Chapter 4
Cash
Studio lights always feel hotter after a ride. Maybe it’s the adrenaline wearing off, maybe it’s the part of me that would rather be on the back of a bull than in front of a microphone. Either way, the bulbs beat down, and the sweat on my neck turns to steam.
I know the drill. Smile. Tip the hat. Act like the cameras and I are old friends. But she’s standing just outside the ring of light—Savannah Brooks, arms folded, eyes sharp. The curve of her mouth is all business, but the pulse at her throat gives her away.
She’s wound tight, worried about what I might say or do next. I’m half tempted to see what would happen if I tugged just one thread on her jacket.
She’s shorter than I thought, all curves and confidence. The kind of woman who makes a man forget what he was about to say.
“Another record tonight, Cash,” a reporter calls. “Feels good?”
“Always does.” I let the grin slide slow. “’Course, the bulls might disagree.”
The crowd chuckles. Flash. Another question. Something about the circuit standings. I answer on autopilot, but my focus keeps drifting. She’s making little notes on a tablet. Every now and then she glances up to check that I’m behaving. That look—God help me—it’s better than the roar of any crowd.
Eight years I’ve been chasing that roar.
It’s the only thing that ever filled the hollow my old man left behind when he walked out.
He said ranching was for fools, took his paycheck and disappeared.
I started riding before I was ready just to prove I could hang on longer than he did.
The buckle trophies fill one wall of the house, but they don’t make the nights any quieter.
“Cash, can we get a shot for the Ledger?” someone yells.
I nod, crouch, flash the smile they pay me for. The cameras click like insects. Somewhere behind them I hear her voice, elevated but professional.
“That’s enough for now, gentlemen.”
The command in it sends a charge through me. She’s got that boss tone down to an art. I straighten, roll my shoulders, and turn toward her.
“Handled me good back there,” I murmur as we start to move away from the press. “Almost looked like you enjoyed it.”
“I handle situations, not people,” she says. “You just happen to be the situation.”
She doesn’t look up, but I catch the corner of her mouth twitch before she hides it. That almost-smile hits harder than any applause.
Outside the tent, night’s settling over the fairgrounds. The lights from the rides blink red and blue across the dust. Somewhere a band’s starting up, fiddle sharp and quick. The air smells like hay, fried food, and rain. A storm’s thinking about rolling in.
I pull the brim of my hat lower. “You ever been to a rodeo dance, Brooks?”
“I’m here to work.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
She sighs. “No. I haven’t.”
“You should. Reminds folks why they fell in love with this mess in the first place.”
“Love has nothing to do with it,” she says, but the words sound like she’s trying to convince herself.
We reach the back gate. Her vehicle is parked on the other side of the lot. I lean against the rail, arms folded. “You drive all this way just to babysit me?”
“It’s called oversight.”
“I’d call it destiny.”
She gives me a look that would stop a stampede. “Save it, Dalton. I know your type.”
“Do you?” I push off the rail and close the distance between us, slow enough she could step back if she wanted. She doesn’t. “Then tell me what type I am.”
“The kind who thinks charm is the same as sincerity.” Her eyes meet mine, unwavering. “The kind who forgets women remember the difference.”
That lands harder than I expect. For a second, the noise of the fairgrounds blurs, and I’m back at the kitchen table two years ago, telling Kenzie I’d found someone worth slowing down for.
The girl from Amarillo with the easy laugh.
By the time I got home from the next leg of the circuit, she’d taken the truck, my dog, and every bit of peace I’d had left.
Maybe Savannah’s not wrong about the type. Maybe I built the swagger to keep anyone from seeing the wreckage underneath.
“Maybe I’m tryin’ to change the definition,” I say finally.
“Try harder.” She turns, heading toward the parking lot lights.
I watch her go. Her walk’s deliberate, shoulders straight, but I can tell by the way she fidgets with her purse that she feels me watching.
Every step of hers makes me want to follow, and that’s dangerous territory.
I’ve spent years staying a step ahead of sponsors, women, and the past. She’s the first one who makes me want to slow down.
Kenzie’s voice floats through my head—my little sister, calling last week to report she and Matt are expecting.
“You keep running, Cash, you’ll miss the good things when they show up.” Maybe this is what she meant.
The band’s playing louder now … a love song wrapped in steel guitar and smoke. I picture Savannah at the edge of that dance floor, arms crossed, pretending she doesn’t want to move. I picture the look she’d give me when I hold out my hand anyway.
I shake the thought off, but it sticks. She’s got under my skin faster than any woman I’ve met, and I don’t even have her number yet.
Thunder grumbles somewhere beyond the arena. The air turns cooler. I roll my shoulders, feeling the ache start to settle in. Tomorrow it’ll be bruises and paperwork, same as always. But tonight, the world feels different … like I just rode eight seconds inside a storm and stuck the landing.
I glance back toward the tent, half expecting her to appear again. Nothing but dust and light. Still, I swear I can feel the imprint she left … her scent, her voice, the challenge in her stare.
“You think I can’t be tamed, sweetheart,” I mutter to the empty air. “Maybe I’m the one hopin’ you don’t stop tryin’.”
The storm breaks a little in the distance, a line of silver slicing the horizon. I breathe it in. Rain, sweat, and electricity. It’s a wild combination and it fits me like a glove.
Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s her. Either way, I know one thing as sure as I know the feel of a rope in my hand.
The ride’s just getting started.