Page 42 of Sunday's Best

My breath catches in my throat. Logan swings his leg over his saddle and jumps to the ground, then marches toward Holden. The announcer poses a question I can’t quite make out. My pulse drowns out every sound.

Holden climbs down from his horse. I watch his lips move, and Logan’s fist cracks into his brother’s jaw before Holden can finish his sentence.

I think I scream. I can’t say, for sure, but the startled reaction of the grizzled, rugged men on either side of me is a good indicator. I push off the fence rail, choking on my own breath, and shove my way through the whispering onlookers.

Holden doesn’t fight back. Not at first. He takes a hard blow to the mouth, accepting a punishment he seems to think he deserves. On the second punch, he stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own feet, then swings at Logan. The hit’s more forceful than anything he received, and Logan reels backward, hands bracing his nose.

A few men on horseback herd the steer away. Men rush in to pull the brothers apart, and making light of the situation, the announcer declares, “Let’s get ready to ruuumble.”

By the time I make it out of the crowd, the other cowboys have ushered them out of the arena. Holden and Logan are standing about ten feet apart now, covered in an obscene combination of dirt and blood. One of the other guys smacks Holden’s lost cowboy hat against his thigh to get most of the dust off before handing it over. Another is holding on to both horses.

Hot, indignant tears prick at the backs of my eyes as I approach the scene. Neither man looks at me. Or at each other. Or anywhere but the ground.

Logan cracks his neck and turns to grab his horse, mumbling a thank-you to the guy who wrangled it for him out in the arena. Blood’s free-falling from his nose, catching on his chin and landing in heavy droplets over his light-blue shirt, but he shirks the suggestion that he should see a medic and stomps off.

“Are you okay?” I ask Holden gently. “Your lip’s bleeding pretty badly.”

He swipes the back of his hand across his bloody mouth, and at long last, he tilts his head to look at me. His chest heaves, and his words are barely audible through clenched teeth. “Been better.”

Somebody hands him the reins for his horse, and the crowd slowly dissipates, until it’s him and me and the noise of a rowdy rodeo crowd getting back to business. Dappled sunlight emanates through the thick branches of a towering oak tree, and it dips the ends of Holden’s long eyelashes in gold. His beautiful eyes are dulled and broken, like shards of a perfect stained-glass window that’s been carelessly dropped. I hate that he’s standing here bloody and battered because of me.

“Holden…” My voice trembles, and I lift a hand before hesitating, unsure if I’m allowed to touch him.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to apologize to me.” He licks the actively bleeding split near the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t throw the punch."

“Feels like I did,” I mutter.

He catches my wrist gently with his free hand. “This isn’t your fault. Logan made his choices. I made mine. Maybe one day he’ll wish he’d made different ones, but I won’t.”

I smile. “You just got punched in front of the entire town.”

He smirks despite his busted lip. “You should see the other guy.”

“I did,” I deadpan. “He kicked your truck earlier. Don’t know why he didn’t just punch you then.”

“No crowd. He’s always had a flair for the dramatic.” Holden’s thumb brushes over my pulse point. “At least now I don’t have to keep pretending I don’t want you.”

“You pretending you didn’t like me made it so hot, though.” I sigh. “Tragic.”

“Promise to find other ways to be insufferable.”

A laugh breaks through the hollow ache in my chest that’s made every breath difficult since Logan caught us earlier. “That’s what I love about you.”

I try to swallow the words, but it’s way too late. They’ve already fallen from my lips and are floating in the ether between us, like kicked up arena sand.

“I, uh…” I lick my lips and avert my eyes to the packed stands, the saddle bronc rider six seconds into his ride, the curling smoke from a barbecue food truck parked out front. “I really need to go grab my stuff from Logan’s.”

“Give me a minute to load up.” His head lists toward the gelding waiting patiently beside him.

I shake my head once. “No, we don’t need to risk another interaction between you and Logan. Most of my shit is still in my bags from being on the road with you guys. Like I said earlier, it won’t take long. I’ll text you when I get to Mom’s.”

“Stay with me,” he insists. “I know you’d probably rather sleep in your car than at your mom’s house.”

“That’s moving too fast, Holden.”