8
“Y ou ain’t gonna resolve a thing, you two keep fightin’ the way you are,” Ford drawls as we shove our way through the crowd at the Rock ’n Ride Rodeo.
I arch a brow. “This your wise big brother advice?”
“Cowboy advice. Married man advice.”
I roll my eyes. Ever since all three of them got hitched, I swear they think they’re experts.
Ford loops an arm around my shoulders. “Listen, the tougher your woman is, the more you have to baby her.”
Charlie laughs. “You talkin’ about Reese or Fallon?”
Ford chuckles. “What can I say? My wife’s a cruel mistress.”
Charlie looks at me. “We said talk to her, not start an all-out brawl.”
“I’m tryin’, man,” I grouse. “It’s not my fault she’s as stubborn as a damn mule.”
Ford dodges an incoming camera crew. “Any luck, yet?”
“I can’t get her alone for one damn minute.” I scowl as I spy Fallon, Pappy, and Tripp in the crowd.
I’m still brooding over our argument from last night. How do I talk to someone who doesn’t want to hear it?
Today’s not the place for a conversation about why she needs to come home. I won’t lay anything heavy on her shoulders. Not when she needs to be focused on her ride.
Truth is, I’m worried as hell about it. Because the odds are against Fallon. What are the chances she draws the most dangerous bull there is? The chances that she actually stays on?
It’s the world’s most dangerous sport. I’d be an idiot not to worry.
Tonight. After she’s safe on the fucking ground, I’ll tell her.
Everything.
“Not like she’d listen to me anyway,” I complain.
Ford grabs a beer off a cart. “You trained her, didn’t you? She listened then.”
Barely.
“I’ll tell you what your problem is,” Ford says.
I rub my face. “Great, can’t wait.”
“You’re searching for affection from Fallon, but really, you’d be better off getting affection from a dog on the side of the road, I’m just sayin’.”
Charlie chokes on a laugh.
I glare at my asshole brother. “Ford, keep talking, I will dump your beer over your head.”
It’s a sea of cameras, cowboys, and spectators at the arena.
The smells of manure, spilled beer, popcorn hang in the air.
Registration lines are at a crawl. Tailgaters crack beers in the parking lot.
Cowboys wearing safety-pinned contestant numbers prowl for something to do, someone to bullshit.
Rodeo isn’t just a sport. It’s a lifestyle.
And fuck, do I miss it.
Charlie grins at me knowingly. “Wish you were ridin’?”
I grin back. I swear my brother can read my mind sometimes.
“Sittin’ it out feels strange as hell.”
A flash of caramel catches my eye, and I turn. I wouldn’t miss her in a crowd. Especially now.
A gasp goes up among the reporters. They and their cameras rush Fallon as she steps into the designated interview area.
For a brief second, I see her hard-shell crack when she spies a cluster of little girls watching her from behind a barrier.
She sticks out her tongue and wiggles her fingers at them.
Then she gets down to business.
Eyebrow lifted, Fallon clears her throat and turns to the reporters. “What do you bastards got?”
Chuckles among Pappy, the reporters. They love her.
As they sure as shit should. Fallon McGraw is what the reporters thrive on. Pretty. Popular. Dramatic. She’s fiery and fierce and doesn’t play by the rules. Even better—she’s not a man.
She’s not a rough stock star, she’s a rock star.
In the stark sunlight, she shines. Vest and chaps and jeans. Caramel hair tumbles around her shoulders. The sway of her hips, that gorgeous round ass…
No cowboy ever looked like that.
Ford laughs. “Close your mouth, Romeo.”
I growl and give him a shove. “Fuck off.”
Grinning, Charlie claps me on the back. “We’ll get seats.”
I dump my beer in the trash, lean back against a trailer, and watch the circus unfold.
Tripp bumbles behind her with her duffel bag. “Here,” he says, offering her a water bottle with a straw. Fallon looks bored but leans in to take the offered water, her eyes on the crowd in front of her.
Pappy, looking like a bratwurst in a suit, wraps his arm around Fallon and surveys the sea of eager reporters.
I grit my teeth. It’s evident Pappy’s dolled her up for today. I don’t like it. Don’t like any damn thing about him trotting her out like some sexy little package for the cameras.
“You.” Pappy selects a short, stocky guy from ESPN.
“What do you think about bull riding legend Cole Weston?”
Smiling her TV smile, Fallon says, “I think Cole Weston’s an asshole who doesn’t know what’s coming.”
After that, the reporters erupt, pushing in closer, mics outstretched.
“Fallon! Fallon McGraw!”
“Did you always want to ride bulls?”
“What score are you hoping for?”
“Who’s your trainer?”
“What’s it like working with Pappy Starr?”
“Are you single? Married?”
I hold back a scowl. Fallon’s face flushes. Eyes flashing, she lifts her chin and smoothly answers every question the reporters throw at her. When she’s finished, her gaze lands on me and stays a beat too long.
Picking up on the scent, the school of reporters suddenly turn. Wide eyes of recognition land on me.
Shit .
“Wyatt Montgomery!” one shouts. Microphones swivel. “How do you think Fallon will ride today?”
I take my time, making everyone think I’m considering the answer. Feet apart, Fallon’s glare burns into me. Finally, with a wide, bright grin, I say, “Apart from her pissy attitude…” Chuckles from the reporters. I soften my tone, meet Fallon’s eyes. “I think she’ll ride as good as any man.”
She drops her gaze.
The stadium horns sound, signaling the twenty-minute warning.
With a raised hand, Pappy draws the attention back to himself. He loves the spotlight as much as Fallon.
Almost imperceptibly, she slinks away from the podium. Our gazes snap together as if on a cord. As she smoothly stalks toward me, I see what she wants.
She doesn’t need doubt. She needs me.
We come together behind a stand selling hot dogs and beer.
Fallon flattens her brows, her lips. Approaches me with steely eyed focus. Flushed cheeks. The only telltale sign of nerves. “Good answer out there,” she says. “You almost sounded sincere.”
“I was.”
Surprise filters into her eyes. Moving closer, I grip the sides of her leather vest. Only inches separate us as we fall in sync. The lock step of our training ingrained. Old times. Best times. The only time she ever listened to me.
“I go first,” I begin.
“I know, I know,” she grumbles.
“No, you don’t know.” I give her a stern look. “You used to kick your feet out of the stirrups when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. And then you know what you did?”
The corner of her lips tips up. “I fell off the horse.”
“You sure as hell did.” I blow out an anxious breath.
I feel like I’m the one about to climb on the back of a 1,500-pound bull the way my nerves are fried.
“When you go out, it’s all reaction. You’re on defense.
You move with the bull and keep yourself centered.
” I move a hand to her stomach. Warm, hard muscle.
She stiffens, staring at me beneath lowered lashes.
“It’s here. Your core. Your heart. You let it lead you. ”
“Lead me,” she echoes.
“And when you dismount, you run like hell.”
Somewhere in the distance the announcer sounds. The wind whips, lashing her caramel strands across her pretty face.
“Here. Your hair.” I reach for it, waiting for her fangs, only she lets me gather it in one hand.
“Pappy wanted it down for the cameras,” she says, moving her hand over mine to take her mass of hair from me and twist it into her signature fishtail braid.
“Why do you play his game?”
“Because I can.” Her chin tilts. “Because I can win it.”
Pride flares within me. She can. She’s good enough. And yet…
“You be sure when you nod, Fallon. Really fucking sure.” I look into her storm-cloud eyes, the shadows gathering there. “There ain’t no shame if you walk away.”
“You don’t understand,” she says, her face creased into something almost like desperation. “I have to do this. I can’t give up. I can’t break again.”
My hands return to her vest. Her words make my heart hurt.
“Is that what you think you are? Broken?”
She’s never once talked to me about Aiden. The trauma from that night. She wouldn’t let me be there for her, wouldn’t let me see her pain. Because that’s Fallon. But if she knew anything, she’d know that’s all I want to do. Be there for her.
When she’s silent, I slip my finger in her belt loop and haul her against me. Her breathing stutters. Her heart hammers against mine. “Talk to me.”
For fucking once.
“Wyatt.” No sharpness. A plea. Her eyes flutter close.
And then her legs give out.
“Whoa.” I grab her, steadying her against me. “Hey. You okay?”
She blinks at me. “Just…nerves.”
I frown, not missing the way her hand’s gone to her temple. “Bullshit,” I say, hauling her closer.
“Let go,” she snarls. Her palms meet my chest. I keep a light grip on her belt loops. Only our uneven panting fills the silence between us.
“Not yet,” I say lowly. I’m searching and scanning her for answers. For who she is now. For what we had. If anything. “Not until you tell me something.”
Her chest heaves. “Tell you what?”
“Did you miss me?” I husk.
She lifts a slender shoulder. “Missed hating you.”
As skilled in the art of sarcasm as she is, I don’t fail to notice the pretty flush on her cheeks. That means she’s a liar.
If there’s one thing I know in this world, it’s Fallon. Her love of legendary cowgirls. How she scrunches her nose right before she laughs, like she’s considering whether or not the emotion is worth giving away.
I run a finger over her cheekbone. That tantalizing flush. “Glad to hear it, Trouble.”
She gives me a withering look. “You and that nickname.”
“It’s true, ain’t it?”
Her face softens a fraction. “Yeah. It is.”
The crunch of rocks has us looking up and over.
“Fallon?” Dakota stands there, brows high. “I wanted to say good luck.”
“I have to go, Wy,” Fallon says casually, as if the danger she’s walking into is merely an afterthought.
My grip tightens. I don’t like this. The dangerous energy in the air. The bull she drew. Letting her go.
But I have to.
My hands release her. Fallon straightens, adjusts her vest, and runs to her sister.
“Be safe,” Dakota says, stepping to her.
Fallon twinges the ends of Dakota’s dark hair. “Worrywart.”
The smile on Dakota’s face is forced. “Always.”
As the sisters hug, my gaze drifts to the ambulance parked by the fire exit. My stomach twists.
Dakota and Fallon pull apart. Briefly, her eyes flick to mine. Then, with one last smirk and a wave, she heads behind the chute where the other riders are preparing.
A hand on my shoulder. Dakota’s soft voice. “You coming?”
“I’ll be right there.”
I stare at the space where Fallon’s disappeared, hit by the real urge to go after her. To toss her over my shoulder and take her anywhere but here.
As I turn to head for the stands, movement in the shadows catches my eye.
Cole Weston. He stands outside the chute, watching as Fallon gets ready for her ride.
The buzzer sounds. I glance up at the announcer’s voice.
When I look over my shoulder, Weston’s gone.