Page 47 of Knot my First Rodeo

Her jaw tightens, her fingers curling around her water glass. "I'm not leaving. Unless you don't want me here?" She throws the question at all of us, but her gaze lands on me.

"We want you here," I say, and the words come out rougher than I intend.

Her lips part slightly, her tongue touching the center of her upper lip before she pulls it back in. The movement is small, but my pulse kicks harder watching it. I look down at my plate, at the mess of cold pork and sauce, and push it away.

"Done?" Autumn asks.

"Done."

We settle the bill and head out, the sky streaked with purple and orange where the sun's disappearing behind the rodeo grounds. The barn is a short walk, the temporary stalls already lit from inside, Joe's truck parked by the door. We find him inside, hooking a gate, and he waves us off when we try to thank him.

"Hay’s stacked by the tack room," he says, already heading for his truck. "Lock up when you're done."

The three of us fall into our rhythm without discussion. Tripp grabs the hay, Briggs grabs the travel bucket of grain, and I start on water. Autumn hovers for a second, then picks up a spare fork and follows Tripp, pitching flakes into stalls with more confidence than she had when she first got here.

"Bar closes at two," Tripp calls over his shoulder. "We got time."

"You saying we need to slow down so you can keep up?" I tease him.

He flips me off without turning around. Autumn snorts, the sound muffled, and I catch the corner of her mouth twitching before she looks away.

We finish in twenty minutes, everything topped off, horses settled for the night. Autumn's got hay in her hair and dust streaked across her forehead.

"Gonna go change," Tripp says, stripping off his dirty shirt right there in the aisle as he walks to the truck, his bronc rider's build pale in the barn lights. He digs a clean tee from the back of the truck, navy blue with the sleeves already cut off, and pulls it over his head. "What about you two?"

Briggs grunts, already unbuttoning his shirt. He's got a plain gray tee underneath, the fabric thin enough to show the shape of his shoulders. He tosses the dirty shirt toward his bag.

They both look at me. I pull my own shirt off, the air cool against my skin, and grab a short-sleeved plaid from my bag, brown and tan checks that I usually save for going out. The buttons slip through easily, and I leave the top two undone out of habit.

Autumn watches all of this from the corner of her eye, her gaze moving across our bodies before she catches herself and looks toward the tack room door. Her cheeks flush, the color visible even in the barn light.

"What about you?" I ask. "Gonna wear that to the bar?"

Her chin lifts. "I'll change."

She disappears into the truck, the door clicking shut behind her. Tripp raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn't say anything. Briggs checks his phone, his thumb scrolling, his face giving nothing away.

The door opens again and Autumn steps out, her hoodie tied around her waist. She's wearing denim shorts now, the frayed hem riding high on her thighs, and the same tank top she had on earlier, thin straps showing bare shoulders that haven't seen much sun.

"You brought those?" Tripp asks, his gaze dropping to her legs before dragging them back up.

She shrugs one shoulder, the movement casual and deliberate at the same time. "Packed them in case it got too hot for jeans."

"It's sixty degrees," Briggs says.

"And?"

He stares at her for a second longer, then shakes his head and looks away. But I catch the way his jaw works, the muscle jumping at the corner, and I know he noticed the same thing I did.

Her legs.

The way she stands there like she doesn't care what any of us think, even though her fingers tug at the hem of her tank like she's not sure she made the right choice.

"Let's go," I say, because standing here is getting dangerous.

We walk the two blocks to Main Street, the evening air cooling but not cold, the sky darkening to a deep blue overhead. Autumn walks between me and Tripp, her boots clicking against the sidewalk, her arms bare and slightly pink from the chill she won't acknowledge.

The bar sits on the corner, a low brick building with neon signs in the windows and a wooden door that's seen better decades. Music pumps through the walls, something with a steady bass and too much fiddle, the sound spilling out every time someone enters or leaves. The parking lot is packed with trucks, horse trailers, and a few bikes that make me think of Hunter, and whether his sister's supposed to be here with us while we walk her into a crowded bar full of rodeo cowboys and buckle bunnies.