12
ONE YEAR AGO
F allon flies. Literally.
I swear as she’s catapulted through the air and lands hard in the dust. The crowd cheers.
She picks herself up, dusts herself off, and then limps toward the gate.
Me, I’m already shouldering my way through the crowd to get to her.
“No stretcher,” she says, waving off a medic.
I reach for her. “You should get checked out.”
“For bruised ribs?” she scoffs. “I don’t think so.”
Hobbling, she hangs on to my shoulder. I keep an arm around her waist, keep her steady. She’s loopy, not like she’d admit it. Fallon McGraw could have her arm hacked off in broad daylight and she’d still lie through her teeth that she was fine. At least to me.
We give a series of interviews to the local station. Afterward, we head to a dive bar off the Vegas Strip to drink Old Crow whiskey neat. A couple of other cowboys from the rodeo are there, but there’s no sign of Fallon’s team. For once, it’s just us.
I watch her flinch as she settles on a bar stool.
“Your ribs are broken.”
“Big deal.” Hissing a breath, she gestures at the sling on my arm. I got patched up after my last ride when a snagged rope yanked it out of place. “You’re busted, too.”
I shoot back my whiskey. “What if something worse happens?”
“Then it happens.”
“You should go to the hospital.”
When I stare at her, she rolls her eyes. “I don’t have insurance, Wyatt. The bill I had after Aiden nearly bankrupted me.” She glowers into her whiskey. “Asshole.”
With white knuckles, I grip my glass. It’s the most honest conversation we’ve had since she was kidnapped by that motherfucker last year.
She snorts. “I’m just a girl, and you worry. Be honest.”
“I always worry about you, Fallon.” Ever since she started riding bulls without telling her family or friends, she’s had me in a fucking chokehold.
But it’s not because she’s just a girl. It’s because I care about her. Too damn much for my own good.
I scoot my stool closer. The heat from her body hits me at the same time as her bourbon and vanilla scent does. “You oughta get some insurance.”
“Can’t.” She gulps the rest of her whiskey, lifts her glass to signal for another. “Lovely needs meds, and the purse strings are tight.”
That nag’s been on her last legs for too damn long now, but I’d never say that. Not to Fallon.She loves horses more than I do.
Her trim shoulder lifts. “Besides, it’s how this rodeo shit goes, right? Get busted up, get back on?”
She’s right. It’s the way of the cowboy. Living dirty, decrepit, and destitute. But I don’t want that life for her. The curse of rodeoing. Living cheap, scraping by. Fallon deserves better. Is better. It hurts my heart to think of her struggling.
“You need to take care of yourself,” I tell her softly. Davis’s words from years ago ring in my head.
It’s only a matter of time before she’s hurt.
“Yeah. Well.” Her eyes go to that faraway place they’ve been going the last year. “There’s nothing you can do to help me.”
The statement hangs heavy in the air between us. Like there’s more to it.
The solution hits me like a brick.
“Let me,” I blurt.
That sharp brow of hers arches. “Let you what?”
“Help you.”
“How?”
“Let me marry you.”
She physically recoils. “What the fuck, Wyatt?”
“For the insurance.” I lean in, sliding a hand up her toned thigh. My heart races. “Listen, Trouble, I don’t want you hurt. Think of Stede. Of Dakota.”
Her face clouds up. Her nose wrinkles.
I go on. “Hell, if you had some insurance, at least you’d at least be okay moneywise. A bad injury could knock you out of a run for a season if you can’t pay your bills.”
She stiffens.
That’s it. What gets her.
Rodeo.
The love of her fucking life.
Her hazel eyes consider me. “For the insurance only?”
“Insurance only.”
We stare at each other. Finish our drinks at the same time and breathe out the sting.
“Marry me,” I repeat.
A pink flush stains Fallon’s cheeks.
“Yes,” she whispers.