Chapter 2
Two
A SMART MAN DON'T CHASE WHAT AIN'T RUNNING TOWARD HIM.
KINSLEY
"I don't like men who play games," I say.
"Good thing you're not playing them, then." Jessica's grin turns wicked. "I want to see if he's as pretty up close."
"Jessica—"
But she's already pulling me forward. I allow her to because I don’t want to stare at a cowboy while he flirts with a woman who's everything I'm not. The largest group in the line finally moves on and we advance ten more feet.
As we get closer, I catch more of his conversation with the sponsors and fans surrounding him.
He's intelligent—that's clear from the way he discusses training techniques.
He knows his business, respects the traditions, understands the politics of professional rodeo.
But there's something else there too, something that flickers across his expression when he thinks no one's looking.
Something that looks like exhaustion.
Despite every instinct I have that tells me to walk away, despite knowing exactly what kind of man he appears to be, I find myself wanting to know what put that shadow behind his eyes.
Which is exactly the kind of thinking that gets smart women into stupid situations.
"Kinsley Rose," I mutter under my breath, "you are in serious trouble."
We end up close enough to the cowboys for the details to sharpen. Based on the easy way they're ribbing each other, they're good friends, maybe even traveling buddies.
"I still can't believe I agreed to this," the bareback rider, Jake, is saying, gesturing toward the contest booth. “After your experience in Denver, I swore I wouldn’t."
"It wasn’t the worst thing in the world," Wyatt says, shooting a glance toward the blonde who's finally moved on to charming a sponsor. "I just didn’t need what she was offering."
Wyatt glances in our direction, and for a split second, our eyes meet. The impact hits me like a green horse's first buck—unexpected, breathtaking, dangerous. He looks away first, but not before I catch his interest.
"A smart man don't chase what ain't running toward him," his voice is lower now.
"Fair enough." Jake snorts, apparently hearing the conversation-closed signal as clearly as I do. "But for what it's worth, that brunette's been watching you like she's sizing up a horse she might want to ride."
I duck my head and glance around. No, no, no. I'm the only brunette near the tent and now I want to crawl under it and not come out until the arena lights turn on.
"Jake," Wyatt's voice carries a warning.
"What? I'm just saying, it might be time for a brunette in your life, instead of—." He shrugs without finishing the statement.
I turn my head like I'm checking on Jessica's progress on her entry form and roll my eyes as I wrap my apple in the wax paper it came with and put it in my purse.
"She's not entering the contest. Must not be into roughies," Wyatt points out.
"She doesn’t need a contest to get a cowboy's attention."
Now I'm starting to like Jake.
Wyatt's looking at me again. I can feel his gaze on me in a way that makes me want to flip my hair over my shoulder and give him a saucy smile—and I’m not even sure I have a saucy smile in my repertoire.
I should ignore him, should think about literally anything else, but my traitorous eyes find his anyway and he holds me hostage.
I'm torn between running for the hills and doing something completely reckless—like walking over there and finding out if he's as much trouble as he looks like.
Which would be insane.
I don't do impulsive—ever. And I definitely don't do impulsive with cowboys who look like they could wreck my entire life plan with one crooked grin.
But heaven help me, I want to.
"Okay, time for my photo with the cowboy." Jessica hooks my arm again before I can stop her. "I want a picture to show our children one day," she pumps her eyebrows.
Before I can protest, she's pulling me further inside the tent. I follow because I do not want to make a scene, but also because some reckless part of me wants to get closer.
We're almost to the photo op when Jake gets called away by someone with a clipboard, leaving Wyatt alone. Jessica sees her opportunity and takes it, her grip on my arm becoming more insistent.
"Come on, before I lose my nerve," she murmurs.
The next second we're standing in front of Wyatt. My breath catches as heat pools in my belly. Up close, he's even more devastating—all lean muscle and controlled power. He stands up from the bar stool with the automatic courtesy that's been bred into western men for generations.
And when our eyes meet, the world shifts and I can’t breathe.
This cannot be happening right now. I've never met this man before. I've never felt this inexplicable urge to close the distance between us, like my body has its own agenda that makes zero sense.
This is not what I do.
"Y'all here for the drawing?" he asks, his voice makes my pulse do things I'd rather not acknowledge.
"I am, I’m Jessica." Jessica jumps in before I can speak. "And this is Kinsley and she’s thinking about it."
I shoot her a look that could strip paint. "My friend seems to think I need the excitement."
Wyatt focuses on me, and I might melt into the floor. "What do you think, Kinsley?" The question is simple, direct. No smooth lines or obvious charm. Just genuine curiosity about my opinion, like it actually matters to him. It catches me off guard in the best way.
His phone rings and he and I glance down at the same time. Dad flashes on the screen. He silences it and I avert my gaze before he sees that I was watching.
"I think playing the odds is for people who believe in taking unnecessary risks," I say, falling back on honesty because everything else feels too dangerous.
"And you don't take risks?"
There's no judgment in the question, no attempt to change my mind or convince me I'm wrong. He's just asking. It's so different from what I expected that I find myself answering more honestly than I intended.
"I believe in hard work. Fair contracts. Getting exactly what you pay for."
He studies me for a moment, and I have the unsettling feeling that he's seeing more than I meant to show.
Something I said speaks to him and a thread of connection and attraction laces around us.
My mouth dries out like a summer desert.
If I start wagging my tongue, I'll stir up a dust devil, so I clamp my lips shut.
"That sounds like a woman who knows her own mind," he says finally.
Okay, I know I'm probably being played, but it's working.
"I do know what I want," I say, and I'm surprised by how steady my voice sounds when everything inside me feels like it's been knocked sideways. I'm also suddenly aware that I said that while staring deep into his eyes, but I can't look away.
"Good." He nods once, like that settles something important. His phone rings again, Grandpa this time. He sends it to voicemail without looking down. "World's got enough people who don't know what they want. Refreshing to meet someone who does."
I shuffle my feet and I’m closer to him.
Before I can cross a line and touch his arm, a man in an expensive western suit and a Stetson approaches. "Wyatt, there’s someone I need you to meet.”
I watch something shift in Wyatt's expression—the easy openness he's shown me gets wrapped in a layer of professional courtesy.
"Of course, Mr. Patterson. Just finishing up here with these ladies. I believe they were promised a picture with a cowboy."
It's smooth. The kind of polite dismissal that sounds like respect but leaves no room for argument. I recognize the technique because I use it myself—the art of being gracious while maintaining control of the conversation.
Jessica snaps her photo so fast I think I blinked and missed it.
"Nice meeting y'all," he says to us, but his eyes linger on mine a beat longer than politeness requires. He steps toward me and leans close to say, "Stick around after the bull riding, Kinsley. I kiss better than I ride—and I plan on winning a buckle tonight."
My mouth falls open—half ready to snap, half aching with something I don’t want to name—but he’s already turning away, that easy swagger in his walk, shoulders broad.
Heat flares in my cheeks. Of all the arrogant… Reckless… Too handsome for his own good… As if I would ever hang around for a roughie—or any other cowboy for that matter.
Jessica pulls me away, laughing like Wyatt is funnier than a rodeo clown, and ignoring the steam coming out of my ears. We walk several feet before she stops to talk to someone she knows from work. I give them enough space to talk and study Wyatt out of the corner of my eye.
From the broken-in custom boots to the Wilderness Circuit Champion buckle at his waist to the perfectly shaped American hat on his head; his gear tells a story. This isn't new money trying to buy its way into respectability. This is old money wearing its heritage like a second skin.
"He's not just a rodeo cowboy," I murmur, more to myself than to anyone.
I watch him handle another fan who's approached for an autograph—flirty and light, but with boundaries that keep things from getting too personal.
He's been raised to this, I think slowly, pieces clicking into place. The rodeo, the sponsors, the publicity—it's part of something bigger. Family business, probably. Multi-generational. Halloway. Halloway… where have I heard that name?
Men with that kind of family background are shaped by legacy the way rivers are shaped by their banks—powerful, but not always free to choose their own course.
I find myself more intrigued.
“Hell-o!” Jessica shakes my arm to get my attention. She looks back at the tent and then at me. “Distracted much?”
I glance around and don’t even see her friend. How long has she been watching me watch Wyatt? "He’s got all the makings of a major distraction," I admit.
"And you're hooked," she says with entirely too much satisfaction.
I deny it. But the truth is sitting heavy in my chest like a stone I can't swallow.
Men like Wyatt Halloway, with those smolder-gray eyes and that devastating smile, are complex enough to be interesting, damaged enough to understand my wounds, and attractive enough to make me forget why that's a problem.
Which makes them capable of wrecking me in ways that I may never recover from.