Page 90 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

“I will read any you want me to, angel.” And I mean it. If it makes her happy, there is no doubt in my mind I will do it.

In the distance, trucks rattle. People will be flooding back into the ranch in no time, and there isn't long until we need to head to the rodeo.

I press a kiss to her forehead. “Imma go; you wait a bit before heading back.”

I want to ask. I don't.

Instead, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my thumb linger against her jaw a second longer than I should. “Can't wait to see you in those boots and hat, angel.”

Then I leave. Because that's what I have to do. To keep our little secret.

Even if all I want to do is pull her back to the house with me and not give a damn who sees.

Chapter Thirty Four

Wade

The stadium is buzzing with rowdy ranchers, bucking bulls, and outside folk that want in on the wild action. The Rodeo Roundup is the one rodeo show in this small corner of County Texas Hill where locals come to make a name for themselves, debuting their talent—or lack thereof. It’s also the hunting grounds for scouts, who linger and watch, keeping an eye out for the next big thing.

Same way they once scouted me.

Though my career was short-lived, despite taking a national title, giving it up was the hardest thing I had to do. And somehow, the easiest decision I made. Colt needed me. That was my priority.

I haven't stepped foot near a rodeo since. Didn’t see the point in trying to enjoy something that used to be my whole life… from the sidelines. Just another spectator in the crowd.

And yet, here I am.

All because she wanted to go.

The smell of livestock and leather hits the moment I step foot into the arena. Dry dirt dances in the air, kicked up by hundreds of visitors. The distant scent of funnel cake and slow-smoked brisket from vendors cuts through the stronger smell of stale, cheap beer and tobacco from the old-timers propped up against the rails, cigars hanging from their mouths. Nothing’s changed. A rodeo is still a rodeo, and ain’t no amount of time going to change that.

My ranch hands scatter the second we are through the gates. Hollering, shoving each other, all riled up like a bunch of cowboys who’ve never been let off the ranch before. Truth is, we haven’t had a proper ranch outing since Pops passed, so I let them go crazy. These men are good grafters; they deserve a good time.

Bryan barrels into me from behind, clamping down on both my shoulders hard enough that I reckon I’ll be finding his fingerprints there tomorrow morning.

“Buck, doesn't this bring back memories!” he shouts, as he is incapable of using his indoor voice. I don’t think the man’s got one to be honest.

“Look at all the buckle bunnies,” he adds, spinning like the whole damn place belongs to him, before disappearing in the direction of a group of women.

This man. Forever the playboy, and that ain’t changed since his teens. It’s gonna take one hell of a woman to wrangle him.

I've got no interest in whoever's caught his eye. Mine are already locked on someone else.

Maeve.

The five-foot-five beauty, wearing her new boots and my hat. She’s standing a few yards off with Naomi and Colt, chatting away and laughing. She spots me, giving me a small uncertain smile, like she's not quite sure what we can do out here. Like we’ve not been able to pretend pretty all these weeks.

I give her a slow, crooked smirk and a wink, quick enough that it’s gone before anyone can notice. Being this close to her and having to keep my hands to myself is its own breed of misery. So, I force myself to pull my eyes away before I do something stupid, and I beeline straight to the bar.

I wasn’t expecting any of the fancy stuff at the rodeo, but you’d think that, being in Texas, they’d at least serve some whiskey. Even if it’s that cheap shit that tastes like gasoline. But nope. I gotta settle for a warm beer.

With everyone off doing their own thing, I decide to take myself to an isolated spot along the arena railing, where I can watch the rides without being bothered.

Standing here now, arms folded over the railing, watching man after man load up into the chute… I’ll admit I miss it. The thrill of locking your thighs either side of a bull, gripping with all your strength for eight seconds before hitting the dirt, just to ensure it counted. That feeling. Every part of you switched on at once. Nothing else exists. Just you and the bull.

It takes everything you’ve got—flexibility, nerve, coordination, and the particular brand of stupidity that makes you climb on in the first place.

All of it. All at once.