Page 2 of Buck Me, Cowboy

“I’m sorry, Becca,” Grady whispers, grimacing in pain. “I know what this means to you.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just get better.”

But as they take him away, I’m left standing alone in the exhibition hall, staring at station forty-seven and feeling the full weight of what tomorrow means. Not just the cooking—I can handle that. But everything else Grady was supposed to helpwith: hauling equipment, managing logistics, being my moral support when the pressure builds.

I’m going to have to do this completely on my own.

“For the love of habaneros!Come on, you stubborn piece of—” I throw my full weight behind the cart handle, but the wheel remains wedged in a rut of hard-packed dirt. My grandfather’s cast-iron pan shifts dangerously, and I grab for it before it slides off the cart or worse, bumps into my ingredients and sends them flying into the dirt.

The morning sun beats down harder now, and sweat trickles along my hairline. I’ve been fighting this cart for ten minutes, determined to get my equipment to the exhibition hall without asking for help. If I’m doing this competition alone, I want to prove I can handle every aspect of it.

Even the parts that want to break my back.

I reset my stance, plant my feet in the packed earth, and pull again. The wheel budges an inch before catching on something buried in the dirt and goes backward. Again. Everything on the cart rattles ominously, and I quickly reach out to grab the photo of Grandpa before it tumbles to the ground.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, wiping perspiration from my forehead with the back of my hand. Grady should be here helping me navigate this mess, but instead, he’s in the hospital about to have an emergency appendectomy.

I circle the cart, studying the stuck wheel from different angles. Maybe if I can work it back and forth, create some momentum…but the cart is filled with everything I need to cook, and it weighs a ton.

“Whoa there, lil lady. Let me help you with that.”

Strong hands appear beside mine on the cart handle before I can protest. I look up into the most beautiful hazel eyes set in a face that belongs on magazine covers rather than dusty fairgrounds. The man attached to them wears a Stetson that’s seen real work, jeans that look like they've been painted over muscular thighs, and a championship belt buckle that catches the morning light like a signal flare.

I recognize him instantly. His face is all over the promotional material for the fair, usually accompanied by words like “champion” and “heartthrob.”

Amos Cross. Rodeo star. Exactly the kind of charming cowboy I have zero time for.

But the sudden rush of heat to my core makes me squirm, and my body screams he’s exactly the kind of man Ishouldmake time for. At least for a night or two. Or maybe a week…

“I don’t need saving, cowboy.”

He chuckles, a sound that fuels the fire building in my core. “Good thing. I’m not in the business of saving. My momma taught me to be polite and help people when I can. And you look like you could use some help.”

Before I can argue, he shifts his grip and frees the wheel with an easy motion that puts my ten-minute struggle to shame. The cart rolls forward so suddenly that I nearly lose my balance. His hand shoots out to steady my elbow, fingers wrapping around my arm with surprising gentleness.

An electric shock shoots straight through me, fueling the heat filling my core. I don’t usually react to men like this, but something about Amos Cross is making my heart race and waking up the woman in me.

He doesn’t immediately step back…but neither do I. For a moment, we stand closer than strangers should, his hand warm against my skin, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes me forget why I’m here. Looking into his hazel eyes, the only thing I want to do is touch him.

“Better?” His voice is low and smooth like honey.

“Yes. Thank you,” I say, a blush burning across my cheeks. “I’m Rebecca.”

“Amos Cross,” he says, smiling at me and causing a fresh wave of desire in my core.

“I know.” I chuckle, tipping my head toward one of the life-size posters of him around the fairgrounds.

Amos laughs and shrugs. “This is a lot for one person to manage,” he nods toward the cart loaded with all my equipment.

“I’m competing in the chili competition. My cousin was supposed to help, but he fell over in pain and is at the hospital now. He’ll be fine, but it’ll be a little more work for me.” When I see a hint of concern in Amos’ eyes, I add, “Nothing I can’t handle. I’ve cooked this chili more times than I can count.”

Something shifts in his expression—a shadow that passes quickly. “Must be tough, doing this kind of thing alone.”

“I’ll manage.” I grip the cart handle, ready to continue my journey to the exhibition hall. I have a lot to do, and no time tochit chat, no matter how much I don’t want to continue talking to Amos. “I don’t have much choice.”

“Family recipe?” He gestures toward my grandpa’s pan with “Cooper Chili” etched on the handle.

I smile and nod. “Third generation. My grandfather’s. He always said the secret wasn’t just the ingredients—it was cooking with love.”

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