Page 3 of Buck Me, Cowboy

“Sounds like he was a wise man.”

“He was.” I touch the turquoise necklace at my throat, the familiar weight comforting me. “This competition is about honoring his legacy.”

Something in his expression grows wistful, almost hungry. “Must be nice having family to count on like that.”

The comment catches me off guard with its loneliness. Before I can respond or analyze why I care about the sadness in his voice, he tips his hat and winks at me.

“Good luck with your competition, darlin’. Hope your grandfather’s recipe brings you everything you’re hoping for.”

As he walks away, I catch myself watching the way his shoulders fill out his shirt, the raw masculinity of the way his strong body moves. Then I shake my head and focus on getting to the exhibition hall.

But as I push the cart, now rolling smoothly thanks to his intervention, I can still feel the warmth of where his hand touched my arm. And despite my best efforts to focus on getting to the exhibition hall so I can set up, my mind keeps wandering back to Amos Cross and wondering how it’s possible I felt such a bolt of desire when his hazel eyes met mine.

CHAPTER 2

AMOS

You hear about McCoy?”

I look up from checking my bull rope, the leather worn smooth from countless rides. Wyatt Callahan leans against the metal chute, having already finished his equipment check. Behind us, bulls snort and shift in their holding pens, hooves scraping concrete.

“No, what happened?”

“Got trampled by a bull last week. Completely smashed his pelvis and one of his knees. Doctors say he’ll never ride again.” Wyatt’s voice carries that careful neutrality cowboys use when talking about injuries that could happen to any of us. “Thirty-two years old and it’s over for him.”

My hands still on the rope. Jim McCoy—I rode against him in Austin two months ago. Watched him take second place with a ride that looked effortless. Now he’s done. Forever.

“Makes you think, doesn’t it? What we’re gonna do when our bodies can’t take this anymore.”

I test the wrap on my rope, buying time before answering. At forty-one, I’m not much older than McCoy. This life is hard on the body, but most of us cowboys keep going until our bodies give out.

“Yeah, it does.” I scan the familiar chaos around us—cowboys adjusting gear, the smell of leather and dust, the constant background noise of livestock. “This is all I know how to do.”

“At least you don’t have family breathing down your neck about settling down and taking over the ranch.” Wyatt adjusts his hat brim. “My old man calls twice a week asking when I’m coming home to help with the farm. Three brothers, and they all want me to be the one who gives up rodeo.”

The irony cuts deep. Wyatt has what I’ve always wanted—family land, roots, people who want him home—and he’s running from it. Meanwhile, I check my phone, hoping for a message from my mother.

Nothing. Just like yesterday and the day before and the days before that.

She hasn’t spoken to me much since I decided to stay on the circuit instead of taking that desk job in Tulsa, where she settled with her new husband. Steady paycheck, she said. Benefits. A chance to build something stable. Everything she worked double shifts to give me the opportunity to have.

Instead, I chose the same path that broke her heart when my father took it. This life is all I know, and I’m pretty sure I’d lose my damn mind sitting behind a desk all day long.

“Your mama still giving you grief about staying on the road?” Wyatt asks, reading my expression.

“She’s not giving me anything. That’s the problem.” I coil my rope with more force than necessary. “Hasn’t returned my calls in weeks.”

Despite the weight of the conversation, my mind keeps drifting to this morning. Rebecca—the serious woman with drive and a dream, and a solid love and respect for family. It impressed me that she obviously recognized me, but didn’t throw herself at me like most women do. She’s different than other women, in more ways than one, and in ways that make my soul yearn to spend more time with her.

“You listening to me?” Wyatt waves a hand in front of my face.

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“About what? You look like someone hit you with a branding iron.”

I finish my prep work, mind still half elsewhere. “Nothing important. I should get ready for this ride.”

But as Wyatt walks away to flirt with a barrel racer, I find myself heading in the opposite direction. Away from the chutes and toward the exhibition hall. Toward Rebecca.

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