Chapter 7 - Teagan
I’ve never been to a rodeo before.
Growing up on a dairy farm in rural Pennsylvania, we had plenty of fairs, seasonal festivals, parades, and other events that revolved around the animals that fueled our small town’s economy, the holidays, and a celebration of small-town life, but rodeos seem to be an exclusive event reserved for larger, urban cities.
Lonestar Junction being the exception, apparently.
Gravel crunches under the tires of Ryder’s truck as we pull up to the Lonestar Revival Rodeo nestled on the outskirts of the small town. The parking lot, a vast, repurposed cornfield, stretches out in hundreds of rows filled with lifted trucks and SUVs that look like they belong there.
Although Lonestar Junction is a small town, from what Ryder shared, the rodeo is one of its main attractions, drawing crowds from San Angelo and other neighboring cities.
Ryder had also mentioned that the rodeo has been a local landmark for over eighty years now, serving as both a major employer for the city’s residences and a significant source of revenue for the community.
It’s another sweltering, sticky September day in Texas—the kind that makes you regret every life choice leading to stepping outside.
Thankfully, Shawna had the decency to spare me the humiliation of matching outfits with her 19- and 20-year-old bridesmaids.
Instead, I’m comfortably dressed in light-wash Levi’s and a fitted white tank top, my hair pulled back in a ponytail and secured with a bright red headband.
The rest of the girls are decked out in red dresses, while my sister—always the center of attention—rocks yet another white dress she picked for her bachelorette weekend.
I figured the red headband was more than enough to show I was part of the group without going full matching again.
The girls hop out of the truck bed, giggling and chattering away as we head into the arena.
I trail behind for a moment, letting the scene wash over me.
Cowboys and cowgirls mingle under the blare of country music from competing speakers, the rich scent of livestock mixing with the unmistakable aroma of fried food that you just know is going to taste good and upset your stomach later.
It’s loud, chaotic, and undeniably Texas.
Shawna turns to grin at me over her shoulder, her excitement practically radiating. And even though I’m sweaty and already counting down the hours until this night is over, I can’t help but smile back. After all, she’s my sister, my best friend—and this weekend, is all about her.
“Do you mind going with Ryder to grab us food and drinks?” my sister yells at me over the loud noise.
I nod, eager to put some space between myself and the giggly group as I follow behind her fiancé towards the concessions.
“You think they'll eat hot dogs?” Ryder asks, looking at the food options sprinkled around the space. It’s mostly bar food, what you’d expect from an event like this so there aren’t many options to choose from.
I shrug. “Seems like something they’d be into.”
He smirks and walks over to one of the lines that’s serving food while I continue to look around.
There’s hay and dirt splattered on the floor of the arena, and the energy is electric as attendees fill the space, talking, pointing, and waiting for the show to begin.
I have no idea what to expect from an event this size and from what little I know about rodeos, I’m not sure how I’ll feel about animals performing for show. It feels a little… unethical.
I make my way to the edge of the railing overlooking section 20, watching as the crowd filters in, finding their seats and settling in for the night. My eyes drift to the far side of the space—falling on someone who looks extremely familiar.
Wilder?
It’s him, no doubt about it. That all-black cowboy hat, the same worn jeans he had on earlier, and a white t-shirt with the rodeo’s logo stretched tight across his broad chest and shoulders.
He’s leading a stunning brown horse, guiding it toward the exit with a quiet confidence that’s so…
him. Strong jaw fixed in determination and the way he walks, like he owns the ground under his boots, is enough to make my stomach flip as memories of our night together resurface.
“Hey,” Ryder says, nudging me with his hands full of hot dogs. “You see someone you know?”
“I'm not sure,” I respond.
He nods. “You want to take these to the girls? I’ll grab the drinks. Shawna said they’re in the 70s section seating.”
I snap out of it and spread my arms as he artfully balances ten hot dogs in my hold.
Once he piles me up, he heads back to the concessions for drinks.
I make my way to section 70, before unloading the food on my sister and her friends, then wander back to the top of the arena searching for someone I’m not sure I’m ready to find.
Guests are still milling around, chatting and laughing as they find their spots.
I linger, unsure what I’m even looking for that’ll tell me who I saw was really Wilder.
That’s when I spot someone in the same white rodeo t-shirt Wilder was wearing.
A worker, standing near the entrance. Maybe they know where he went—or maybe I just need a reason to ask.
“Hi, excuse me. I have a friend who works with the animals at the rodeo. Do you know where I might find him?”
“Who’s your friend?” she asks politely with a smile.
“His name is Wilder Cameron.”
She nods in recognition. “He’ll be in the holding barn area. Go all the way to the seating in section 10. There’s a door that leads outside to the stables. You can't miss it.”
Following her directions, I make my way to Section 10, push through the door, and step outside into the crisp air.
A narrow dirt path winds behind the arena, leading to a towering barn framed by a large, fenced-in field.
Inside the fence, a man is trotting alongside a chestnut horse, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust. Nearby, a woman rides a sleek, black mare bareback, effortlessly swirling a lasso in one hand as the horse moves with practiced ease.
The scene is mesmerizing, but I don’t linger too long.
I keep my head down and scurry along the path, hoping no one notices me as I slip into the barn undetected.
The air inside smells of hay and leather, mixed with the earthy scent of the animals.
Shafts of sunlight filter through the slatted walls, casting warm golden stripes across the barn floor.
I move quietly, glancing into each stall as I pass. Horses of various colors and sizes peer back at me, some curious, others indifferent. Finally, near the back, I spot Wilder in an empty lot with the same stunning brown horse I saw him walking earlier.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, his back turned as he works.
Gently, he brushes the horse’s mane, his movements steady and soothing as he murmurs something to the horse in low whispers.
Then, stooping down, he grabs a handful of hay and tosses it into the trough.
I watch as beads of sweat soak through his white shirt, clinging to his broad back.
Before I can even prepare myself, he grips the hem of his shirt, strips it off, and tosses it over the wooden board of the stall.
My breath catches. His muscles ripple as he continues to brush the horse, his movements effortless and strong.
When he turns slightly to the side, I get a glimpse of those tan, chiseled abs and a body that could’ve been carved from marble.
My imagination last night had been generous, but even it hadn’t done him justice.
Wilder isn’t just farmhand strong—his body is downright sinful.
He bends to pick up an empty metal bucket and a hose coiled on the floor. Filling the bucket with water from a nearby tap, he carries it back to the horse, holding it steady as the animal drinks deeply.
It’s only then that I muster the courage to step out from my hiding spot. “She’s incredible,” I murmur, my voice soft but steady.
Wilder glances over his shoulder, catching my eye with a crooked smile that makes my stomach flip. It’s like he knew I’d been standing there watching him the entire time. “She is a beauty,” he says, his tone easy as he strokes the horse’s mane. “Her name’s Daisy.”
He pauses for a moment, his hand stilling on Daisy’s neck as he looks back at me, his green eyes bright under the warm glow of sunlight. “You ever ride before?” he asks, his voice low and inviting, like he’s not just talking about horses.
I nod my head, my cheeks warming under his gaze. “Yes, but not since I was a teen,” I admit, taking a tentative step closer. “I used to. I grew up on a farm that had three horses. One of them was mine.”
He nods. “You want to warm her up for me?”
Despite not being on a horse in years, I don’t hesitate at the offer. “I’d love to.”
“Just don’t tell my boss I let you," he grins.
Wilder reaches across the stall, grabbing the saddle draped over the railing.
With practiced ease, he places it carefully on Daisy's back, his hands working the straps with a precision that makes it look like he does this every day, and I suppose he does. He adjusts everything until it sits perfectly, just like I used to do with my own horse. The familiarity of the scene tugs at something deep inside me, willing me to remember, but it’s been almost six years since my last ride, and the memory feels distant—tainted by hesitation and missteps that occurred along the way.
I take a slow, deliberate step closer, silently reminding myself of the basics.
Mount from the left, keep your posture steady, trust the horse.
The mantras loop through my mind like a lifeline, but nerves twist in my gut.
I keep my face calm, determined not to let Wilder see how rusty—or terrified—I feel right now.
It’s like riding a bike. You just have to get back in the saddle.
Wilder’s hands settle firmly on my hips, his touch grounding me and sending a jolt of warmth straight through my core.
Without effort, he lifts me up and guides me into position.
For a split second, the sensation of his hands on me takes me right back to last night, to the way it felt having him between my legs.
My cheeks burn, but I plaster on a smile as I adjust myself in the saddle and glance down at him. His eyes meet mine, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, like he knows exactly where my mind wandered because his did too.
Damn it, why didn’t he ask for my phone number then?
“Come on now,” he says, guiding me back through the galley, out of the barn and outside to the fenced area I crossed by earlier that’s not completely empty.
“Okay, now start by taking her through a slow walk around the ring, then lead her into a nice, gentle trot. Incorporate some circles and zigzags if you can, then move her to cantering. Once you feel she’s warm enough, if you’re up for it, you can try some short gallops.
If not, I’ll hop on and can handle the rest of her routine. ”
I nod, following Wilder’s instructions, guiding Daisy around the ring and feeling the raw power and grace beneath my legs as she effortlessly moves through the warmup.
She knows what to do better than I do so I let her take the lead, moving through the movements that will help protect her body from injury.
As I guide Daisy forward, the rhythmic motion of her gait stirs up memories from my childhood.
I’m suddenly back in those wide-open pastures, the sun warm on my skin, using horseback riding as my escape from the endless fights between my dad and stepmom.
The arguments, the tension—it all faded away when I was on the back of a horse.
But then, like an unwelcome guest, the memory of my last ride six years ago creeps in. I shake my head, forcing the thought out. Not now. I’m not letting that ruin this moment.
When Daisy shifts into a canter, the wind brushes against my face, and tears well up in my eyes—not from sadness, but from pure relief and pride. I’m proud of myself. I did it.
I got back in the saddle.
After a few more strides, I guide Daisy over to Wilder, deciding to let him finish the warm-up. The last thing I need is to lose it emotionally while still perched up here. Because despite my confidence in returning, I know how unpredictable a horse can be when spooked.
I swing my leg over and dismount, the ground solid beneath my feet as I hand him the reins. “Your turn,” I say, my voice steady despite the lump in my throat.
“You alright?” he asks, tentatively, noticing my tears for the first time.
I nod and smile. “She’s beautiful. I’ve just missed riding so much.”
Wilder swings up onto Daisy with the kind of effortless grace that makes my stomach flip.
He sets off, guiding her through the rest of the warm-up like he was born in the saddle.
I lean against the gate, unable to look away as he takes her through intricate movements I didn’t dare attempt.
He’s so damn natural at this—like he and the horse are speaking a language only they understand.
Wilder being a horse whisperer shouldn’t be surprising.
A rush of heat spreads through me as I watch him, my eyes tracing the lines of his strong frame as he moves with quiet confidence.
He’s powerful and commanding, but there’s something soft in the way he handles her—like strength and tenderness are perfectly balanced in him.
It’s the same way he handled me last night.
How can one man embody so much? That quiet mystery, the depth of passion he doesn’t try to show but is always just there, simmering under the surface. It’s maddening.
He finishes up, slowing Daisy to a stop right outside the gate. He glances at me, and his smile—small, barely there—sends a spark shooting through me that says he isn’t finished with me just yet.
"I'm going to give her some water, then she’ll be ready for the show," he says, his voice steady and warm. "Do you want to head back into the stadium or help me cool her down first?"
Without thinking, I answer, "I’ll come with you."