32. Smiley
32
SMILEY
DAKOTA
“ H appy to see me?” he twangs out in his heavy accent.
Boone Bowman has always been handsome with his midnight hair, square jaw, and ocean eyes. With that all-black getup, he screams WARNING: BAD BOY COWBOY. But all that previous attraction is gone.
Long gone.
I never loved him. It was all lust. We’ve both got this intense drive to succeed, a grumpy scowl, and a no-bullshit attitude, so our relationship was us constantly trying to one-up each other.
“Why are you here?” I grit out, trying to keep my voice low in front of all the other cowboys in the row. We’ve got an audience.
He takes that infuriating toothpick out of his mouth. “I’m in town for a few rodeos, so I’ll be here the rest of the month. Thought I’d come say hi to my favorite cowgirl.”
“It’s bull rider to you.”
He snorts. “Still got that attitude, I see. How you been? You miss me?”
“Really? You’re asking me that in the middle of a draw?” I demand, annoyed, irritated—you name it, I’m feeling it as I look into Boone’s fathomless gaze and feel… nothing but resentment, thankfully.
I like to let shit roll downhill, but I’ll never forgive Boone Bowman for making me question everything about my skills. He never even apologized, but I don’t have time to deal with him in the middle of a draw.
I could yell, scream, rage at him, but that won’t get me anything. I’d rather hop on my high horse and ride out of this conversation. I hear the view’s great from up there.
All of a sudden, his sneer morphs into a sad grin that could be genuine, but I don’t trust him.
“I just want to talk, Kodie,” he pleads. “Please?”
He’s normally all rough edges, and I’ve never heard him sound so desperate. It throws me off for a second, but I quickly put on my steely mask. “I’ve got nothing to say to you. What’s done is done. We don’t need to rehash anything.”
He almost sounds sincere, but I know better than to believe a word out of his lying mouth. Boone’s family is on the board of directors for one of the largest ranches in Texas, so like Alanna, he grew up going to galas, charity balls, and banquets.
He can charm the chaps off any cowgirl when he wants.
He shoves his hands in his jeans, rocking back on the stool with the fucking toothpick dangling from his lips. “Please, Kodie? Ten minutes. That’s all I need. I swear I just want to talk.”
“Ten minutes is more than you’ll ever get. I don’t even want to give you ten seconds.”
“Alright, folks!” the announcer booms from the podium, thankfully saving me from this conversation. “Who’s ready for the draw?”
They begin calling out the pairings. It’s always the luck of the draw with the animals. Pun intended. Some days you get an easy bull, some days, a tough one. I keep my focus fixed on the list of bulls on the screen, not Boone’s scalding stare as the auctioneer rolls off names.
“And next up, we’ve got Nash Sawyer riding…” Nash leans forward in the line of cowboys to wink playfully at me. “The wicked Diablo! He’s a tough one!” he announces. A murmur of anticipation sweeps through the crowd, and Nash shoots me a blasé shrug.
He needs to take this seriously. That naive confidence is going to get him hurt, and I can’t let that happen.
I lean over Boone to look him directly in the eye, and the brims of our hats bump. I push him back, focusing on Nash. “I hear he’s got a mean spin. Be careful out there, you hear? I don’t want you to get hurt. Good luck.”
“Thanks, I’ll need it.” Another goofy grin. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it.”
That’s the last thing he says to me.
I ignore Boone for the rest of the draw and end up getting paired with a bull named Rogue, and we head back to the animal corrals. I wait to use Nash’s protective vest, but it turns out I never get to use his because, true to his name, Diablo gives Nash a ride as wild and unforgiving as any I’ve seen.
From the sidelines, I watch in horror as Nash gets violently jerked around, my knuckles turning white on the rails. Diablo twists and bucks with a ferocity that sends Nash flying into the air.
As he falls, the bull’s horn catches his side, ripping through the leather of his jacket. Blood spurts through his chaps, painting the dirt a shocking, vivid crimson. I’m close enough that a few drops splatter on me. It’s horrific, but I force myself to watch out of respect.
Blood is everywhere.
The bustling crowd goes silent with a stillness that makes me nauseous. The medics rush in, calling for an ambulance as Smiley Nash writhes on the dirt with tears streaming down his face. They scramble to stabilize him before taking off to the hospital.
Boone and I watch from the sidelines with our hands pressed over our mouths. For a moment, it reminds me what I saw in him—we’re one and the same. We understand the brutalities of this crazy sport, and yet, all I can think about is how I want to make it home to Wyatt and Vi. I need them. They’re my sunshine.
“Did you see them take him away?” Boone whispers. “He was pale as a ghost. Fuck. I hope he’s okay.”
The dirt is stained red, and I keep my eyes on the wet patch. “He was going to let me use his protective vest,” I mumble, my voice vacant.
Without a word, Boone shrugs out of his jacket and carefully drapes it over my shoulders. “Here. You can wear mine.”
He squeezes my shoulders, and I’m too shocked to push him away. It’s a thoughtful gesture, but it doesn’t make up for anything he’s done.
I glance back at the dirt stain, and uncontrollable bile rises in my throat. I lurch away from Boone, and as soon as I get behind the bull chutes, I’m hurling. I puke up my guts for who knows how long, all while Boone rubs my back.
“It’s okay, baby,” he keeps saying. “I’m right there with you.”
I always hated when he called me baby. “Don’t call me that.”
He doesn’t listen. He just continues to call me baby while stroking my back as I hurl, but the entire time, I’m wishing it was Wyatt here with me.
Once my stomach is empty, I wipe the vomit off my mouth, zip up Boone’s jacket, and get on the back of my own bull because that’s what we do, even when someone almost dies. It’s disrespectful as fuck to quit when someone gets hurt, because if they can do it, you sure as hell can.
But my body won’t stop shaking.
My hands won’t stop sweating.
My heart won’t stop pounding for Nash, Smiley Nash.
I fall off after two seconds.
The rodeo—it’s ruthless.
It breaks us all at some point, and that time, it broke Nash.