Chapter 10
HUNTER
I’d successfully managed to avoid Maggie for the last week.
I’d buried myself in ranch work, worked myself to the bone, and came home with blisters on my palms, but it didn’t matter. Every time I shut my eyes, I pictured her with Brody.
I hated myself for it, for the way I couldn’t stop thinking about them or tracking every rumor. Someone at the diner the next day mentioned seeing them at the bar after their date, and hearing that Maggie and Brody had ended up at The Dusty Spur was like pouring salt straight into an open wound.
I tried to laugh it off with McCoy as we’d gotten dinner, made a show of not giving a shit, but the truth of it throbbed under my skin until I caught myself pacing the hallway that night, fists clenched and jaw aching.
I’d pulled out my phone to text her more times than I could count, but I had no right. She was allowed to date whoever she wanted. She was allowed to go out to The Dusty Spur after, share a drink with our new sheriff, and end up back at his place if that was what she wanted.
It didn’t matter that the thought alone was driving me fucking crazy.
By the end of the week, I was strung out enough that McCoy had taken to watching my every move. He was still watching me as we loaded up my truck for the rodeo on Friday and didn’t stop once as we pulled up to the outdoor arena in the next town over and got him checked in.
The rodeo grounds were packed, trucks jammed side by side as far as the eye could see, and the humidity was so thick it felt like I was sweating everywhere. The stock pens at the edge of the arena were a mess of noise and dust, and McCoy leaned against the gate as he watched the others.
He tried to play it cool, that signature cocky grin perfectly in place, but I could see the twitch in his jaw with every minute that ticked by.
There were a handful of teenage boys perched up on the rails of the chutes, waiting their turn for a chance of glory on the back of a bronco, and every one of them seemed just as keyed up as McCoy.
We’d done the taping already, carefully wrapping his wrists and a few knuckles just the way he preferred. His chaps hung heavy and stiff against his legs, the same pair Dad had handed down to him years ago, and newly polished spurs shined along the back of his battered boots.
The air behind the chutes was nothing like the stands. Out there, the rodeo was a spectacle, all beer and popcorn and kids on their dads’ shoulders. Back here, it was business, and the air was thick with sweat, the reek of manure, and the taste of fear that no man wanted to admit to.
The bulls in the holding pens made noises like nothing else on earth, deep and guttural, and pissed as hell. Behind us, crew members called out names and drew lots, but McCoy kept his head down, focused on the ground.
“You sure about this?” I said under my breath so no one else could hear us. “You’re in your thirties now. A couple more concussions and I’ll have to start pulling my weight with the ladies since you won’t be able to walk.”
He shot me a look as he snorted, but his hands shook slightly against the fence. “Walking or not, we both know they’d still pick me.”
“You really think so?” I laughed and crossed my arms.
“I don’t need working legs for them to ride my face, Hunt, and this tongue will give them a ride that a bull never could.” He winked at me, and I looked at the bull he’d drawn.
It was a big one, snorting and mean. “You know what,” I said, “I almost feel sorry for that animal.”
McCoy’s smirk curved up the side of his mouth as he gripped the top rail like he could wring the nerves out of his knuckles. “Don’t. He’ll be fine,” he muttered as he kept his stare locked on the bull on the other side of the chute. “He should consider himself lucky to get a ride from Reid McCoy.”
A bead of sweat trailed down my back as I shifted against the sun-warmed metal. “You sure you’re ready?”
McCoy huffed and dropped his eyes to his taped hands for a moment. Then he jerked his chin toward the stands. “Our niece is up there,” he said. “So failure’s not really on the table.”
I followed McCoy’s line of sight, looking over the blur of faces in the grandstands. There were at least a thousand people there, but I spotted them right in the front row.
Colt was the easiest to spot, his hands steadying Ruby where she perched on his shoulders, her tiny hands buried in his hair for balance.
Blaire was there too, standing on Colt’s right.
She was pointing in our direction, elbowing Sutton to make sure she saw us, and even from here, I could see the lines of worry on her face.
I smiled at the sight of them, and even McCoy’s shoulders seemed to ease a notch as he waved at Ruby.
But the moment I looked past Blaire and Sutton, my stomach dropped straight to my boots. Maggie was there. And so was Brody, close enough that his shoulder nearly touched hers, his head bent toward her, and she was laughing at whatever he’d said.
It shouldn’t have surprised me, not after everything I’d heard this week, but it still knocked the air right out of my lungs. I gripped the top rail of the fence and my jaw locked as I watched him lean closer and say something in her ear.
I glanced at McCoy, half expecting him to make a joke or rib me for the way I was staring, but he just watched me, his eyes flicking from Maggie to Brody and back again. The silence between us grew heavier, packed tight with everything I wouldn’t say.
On the far side of the arena, a bull kicked at the panels, rattling the metal and sending up a cloud of dust. I should have been thinking about McCoy’s ride, about spotting him and making sure he didn’t get trampled if things went sideways, but all I could focus on was Maggie—on the way she tipped her head back to laugh at something Brody said, the way she leaned her weight into him, just a little, like she was already his.
Every instinct in my body screamed at me to march over there, pull her away, and remind her that she was mine.
But she wasn’t.
So I stood there, sweating and trying not to crush the rail in my hands. The crowd thundered as another bull rider beat the eight-second timer, but all I heard was the rush of blood in my ears.
“Yeah.” McCoy let out a low breath, his eyes moving over my face. “I think I’ll take the bull.” He glanced at the stands, then back at me. “Look, do you want to talk about—”
“No.” I put a hand on his back and steered him toward the chute. “You’re almost up. You need to worry about not getting your ass killed and nothing else.”
He grinned, but he didn’t let it go. “You sure? This could be your last chance to admit that you love Maggie to me.”
I snorted. “Go to hell.”
We moved through the crowd of riders and helpers funneling around, the air sticky with sweat and nerves.
There were old-timers in worn Wranglers who’d seen a thousand rides and didn’t blink at the chaos, and then there were the up-and-comers, boys in boots too clean and belt buckles they hadn’t earned yet.
They were pale as they eyed the beasts they were about to climb on.
We’d been through this together so many times when we were younger, but even so, I felt the pressure of the moment more than usual. Maybe it was the weight of a week spent not sleeping, or maybe it was the way tonight felt like it might snap something loose inside me if things went wrong.
I tried to focus on the mechanics of getting McCoy ready, on the hundred little steps it took to survive eight seconds on a pissed-off slab of muscle.
The chute boss jerked his chin in our direction and jabbed a thumb at the gate. It felt like the noise around us dropped away for a split second, the way it always did right before the gate opened, leaving just the shuffling of boots on dirt and the rattle of the steel.
McCoy shoved his helmet over his head, buckling it under his chin, before tapping the sides like he always did. His hands were steady now, though his jaw still worked over the nerves, chewing them up and swallowing them back down.
I moved in close, my hands working the Velcro on his vest, making sure every strap was cinched tight. He grunted at the pressure but didn’t complain. I rapped a knuckle on his chest, a secret code we’d made up years ago, and he grinned behind the mouthguard already wedged between his teeth.
The bull in the chute was named Sugarfoot, but it looked meaner than hell, thick-necked and horned enough to gut a man. It rocked against the steel, the bars shrieking with every blow, and snot streamed from its nose as it jerked, wild-eyed, at each of us.
Two handlers tried to keep its head forward as McCoy climbed up and balanced on the rails, waiting for the animal to settle. Each time the bull shifted, McCoy’s boots flexed and his hands gripped the railing, holding him steady.
I climbed up just as he settled over the bull.
“Eight seconds ain’t nothin’,” I said, even though we both knew it was a lie.
He didn’t look at me, just nodded and threaded the rope around his fist, working it until I knew the hide burned against his palm. The handlers shoved Sugarfoot tighter into the chute, compressing him so there was just enough room for McCoy to drop in over his back.
He eased one leg down, straddling the bull, and for a moment, he just hovered there, breathing deep and feeling out the motion of the animal beneath him.
The world shrank to just the three of us—me on the outside, McCoy perched above the chaos, and the bull waiting for its cue. I leaned over the rail and pressed my palm to his back for balance while he settled in.
He rocked his hips down, clamped his knees tight as the bull attempted to buck in the small space, and jerked on the rope until it bit more firmly into his hand.
The chute boss watched McCoy’s every move. I pulled on his vest one last time, making sure it was locked in, then slapped the hard shell over his heart for luck. There was nothing left to do but trust the years of practice and the stubborn Calloway bones in his body.
The sudden quiet that always preceded the violence of the ride seemed to swallow the world whole, the stands falling away to a dull thrum.
The bull froze, every muscle wound tight as barbed wire beneath McCoy, as its nostrils flared. McCoy’s breath hitched, and even from behind the cage, I could feel the electricity crackle off him and the way his body dropped into the animal’s rhythm, a dangerous mix of nerve and courage.
The chute boss, already crouched by the latch, waited for McCoy’s nod. McCoy dropped his chin, a barely perceptible dip, and the world detonated.
The gate yanked open and the bull exploded into the arena in a blast of snot and fury.
McCoy’s body shot backward, legs flared, one boot kicked skyward as he tried to ride the first lurch.
The arena dirt caved under the bull’s hooves, dust boiling up in the animal’s wake, and McCoy’s spurs raked the air, searching for purchase on something that could never be tamed.
I climbed up, over the chute, eyes glued to McCoy’s every move. The bull twisted high, then drove its front legs down, trying to snap McCoy off him with the impact. He rode the wave, chest slammed low against the bull’s shoulder, hand locked in a white-knuckled prayer against the braided rope.
The animal spun hard to the left, then snapped back in the other direction. A cloud of dust enveloped the pair, and for a moment, I lost sight of McCoy entirely.
The crowd roared as the beast went vertical, all four feet off the ground and McCoy still clinging to its back. The seconds crawled by as each bounce looked like it would throw him right off, but he stayed on like he’d been born to do it.
The buzzer blared and Sugarfoot jerked hard, nearly pitching McCoy over his head. But he managed to swing a leg off, tumbling end over end in the dirt. The barrel men rushed in, waving their hats and drawing the bull’s attention as McCoy scrambled to his feet.
Blood streamed from his knuckles, but otherwise, he looked unbroken, grinning through the dirt that coated his face.
The crowd screamed and cheered, and the sound of it hammered through the metal in my hands. My own legs shook, adrenaline flooding out all at once, as I met McCoy at the fence.
He slammed his bloodied hand against my chest, smiling so hard I barely understood his words. “That’s how you do it, Hunt!”
I hauled him up over the rail as the bull rampaged away in the arena, still bucking and fighting. McCoy’s chest heaved, his shirt torn, and I grabbed his shoulder and shook him, relief pouring out of me.
“Not bad for an old man.”
We laughed like fools, both of us alive and reckless, and the stands thundered with the sound of a town that still knew how to celebrate its own as the announcer called out his name.
I barely had time to catch my breath before McCoy yanked free of my grip and raised both arms overhead for the crowd like the cocky bastard he was.
Blood ran down the back of his hand and dripped down his forearm, but he just grinned wider, soaking up the roar of the stands that we were much closer to now.
“Show-off,” I called over the sound, and he jabbed his elbow into my ribs.
The adrenaline kicked around in my chest, and for one split second, I let myself turn toward the grandstands.
And I saw her before I saw anything else. The world faded out, stadium lights and the roar of the crowd going soft around the edges. It was just Maggie, leaning over the railing as she cheered, legs bare and long as hell beneath those damn cutoff shorts.
She caught me looking and didn’t glance away. She bounced on the balls of her feet, and her smile knocked the wind out of me. Every cell in my body wanted to leap that rail, grab her by the waist, and stake my claim with my mouth on hers, right here in the fucking open.
Instead, I let my gaze strip her bare, daring her to look away first, but she didn’t. The stubborn thing just stared back, sunlight catching in her hair, and damn if it didn’t nearly ruin me.