, so technically, I can’t have a beer.”
“This is your uncle’s rodeo, right?”
I nod at him. It’s not really a secret that Tim and I are related, but I don’t try to acknowledge it much, either. There’s no special treatment—having to ride recovery tonight should be proof of that—but I don’t ever want people to get the wrong impression.
“I’m sure we can work something out, then.” Wilder offers me his hand. “Charlie.”
I look at it and back to my trailer door. There’s a smart decision here , I tell myself. Instead of making it, I step down to the ground, starting in the direction of the barn, Wilder’s boots crunching quickly to catch up. I look over at him and the radiating cocky smile he has. I give him my best eye-roll at the triumphant way he sets his shoulders and takes a little step closer to me.
“Don’t call me Charlie,” I grumble at him.
* * *
The barn isn’t an actual building, just a large, canopied tent set off to the side of the parking lot. It’s compacted dirt with a rented dance floor and stage. The band is playing a Blake Shelton cover when we walk in, the scent of dust and spilled beer already strong, even if the music has only been going for about an hour. It’s loud, a little dirty, and the exact kind of environment I tend to stay away from. For the twentieth time since leaving my trailer, I’m wondering why the hell I’m here.
Aside from my legal status, I don’t drink. I don’t socialize. And I don’t stay out after 11 p.m., except when the rodeo runs long. I have a plan this season: be better than everyone through discipline and hard work and win . I want to be the youngest world champion in PWRA history. Being here is not part of that plan.
Striding next to me, shaking hands with half a dozen cowboys, and tipping his hat at every woman who sighs his name, Wilder is clearly not having the same identity crisis. It doesn’t take more than a casual observation to see that he thrives in this environment. The swagger in his step, the fixed smile, and the little laugh he gives with a shake of his head put people at ease. They act like he’s a bright light, drawing the moths to it effortlessly. He was the same way in the arena. Only, as we draw up to the bar, I can see how obviously it doesn’t match his behavior at my trailer.
That Wilder was self-deprecating, a little shy, and against my better judgment, charming.
“Charlotte, surprised to see you here, honey.” I nod at Rayna, our events manager. She’s working behind the bar, wild red hair pulled atop her head and brown eyes smiling warmly at me. She has a towel over her shoulder and a bar key hanging from her neck. I give her a smile in greeting.
“This woman saved my life tonight,” Wilder announces from next to me, causing Rayna to regard him, eyebrows raised. She looks back at me.
“He’s being dramatic,” I say, then shrug my shoulders. “But not totally wrong.”
“I owe her a beer, at the very least.” Wilder stretches across the bar top toward Rayna, the flirty grin he gives women in the stands during his event firmly in place. “Can you make that happen, Ray?”
“If that’s what Charlotte wants, I suppose I can let one go missing tonight.” Rayna winks at me.
I give her a nod. I don’t particularly like beer, but I have a feeling Wilder won’t let it go. I’ll hold it long enough for Wilder to finish his, then head to bed. He can consider his debt to me paid, and I can still have an early night.
Wilder pops up on his hands, leaning across the bar that creaks and wobbles under his sudden assault, to smack a kiss on Rayna's cheek. She waves him off with the towel, turning to the cases in the coolers behind her for two long-neck bottles. She pops the tops and hands them across to us.
“On my tab?” Wilder asks. Rayna gives a dismissive wave of her fingers.
“You forget to close out again tonight and I’m adding a twenty percent tip this time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Wilder touches a finger to the brim of his hat. “You deserve it anyway.”
“Don’t I know it,” Rayna mumbles as she moves down the bar to the next patron.
“Well, thanks for this.” I turn to Wilder, lifting the brown bottle. “Have a great night.”
There’s an empty barrel against one of the tent poles. It looks like the perfect perch to sit on for a while before I can find a way out of here. I make it about three steps before leather and sweet hay fill my nostrils again.
“Where are you going?” Wilder’s breath ghosts along the shell of my ear. I try to ignore the goosebumps breaking out along my arms under the gingham of my shirt.
“Just going to sit over here. Don’t let me cramp your style tonight.” I hop up on the flat top of the barrel, resting against the wooden post. It feels good to sit on something that isn’t moving. Instead of answering me, Wilder circles around until he leans against the post just off my shoulder. We both watch the crowd on the dance floor kick and step to an old Billy Ray Cyrus song. I cradle my cold beer between my knees.
Scanning the area, a few of the bull riders across the way wave to us. Wilder’s arm comes from behind me as he answers them. He stays quiet, just murmuring “ma’am” at regular intervals as women in painted-on jeans and tied-up flannel shirts wander by, calling to him. He’s turned down every request for a dance, and begins to fidget when a woman gets a little insistent. I don’t understand why, but I don’t like feeling as though I’m cramping his style. The looks a few buckle bunnies shoot me could flay lesser women alive; I just find it annoying.
“You really don’t have to stay here.” I finally sigh after another three songs, my head bobbing along to the tunes. The glass has lost its condensation after rolling it back and forth in my hands, and I still haven’t taken a drink. The few familiar faces have given tepid chin raises or head bobs in acknowledgment, but no one has bothered to approach me. I know how tight my returning smiles are, stretching thin across my lips as my brain turns over why I’m here again and again. I expect the heat at my back to disappear as I clearly am terrible at being around people.
“But the company is so pleasant,” Wilder deadpans.
I twist, finding Wilder closer than I thought. “You bought me a beer,” I lift the lukewarm bottle with a little shake, “your debt is paid.”
“Clearly, I tried to pay you with the wrong currency.” He takes the full drink from me, setting it on a nearby tabletop alongside his empty one, allowing some distance between us. I roll my eyes behind his back. He’s intolerable. The confidence and sureness pouring off him should send me running. I’ve been around cowboys like Wilder McCoy long enough to know they reach a level of invincibility that does nothing but breed trouble for themselves and everyone around them.
But just like before, the opportunity is there to leave. Walk away from him with a clear conscience and never bother speaking to him again.
But just like before, I don’t do what I should. Instead, I hop to my feet and crowd into his space when he turns around.
Wilder McCoy irritates the hell out of me. So then, why can’t I leave him alone?
Toe to toe, I look up into his eyes. The crystal-clear indigo is lit with amusement and curiosity as they stare back at me. The corner of his mouth hooks up in that secret little smile I’ve glimpsed tonight, churning a heated attraction in my belly. I really shouldn’t like that smile.
“So, how about this,” Wilder begins, snaking a strong arm around my waist, pulling me against him before I can find my feet. “Dance with me—just one—and we’ll call it even.”
“I—”
“Don’t tell me you don’t want to.” Wilder backs me toward the dance floor, the stirrings of a familiar slow two-step song starting. His other arm guides my hand up his arm, encouraging me to hold on as he seamlessly sweeps us into the audience that has slowed and now moves in a soft intimacy reflected by the romantic lyrics. “I’ve watched you sway and sing under your breath for the last ten minutes, your eyes never leaving this crowd.”
I grip his shirt tighter in one hand as he wraps my other behind his neck before gathering me as close as he can. It’s pushy. Demanding. But my feet fall in time, automatically stepping back with the beat, and I know Wilder would let me go the second I protest. I’m not sure how I know that; maybe the softness at the corner of his eyes or the return of the secret smile. Being this close, wrapped in the warm leather and sweet hay rolling off him with each shuffle we take, it’s impossible to want to break out of his hold. I find myself really looking at him as my hand relaxes against his arm. There’s a tiny scar bisecting his left eyebrow. It’s only noticeable in this proximity, but I find myself wondering about its origin, which has me falling even closer to the man who wears it. I don’t notice when my fingers begin brushing the bottom of his hair at the base of his neck.
“There we go,” Wilder breathes between us. His voice is thick and gravelly in the quiet space. It’s somehow both soothing and reassuring. I let out a sigh that’s equal parts irritation at his arrogance and a thinly veiled heated reaction to his words before trying to cover it with a glare. His smile widens. “It’s just one dance, Charlie.”