Chapter 2
Honey
I can’t believe what’s happening. I’m stood in front of Sawyer Nash while my little boy attempts a conversation with him—the same little boy who struggled to speak to any of his teachers or classmates for the whole of kindergarten last year.
He’s barely said a word to anyone but me and his grandma all summer since we moved, yet he bumps into the bull-riding champion who I last saw nine years ago with tears streaming down my face and suddenly he’s found his voice.
Running into Sawyer was enough to send shockwaves through my world but seeing him talk with Noah has thrown my world completely off-kilter.
I always knew there was a chance we’d meet again when I made the decision to move back to Willow Ridge from North Carolina this summer.
I’d be lying too if I said I hadn’t occasionally looked him up in all his bull-riding glory over the years, and with my son’s obsession with anything cowboys and rodeos, Sawyer’s competitions were fun to show him.
It quietened that lingering guilt too, seeing Sawyer was out there achieving all the dreams he had as a worn-down seventeen year old.
Not held back by me.
I never got the chance to watch him bull riding back when he was younger—I wasn’t allowed anywhere but school, church, and home, with rodeos being far off the table.
But, God, it really suits him.
He’s almost head to toe in black, dressed like he means business, ready to take fear by the reins.
A black shirt barely contains his broad shoulders, his thick vest tight against his chest and covered in a rainbow of sponsor logos, while his tasselled leather chaps only highlight how well his Wranglers hug his muscular thighs.
Most of his golden hair is hidden by his cowboy hat, but a few strands flick out beneath, framing those chestnut eyes.
And to make matters worse, he’s sporting a small moustache now that only emphasises his full lips, and the fact that he’s far from the boy I used to know.
Sawyer Nash is one hundred per cent man.
Heat erupts in my cheeks at how easily he still reduces me back to the shy girl I used to be a decade ago, sneaking quick glances at the broadness of his shoulders or the sharp angle of his jaw across the library table.
Especially when he’s still flashing about that same cocky grin he always did in high school—the one I fought hard to ignore the responding butterflies in my stomach for.
Even nine years later, that same smirk has roused them too quickly for my liking.
‘Cool name, buddy,’ Sawyer responds to Noah, no hints of emotion flickering across his face besides his smile at my son’s name.
I don’t know why I’m surprised Sawyer’s unbothered, though—it’s been nine years, he probably doesn’t remember the names we made up. I wonder if he remembers much about us at all, given how wild and exciting his life is now. So much more than study sessions in a stuffy library.
Yet, he called me Blue.
Almost a decade later and my heart still tugged at the nickname.
At the way it rolled off his tongue so naturally—like it was just another day in senior year, not years later where we’re complete strangers.
Where he’s a champion bull rider who probably dates whatever beautiful women he wants, and I’m …
I’m a twenty-seven year old mom who just upped her whole life back to her hometown with the hopes that it might help with her son’s shyness and struggles making friends.
We couldn’t be more opposite.
I almost don’t want the conversation to end so I grab at the first thing that comes into my mind, ‘Congratulations on the Pbr world championship title, by the way. I always knew you—’
A high-pitched whistle cuts me off, and I check over my shoulder to see a group of bull riders surrounded by plenty of beautiful women, all in tiny outfits that I could never pull off with my curves, waving at Sawyer.
Fluttering lashes and lip-gloss smiles await him, and it’s like we’re in high school again—all the girls melting as soon as he walks in the room, vying for his attention.
I can’t help but glance down at my old blouse and worn jeans in comparison.
Regardless, Sawyer’s clearly still walking around with that spotlight on him—not just the high school quarterback anymore, but a bull-riding millionaire that no doubt has twice as many women after him as he did before. So at odds to the quiet, stable life I’m trying to build for my family.
Seeing that group makes me realise that we’re keeping him. That Noah, and subsequently I, have planted ourselves directly in Sawyer’s path, and he’s probably just being polite, waiting for us to get out the way.
‘I—we should leave you to it.’ I squeeze Noah’s little hand, letting his presence anchor me. ‘I’m sure you’ve got important prep to do before you ride.’
Sawyer glances over to the group, brow furrowing. ‘Right.’
Well, I guess conversation between us is a bit more stilted than it used to be. That’s what nine years of no contact does, I suppose. ‘It was nice to see you, Sawyer. Good luck out there.’
‘Good luck, sir,’ Noah shouts up at him, beaming, before Sawyer can even respond to me.
Sawyer chuckles, a light rumble that whispers across my skin—too similar to the hushed laughs we used to have in the library. ‘Thanks, buddy. Enjoy the show.’
He’s barely finished his sentence before I’m dragging Noah away and back through the crowds.
Those butterflies aren’t just fluttering in my stomach again, they’re swarming it.
I fight the silly desire the check over my shoulder, to see if Sawyer’s watching.
Because I’m not here for him—coming back to Willow Ridge never had anything to do with him, other than him being the only reason I still have a few good memories here.
We’re at this rodeo—in Willow Ridge—for Noah, and that’s all that matters. That’s what’s important right now. Creating a life that makes my beautiful boy happy.
Of course, as soon as we come to a stop near the bar where I left my mom after he ran off, Noah asks, ‘Can we go say hi to Sawyer again after the show?’
It sometimes seems like a small joke the universe is playing on me—that cowboys and rodeos are what my son loves best, when I ran away from that.
‘It’ll be your bedtime by then, baby.’ I thread my fingers through his hair as I scour the crowd, trying to spot my mom’s white-blonde hair and the bright-red denim shirt she was wearing. Most people are filtering out towards the stands now, hands loaded with an assortment of drinks.
Even if I never got to come to rodeos growing up, there’s something about being here that grounds me.
All of it—the ballads of heartbreak played on fiddles and guitars that ring from the speakers, the scuff of boots, the chatter filled with country drawls, and the coming together of a town that’s known each other for far too long—it’s an oddly soothing level of familiar.
Because it was never this that I wanted to run from, it was the pain that no one could see behind it all.
‘Grandma!’ Noah shouts, finding her first. He’s suddenly full of more life than I’ve seen in ages and runs into her arms. She gives him a cuddle, then takes his hand. ‘Guess who we just saw?’
‘Oh, I don’t know—’
‘Sawyer Nash!’
Anyone would think Sawyer’s a prince or something with the way Noah’s reacting—although he’s had a dropped jaw every time we’ve passed anyone wearing a cowboy hat since we moved to Willow Ridge.
My mom flashes her eyes at me in shock at Noah’s excitement, and all I can do is shrug and grin, just grateful to see my boy so unreserved for once.
A wave of relief coming over me that maybe our quiet life with just the two of us, and him not seeing his father much, hasn’t taken away all his confidence.
‘C’mon.’ Noah pulls at her hand before my mom can reply, encouraging us to head towards the stands. His little legs can’t carry him fast enough. ‘We don’t wanna miss anything.’
We find ourselves some empty seats, luckily not too far back so that Noah can see plenty.
As we filter past people to reach our seats, Noah’s excitement dims at the strangers he passes, but less than usual given he’s in his element, surrounded by other rodeo fans.
My mom and I sit either side of him and he instantly relaxes, a soft smile gracing his rosy cheeks as he takes in the big arena—bright lights, rows of seats filled with denim and plaid, and country music loud enough you can feel the ground thump with each beat.
I probably should have brought him some earplugs, but he doesn’t seem to mind, his little feet swinging to the music as his big blue eyes explore his surroundings.
‘So,’ my mom pokes me in the shoulder behind Noah, lowering her voice as she asks, ‘Sawyer, huh?’
She pumps her eyebrows suggestively when I turn to her.
After spending so many years living in the same house yet barely speaking due to the fear we both harboured around my father’s heavy hand, it took time and a lot of therapy to build trust back up between me and my mom, even after we moved away together.
But it’s meant we’re closer than ever—she’s my best friend now, and I couldn’t have raised Noah without her.
She’s also the only person who knows about Sawyer—a topic of many of my earlier therapy sessions.
‘We barely spoke.’ I nod towards my son next to me, lowering my voice. ‘Noah had most of his attention. Spoke to him all by himself.’
I don’t miss the pride that shines in her eyes when she glances at her grandson. ‘Was it at least nice?’
‘It was … brief.’ Not that I was expecting to fall back into conversation like old times. My mom perks a brow at me, clearly unsatisfied with my answer, and I sigh, admitting, ‘It was good to see him thriving. He deserves it.’
‘As do you.’ She squeezes my shoulder, giving me an encouraging smile that warms my heart. We both deserve it—to take back the town that we had to run from, where she grew up. To make new, better, golden memories, and rebuild the life neither of us ever got to finish here.
‘Momma, it’s Sawyer! It’s Sawyer!’ Noah whispers to me, pointing across the arena where Sawyer climbs up the fence of the chute, waiting to jump on the bull.
He’s the final one to ride—saving the best until last. I always knew bull riding was dangerous, but seeing it in person for the first time, so close to the action, has me clenching the edge of my seat before Sawyer’s even ridden.
Over the speakers, announcers rile up the crowd, listing all the achievement’s Sawyer’s made in his career since he started out as a teenager learning to bull ride on his family ranch. Then they reel off all the terrifying qualities of the bull he’s about to face, and dread creeps up on me.
I stroke the back of Noah’s hair as he vibrates with anticipation, letting his joy calm me as my heart starts to pound even faster when I see Sawyer climbing onto the bull in the chute, still not wearing a helmet like I’ve always noticed in videos I’ve seen.
The arena falls quiet suddenly. Waiting.
And with a ring of the bell, the chute gate is pulled open.
The bull flies out, bucking and spinning like there’s no tomorrow, yet Sawyer holds on, his arm up in the air, riding like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.
He absorbs every movement as if he’s anticipating them, confidence radiating off him brighter than the lights filling the arena.
Even from the stands I’m certain I can see him grinning.
Noah bounces next to me as the seconds tick by in bright red on the screen, agonisingly slow.
Eight seconds suddenly feels like a lifetime, rivalling the decade that’s passed since Sawyer first spoke to me.
But even as the bull flails, back legs flying high into the air, Sawyer perseveres, broad muscles tensing as he edges closer and closer to the sound of the buzzer.
The last second has my hand aching from how hard I’m gripping the seat, even though Sawyer rides the bull with such determination he makes it look effortless.
That’s when the bull kicks up higher than ever, forcing Sawyer forward. His head smashes against the back of the bull’s.
I don’t realise I’ve shot to my feet until Noah’s arms wrap around my leg where he’s stood too, and we both watch as Sawyer gets flung off the animal, right into its path. After a simultaneous gasp when his head hits the ground, the arena goes completely silent.
The bull gives one last spin, and the cracking sound as its back feet come down onto Sawyer’s leg is the last thing I hear before I’m hauling Noah into my arms and running out of the stands.