Page 118 of Knotting the Cowboys

Competition? I shoot Austin a confused look, but he just grins and pulls me tighter against his side, his arm possessive around my waist as we both struggle to catch our breath. The silk of my dress sticks to his shirt where we're pressed together, and I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching mine.

"Did you know there was a competition?" I whisper-yell over the crowd noise.

"Every year," he whispers back, his breath tickling my ear. "Usually goes to the Hendersons—they've been practicing their routine since August."

The crowd keeps applauding, energy crackling through the barn like lightning about to strike, and I realize with a start that they're applauding for us. For our messy, imperfect, joy-soaked dancing that had nothing to do with technical skill and everything to do with being completely, utterly present in our bodies and with each other.

Austin's arm tightens around me, and I let myself lean into him fully, not caring that we're both sweat-soaked disasters. This—this moment, this feeling, this connection—this is what I've been missing. Not just the dancing, but the freedom to beunapologetically myself with someone who sees all of me and pulls me closer instead of pushing away.

"Now, before we get to the big announcement," the DJ continues, his voice taking on that theatrical quality that promises drama, "let's give it up for our third-place winners—Bobby and Marlene Henderson!"

The crowd erupts in polite applause as an older couple in matching western shirts wave from across the floor. I can feel Austin trying not to laugh against me, his chest shaking with suppressed mirth.

"Twenty-seven years of practice for third place," he murmurs in my ear. "Bobby's going to be insufferable at the feed store tomorrow."

"Second place," the DJ booms, "goes to our visitors from Wyoming—Jake and Ashley Morrison!"

More applause, though I notice some grumbling from the locals about outsiders placing. My heart pounds against my ribs, a drumbeat that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the growing suspicion that we might actually?—

"And now, folks, the moment you've all been waiting for. This year's Harvest Rodeo Dance Competition winners, taking home a grand prize that's gonna make your jaws drop?—"

Austin's arm tightens around me, and I realize he's nervous too. This matters to him in ways that go beyond prizes or recognition. This is about claiming his place in a tradition that tried to exclude him, about honoring his sisters with joy instead of just grief.

"First place goes to Austin Bishop and Miss Willa James!"

The roar of the crowd hits like a physical wave, and for a moment I can't process what I'm hearing. We won? We actually won with our chaotic, barely-coordinated explosion of enthusiasm?

"But wait, there's more!" The DJ has to shout over the noise. "This year's prize has been funded by one of our city's highest donors in partnership with the late William James?—"

My grandfather's name hits like cold water, and I stiffen in Austin's arms. He mentioned funding? When? How?

"—for a grand total of twenty-five thousand dollars!"

The number doesn't even register because I'm still stuck on my grandfather's name echoing through the barn. The crowd's gone silent with shock before erupting into even louder chaos. Someone whistles—the sharp, piercing kind that cuts through everything else.

"Twenty-five grand? That's four times last year!"

"William James? But he passed months ago?—"

"That's his granddaughter! She came back!"

"Never thought I'd see a James at the rodeo again?—"

The comments layer over each other, a symphony of surprise and speculation that makes my head spin. My grandfather funded this? Set aside money for a competition at a rodeo he probably never expected me to attend?

"The winners also get to designate a charity for ten percent of the rodeo's total proceeds," the DJ adds, barely audible over the excited chatter. "So let's get our champions up here!"

Austin starts guiding me through the crowd before I can fully process what's happening. His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with a firmness that says he won't let me get lost in the sea of bodies. People part for us, some reaching out to pat our shoulders or offer congratulations. Their faces blur together—some familiar from town, others strangers drawn by the spectacle.

"Your granddad was a good man," someone says as we pass.

"Glad to see a James back where they belong," from another.

"Y'all danced like your souls were on fire," from a woman with tears in her eyes.

Each comment adds another layer to my emotional overload. My grandfather, who I thought had forgotten about me during all those years of silence, had put money aside for this. Had he hoped I'd come back? Expected it? Or was this just coincidence, his way of supporting the town that had been his home for so long?

The walk to the stage feels endless and instant simultaneously. I'm hyperaware of every sensation—the sticky floor beneath my boots, the way my dress clings with sweat, Austin's steady presence beside me like an anchor in the storm of attention. The stage looms ahead, and that's when I spot him.

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