Page 2 of Promised to the Cowboy

She tips her head slightly to the right. “You were at the rail tonight. East side.”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than I want.

“Watched the whole barrel racing.”

“I did.”Watched you like a starving man watches a meal.

“Most of the bronc crowd clears out after their event.”

“My friend rode.” I nod toward Caleb, who’s smart enough to mind his own business. “I stay for the card.”

She studies me, then Caleb’s back, then me again. When she leans in slightly to take her drink from Emmett, the faint scent of her—sweat, horse, something warm and feminine—hits me like a drug. My cock twitches. I shift my weight, trying to control the sudden flood of desire.

“So… Lightning,” I manage. “Good name.”

She smirks. “Most people just say nice run.”

“It wasn’t a nice run. It was the best run of the night.”

Surprise flickers across her face, as if she’s not used to honest compliments. Then she plants both hands on the bar beside my beer and looks straight at me. Full eye contact. No games. The careful distance I’ve kept for years cracks wide open. My heart slams against my ribs. I want to taste the sweat in the hollow of her throat. I want to feel those strong thighs wrapped around my hips. I want to hear what sound she makes when she comes.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

I hesitate longer than I should. “Gabriel.”

“Just Gabriel?”

“Tonight.”

Her mouth curves, soft and knowing. “Evie. Tonight.”

She picks up the drink Emmett left at her elbow and takes a sip. I lean beside her. The silence between us feels alive—charged yet dangerous. My body is painfully aware of every inch separating us. The heat of her arm near mine. The rise and fall of her chest. The way her lips glisten when she lowers her glass.

“What does your friend ride?” she asks.

“Broncs. Open circuit. He had a bad draw tonight—that buckskin that’s been throwing everyone.”

“I saw that horse.” She turns her glass. “He’s not mean. He’s just quick off the right hip, and the riders keep sitting to the left waiting for it. Your friend stayed centered the whole way.”

“Yeah.” I set my beer down. “He’s been off the circuit. Bad knee, bad landing, end of story. Only he decided today was the day he was getting back on, so I came to stand at the rail and watch him prove himself right or wrong.” I pause. “He’s very quiet right now, which means he finally got the answer.”

Her face clouds over as she nods slowly, not with pity, but with recognition maybe. “Half the men I’ve ridden with are carrying something they can’t come back from. Knees, shoulders, backs. They keep showing up anyway because they don’t know how to be the person they are unless they’re in an arena.” She looks at her glass. “It’s not the injury that finally stops them. It’s the day they climb back on, and the body says no for the last time, and they have to hear it.” Her hazel eyes lift to mine. “Your friend heard it tonight.”

“Tell me about the mare,” I say.

She glances at me briefly, like she’s checking whether I mean it. “When I got her, she couldn’t load, couldn’t stand at the gate, bolted the first three runs so bad I thought I’d bought myself avery expensive mistake.” Her full lips pull up in an affectionate smile. “She wasn’t mean. She was just waiting to be punished. Every time something moved wrong, she’d already decided it was going to hurt, so she got there first.”

I nod, having known horses like that myself. “How did you turn her around?”

“I stopped trying to make her brave and started letting her be scared.” She turns her glass again, the rings of condensation spreading. “You can’t bully a horse into trusting you. You just wait long enough that they decide you’re not the threat.”

The jukebox rolls into something slow. Caleb nods at me and tips his hat at Evie without a word as he leaves. Emmett’s at the far end of the bar, professionally blind.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The slow notes wrap around us while the rest of the bar fades into white noise. I feel the shift between us like a live wire—thick, undeniable. My pulse is heavy in my throat, in my wrists, low in my groin. I’m hard enough that it’s becoming uncomfortable, and I don’t even care. My hands itch to touch her. My mind has already half-undressed her, imagining the way those strong rider’s thighs would feel locked around my waist, the sounds she’d make when I dragged my mouth down her neck.

She must feel it too. Her hazel eyes have gone darker, pupils wide. Her fingers flex once on the bar like she’s deciding whether to reach for me or her glass. The air between us feels almost electric, humming with the kind of mutual want that doesn’t need words.

Her eyes find mine, and damn, if I don’t feel that look somewhere in my chest and all the way down to my aching balls.