Chapter 6 Cowboy
Cowboy
My eyes stay fixed on the crowd swaying to the music—couples laughing, spinning, the beat loud and contagious. My foot taps along instinctively. I wish I were out there with them. Just for a moment, to be part of it all.
I lift my cup, finishing the last sip. The thought of another glass of sugar-laden lemonade turns my stomach, but a tonic water sounds perfect. Leaning toward Irene, I ask, “Mind if I go get a drink?”
“Go right ahead, dear,” she says with a smile, already turning back to her friends. They've gotten louder since we arrived, and I’m almost certain her flask is empty now.
I stand, clutching my purse against my stomach as I weave through the dancing crowd and head toward the drink stand.
The woman behind the table greets me with a warm smile. “What can I get for you?”
“Do you have tonic water?”
“No, miss, regular water.”
“Tea?”
“We don’t–”
“She’ll have a hay water, make it two.”
A deep voice cuts through from behind me, carrying over the noise of the fair as if it were meant only for me. My back straightens before I turn, and there he is—the man whose eyes had found mine across the crowd, the one who already lingers in my thoughts like a secret I should keep.
The woman retrieves a tall glass pitcher from the back of the tent, then pours, the amber liquid glinting as it catches the lantern light, streaming into the waiting cups.
I don’t move. My breath snags in my chest. Not only from the suddenness of his voice but from the weight of his nearness, the quiet strength radiating from the man now standing at my side.
He slips a money clip from his pocket, the motion smooth.
I can’t help but notice the way the muscles in his forearms flex with each subtle movement as he extends his hand toward the vendor.
“Thank you, Leslie,” he says, his voice low and easy, lips tugging into a smile that feels like sunlight after a long winter.
“You’re welcome, Marcel,” she replies warmly, handing him the two cups. “Are you enjoying yourself tonight?”
He glances back at me, something new in his expression. “Evening’s improving,” he says, eyes twinkling as he offers me one of the drinks.
Then he tips his head toward an empty picnic table set a little apart from the crowd, its checkered cloth fluttering in the soft night breeze. “Share a drink with me?”
There’s a gentle pull in his voice, something soft that tugs at my heart. My nerves buzz, half warning, half thrill. I glance toward the tent where Irene sits. She throws her head back in laughter, surrounded by her friends and completely at ease.
“I’m supposed to stay with my chaperone,” I say, my fingers tightening around my purse.
“Just a few minutes?” His voice is warm, earnest, carrying a sincerity that disarms me. “One drink. You’re safe with me, I promise.”
I meet his eyes, and something in them holds me still. They’re kind, touched with the faintest crinkle at the corners, a softness that quiets the warning bells in my mind. His presence doesn’t press or demand. It surrounds me instead with a steadiness that feels safe, a gentleness that feels rare.
My aunt’s voice rises in my mind, always urging caution, always reminding me of what is proper. Yet something strange stirs inside me, whispering that this moment is different, that he is different.
“Is there anywhere off to the side?” The question slips out, and I’m almost startled to hear my own voice give it shape.
“I know a place.” His smile deepens, genuine. He turns, walking ahead with a confidence that draws me forward, not through command but through trust.
I cast one last look toward the crowd, searching for Irene among the shifting lantern light and swirling music.
She hasn’t noticed my absence. My pulse skips and flutters in my chest, restless and eager.
Drawing in a breath I can’t seem to steady, I step away from the safety of the crowd and follow him.
He leads me behind the row of vendor tents, where the music fades and the laughter of the crowd becomes distant. It’s quieter here, tucked away from watchful eyes. I lift my glass, bringing it to my nose to catch the scent.
He watches me with a small, amused smile. “It’s just cider. Sweet and not too strong. I think you’ll like it.”
“You’re awfully confident, Cowboy,” I say, arching a brow.
He glances down at his own glass, and I catch a hint of pink rising in his cheeks. It’s subtle, but it softens him in a way that makes me smile. We both take a sip. He was right—the cider is sweet and smooth.
His gaze returns to mine, warm and steady. “Leslie may have spilled my name, but you haven’t shared yours yet.”
“It’s Clara,” I reply, the name feeling almost new on my lips in this quiet corner of the night.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he says without hesitation.
This time, it’s my cheeks that burn.
“You’re bold with your compliments,” I say, trying to sound teasing.
He tips back the last of his drink and gives a soft shrug. “You never know when you’re getting your only chance. I know we’re of different worlds, but when you passed by me earlier, all I hoped for was to learn your name.”
I’ve never had a man speak to me the way he does, so openly, so easily.
It’s like each word is meant just for me.
Phillip never looked at me twice, let alone said anything worth remembering.
But this man already offers sweet words so soon after meeting him.
My eyes linger on his face, trying to make sense of the moment.
His hat is gone now, and a single curl has fallen onto his forehead.
I could lose myself in that curl, in the warmth of his gaze, in the way he lingers near enough to stir something inside me without ever crowding the space between us.
There is a familiarity in him that I can’t explain, as though we have shared this quiet before in another lifetime.
“Well,” I start, trying to keep my voice steady, “you know my name, Cowboy. What’s your next wish?”
My heart flutters at my own boldness, thumping loud enough I’m sure he must hear it.
He smiles. “How long do you have?”
“Only a minute or two,” I reply, glancing toward the lights beyond the tents. “I really should get back before someone notices I’m gone.”
He takes the cup from my hand and sets it down on the grass beside us, his fingers brushing mine with the barest whisper of warmth. Then he rises, his gaze locked to mine, “Can I ask for a dance?”
His voice carries a quiet hopefulness that makes me ache to say yes. The heat beneath my skin is unfamiliar, a spark I’ve never felt. I smile, letting myself slip into the rhythm of this moment, into the softness that seems to exist only between us.
“I’ll dance with you, Cowboy.”
He takes my hand in his, his fingers calloused but achingly careful. His other hand hovers at my waist, light as a feather, almost uncertain. I feel the faintest tremor in his touch, and it sends unexpected butterflies through me.
We begin to move slowly, not in time with the music beyond the tents, but to a rhythm all our own. The sounds of the fiddles drift over us, distant and dreamy, but we don’t pay them any mind.
“Are you in Hawthorn visiting?” he asks, his eyes fixed on the ground between us. There’s a space left deliberately open between our bodies, a small mercy he seems to offer me, a gentle reminder of respect.
“I’m just here for a few weeks,” I say softly. “I’ll head back to Cheyenne in August.”
He lifts his gaze then, and the grin that breaks across his face catches the moonlight like a secret. “City girl, huh?”
“You could say that.” My own smile rises without permission. “What ranch do you work on?”
“Devil’s Ridge, just outside of town. I’m a hand there.” His nod is simple, unadorned, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Well…I’m glad you wanted to know my name,” I whisper, aware of how close his presence feels even with that careful space between us.
His eyes soften, the grin still there, but it’s turned bold. “Want to know my next wish?”
My breath catches, and I lean in just slightly, the world narrowing until there’s only him and the night around us. “Tell me your wish, Cowboy.”
“I hope I can I see you again.”