Page 7 of Buck Me, Cowboy

“Well,” he says quietly, his voice thick with desire. “I’m all in if you are.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. Because that kiss felt completely real to me, and the terrifying part is how much I want it to happen again.

I barely know this man, but my heart knows no other man has ever had a fraction of the effect on me that Amos has.

CHAPTER 4

AMOS

So what’s our first date story?”

Rebecca slides into the booth across from me at Mel’s Diner, a small place near the fairgrounds that’s seen better decades. The vinyl seats are cracked, and the coffee is hot and strong.

“After tasting your chili at that charity event, I took you on a picnic.”

She wraps her hands around her coffee mug, steam rising between us in the morning light filtering through dusty windows.

“That’s believable. What about our families? They’ll ask about that too.”

Her face lights up immediately. “Mine’s huge and loud and wonderful. Four cousins, three aunts, two uncles, and more second cousins than I can count. Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s house with everyone arguing over who makes the best cornbread.” She grins. “They love you.”

The confidence in her voice hits me unexpectedly. She talks about her family like a given—of course they’ll accept me, of course I’ll fit into their chaos. Like belonging is something that happens naturally instead of something you spend your whole life chasing.

“What about yours?”

I stall by taking a sip of terrible coffee. This is the part I’ve been dreading. How do you explain a father who was Bull Rider of the Year three times but couldn’t stick around long enough to teach his son to tie his shoes? A mother who worked double shifts to keep us afloat while I chose the same unstable path that broke her heart?

“Let’s just say... it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

Rebecca’s voice carries genuine curiosity, not the polite interest most people show when they’re making conversation. She leans forward slightly, and I find myself wanting to tell her things I’ve never said out loud.

“My dad was famous in this world. Bull Rider of the Year three times running.” I trace patterns on the worn Formica table. “But he couldn’t stick around long enough to be a real father. Mama worked two jobs to keep us fed while he chased the next prize, the next ride, the next town.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead. Thrown by a bull in Texas when I was twelve.” The words come out flatter than I intend. “Mama remarried a good man who tried to be a father to me, but by then I was already following in Dad’s footsteps. She wanted me to take a desk job inTulsa, where they’ve settled down, and have a steady paycheck, benefits, a chance to build something stable of my own.”

“But you chose the rodeo instead.”

“I think deep down I’ve always yearned for a connection with my dad, so I chose the same path as him. But it’s also the one that destroyed our family.” I meet her eyes, expecting judgment but finding only understanding. “Mother hasn’t returned my calls in three weeks.”

Rebecca reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. The contact is warm and reassuring. It makes me feel like my problems are ones that she stands beside me to help me deal with, like I’m not alone. “Maybe this season could be different. Maybe you could find a way to have both—the riding and the stability.”

“How do you do that? Balance what you love with what’s practical?”

“You find something worth building toward.” She squeezes my hand. “For me, it’s building on my Grandpa’s legacy. What would yours be?”

The question sits heavy between us. I’ve spent so many years focused on the next ride, the next prize, that I’ve never thought about what I’m building toward. But sitting here with Rebecca, listening to her talk about family Sunday dinners and belonging, I’m overwhelmed by a longing that makes me weak.

“Maybe I don’t know yet. But I’m starting to think I want to find out.”

We spend the next hour creating our fake history, but something strange happens. As we invent details about our relationship,Rebecca starts sharing real stories about her family. How her grandmother taught all the women to cook, but none of the men. How family reunions turn into cooking competitions that last for days. How her grandfather would make everyone tell their favorite memory of him before they could eat dessert.

I find myself sharing too. The loneliness of constant travel. Hotel rooms that all look the same. The way other cowboys have families to go home to, while I just move to the next town, the next ride.

“You could come to Sunday dinner sometime. For real.”

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