Page 3 of August’s Cowboy Braxton

I stepped inside. The room smelled like hay, dust, and stress. Feed barrels lined one wall. Halters and lead ropes hung from hooks. A small brown-and-white goat stood in the center of the floor, his head lowered, his eyes fixed on the woman in front of him.

She stood behind an overturned barrel in a crown and sash, like being cornered by livestock was just another scheduled appearance. Dust caked her custom boots. Her honey-blonde hair might have started the day in soft waves but was losing the fight one strand at a time. And her green eyes tracked that goat like she was negotiating with a hostage-taker instead of an animal with horns and poor manners.

For half a second, my brain did something useless. It noticed her. Not the crown. Not the sash. Her. The curve of her mouth when she was trying not to panic. The way she held herself tall even with fear pressing in. The ridiculous, inconvenient fact that she was beautiful in a way that didn’t soften the danger around her. It sharpened it.

Then the goat shifted toward her, and something low in my chest went tight.

Mine.

The thought came out of nowhere, hard and primitive enough to piss me off. She wasn’t mine. She was a client I hadn’t even officially met yet. A threatened woman in a public place with no sense of self-preservation and too many people watching.

That didn’t stop every instinct I had from wanting to put myself between her and the rest of the world.

A junior contestant—maybe ten years old—stood near the door, tears streaming down her face.

“He hates me,” the girl sobbed.

“He doesn’t hate you,” the woman said, her voice calm. “He’s just emotionally unstable.”

The goat bleated.

I leaned against the doorframe. “That animal weighs eighty pounds and has you pinned behind a feed barrel.”

The woman in the crown slowly turned her head and gave me a smile. It was bright, perfect, pageant-ready, and totally fake.

“I’m negotiating.”

“Looks like you’re losing.”

Her smile slipped just enough to show me the woman underneath all that polish. “He’s emotionally unstable.”

“So is half this town,” I said. “That doesn’t mean I’d let them corner me.”

Her eyes narrowed. Not much. Just enough. Good. Fear looked wrong on her. Irritation suited her better.

The goat bleated again and took two steps toward the door.

The junior contestant gasped.

That was when I moved. I stepped between the goat and the open doorway, crouched slightly, and held out one hand. The animal stopped, his nostrils flaring. I waited, giving him time to decide I wasn’t a threat. Then I caught the loose lead rope trailing from his halter and straightened.

I handed the rope to the junior contestant. “Walk him around for a few minutes. He’ll settle.”

The girl took the rope with shaking hands and led the goat outside.

When I turned back, the woman in the crown was watching me. She’d stepped out from behind the barrel, her posture straight again, chin lifted, that smile sliding back into place like armor. Her hands were tucked behind her back like she was holding something she didn’t want me to see. Probably her phone. Probably another threat she wanted to keep to herself.

That tightened something in me all over again.

“You’re not with the livestock crew,” she said.

“No.”

“Are you a sponsor?”

“No.”

“An angry parent?”