Chapter 10
sarah
There is comfort in how all rodeo grounds smell and feel the same.
Dust and hay.
Sounds of horses stomping restlessly in their stalls.
The noise of the crowds.
A kid chasing another between trailers misses banging into me by inches while I’m crouched by one of the Kincaid geldings.
I hold his leg steady as I wrap his tendon.
Barrel horses put everything into their runs—hard sprints, sharp turns around three barrels, and another flat-out sprint to the finish.
It’s fast, explosive, and brutal on their legs.
A good wrap keeps the tendons supported, cuts down swelling, and might mean the difference between a blue ribbon and a horse laid up for weeks.
The gelding shifts, flicking an ear back at me.
I murmur low and smooth, finishing the last cross of the bandage, snug but not tight enough to cut off circulation. He’ll be making his barrel run in less than an hour, and he needs every bit of support I can give him.
“Sarah Kirk, as I live and breathe,” a too-sweet voice says.
I glance up to see Noelle Dunn.
Blonde hair teased high, jeans so tight they look sprayed on, a rodeo queen crown perched on her head, though she aged out of that circuit a decade ago. And behind her are three women I used to call friends, their eyes sharp, their mouths curved in matching smirks.
“It’s almost like everywhere I go, I see you.” Noelle’s tone drips with venomous honey.
I straighten slowly, dusting off my jeans, and meet her gaze. “I’m here to take care of my clients’ horses. What’s your excuse?”
She scoffs. “I’m here with my boyfriend.”
With Cade, she means.
Great!
“I’m here to work, so if you don’t mind….” I jerk my chin at the cowboy who’ll be riding the horse. He’s leaning on the rail, chewing sunflower seeds like he’s got all the time in the world. “He’s good to go.”
“Yeah?” The cowboy winks. He’s been flirting with me all day. “You wrap him up nice and good.”
“Yeah. He’ll hit that first barrel clean, without risking bowing a tendon…that is if you know how to ride.”
The cowboy tips his hat, the band of which has the Kincaid Farm logo on it and takes the gelding’s lead rope.
The horse snorts as he walks away.
“Does Mav Kincaid know he’s hired damaged goods?” Noelle’s eyes are blazing with meanness—simple, garden variety, stupid cruelty.
The old Sarah—nineteen, raw and broken—would’ve wilted right there, heat burning her cheeks, shame swallowing her whole. I’m not her anymore.
I smile, easy and deliberate. “Funny thing about damaged goods, Noelle, they don’t quit. They get stronger. Which is why I’m here working, and you’re still hanging on to a crown you won in high school.”
The women behind her snicker, then try to smother it when Noelle glares at them, shooting daggers.
“Well, whatever. No one wants you here. Especially not your ex…because he’s mine now.”
“Careful.” I chuckle. “I’ll start to think you’re feeling insecure about Cade ‘cause of little ol’ me.”
Noelle flushes red, her lips flattening. “Don’t get too comfortable, Sarah. Folks don’t forget.”
“Forget what?” Duke Wilder walks up to me. Kaz and Hunt are right behind him.
Noelle smiles sweetly at him. “You weren’t here then, Duke.”
“I was.” Hunt has his thumbs hitched into his belt loops, easy as Sunday morning.
Leah, with whom I went trick-or-treating, mutters, “Let’s go, Noelle.”
“I wasn’t,” Kaz chimes in, as he shakes his head in mock despair. “You know what’s sad, Sarah?”
I purse my lips to hold back a smile. “Tell me, Kaz.”
“What’s sad”—he turns to now focus all his attention on the three women—“is that Noelle and her posse here want to shame you for something that isn’t your fault.”
“She lied about Landon,” Noelle cries out.
“And how would you know that?” Duke took a step toward Noelle. He’s calm as a lake and as menacing as a stormy ocean.
“I…I....” Noelle looks around at her friends, but they’re already retreating. No one wants a fight with Duke Wilder. Everyone knows he’ll rip you a new one just for the fun of it.
“There’s a special place in hell, they say, for women who don’t support other women,” Duke continues and then, over his shoulder, asks, “Who said that?”
“Madeline Albright,” Hunt says, surprising the hell out of me.
I didn’t think he'd have any clue as to who Madeline Albright was.
Well, color me impressed.
For a second, the air is as sharp as barbed wire.
Noelle flounces off, her entourage scrambling to follow, leaving me alone with the men who have taken their place as my protectors in the paddock.
“You feel like a drink, darlin’?” Kaz holds out his arm for me like we’re in a Victorian play.
“I can’t. Got to go check on some horses at the barrel racing for Bodie.”
“We’ll walk you.” Duke picks up my bag and slings it over his shoulder without asking for permission.
A bunch of rough cowboys who are gentlemen. Who would’ve thought?
“Bodie says you have a gift when it comes to animals,” Duke says conversationally as we walk to the drinks tent.
“Just years of practice,” I reply. “Horses don’t let you fake it.”
“No shit,” Hunt agrees. He checks his watch, then grins. “You gonna come watch me rope later, darlin’?”
“You header or heeler?” I ask.
In team roping, two cowboys work together to catch a steer—the header ropes the horns while the heeler ropes the back legs. It’s fast, technical, and one of the few rodeo events that still looks like what it is: real ranch work.
“Header.” He tips his chin, a cocky smile spreading. “I’d better go check on my heeler before we get started. I’ll be seeing you, Dr. K.”
I make my way to the warm-up pen just outside the arena, where the barrel racers are circling their horses in the dust, waiting their turn at the gate. The air hums with nervous energy. Horses tossing their heads, nostrils flaring, riders leaning low to whisper reassurances.
The announcer calls the next rider, and the crowd leans forward as a sorrel mare explodes from the gate.
Barrel racing can look like chaos—a horse running flat out, skidding around barrels, dirt flying—but I know better.
Every stride, every turn, is precision.
The mare tucks her hindquarters under, pivots hard around the first barrel, muscles bunched and straining. Dirt sprays up like a rooster tail, stinging my boots. Then she launches straight into the next sprint, rider low and balanced, reins loose.
The second turn’s tighter, the horse digging deep, front legs stabbing at the ground, back legs driving her out of the curve. The stress on her joints makes me wince, but she powers through, charging to the last barrel and then for home, a blur of muscle.
I’m leading a gelding when a small whirlwind comes barreling toward me, little boots kicking up dust.
“Miss Sarah!” Evie’s arms fling around my leg like she’s been waiting all day to see me. Her little face tips up, all sunshine and dimples, as if I’ve just handed her the moon.
“Hey, cowgirl.” I crouch, brushing a curl out of her eyes. “You come to watch the rodeo?”
She nods so hard her hat nearly topples off. “Daddy said I could see the broncs, but then I saw you.”
My throat tightens.
“Evie.” Cade’s voice rings across the noise of the arena. He’s only a few steps behind, his hat shadowing his eyes. “You don’t run off like that, remember?”
Evie looks sheepish but doesn’t let go of my hand. “I just wanted to say hi to Dr. K.”
I brace myself, waiting for the usual bite in his words, the sharpness I’ve come to expect. But when Cade’s gaze meets mine, there’s no rancor. No accusation. Just a man trying to balance being a father and…being decent?
“Thanks for humoring her.” He tips his hat a fraction. Respectful. Polite. It throws me.
“Anytime,” I answer.
Evie tugs my braid. “Why is that horse’s leg taped?”
“So he doesn’t get hurt while he runs barrels,” I tell her, crouching so we’re eye to eye. “These horses run fast and turn sharp, and that puts a lot of strain on their legs. The wrap gives him extra support, like when someone wears kneepads or elbow pads.”
Her eyes widen. “Like when I ride my bike!”
“Exactly.” I smile as I straighten from my crouch. “Only instead of a bike, he’s got four legs and a whole lot more horsepower.”
She giggles, and the sound cracks something open in me. I’ve always been good with kids. I enjoy their blunt honesty, their eagerness to learn. But as I watch Evie beam at me like I hung the stars, a pang strikes deep and sharp.
Because maybe this is the closest I’ll ever get to feeling this way. A borrowed moment with someone else’s child. I’ve built a good life, yes. But one with walls. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tear them down enough to love a man, to start a family, to trust someone with so much.
Evie finally lets go, running back toward the stands. Cade lingers for a moment longer, nods once, then follows.
My heart aches with everything I’ve lost…and everything I’m still terrified to want.
The gelding shifts beside me, bumping my shoulder with his nose. I pat his neck, the tension leaving me on a slow exhale.
“Dreams die once they come alive, don’t they?” I murmur.
Once I hand the horse over, I stay in place, watching Evie with her father. She’s sitting on his shoulders, hands waving.
He’s probably a great father, I think.
Before I can drag my heart further into despair, Elena and Aria find me and take me along to watch Hunt compete.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, rattling the metal chutes. “Next up in team roping—Hunt Blackwood on the head side.”
A steer explodes from the chute, dirt flying, hooves pounding.
Hunt’s horse surges forward, ears flat, perfectly in sync with him. Hunt swings his rope high, smooth and sure, and in a blink the loop drops over the steer’s horns.
“He’s good, ain’t he?” someone says.
Elena snorts. “Don’t let him hear you say that, Chuck. Man’s ego barely fits in the arena as it is.”
Chuck leans on the rail, grinning. “What can I say? He ropes clean. Cocky or not, he’s one of the best in the Canyon.”
“He’s cocky as fuck,” a woman says, and she is literally drooling.
They are not wrong.
The header’s job is the clean catch, and Hunt makes it look easy. The steer jerks sideways, muscles straining, but Hunt’s horse plants hard, turning left, dragging the steer just enough to give his partner a clean shot.
The heeler’s rope sings through the air, snapping tight around the steer’s back legs.
In less than seven seconds, it’s done. They’ve stopped the steer, caught head and heels, the whole run neat as a choreographed dance.
The crowd roars. Cowboys slap the fence. Dust hangs in the air like smoke.
I can’t help it—I am fascinated.
Team roping’s not just brute strength; it’s timing, trust, and hours of work between horse and rider. Hunt tips his hat toward the stands, grinning wide, and for a second, I see why they call this man cocky. He’s earned that title fair and square.