One Last Rodeo (Willow Ridge #3)

Prologue

Sawyer (Flashback)

September, Senior Year, ten years ago

I’d recognise bruises like that anywhere.

How the deepest shades of purple amongst the discolouration are concentrated into four smaller blots.

Probably a thumb print further round. Just peeking out from the sleeve of her white cardigan, which has slipped down her arm.

Faint surrounding shadows of struggle cloud the otherwise clear, golden skin, easily missed by teachers and friends.

But not by me.

I just never expected to notice them on Honey Goldman.

Sweet, quiet, innocent Honey Goldman who always sits at the back of my homeroom.

The choir girl who, to this day, I don’t think I’ve ever heard speak more than two words.

Voice of an angel, the teachers all say.

Heart of an angel too, from the other things I know about her—never misses church, stays late to study in the library, does everything she’s told in class.

Honey doesn’t argue with teachers. Honey doesn’t flunk her tests or forget to do her homework. Honey doesn’t get distracted easily because her damn mind won’t shut up. Honey isn’t already on track to fail multiple classes when it’s only the end of September.

Not like me.

If she’s golden, then I’m scrapyard metal.

So why does she have bruises like that too?

With my eyes still focused on where Honey’s mottled arm is reaching into her locker, I grab my bag out of my own and slam the door shut.

The clinking metal gets lost in the echoes of corridor chatter and hurried footsteps, unregistered by my friends gathered around me—the ones whose conversations I zoned out of the second I noticed those bruises.

But Honey flinches at the sudden sound. It might be the slightest tremor that moves her body, but it halts her for a second.

Her chest swells and falls in one deep breath—long enough to remind you that you’re safe, that no one’s going to hurt you today, but short enough for your fear to go unnoticed.

Just not by me.

When I glance back to her wrist, the bruises suddenly disappear under her sleeve, which she tugs up sharply.

Where inky splotches once loomed, cloud-like wool now performs the perfect deception.

My eyes immediately flick up to her face, catching her baby blues—how they flash with panic like a deer caught in the headlights.

Even from down the corridor, the two pools of aquamarine glisten like sunshine along the surface of water.

Except, this time I get a glimpse of the years of unspoken struggle floating beneath.

And then Honey’s ducking her head, ashy-blonde hair bouncing behind her as she slips off between groups of teens as inconspicuously as possible. Assuming her role as the wallflower—perfect for someone who would rather the bruises on her arm went overlooked.

I should just let her walk away.

Except … I can’t get those bruises out of my head.

Or the panic in her eyes.

‘Catch you at practice,’ I hastily mumble to the guys before I sling my backpack over my shoulder and race down the corridor after Honey. I don’t really know the girl, and she probably doesn’t want to speak to me, but … I have to do something.

Just because everyone else has left me to fend for myself doesn’t mean I should do the same to others. Not when Honey could be the only other person I know who’s going through what I am.

I barely acknowledge people as I pass by with more than a quick nod and smile.

Damn, I even just blanked that new girl in our year, the cute one my friend, Wolfman, said had been asking about me.

Cassidy, I think was her name. Pretty girl with an eager smile that promised me the attention I usually love to lap up.

Later. I’ll get her number later.

I carry on barrelling down the corridor after Honey.

Her quick steps are no match to my long strides which eat up almost all the distance between us in no time.

I’m certain she knows I’m only a couple of metres behind her now—she glanced over her shoulder briefly before snapping her focus forwards again.

I don’t like this.

I’m used to girls flocking to me, not running away. Perks of being Willow Ridge High’s quarterback and all that, as well as an up-and-coming bull rider.

‘Honey,’ I whisper-shout, trying not to draw too much attention to either of us, but still wanting to be loud enough for her to hear.

She doesn’t turn, just grabs onto her backpack straps, and increases her pace.

The skirt of her dress swishes with her curvy hips, stupidly distracting me for a short moment.

‘Honey, wait!’ I try again, raising my voice as I speed up. It makes a few heads turn as I hurry by, just not Honey’s.

I could reach out to catch her arm or something, but I’m not sure that’s the best idea.

Touching is conflicting when you can’t always predict the meaning behind it.

A tender hand settling on your shoulder can quickly slide up to grab the back of your neck and force you forward.

A reassuring squeeze of the upper arm can easily slip into something more constricting, tight enough to leave purple-tinged marks as you’re dragged out of the room, which my aching bicep decides to remind me of again—the remnants of Dad’s latest outburst.

So, touching Honey is off the table.

I opt for picking up my feet and jogging past her instead, far enough that I can then pivot and stop her right in her tracks, just as she turns the corner.

Inches away from smacking into my chest, Honey comes to a screeching halt. She tilts her head up to me, those bright baby blues flaring, speaking her frustration as she stays silent.

‘You know, I’m not used to girls running away from me,’ I joke, flashing her my signature smirk. The one that I know brings out my dimples—because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about girls, it’s that they are suckers for dimples. Especially mine.

Honey’s throat bobs as she drags up a restrained smile.

She releases the straps of her backpack, letting her hands fall to her side as she silently regards me, annoyingly unmoved by my cheeky smile.

I don’t miss the way she folds the hems of her cardigan sleeves under her fingers either, like she’s terrified I’m going to yank them up and show everyone at school the bruises lying beneath.

Fuck. I let my eyes quickly trail down her body, noticing how little skin is on show.

Legs covered by thick tights, dress almost at her knees and up to her neck, cardigan encasing her shoulders and arms. I guess I always thought it was because her family was super religious, her clothes reflecting their traditional views.

But it’s still pretty warm for September, and she might as well be dressed for winter.

My smirk instantly drops.

‘May I, um—may I help you, Sawyer?’ she asks, her voice soft and buttery, despite her country drawl being thick enough to rival mine. Blonde lashes flutter as she glances away each time someone passes us.

It’s like she’s worried somebody is watching. A boyfriend, maybe? The thought of another kid at our school being responsible for the bruises on her arm makes my blood boil, the heat causing my skin to itch.

Even more since I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. I don’t like the fact that she seems anything but excited to be in my presence, not like most of the girls at school. Even the other quiet ones’ eyes still sparkle when I flash a grin at them.

I’m anxious to put it right. To make her smile. To get some sort of reaction from her. I’m Sawyer Nash—underperforming isn’t in my nature when it comes to girls.

Honey plays with her fingers in front of her as she awaits my answer. Her eyes stay trained on her hands, only flicking up a couple of times to meet my confused stare, before shyly darting away. Like it would be dangerous to hold my gaze for too long.

I’d put all my money on it being a guy who did this to her.

‘Um, yeah. Hold on,’ I finally say, slipping my backpack off my shoulder and zipping it open. I plunge my hand inside, rummaging around.

When I finally yank out the concealer, her face crumples. It’s kind of cute how taken aback she looks—the little divot appearing between her brows, and the way her blue irises swallow up her pupils as they focus on the object, whilst her full lower lip pouts out just a little.

I take advantage of the sudden distraction to indulge in admiring her. Don’t get me wrong, Honey’s always been attractive—her beauty is the effortless kind—yet she insists on keeping herself hidden and, after a while, everyone just kind of let that happen.

Except, now I’m wondering why. Now I’m able to really appreciate the parts of her that get lost amongst the crowd.

The way her light-blonde brows stand out against her golden skin, the smattering of faint freckles atop the apples of her rosy cheeks, and her heart-shaped lips the colour of the cotton candy from the summer fair. She’s a real country belle.

And those goddamn eyes. There’s so many different shades of blue swirling through them, like her pupils are the stones dropped into a lake, her irises the rippling water.

‘I don’t understand,’ Honey admits, eyes snapping between me and the concealer I’m holding out toward her.

Carefully, I step closer, trying to make this exchange less visible. Because it probably is weird that the high school quarterback is giving the quiet choir girl makeup.

Honey moves back though, keeping the same space between us.

‘It’s, um …’ Fuck, I realise now that I didn’t think this through. How do I do this without divulging my own secrets? Without letting her see how broken I am under my football jacket and bold smile?

Even my closest friends don’t know everything that goes on with my dad. They might take the blame for bruises I can’t explain, pretending it was from football practice or roughhousing, but I’ve never told them the whole truth.

It stops them from running then. Like Mom did.

It’s okay. I don’t have to admit to anything, really. Just let her know that she’s not alone. Because that’s what I wish I’d had. Someone else in my corner when I felt like I couldn’t escape. To tell me it’s not my fault that no one loves me.

I have to swallow before I can muster up the words. To try to drown out the faint ringing that’s started to build in my ears. ‘It gives really good coverage for dark marks and doesn’t wipe off easily. You know, on clothes. My … mom used to wear it.’

She’d only been around for the first time he grabbed me.

But the next morning before school, the first thing she did was dab her expensive concealer over the marks darkening on my forearm with shaky fingers.

The way she applied the makeup to my arm was like muscle memory, and it was then that I realised it wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that. Maybe to me, but not to her.

I hate her for leaving me with him.

I hate myself for not being enough to make her stay.

Bottom lip dropped, Honey blinks those bright doe eyes at me. The fact that she doesn’t try to brush the gesture off or throw that crumpled, confused look back on her face just confirms my suspicions. Someone’s been hurting Honey Goldman.

When she still doesn’t move, I motion the concealer towards her again. ‘Seriously, take it. I have more at home.’

I try another smile, this time not attempting to win her with my dimples, but instead a gentle look of understanding.

Honey’s brows might draw in, but she mirrors my faint smile and reaches for the concealer.

Finally. Just that small, positive reaction kicks my heart rate up, beating to the rhythm of more, more, more.

Her soft fingers lightly brush over my rough palms which are calloused from years of helping on the ranch, bull riding, and football as she slips the concealer from my hand.

The skin on my arm breaks out in goosebumps, luckily covered by my jacket sleeve, and I only just manage to suppress the shiver that racks through me.

I don’t get it. How could anyone want to hurt her?

‘Thank you,’ Honey says, before she whips off her bag and stows the makeup inside.

The way her eyes assess me has the corridor darkening until the only light shining is on the two of us.

Something about this moment feels too intimate.

Too vulnerable. My skin itches again, heat crawling along the back of my neck and shoulders.

And when the bell rings to signal the end of lunch, I’m sending up a silent prayer.

Because I might not know Honey well, but I do know she wouldn’t want to be late to class.

‘Right,’ I quickly push out, shucking my backpack on and straightening up my shoulders. Readying myself to reassume the usual Sawyer Nash persona. The one that people like. ‘Better get going.’

Honey’s eyes flash, like she’s only just realised the bell has gone, her reaction delayed. ‘Sawyer, please—’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,’ I promise her, mimicking zipping my lips with a lopsided grin.

As much as I don’t want to suffer through math where I literally understand nothing and I’m pretty certain the teacher hates me, I should head to class. But it’s hard to rip myself from Honey’s aquamarine stare. I can already feel it branding in my mind.

Eventually, I find the willpower to turn away, but quickly throw over my shoulder, ‘Oh, and if you ever need anything, just come straight to me. I’m in your corner, Blue.’