Page 16 of Roped in Rawhide

Laughter of my own springs upward and out, shattering a piece of the discomfort. “I’ve already contracted a fake STD. I don’t need a real one.”

His eyes bug out. “Do you actually think I have a STD?”

My palms lift on their own. “You said it.”

“For the record, I’m squeaky clean.”

“If you say so.”

Jessica delivers my food and a reprieve from this stilted exchange. As I pluck a crispy taco from the basket, Chance’s rapt focus is sizzling into the side of my face. It makes me itchy and edgy, but I don’t let it show. On the outside, I’m the definition of unruffled. It’s what’s happening on the inside that’s deeply concerning.

It’s an all too familiar battle. I hate Chance, but I loathe my weakness for him even more. Even my favorite snack can’t distract from the internal conflict playing ping pong with my sanity. He did me the favor by keeping his distance until more recently. Now, I’m back to fighting with myself.

There’s a delulu part of me that can’t resist sitting with him for a moment. It demands that I indulge and hear him out and soak in our undeniable chemistry still crackling beneath the surface. The tattoos on his arms tug at my curiosity again. A bucking bronco and skull are visible in dark ink on his right while the left is full of colorful, floral designs. It’s an interesting contrast and must be significant.

Questions tickle my tongue, but I inhale to smother them. From this distance, I can smell him. It’s an unforgettable combination of a pine tree forest and troubling temptation.

I should tell him to get lost. Too many people are staring, making assumptions after his false claim. The smart choice would’ve been to immediately deny the accusation. Instead, I’m feeding the rumor he thoughtlessly started and appear complacent.

Anger rushes through me in a burst of clarity. It’s always there to remind me, festering like an infected wound that can’t heal. That type of hurt is more painful than the persistent ache covering the majority of my left side.

My appetite sours and I push the tacos away after only eating two. “Why are you doing this?”

Chance jolts when my voice smashes the silence. “I miss you.”

“And it took you nearly seven years to figure that out?”

His stubbled jaw clenches. “I missed you even before I lost you.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You never had me to lose.”

“I did, Wildflower. There’s no denying what we meant to each other. You rarely strayed far from my side until I forced you to shy away.” His tone is desolate, matching the loneliness in my soul.

“Is this the part where you beg for another chance?”

His nod is a fast dip. “I want to explain myself.”

“You’ve done that already. Multiple times.”

“But you didn’t really hear me.”

“I heard you just fine, but I chose not to listen.” Although, now that he mentions it, some closure might be what I’m missing. “Go for it, Bronc. I’m all ears.”

He narrows his eyes, scanning my features for deceit as if I’m the problematic one of us. “Does what I have to say mean anything to you?”

The answer is no. It won’t change anything except maybe shed some light on his shitty behavior. Whatever he’s going to confess is years too late.

I settle on a shrug. “We’re about to find out.”

A sharp nod confirms his decision. Chance removes his hat and sets it on the bar. His hand trembles slightly when he combs his fingers through his dark hair. After a deep breath, he turns to fully face me. I lift my brows at the solemn expression begging for my understanding. Oh, this is serious.

“When my mom left, it made me question everything. The fact she chose to take off on seven-eleven made it even worse. I spiraled and my thoughts landed in a very dark place. You were always my light, but I couldn’t drag you down with me. Pushing you away seemed like the best way to protect you.”

“Which you executed flawlessly,” I praise flatly.

He cringes. “I took it too far, but I was lost. Superstitions hadn’t led me astray and I saw my mom skipping town as a sign. She left me a note that told me to do better. As if I knew what that meant at eighteen. It really fucked with my head. I wasn’t good enough for you. I never would be. What I’d planned to do that night wasn’t meant to happen. I sat in my truck right out there”—his arm thrusts out to the side, aiming at the parked cars beyond The Paddock’s front window—“and let intuition guide me. By the time I pulled myself out of that cycle, the damage had been done. It’s not a forgivable offense, especially since I committed it over and over to really drive the point home.”

The pang in my chest blooms and expands into a fresh sore. “You’re not doing yourself any favors here.”