Chapter 20-Bit
If you’d told me a month ago I’d be spending my Saturday afternoon at something called the Cow Country Rodeo, I probably would’ve laughed and asked if it came with subtitles.
But here I am—boots, braid, and a little sundress under Sawyer’s old flannel—standing at the Barren County Fairgrounds surrounded by cowboys, cattle, and more denim than I’ve ever seen in one place.
And I’m grinning like a fool.
It’s one of those perfect October days—warm sun, crisp breeze, the smell of hay and fried dough mixing in the air.
People are everywhere. Families, ranch hands, tourists, and real-deal rodeo riders showing off their best hats and biggest smiles.
“Crowd’s bigger than I remember,” Sawyer says beside me, tipping his hat against the sun.
“Is that code for let’s leave before someone ropes me into competing?”” I tease, nudging him with my elbow.
He gives me that lazy, sideways grin that should be illegal.
“I don’t compete, Lil Bit. I raise champion bulls, I don’t ride them, remember?”
“Uh-huh,” I drawl. “You just keep tellin’ yourself that, cowboy. But I saw the way your eyes lit up when that bronc rider hit the gate. I feel like maybe there’s a fighter inside you wants to show off his stuff.”
He chuckles low. “That was admiration, not temptation. And the only showing off I want to do is when we’re home alone.”
“Keep saying things like that and we’ll have to leave, cowboy.”
“I’m good with that,” he drawls, gaze smoldering as he watches me.
“Not yet, hotshot,” I say sweetly. “You promised me we’d check out the food trucks. But I should warn you, I’m only here for the chocolate.”
Which, to be fair, might not be a total lie.
He barks out a laugh but really—oh my sweet baby Jesus—it’s true.
Devil’s Food Bakery has a truck here!
It’s the same spot we visited in downtown Dry Creek.
So, I practically drag Sawyer across the gravel lot, ignoring his amused expression, and order two of those dark chocolate cayenne brownies that ruined my life last week.
“You know,” he says while I’m balancing the brownies and a lemonade, “you’ve got the same look in your eyes you did when I showed you my bull pens.”
“That’s because both situations involve pure joy and a hint of danger,” I say around a mouthful of chocolate.
He laughs, deep and warm, and I swear my stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with sugar.
We wander down the rows of vendors, stopping at a stand called Dolly’s Dairy Products. I can’t resist.
I grab some “Got Milk” soap, a bottle of goat’s milk lotion, and an entire pint of herbed goat cheese because, well, self-control is overrated.
Everyone here is so lovely—people smile, wave, ask where we’re from.
It’s small-town charm with a heartbeat, and I’m eating it up.
Then we reach Artist’s Alley, a stretch of pop-up tents filled with handmade crafts, pottery, and paintings.
And that’s when the idea hits me.
All this color, all this creativity—it feels like my sewing projects, like the way I’ve been stitching pieces of myself back together since coming here.
I could do this.
Sell things.
Make something that lasts.
“Hey,” Sawyer says, noticing me stop. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I smile up at him, heart buzzing with possibility. “Just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” he teases, eyes crinkling.
“Funny, that’s exactly what Angie said when I mentioned reupholstering the kitchen chairs.”
He groans softly. “You what?”
I laugh, looping my arm through his.
“Relax, cowboy. I didn’t do it—yet.”
We keep walking, our hands brushing now and then, each accidental touch sending sparks up my arm.
Every time I glance at him—broad shoulders, sun-warmed skin, that easy confidence—I can’t help but think how damn lucky I am.
Even though Sawyer’s not a competition cowboy, he’s still in his element—talking with other ranchers, shaking hands, making people laugh.
Every now and then, he glances my way like he’s checking to make sure I’m still having fun, still his.
And I am. So much it’s almost scary.
He shares his lemonade, wipes a bit of brownie off my lip with his thumb, and kisses my temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And I realize, as the rodeo crowd cheers and the sun beats down on us, that this is what happiness looks like for me now.
It looks like dust clinging to my boots, laughter bubbling out of me for no reason at all, chocolate smudged on my fingers, and a cowboy who keeps finding new ways to make me feel like I belong somewhere.
God, I love this man.
By the time the last bull rider finishes his run and the announcer thanks everyone for coming out to the Cow Country Rodeo, the fairgrounds are glowing with string lights and the faint hum of country music.
Sawyer’s hand never leaves mine as we weave through the thinning crowd toward the Oktoberfest tent set up at the far end of the lot.
We find Alex, Micah, and Benji already there—cowboy hats tipped back, boots up, laughing over a couple of long-neck beers.
The scent of grilled bratwurst and fried onions fills the air, mixing with the earthy smell of hay and the sharp bite of fall.
“Hey, boss man!” Micah calls, raising his bottle in salute. “You finally made it.”
“Thought you two ran off to elope,” Benji adds with a grin.
Sawyer just shakes his head, pulling out a chair for me before taking the one beside mine.
“We were exploring the local attractions,” he says, smirking at me.
“Uh-huh. Sure you were,” Alex teases.
“Want something, Lil Bit?” Sawyer asks, his tone softer now, eyes lingering on me like I’m the only person in the tent.
“Sure,” I say, scanning the menu board hanging above the bar. “Do they have that German grapefruit beer? The one I liked?”
He nods. “Schofferhofer.”
I giggle immediately. “Yeah, I ain’t even trying to say that.”
He chuckles, bending down to press a quick, sweet kiss to my lips.
“Be right back.”
“Get us another round while you’re at it, boss,” Micah calls, smirking.
“Yeah,” Benji adds, leaning back in his chair. “Technically, you sign the checks. Might as well buy the beer.”
Sawyer rolls his eyes but waves them off, good-natured.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep talkin’.”
I watch him disappear into the crowd, feeling that little warm tug in my chest I always get when he’s near—but it doesn’t fade even when he’s gone.
It’s like he left a part of himself behind just by smiling at me.
We chat easily while he’s gone—Alex talking about the rodeo stock, Micah joking about entering the chili cook-off next weekend, Benji explaining the logistics of the next bull shipment.
It feels normal. Easy.
Until the low, familiar rumble of engines breaks through the hum of conversation.
My stomach drops.
I try to tell myself it’s nothing—this is a rodeo, after all, and bikes are as common here as trucks—but the sound grows louder. Closer.
I freeze halfway through my sentence. The others notice.
Alex’s eyes flick toward the open tent flap. Benji’s hand tightens around his beer bottle.
Outside, the motorcycles idle for a moment before cutting off, one by one, the kind of synchronized stop that doesn’t belong to casual riders.
And I’m not the only one who feels the shift in the air.
Micah mutters under his breath, “Well, that sure doesn’t sound like tourists.”
The easy laughter dies, replaced by the heavy silence of shared instinct.
And all I can think—heart pounding, throat tight—is please, not here. Not now.
Because this day was perfect.
And I don’t want the past to find me again.
But when has that ever stopped fate from throwing a wrench into the engine that runs my life?
The sound of the bikes cuts off outside, but the quiet they leave behind is worse. It’s a heavy, crawling kind of silence that prickles at the back of my neck.
I keep telling myself it’s nothing. Maybe just a group passing through. Maybe they’re here for the beer tent like everyone else. But deep down, I know better.
The first biker pushes through the flaps of the tent like he owns the place.
He’s sweating, his leather cut dark with dust and heat, his hair plastered to his temples. His face is mottled red, eyes too bright, pupils blown wide—and that grin. God, that grin. It’s the kind that doesn’t belong to someone just looking for a drink.
“Well now,” he drawls, his voice carrying easily over the chatter that’s started to fade, “looks like we’re late to the party! No worries, folks, we’ll catch up real quick!”
A few people laugh uncertainly, but the rest go still, like prey that just caught the scent of a predator.
I can’t move. My fingers are digging into the edge of the table, knuckles white.
That grin widens when his gaze lands on me. Recognition flashes in those too-bright eyes, and I swear the air leaves my lungs all at once.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
It’s him.
The same Hellbound Heathen who started the bar fight the night I went out with Kristie—seems so long ago.
He’s the guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Roach. That’s what his patch says, and I can’t think of a more apt description.
My heart starts pounding so loud I can barely hear the scrape of chairs, the shuffle of boots.
Micah’s already moving—slow, careful, standing up between me and the man. Benji’s setting his beer down, eyes narrowing.
“Easy now,” Roach says, spreading his arms like he’s making peace, but there’s nothing peaceful in the way he’s watching me.
“Ain’t here for trouble. Just came to say hello to an old friend.”
My stomach twists.
“I’m not your friend,” I reply—angry at him for intruding on my life, on this perfect day.
Every muscle in my body is screaming run, but I can’t—not with Sawyer somewhere in this crowd and the rest of these people completely unaware of what’s about to happen.
Because I know this man.
And he doesn’t do “hellos.”
He does grabby hands and nasty words. He does violence and violations.
“Come on over here, and sit with me, girl. We got unfinished business,” Roach says, and the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl.
My gaze flicks to the bar, and I see him, striding for me.
My cowboy.
Sawyer.
And immediately, I relax because he’s got me.
I know he does.
And that? That’s everything.