She stood up. Held her hand out.
I took it.
Cat protested, spilled out of my lap onto the floor, stalked off toward the living room with her tail in the air.
Calvin led me upstairs without lettin' go of my hand.
We got in bed.
She curled against my chest, her head under my chin.
First time she'd touched me in days.
I closed my eyes and held on.
Didn't sleep for a long time.
But I held on.
CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE
Rodeo dayin Meagher County smelled like a downright delightful combination of livestock and fried dough.
Reckon it wasn't everyone's cup-a-tea, but I loved every fuckin' whiff of it.
The fairgrounds were already hummin' by the time Rhett and I rolled in—trucks and trailers linin' the dirt lot, the thud of hooves in the warm-up pens, the tinny crackle of a PA system runnin' sound checks. Kids chased each other between the food stalls while their mamas hollered after 'em. A couple old-timers leaned against the rail of the main arena, coffee in hand, judgin' everything and everyone with the quiet authority of men who'd been doin' this since dirt was new.
I backed the trailer into our spot and cut the engine. Rhett was already out, hat low, movin' with efficiency. He treated competition the same way he treated everything else—seriously, and without a lot of fanfare.
Speed was loaded in the back, along with Rhett's horse, Duke. Both animals were calm, which was a good sign. Rhett and I'd entered our first competition at the ripe old age of thirteen. Didn't have my own horse back then, so Maribel had been my girl for years. Speed was my high school graduation gift from Dad, and he'd been ropin' with me for goin' on seventeen years now. He knew the drill better than I did. All I had to do was not fuck it up.
I looked at the time on my phone. "Not a lotta time to warm the horses up."
He leveled me with a look that saidand whose fault is that?
Fair.We were runnin' about twenty minutes late on account of Calvin insistin' she was fine stayin' home, then changin' her mind, then changin' it back, then finally climbin' into Sassy's car without a word—jaw clenched, arms crossed, givin' off enough don't-touch-me energy to keep a grizzly at bay.
She hadn't said more than six words to me this morning. I was tryin' not to take it personal.
Tryin'.
I'd told her I'd pull out of the rodeo a dozen times by now. Told her it wasn't worth it. Every time, she struck that viper tongue like I'd suggested she wear a dress to the grocery store. Told me I wasn't gonna be a pussy-whipped chump on her account. Which, for the record, I absolutely would.
She wasn't havin' it, and she wasn't havin' me either.
Not right now, at least.
But Calvin and I'd figure our shit out.
I had faith in that.
We'd get through today.
Denny and Wyatt would get the hell on outta Larkspur, and things'd go back to normal 'round here.
I unloaded Speed and led him toward the warm-up area behind the main arena. Speed's ears pricked forward as we entered. He knew. Could probably feel the energy in the air the same way I could—that low electric hum that came with competition, even the small-town kind.
I swung up into the saddle and settled in, adjustin' my stirrups and checkin' my rope. Header's rope—thirty-two feet of medium-soft nylon, broken-in just the way I liked it. I'd been buildin' my loop since I was ten years old, standin' in the backyard ropin' a plastic steer head bolted to a hay bale while Dad shouted corrections from the porch.
