7. Charlotte
7
CHARLOTTE
DEADWOOD, SOUTH DAKOTA — LATE MAY
“T hat’s your winner tonight, folks! Miss Charlotte Stryker, and her time of nineteen-point-eight seconds. Let’s hear it for Charlotte!”
I twist in the saddle to look at the scoreboard as the announcer’s voice rings out. I slide my hands through Rooney’s mane and sigh. It’s a terrible time, one of the worst I’ve posted in years, but Rooney’s hooves make a sucking sound as we trudge through the thick mud, and I know I did what was right for us both. It isn’t safe to run a race flat-out, like we usually do, in these conditions. I can’t risk an injury to Rooney, but I also hate seeing that time next to my name.
It feels like a fitting ending to the day. This birthday isn’t exactly average for someone turning twenty-one. With the less-than-normal existence I lead, it’s been less than fabulous. Even the phone call from my parents, with their stilted well-wishes, felt obligatory. Maybe I’ll take my winnings and buy a new pair of boots because after tonight, these will have seen better days. I look down at where the light stitching is now discolored, a shit-stain brown along the toe of my boot, and I know I’m never getting them clean again.
At my trailer, Rooney shakes his head, and I laugh at his impatience. Getting him settled for the night is going to take a lot longer than usual, but he deserves it after the mud and extra work of riding recovery. Again.
When Uncle Time showed up, I’d hoped it was to wish me a happy birthday. But that was forgotten when he dipped his head and flashed me a tight smile. My stomach dropped, and I already knew the request that was coming. Brett was sequestered to a tent next to the medical station, hooked up to a banana bag of fluids and vitamins in the hopes of getting him sobered up for the bronc event, but it didn’t look like he could ride. He told me it was a mistake, that everyone has slip-ups, and he had faith that his employee would get himself together after tonight. I didn’t have the heart to tell him believing that was about as useful as believing in fairies. At least he offered to pay me Brett’s cut of the event, and I did get the opportunity to feel out the ground before my race. But as I pull my saddle off Rooney’s back, I can’t help but fume about the entire situation. If Tim doesn’t get rid of Brett soon, someone will get hurt.
Methodically undoing every piece of tack, brushing down Rooney’s coat and hooves, and getting him into the back of the trailer with his new blanket helps ease all the anger and concern I have floating through me. Before now, I wouldn’t have paid too much attention to the possible dangers an irresponsible recovery rider could bring to the rodeo. But as flashes of a wicked smirk and blue eyes under the brim of a black hat play in my mind, I now know I care because of one rider.
Wilder McCoy has gotten under my skin.
As if summoned from my thoughts, there he is after I tuck Rooney in for the night. Wilder stands with his back against the side of my trailer, feet crossed at the ankles. He’s lost his chaps, spurs, and protective vest, but still wears the charcoal-colored shirt from earlier, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, with the white of his athletic wraps showing. When he hears me, he turns, removing his hat to hold with one hand. His other contains a small green package.
“Great race tonight.” He smiles.
“You know as well as I do that it was shit.” I’m grateful the ground in front of my trailer has been spared from the worst of the rain by the small awning I rolled out earlier during the downpour. I hear a quick puff of laughter as I knock my boots against the step leading up to the door, trying in vain to loosen the buildup. “You won,” I say, sitting on the step, finally giving up and pulling a boot free of my soggy-bottomed jeans.
“Is it really winning when no one else could finish?” Wilder turns so his shoulder leans against my rig, bright eyes watching me as I get a fair amount of the mud off my boots. I look up at him and offer a shrug.
“Winning is winning. What are you doing here, Cowboy?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t be entertaining him. I shouldn’t want him to be around. I shouldn’t risk the distraction. I shouldn’t want the one bright spot on this shitty night to be when he was close enough to me that I could breathe in the light, sweet scent of hay that still clung to him in the damp air.
I shouldn’t, but I do.
Wilder’s cheeks flare with a high flush, there one moment and gone the next, chased by a boyish grin. He thrusts the package wrapped with a reflective green paper at me. One corner is a little wonky, crumpled instead of folded, indicating he wrapped it himself. My heart gives a dangerous flutter at the realization that he’s put effort into this.
“Happy birthday, Charlie.”
“How did you know?” I can’t keep the shock from showing on my face or being clear in my voice. My fingers curl over the box, suddenly finding everything about it even more precious.
“You told me.” Wilder shrugs. I bite the bottom of my lip, trying to remember when I said something, releasing the flesh when the memory hits.
“But I never said what day it was.” I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him, rising from my perch on the step. Standing on it, we’re nearly nose to nose. At this level, I can see the way the floodlights of the staging area highlight the striations of dark blue in his eyes. I find myself wanting to lean forward to examine them more closely, just like the night of the barn dance when I saw his scar. I flick my eyes to it for a moment, as though I need the reminder I didn’t imagine it. That it wasn’t the result of a dream. Just like everything else about Wilder these last few weeks, my curiosity has evolved into a desire to know more. I catch myself on the handle near the hinges of the door just as Wilder’s hand comes up to steady me at my hip.
“I may have asked around,” Wilder replies. His hand feels sturdy against me, the heel balanced against my hip bone, and his fingers curling over my wide belt to fan against the small of my back. “You going to open it?”
Wilder’s hold drops away, making me miss his touch immediately, and curse myself at the same time for doing so. Carefully, I pull at the wrapping, awkwardly folding it with one hand before shoving it into my back pocket. Wilder takes half a step back as I lift the lid on the simple cardboard gift box. He holds the lid as I flip open the tissue paper to reveal a set of ribbons matching the same vibrant emerald hue as the wrapping paper. They’re made of a delicate lace that’s soft to the touch. Tucked in the corner is a pair of bows in the same color but made of satin. They’re small, made to go at the end of a braid or tucked into a half-updo.
I stare at them, conflicting emotions waging war within me. They’re just ribbons and bows, the kind I see for sale on the vendor stalls at every rodeo I ride in. But they’re so much more than that, and I’m overwhelmed by the gesture.
A finger, calloused and gentle, brushes against my cheek, taking with it a tear I didn’t feel escape. I look up as Wilder gives a soft smile.
“Hope you don’t have that color.” He removes one of the bows. It looks even smaller in his hand, but he touches its curve with a finger before threading it into the bottom of my braid. He stares at it a moment longer, satisfied, before speaking again. “They reminded me of your eyes.”
“Thank you.” I can barely push the words out, but I find his gaze when I do, hoping he can see how deeply this matters to me. He might not be able to read the fact that this is the only gift I received this year, or that I know it means he’s been paying attention because I don’t have this color in my collection. He can’t see how hard I’ve tried to fight the loneliness that comes with being on the road alone, or how deeply the lack of my family’s emotional support cuts. But I can tell Wilder sees enough.
“So,” he begins, letting the moment slip past without giving it a name. He returns to his spot against my trailer, one thumb hooked lazily into a belt loop and an affable grin on his face. “What are your big birthday plans?”
I consider being truthful: I was going to shower, eat cold pizza from last night, and watch 10 Things I Hate About You for the millionth time. But as I think more about my plans and the man patiently waiting for an answer, I realize there’s something else I want more. Something that goes against every part of my championship season plan. Something I’m feeling selfish enough to go after tonight.
“You’re taking me to the barn dance.”
Wilder’s surprise shows for just a moment before he clicks his tongue against his teeth and cocks his head to the side. “Am I now?”
“Yep,” I answer definitively, warming to my impulsive decision. “Be back in fifteen minutes.”
“You’re serious.” It isn’t a question, and the mirth in his eyes has me loosening up, offering my own saucy smile in return.
“Absolutely.” I pull the latch on my door, then stoop to pick up my boots. The boots balance precariously on my forearm as I clutch the gift box in one hand and use the other to keep the door from knocking me from the step. I feel as off-balance as I look, but excitement overpowers any other emotions. “Fifteen minutes. Clean shirt.”
Without looking back, I slip inside. The door closes with a snap at my back, Wilder’s deep laugh fading as he walks away, and reality crashes into me.
I just asked out Wilder McCoy.
* * *
The green and white floral cotton dress I picked out feels too simple and too much at the same time. Long sleeves keep the chill of the night at bay, but a hem that twirls just above my knees keeps it fun and flirty. And that’s exactly what I’ve told myself for the last fifteen minutes as I showered, dressed, and dug out another pair of boots: tonight is about being fun and flirty.
As I stand in front of the small mirror of the bathroom, I work apart the long French braid I’ve kept my hair in for the rodeo. The slightly damp strands tangle as I finger-comb it loose. I pull the front up and away from my face and secure it with an elastic, wrapping it with the lace ribbons from Wilder’s gift. They stand out against the inky darkness of the hair cascading down my back. I smile, staring at the pop of color, warmth filling my chest again at the thoughtful gesture.
There are butterflies in my stomach as I swipe a coat of mascara on my lashes. The fluttering matches the pulse of nerves I can’t help as I blot off the excess ruby stain on my lips. It was completely out of my nature to proposition Wilder the way I did. If abandoning my strict plan to train and race until I’m champion wasn’t concern enough to doubt this little adventure tonight, the reputation that clings to Wilder like the jeans he favors should be. But I’m actively choosing to ignore any possibility of regret. I’m taking this chance for myself.
Two sharp raps announce his arrival. With a final look in the mirror, I open the door.
Wilder stands, hat respectfully in hand, hair damp and pushed back off his face. He’s wearing a café-au-lait-colored plaid shirt tucked into dark-wash jeans. He’s changed out the large riding buckle he wore for the rodeo, replacing it with a simple oval stamped with a longhorn skull. My eyes linger there, torn away by his low whistle. I worry about being caught, but I don’t feel my cheeks heat when I look at Wilder’s face.
His eyes are all over me, caressing up and down my form. They start at the expanse of skin between the hem of my dress and my boots, tracing up to the curve of my hips and up, slowly drinking in the swell of my breasts, lingering as I lick my lips before finally locking with my gaze.
“I’m not sure it isn’t my birthday, Charlie. Look at you all wrapped up like a pretty present.”
It’s a strong line, but the sweet smile on Wilder’s face as he looks at me tempers the heat behind it a little, meaning I don’t feel any expectation from it. He lifts a hand, taking mine to help me down the two steps to the floor. His hand is so much larger than mine, rough and warm. I expect him to let go once I’m on the ground. Instead, he boldly laces our fingers, patiently waiting as I secure the door. He places his hat on his head and turns us toward the main path of the grounds.
Weaving through trailers and trucks, we keep our conversation to light topics: the day’s weather, the conditions of the arena, and our schedules for the next few weeks. It’s safe. Easy.
“So, are you going to actually drink anything if I get it for you tonight?” Wilder changes subjects as we get closer to the event, the increasing hum of the band pulling us in. Deadwood’s rodeo grounds allow for the dance to be held inside an actual barn, a fact I am grateful for as Wilder pulls me toward him to dodge a murky puddle. He drops my hand in favor of slipping the same arm behind me, keeping me close to him. The faded red building has warm white bistro lights hanging in the eaves, and bales of hay stacked outside the doors soak up the remnants from the storm.
The cautious part of my brain should be sending up red flares at the way Wilder is using the terrain to touch and be close to me, but I feel no threat, no concern that he’s taking liberties I’m uncomfortable giving. Instead, I let myself lean a little more than is strictly necessary into him to avoid a thick patch of mud. I flick my eyes over to him. He walks in stride with me, never trying to press us forward, and he’s relaxed as he waits for my answer.
“I don’t really drink, and it goes against my training plan,” I reply. The double doors of the barn are open, spilling light onto our path. I slow for a step or two before stopping, Wilder immediately halting when I slip from the loose hold he’s kept me in. He looks back over his shoulder. “All of this,” I gesture between us, “goes against my training plan.”
I’m trying to remember my “fun and flirty” mantra, but as it cycles through my head, each word echoes more hollow than the last. I don’t know if I can be fun and flirty. They are two words I’ve never considered using to describe myself, and I highly doubt anyone who knows me would use them either.
Gutsy. Adventurous. But not fun.
Antagonistic. Combative. But not flirty.
My prior interactions with the man in front of me are perfect examples of these characteristics.
I didn’t have fun with Wilder. I hauled him from certain harm as the result of a dangerous occupational hazard.
I didn’t flirt with Wilder. I verbally spared and awkwardly demanded he take me out tonight.
“You can want to win and still have a life, Charlotte.” He wedges his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, waiting. I look past him to the barn, warm and welcoming with the sound of twin acoustic guitars and a tender baritone voice working through a Morgan Wallen song. The light casts Wilder in a perfectly roguish and sexy cowboy silhouette. Temptation and trepidation war within me in equal measure as my plans tilt precariously on a knife edge.
He’s right. I know enough about Wilder McCoy to realize that he has living and winning figured out. He can do both. And it’s that kind of vitality, the ease and joy he carries with him, that pulled me in.
I don’t want to fight the way his cocky smiles send my heart racing. I don’t want to ignore the throb of my core when his innuendos wrap around me with promise. I don’t want anyone else to know what his real smile looks like. I don’t want to be scared of what these thoughts and feelings mean.
“I don’t want to be just another girl that walks away with a story of a ‘Wild night,’” I confess, instinctively wrapping my arms around my middle. It’s the first time I dare breathe life to the possibility of something developing between us.
In two strides, Wilder is in front of me, hands trailing down my arms to work them loose until he can rest one on my hip. He is sure and steady, hooking a finger under my chin, lifting until I’m forced to look him in the eyes. The openness and honesty in his gaze have me letting out a breath of relief.
“Charlie, it might look like I live my life eight seconds at a time, but I promise you, I want more than that with you.” His hand traces gently along my jaw until his fingers thread through my hair, cradling the back of my head as he steps closer. “You’re not another high I’m chasing. You’re not another way to keep the loneliness at bay.”
“Then what am I?” I hear the vulnerability in my own voice, pleading with him to understand. To not hurt me because I’m going to allow myself to want this. I’m going to allow myself to want him.
Wilder’s fingers flex at my hip, holding tighter as he pulls me until there’s only our breath between us, his forehead dropping to rest against my own. I close my eyes, the nearness of him all-consuming.
“I think you could be everything ,” he whispers against my lips before chasing the words with a heated kiss.