Page 7 of Let Her Buck

Before I can come up with a good excuse, his fingers brush against mine, then wrap around my hand, warm and strong. I gasp as he tugs me gently toward the booth.

My brain short-circuits. He’s holding my hand. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he doesn’t even have to think about it.

“You any good at this?” I ask as we stop at the stall.

He lifts a brow. “Darlin’, I’m good at everything.”

I laugh—really laugh—and roll my eyes as the booth attendant hands him a handful of rings. “Cocky much?”

“Always,” he says, eyes twinkling.

He misses the first toss. Then the second. But on the third try, the ring lands with a perfectclinkon the bottle neck. The booth erupts with flashing lights, and the attendant gestures grandly toward the line of plush animals behind him.

“Pick whichever you want, sweetheart,” West says, still holding my hand.

I reach for the smallest stuffed cow, more out of modesty than anything, but West beats me to it, nodding toward the biggest damn teddy bear I’ve ever seen. “That one. She deserves the best.”

My heart flips.

It’s silly. It’s a fair prize. But no one’s ever done something like that for me. Not like this.

He hands it to me with a wink. “Told you I was good.”

“You also missed twice before winning,” I say, hugging the bear to my chest.

“Gotta build suspense,” he replies, bumping my shoulder with his. “I’m dramatic like that.”

We keep walking, my pulse still dancing a little too fast, and I ask before I can stop myself, “So…why bull riding?”

He’s quiet for a beat. I wonder if I pushed too hard. But then he speaks.

“’Cause it’s all I’ve known, for the past ten years. And ’cause it makes me feel alive.”

I nod slowly, not expecting to relate to that as much as I do. “My papa…he was a bull rider. He used to say the same thing. That it was the most alive he ever felt.”

That gets his attention. “Used to?”

“He died two years ago,” I say, a familiar heaviness settling in my chest. I don’t like to talk about my dad much, but it feels like I can tell West anything, like I can bare my soul to him and he’d never judge me for it. “He was thrown off his old bull. Broke his spine. He was in a coma for a week before…” I trail off, swallowing. “I still hear the sound. Of the horn. The silence of the crowd. The loud ringing sound in my head…it—it never really leaves you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and sincere.

I shrug. “He loved riding. Never wanted to do anything else. And I guess…I get it. Wanting to feel free. Wanting to chase something that makes you feel more alive than scared.”

He studies me a second, then nods like he understands more than he’s letting on. “It ain’t the safest life. But it’s the only one that’s ever fit.”

I don’t say anything more. But I’m thinking about it.

About how I’ve lived in Sweetheart Bend my whole life. I didn’t even go college, since my papa died my senior year of high school and I couldn’t imagine leaving the place where he’s buried. Where my nana’s buried.

I dream of other places all the time, but I never have the courage to leave. This town, this slow-paced life…it’s all I’ve ever known. I’ve made memories here that could last me a lifetime, friends that can never be replaced. But I think about what it’d be like to leave all the time, to just pack my bags and roam the world.

After Papa died like that, I’ve never been one for adventures or indulging impulses.

And that’s why I still can’t believe that I’m spending the evening with a man I literally met less than an hour ago, completely at ease.

West feels like a spark I didn’t see coming. Like a sign that maybe—just maybe—I could be brave.

Maybe this night is going to be a fleeting memory, a once-in-a-lifetime moment. And that’s fine. I’d take that.

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