Chapter Twenty-Four
The roar of the crowd still hums in my ears, long after the last cheer fades. The arena’s still crackling with excitement like a live wire, even though the event ended over an hour ago. I’m standing off to the side, watching Bryce sign autographs for the mob.
The line stretches across the dirt—cowboys, fans, a few women dressed like they came here to be noticed—and Bryce handles them all with easy confidence. Every handshake, every photo, every thank you, ma’am sounds smooth, practiced.
But when a little kid steps up, that’s when he changes.
Every time a boy or girl approaches, he drops to a knee or scoops them up, says something that makes them laugh. And that’s when I see it—the real smile. The one that doesn’t belong to the cameras or the sponsors. It hits different. Makes something twist in my chest I don’t have a name for.
The crowd goes wild again when Porter Lane passes by with his trophy buckle.
Axle came in second. I saw the flash of frustration in Axle’s eyes before he masked it, giving Porter a congratulatory slap on the back after he barely skated past him in points.
In all fairness, Axle rode a much meaner bull than Porter, but a win’s a win.
I turn back just as Porter saunters up next to me.
He follows my gaze to Bryce, who’s shaking hands with a couple of reporters. “Look at him,” he says, nodding at Bryce. “It’s crazy that the only one anyone wants to talk to around here didn’t even ride.”
His voice carries a mix of admiration and something sharper. Envy maybe.
“The crowd sure does love him,” I say.
“Yeah,” Porter answers, glancing toward a group of women eyeing Bryce like he’s dessert. “Especially the ladies.”
A pack of giggling blondes sidles up next to him, proving his point. They’re wearing matching tank tops with Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy printed across the front. Porter grins, tipping his hat to them.
“Classy,” I mutter.
Axle and Royce appear a moment later. Axle still covered with arena mud.
Royce slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. “Hell of a show, huh, coz?”
“Sure was. You guys looked amazing out there,” I say. I smile at Axle. “You nearly won.”
“Nearly don’t pay the bills,” Axle grumbles.
“You’ll get him next time,” I say, and his eyes soften when he sees how hard I’m trying to cheer him up.
Finally, the line around Bryce starts thinning. He signs one last poster, shakes a few more hands, and then he’s walking toward us.
Porter crosses his arms. “Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour.”
Bryce gives him a polite nod. “Good ride out there.”
“Thanks,” Porter says, flashing that too-white smile. “Maybe next time, you’ll be on a bull, and we can go toe-to-toe for this buckle.”
“Maybe,” Bryce answers, unbothered.
The tension hangs a second too long before Royce breaks it. “We’re all heading to Okie’s Saddle and Saloon to celebrate. You two should come.”
Bryce looks at me.
I shrug. “Why not? Be good to spend some time with family.” And if I’m honest, it’d be good not to be alone with him. I seem to lose all my wits when I am.
“We have that thing in the morning,” he says. Reminding me that we’re supposed to meet with his friend Judd Alder, the saddle bronc rider he introduced me to earlier. “And then I have a commercial to shoot before we head to Tulsa.”
“Ah, old man, you can handle it,” Axle says. “Just for a little while.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking toward the exit, like he’s weighing the options.
“C’mon, cowboy,” I tease. “Let’s go have some fun.”
He finally nods. “Fine. For a little while.”
They follow us to the Bull Rope trailer so Bryce can change back into his clothes, and I decide to slip into the denim skirt I shoved into my bag this morning. Then we all head for the parking lot and get into trucks and head straight for the bar.
The place is loud, smoky, and alive. Neon lights buzz above the bar, and the jukebox is stuck on a rotation of George Strait and Brooks & Dunn. The floorboards creak under the boots of half the rodeo circuit.
Bryce sticks close to my side when we first walk in, his hand brushing my lower back to guide me through the crowd to where Axle, Royce, Chase, and Porter stand near the pool tables. It’s such a simple touch, but it sends a shiver through me anyway. Like he’s claiming me.
A couple of locals challenge the boys to a game, and soon, the sounds of cracking balls and laughter fill the corner.
Rounds appear faster than anyone can track—beer, whiskey, and shots—one after another.
I start with a whiskey, then a shot because, well, tequila.
Bryce plays a game or two, every move calculated. He might not have ridden today, but the competitor in him is alive and well. He’s relaxed but watchful, his eyes taking in the growing crowd and staying aware of the exits, like he’s ready for anything that might go down.
I excuse myself after a while, heading to the ladies’ room.
When I step back out, I head toward the bar for another drink.
A woman appears beside me. Tall, gorgeous, and dressed like a poster girl for every cowboy fantasy ever. Tight jeans, turquoise jewelry, hair the perfect shade of honey blonde.
She leans against the counter beside me. “You here with Bryce Raintree?”
I blink. “Depends on who’s asking.”
She smiles without humor. “Let’s just say, someone who’s been there, done that.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Okay …”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she says as she raises her fingers to get the bartender’s attention. Ordering a shot.
“Wouldn’t what?”
She tilts her head toward where Bryce’s laugh carries over the noise. “Wouldn’t get too close. He looks like a good idea, but trust me, he’s nothing but a broken heart, wrapped in pretty packaging.”
Her words hang there, sharp and sweet at once.
I shrug. “Maybe I just wanna open up the package, play with it for a bit, and put it back on the shelf.”
That earns me a real laugh.
She clinks a shot glass against mine and downs it. “Oh, if only it were that easy.” She gestures for the bartender to pour us both another. “Good luck, cowgirl. The way he’s looking at you, you’re gonna need it.”
I toss the tequila back, the burn crawling down my throat. “Pssh, he’s the one that’s gonna need it.”
She looks past me, grin widening. “I hope you’re right. I’d love to see a cowgirl knock Bryce Raintree down a few pegs.”
She disappears onto the dance floor, and I walk back to the group with her words still rattling in my head.
Bryce Raintree, heartbreaker. No surprise there.
They’re still playing pool when I return.
Porter waves me over, handing me a cue. “You in?”
“Sure,” I say, smiling.
I bend over the table, lining up a shot, and I can feel Bryce’s gaze like a touch. When I glance up, he’s watching me from where he leans against the wall, drink in hand, eyes dark.
I sink a solid, chalk the cue, and bend again—maybe a little slower this time, maybe a little more deliberately. His jaw flexes.
Everyone’s watching, but only one set of eyes makes my skin heat.
The game goes on, laughter spilling over, and for a little while, I forget about everything except the music and the buzz in my veins.
Then Bryce disappears.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.
I tell myself I don’t care where he went, but after a while, curiosity gets the better of me.
I weave through the crowd, scanning faces, until I spot him in the far corner, dimly lit, talking to a woman. Her hand is on his arm, her face too close.
My stomach drops before logic catches up.
He could be doing anything—talking business, answering a question, hell, just being polite—but all I see is how he’s smiling down at her. It’s one of his real smiles.
I turn back toward the bar, my throat tight.
Another shot lands in front of me as Porter asks, “You okay, sweetheart?”
“Perfect,” I lie, tossing it back.
And another.
And another.
The edges blur. Porter talks me into trying the mechanical bull, and I’m just tipsy enough to agree.
I climb on, gripping the rope. The ride starts slow, and the cowboys gather around.
They whoop and holler their encouragement as my body rocks with the machine.
The next thing I know, the pace quickens as the bull twists and turns and jerks hard.
I hit the mat, flat on my back, air whooshing out of me. Cheers erupt around me.
Porter’s there in a flash, offering his hand. “You all right?”
“That was awesome,” I gasp, still catching my breath.
He laughs, sets his hat on my head, and tugs me to my feet. “Now you’re a real cowgirl.”
Before I can say thanks, a shadow cuts through the lights.
Bryce.
He’s there in three long strides, jaw tight, eyes blazing.
“Back up,” he snaps, plucking the hat from my head and shoving it into Porter’s chest.
Porter blinks. “Chill, Bryce. We’re just having some fun.”
“Fun’s over,” Bryce says, stepping in close enough that the space between them disappears, and suddenly, I’m caught staring at the boot-to-boot showdown.
“Bryce, stop it,” I yell, tugging at his biceps.
Phones rise instantly, flashes popping.
Axle and Royce rush over, grabbing Porter’s arm. “Let it go, man.”
Porter’s smart enough to back off, hands raised. “All right, all right. Didn’t mean nothing.”
Bryce doesn’t answer. He grabs my wrist, not hard, but firm enough to make a point.
“Hey—” I start.
“Outside,” he growls.
The cool night air hits my face as he drags me out of the bar.
I yank my hand free the second we’re clear. “What the hell was that?”
“You tell me,” he fires back. “You think getting drunk, climbing on the back of a dangerous machine, and hanging all over Porter Lane’s a good look? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were begging for trouble.”
“I wasn’t the one whispering with some buckle bunny in the corner,” I snap.
His brows pull together. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I throw my hands up. “The brunette you were cuddled up to.”
His eyes flash as he jerks the door open. “Get in the truck.”
“No.”
“Charli, get in the damn truck.”
I whirl on him. “Or what?”
His jaw clenches. “Or I’m gonna fuck the attitude right out of you, right here in this parking lot—and that’s gonna end up on the front page of Western Life Magazine, right next to the fight you just got me dragged into.”
My heart stutters.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I breathe.
He steps closer. “Test me.”
My hands come up, and I shove his chest, but it does no good. The man’s as sturdy as the Tetons.
He catches my hands and holds them against him.
“She’s the sports medicine intern who was on duty the night of my last concussion.
She was asking how I was doing,” he says, his voice low.
“And I was congratulating her when she showed me the ring her boss—the circuit’s doctor—put on her finger last week. ”
“Oh.” I shake my head just as a group of patrons passes by.
Their eyes, as well as their phones, are trained on the two of us.
Shit.
We stand there, staring at each other. His hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to do exactly what he threatened.
“Get in the truck, Charli.”
I finally do as he asked. Sliding over quickly so he can get behind the wheel. I can feel the fury rolling off of him as he puts the truck in reverse and peels out of the parking lot.