Page 9 of Roped in Rawhide

The timer buzzes after eight seconds and Chance leaps from the saddle. It’s a flawless dismount that lands his boots in the dirt not far from where I stand. His gaze locks onto mine while he lifts his hands, interlocking his index fingers over the center of his chest. My breath catches. That’s our secret symbol.

Traitorous emotions blur my vision. Dammit, I miss him. Even after all the pain he’s caused me.

“Well, well, well. Would ya look at that?” the announcer shouts. “How about ninety-one points for our local cowboy? That puts him on top and guarantees a check.”

Another roar of applause pierces the night. It steals Chance’s focus and he waves to the rodeo fans packed into the stands. The loss of his undivided attention is a zap to my system, allowing me to snap out of it. My heart beats frantically and I struggle to regain my bearings. I just got caught in the moment. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him ride. That’s all.

Once Chance hops off the fence, he’s immediately swarmed by scantily dressed women looking for a ride of their own. Their manicured nails paw at him like a piece of meat. His arms lift, but he doesn’t avoid the flock of admirers.

Reality smacks me in the face. I almost forgot who he’s become. The reminder is cruel and unnecessary. His nickname should be Cowboy Casanova. My upper lip curls as I spin on my heel. Wyatt is still there, bathed in deeper shadows.

“Change your mind?”

“That depends,” I quip while shoving the past behind me where it belongs. “If I agree, where are you gonna take me?”

His casual pose suggests he rarely puts in effort to reel ‘em in. He’s already claiming a victory. “The lady gets to choose.”

One dinner won’t hurt. “Meet me at The Paddock in Cloverleaf Meadows at eight.”

Wyatt winks and dips his hat. “It’s a date.”

The rhyme falls flat coming from him. It reminds me too much of a different cowboy trying to win me over. A groan squeezes through my pressed lips.

I’m regretting this already.

My molars grind as I watch the couple at the bar become better acquainted. Gemma’s smile is blinding, but it’s not aimed at me. Red tints my vision when the jackass sitting next to her dares to clasp her hand. I wait for her to pull away or shrug off the unwanted touch. It doesn’t happen.

Instead, Gemma tips her head back on a laugh I can hear from clear across The Paddock. An ache blooms in my jaw while I clench my teeth harder. There’s no way he’s that funny.

Her blonde hair glows like warm sunshine in the dimly lit space. The old-fashioned saloon-style interior fades into darkness, leaving her as my beacon. Nothing matters except keeping tabs on Gemma.

We had a moment at the rodeo. I felt our connection burning through my chest. That type of chemistry can’t be faked. It never fades either.

But now she’s on a date with another man. And not just any man. Wyatt Paine. The asshole is my biggest rival and a shitty human in general. If this is Gemma’s version of revenge, she’s well versed in kicking a person where it hurts.

My heart spasms. This is my fault. She wouldn’t resort to such drastic measures if I hadn’t done it first. I taught her how to be ruthless and cut deep.

The six texts I’ve sent since Gemma arrived twenty minutes ago remain unread. She’s ignoring me, which is typical and exactly what I deserve. The front row seat to witness her do it is extra punishing.

But I’m nothing if not persistent.

Me: Are you actually enjoying yourself?

After I hit send, it takes three seconds for her phone to light up on the table. Gemma glances at the screen, but immediately dismisses my message.

“Hey, handsome,” a feminine purr paws at me from the right.

I don’t spare her a glance. “Not interested.”

She sidles closer and a sickly-sweet vanilla perfume assaults my nostrils. It’s the opposite of Gemma’s subtle lilac scent. The urge to gag flexes my throat while I avoid inhaling.

“C’mon, Lucky Stride. Give me a shot. You won’t regret it.” Her voice is low and suggestive, spelling out a long night of filthy sex.

My gaze remains fixed straight ahead. “No.”

“Jerk,” she huffs. “Definitely not worth the hype.”

But the barb rolls right off my shoulders while she storms off. At least until another woman approaches me on the opposite side.