Page 33 of July’s Cowboy Dallas

Last night I'd fallen asleep with her hair against my jaw and woken up certain I'd dreamed it. Then she'd stolen half my coffee on her way out the door, and I'd stood in my own kitchen grinning like an idiot at an empty mug.

I'd spent years being careful. Years making sure no one noticed where my attention landed, because wanting Sadie Hollister felt like wanting something that wasn't mine to reach for. One night of being chosen didn't erase all of that. But it made it easier to cross the arena dirt toward her instead of finding another gate to check.

“You're here early,” she said when I got close enough.

“So are you.”

“Someone has to make sure the replacement stock doesn't mysteriously develop paperwork issues overnight.”

Her mouth curved, but there was an edge beneath it. She was still on guard. Still waiting for someone to challenge her authority or try to tell her what was best for the Hollister name.

I wasn't going to be that someone.

“What do you need?” I asked.

Sadie tilted her head, her hazel eyes catching the light. “You need to stop asking like you don't already know.”

I reached for the crate at her feet and carried it to the station without waiting for permission. She didn't stop me. Just grabbed the next one and worked beside me until the setup was finished.

It was the same work we'd done side by side a hundred times. Except now I knew what her mouth tasted like, and standing this close to her was a different kind of occupational hazard.

When she brushed past me to adjust the shade tarp, her fingers grazed my wrist. It wasn't a kiss. Wasn't her making a public claim. Just her fingers brushing my wrist where half the town could see. And it still felt like being chosen out loud.

I wanted to catch her hand. Wanted to press my mouth to her knuckles right there in front of the vendor row and let Mustang Mountain make of it what it wanted. I didn't. Not because I was hiding anymore. Because she'd set the pace, and I'd follow it the way I followed her into everything else.

By nine, Mustang Mountain had transformed.

Flags snapped along the fence rails, red and white and blue against the cloudless sky. The smell of barbecue drifted from the vendor row, mixing with dust and leather and horse sweat. Kids ran past with painted faces, clutching corn dogs and sno-cones, while the junior rodeo queens posed for pictures near the main gate in their sashes and boots.

Addison Blake stood in the center of it all, her crown catching the sunlight, her smile perfect and unshakable as she waved to sponsors and helped settle the younger girls. She looked every inch the rodeo queen—polished, graceful, untouchable.

But Sadie was watching her with a faint frown.

“Is your friend okay?” I asked.

Sadie's gaze didn't leave Addison. “She says she is.”

Which meant no.

I didn't push. Sadie would tell me if she needed to. And if Addison was in trouble, she'd have people looking out for her when the time came.

Today, the rodeo had to happen.

The announcer's voice crackled over the speakers, calling riders to the staging area. Horses tossed their heads near the chutes, their ears flicking at the noise. Bella moved through the crowd with her camera, catching candid shots of families and competitors, and Ruby Nelson worked the concessions with Orville by her side.

This rodeo mattered to Mustang Mountain. Not just the money. Not just the tourists. It was proof we could build something together despite the feud, despite the history, despite every reason people had to stay divided.

And if the stock paperwork had been fraudulent, if someone had tried to use the Hollister name to cover forged papers and swapped stock, it would have poisoned all of it.

Sadie had stopped that. She'd pulled the animals, filed the report, and stood firm even when her own family tried to bury it.

Now she was standing at the vet station with her shoulders back and her chin up, waiting for someone to challenge her authority. No one did.

I found her again just before I had to report for the team roping event.

She was double-checking the documentation on the replacement steers, her pen tapping against the clipboard as she scanned the certifications. When she saw me, she set the board down and crossed her arms.

“Are you competing?”