Page 22 of Let Her Buck

I give him a sleepy smile. “Morning.”

“Not gonna lie,” he says, pressing a kiss to my bare shoulder, “I was half hoping you’d wake me up the same way you kept me up last night.”

My cheeks flush, but I swat at him playfully. “You need energy for your ride, cowboy.”

He groans again, exaggerated this time, but gets up anyway.

We shower—separately this time, though his eyes linger on me with clear regret as he heads out to clean up and then dress in silence that isn’t exactly awkward…but isn’t easy either.Something about stepping back into the daylight makes it all feel more fragile, more breakable.

We walk back to the fairgrounds with fingers brushing but not quite holding, like we both know this bubble we’ve been floating in is about to burst.

By the time we get to the arena, it’s buzzing. Music’s blasting, kids are running wild with cotton candy, and the smell of dust and hay and fried food fills the air.

West squeezes my hand before heading off to get ready, and I’m left alone by the fence, scanning the crowd for Sadie, but she’s nowhere in sight. Suddenly, my skin starts to crawl, like I’m being watched.

The whispers start reaching me, hushed yet loud.

“Ain’t that the Dawson girl? Did you see her messin’ with that cowboy last night?”

“Heard she lost everything two years ago. Her father and the ranch…the grief must have gotten to her head.”

“She’s cute, though. Real fresh-faced. Perfect buckle bunny. Holt sure knows how to get ’em.”

“Bet she’s just another notch.”

“He’ll be gone by Monday.”

The words hit harder than I want to admit.

I fold my arms across my chest, trying to push down the heat rising in my cheeks, but it’s not just embarrassment—it’s something deeper. Like shame. Like regret.

I try to focus on the arena, on West mounting his bull like it’s just another day at work. He looks calm. Strong. Totally in his element.

But I’m unraveling.

The guys next to me keep talking in loud and careless whispers, like they don’t even realize I can hear them. Or maybe they don’t care.

“That Holt dude’s got the best draw today, no way he’s not qualifying.”

“Yeah, but I’m just here for the party. Sweet little thing like her makes it even better. Heard she sings too. Double threat.”

“Maybe we should get her to ride something else after the contest.”

They laugh.

I can’t breathe.

Suddenly, I feel small again. Like I’m standing on a stage, forgetting the lyrics, everyone watching. Judging. Waiting for me to fall.

I turn away. Push through the crowd. My boots kick up dirt, my heart pounding in my ears.

I don’t stop until I’m far from the arena, behind one of the barns, where it’s quieter, darker, where no one knows my name or what I did last night.

I lean against the wall and try to catch my breath.

What was I thinking?

This—whatever this is with West—it’s not real. He’s just passing through. A few days, a couple of rides, and he’ll be gone. Just like everyone else.

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