Chapter 15
Fourteen
Wyatt
When I woke up next to Quinn, my body a little cold from sleeping on top of the covers, I was tempted to scoot closer to her.
Pull her to me and warm both of us up. I’d bury my face in her hair and breathe her in.
I’d kiss her neck and wake her up, muttering good morning in her ear while she stirred under my touch, and she’d—
Kick me out.
So, before I could give in to any of that, I climbed out of the bed and snuck out.
Then I cheered when she won in Phoenix. And declined going out again, because the idea of watching another confusing show with Quinn was more appealing than spending time drinking with others.
Sure, they were bummed, but once I saw the smile on Quinn’s face when I turned them down, that was worth more than a drink.
This time, I made sure not to fall asleep on her bed.
It was getting harder to keep things strictly business like she had asked, and I had to bite my tongue from time to time to keep all the things I wanted to say to her at bay.
The reason it was getting harder? That small tint of blush on her cheeks I would notice with every stupid comment.
It appeared right before the eyeroll, right before she would point at me and remind me this was all business.
But that small shade of pink told me otherwise.
She was having just as much fun as I was.
Albuquerque was similar—Quinn won for the third time in a row, but that night, she welcomed my hug once she jumped from the saddle, that same amazing laugh filling my senses.
And when I knocked on her door for the nightly episode, she had it cued up and ready to go—actually starting on episode one that time.
“I thought we were going to wait until we got back to the ranch?” I asked, propping myself up on the pillows as she snuggled into the blankets.
“Why wait when we can start now?” She hit play, and I watched the world of her favorite show unfold as it began to make a little more sense.
I made sure not to fall asleep on her bed that night, though it was harder this time.
I could smell her coconut lotion even through the blankets, I could hear her steady breathing, I could feel her warmth spread through the bed—even warming me.
And every time she would let out a small laugh, I couldn’t help but smile.
Once we reached Grand Junction, it was almost as if she and I had been doing this for years.
My focus was the horses—and not doing anything stupid, like kissing her—and hers was checking in and making sure she was ready to go.
Not having the stress of saddling her horse being on her definitely helped her ride, and I expected the same results tonight as she had given the past three rides—a win.
She didn’t even hesitate once we parked, jumping out of the truck to go check in as I made my way back to Hook.
She had been rotating them, giving them each their moments to shine, but I was glad to see Hook excited for tonight.
I saddled him up, picking the flashiest breast collar I could find in the tack shed.
The diamonds that lined the leather stood out against his black coat, and damn, the gelding looked like he was ready to win a show.
I scratched behind his ears, praising him once again, before unhooking him from the trailer.
I started to lead him to the back field, knowing Quinn would warm up there before the event started, when my eyes caught her at the registration table talking to Sam. She beamed a smile as he laughed about something, making me quickly change my trajectory, throwing Hook for a little loop.
“Sam!” I shouted cheerfully, trying to hide the jealously that was settling in the pit of my stomach. “I didn’t know you were announcing tonight!”
“Damn right. Boise, too. Good to see you back in the arena!” He slapped my shoulder as I came up. “All it took was this beauty pulling you out of your funk, huh?” He grinned, motioning towards Quinn.
“Quinn.” I looked over to her, clearing my throat. “You remember my drunk friend from that night at The Steel, don’t you?”
Quinn gave me a single nod. “Sure do, he was just reminding me of the bet you made, and I was telling him how you’ve obviously failing at it.”
“I am winning that bet.” I gave her a wink.
“Yeah…” Sam chuckled. “Failing. Big time.” Sam’s attention went from me to Hook, reaching his hand out to let Hook study him. “And who’s this?”
“He’s mine, Hook. Just wait till you see him ride.” Quinn smiled, taking the reins from me. “Thanks for saddling him up, Wyatt.”
“Ready for your warmup?”
“Yep.” She gave me a slight smile. “See you after?”
I gave her a small nod, shoving my hands in my pants pockets.
“See you too, Sam. Oh, Wyatt.” She tapped the brim of my hat. “Nice hat.” Then she clicked her tongue, and she and Hook walked away towards the back field.
Once she was out of earshot, Sam’s arm flung around my shoulder. “I think it’s safe to say you won her over.”
I looked at him, raising a brow. “She still can’t stand me. She agreed to let me come along to help with her horses since she had a hard time the first weekend.”
“Uh-huh, yeah…” Sam reached up and tapped the brim of my hat, mimicking Quinn’s actions from seconds earlier. “Nice hat.” He let me go, taking a step back to the registration table. “You should come hang out with us tonight in the booth. It’s Jeff and me.”
Just the idea of being back in the booth sent a chill up my spine. It had been months since I last watched a rodeo from that perspective. Watching Quinn from the stands was one thing, but seeing her from the ground, seeing every single detail…
“I wouldn’t be in the way or anything?”
“Fuck, no. Jeff will be thrilled. You can help us throw the clown under the bus.”
“Who’s the clown tonight?”
“Hector Fields.”
“Damn, he’s good.”
One thing I loved about my job was keeping up with the clown and his antics.
Clowns—being trained bull fighters—were more than jokes, but their job was to keep the crowd entertained between events and give the announcers shit.
Hector was one of the best, and he and I had been known to put on a hell of a show.
He would go into the crowd and pick fans to hype up, or he would hide and have me find him just from the shot on the big screen, and he would always be willing to go out for a beer after.
We never talked about what he would do at the next show—I just had to learn how to keep up.
“He’ll be thrilled to see you, too. It’s been way too long, man.”
“Don’t get too used to it. I’m not back back.” I admitted.
I wasn’t even getting used to it. I still hadn’t heard back from Hawkins about Reno, and as the month got closer to ending, the prospect of announcing there was getting smaller and smaller.
“You haven’t heard anything about Reno, have you? Has the committee chosen its broadcasters?” I asked out of pure curiosity.
Sam shook his head, “No, I’ll be in Alberta that weekend, so I’m out. I was contacted, though, and had to turn it down.”
“You’re choosing Alberta over Reno?” I raised a brow.
“Gotta represent my home rodeo, man—just like you’ll always choose Alpine Ridge on the Fourth, I’ll always choose Alberta.”
“Nothing compares to the Hartwell Rodeo.”
“I beg to differ.” He slapped my shoulder again. “Come on, let’s head to the box.”
A few hours later, I sat between Sam and Jeff as they replayed every ride, hyped the crowd up, and gave Hector a run for his money. And I just took it all in, loving every second of it. I missed this.
When I was six, I rode my first sheep across the dirt at the Hartwell Hills Fourth of July Rodeo.
Dad had tried to convince me to go again at a few more local rodeos, even at home, but I politely declined.
At least, I thought I politely declined.
Ask my mom and she'll say it was more tantrums and screaming no at her.
When I was seven, I gave in and did it again, and I cried after, demanding that I would never ever get on a sheep again.
When I was nine, I sat with my mom in the stands, watching Rhett at thirteen being the youngest tie down roper that year, Lachlan riding in bareback, and my Uncle Levi riding around on horse with a microphone.
The next year, they built the announcer box, and I begged Uncle Levi to let me up there with him.
And then I was hooked.
Every Hartwell had their thing with the sport.
Rhett was tie down, Lachlan was bareback, Abi would barrel race for her own enjoyment—but when the opportunity was given to me to pick my event, nothing caught my eye.
I hated riding sheep. What made my family think I’d want to ride a bucking horse?
Rhett tried to get me to do team roping with him one year, but I held the rope like it was a foreign object.
Nothing fit me—until I was behind that microphone.
The box with Uncle Levi was my place. At ten years old, I knew that was where I was supposed to be.
And I was good at it. We worked together for years, learning each other’s quips and how to taunt the clown.
He always said I was a natural. When Uncle Levi retired when I was twenty, he handed me the mic; that box became mine.
Now, twenty years after that first time with Uncle Levi, I couldn’t do what I loved to do—even when it was in my reach.
The microphones were right there on the tables.
The screens were showing us every angle, and the clown was throwing all the jokes tonight.
And all I could do was sit…and listen…and pretend to be okay with it.
While Hector and Jeff were bantering back and forth, I dug through my pocket, pulling out my phone and hitting Hawkins’s name.
Me
Any word on Reno?
Those damn dots took way too long to dance.
Hawkins
Not yet, don’t worry, man, I’ll keep you updated. When I know something, you’ll know something.
“And tonight we have eight fine ladies to show those barrels whose boss—” Sam began his voice echoing through the speakers.
I perked up, not wanting to miss Quinn. I stood, leaning my palms on the table, watching the first racer round the barrels, knocking over the second barrel.
I clenched my fist in victory, and the grunt of ‘yes’ came out of my lips before I could stop it.
Not me wanting the other racers to fail.
Loosening my hand, I shoved it in my pocket, clearing my throat before pushing myself off the table.
My gaze caught Sam’s, and his eyebrow rose higher as he followed me.
“I saw that,” he whispered, covering the mic with his hand.
I just shrugged my shoulder and turned my attention back to the arena.
“And Quinn Compton,” Jeff began, “on her second year, one of the youngest barrel racers this season, on a winning streak right now, and tonight should be no different. And there she is out of the gate riding her gelding, Hook—”
If he thought he was hyping Quinn, he could use a little more guidance.
I blocked him out and focused on Quinn. Sam hit my arm with the back of his hand, trying to get my attention as I followed her every move.
Barrel one, barrel two, barrel three—and Hook shot out towards the gate.
Quinn’s smile was brighter than the diamonds on Hook’s breast collar.
She was…quite the show.
“A fifteen point six for Compton tonight, keeping on with her streak and—”
“Tell me you like the girl, without telling me you like the girl.” Sam chuckled, pulling on my belt loop, forcing me back in my seat. “I caught on at The Steel, but you, sir, are long gone.”
I inhaled, not even bothering to answer him. I was long gone.
After the barrel racers, I left the box, wanting my victory hug from Quinn more than I wanted to stay and see the bull riders.
I jogged down the metal stairs, jumping off the last three, my boots hitting with a thud, and I took off, knowing exactly where she would go.
Hoping she would want to see me as much as I wanted to see her, I felt my feet fly on the ground, weaving in and out of the people who had to get their last cup of beer before the bulls took center stage.
I rounded the corner, the smile bursting from me as I saw her come into view.
The only thing that stopped me was the woman she was talking to, and the fact that the smile that I’d seen on the last few rides wasn’t there as the woman talked. I slowed and approached Quinn, completely out of breath.
“Quinn,” I said, my voice ragged. “Quinn!”
She turned, a slight smile forming once her eyes caught mine, but she stilled.
I stopped next to her, forcing my arms to stay at my sides.
I could see the stress that lined her eyes, her knuckles white as she gripped onto Hook’s reins.
The heavy breath she let out shook my entire core.
She should be celebrating another win, but she was… heavy.
“Wyatt, this is my mom, Helen Compton. Mom—Wyatt Hartwell.”
The woman, Quinn’s mother—whose phone calls I couldn’t help but notice when they had been ignored this entire weekend—gave me the fakest smile I had ever seen. She held out her hand and said in an exaggerated, joyous tone, “Oh, a Hartwell. Wonderful to meet you!”