We draw our number—third out in the non-pro semi-finals—and the wait feels like forever. The arena’s buzzing, crowd thick in the stands, announcer calling scores from the last run, that steady thump of bass from the speakers mixing with the low murmur of bets and cheers. Dust hangs in the air like a haze, catching the floodlights, and the smell is pure rodeo. Fresh manure from the fresh herd, horse sweat, leather, spilled beer from the concessions.
My hands are steady on Molly’s reins, but my gut’s tight—not nerves exactly, more like anticipation. This is it. Fifteen heads of fresh cattle in the pen, ready to cut. Two and a half minutes on the clock. One good run, and the prize money—$250,000 for the division win—could change everything for the ranch. Feed for winter, new fencing, maybe even that tractor Dad’s been eyeing for years.
The gate man nods. I nudge Molly forward. We enter the arena at a slow jog, her ears pricked, body coiled like a spring. The fresh herd mills in the center—steers and heifers, all sizes, eyes wide and wary. The timer starts the second we cross the line.
I pick my cow quick, a wiry black baldy with a white face, fast-looking, good movement. I ease Molly in, shoulder her toward the edge of the herd. She reads me like always, lowersher head, steps light and quick, peeling the baldy off clean. The cow breaks free, trots a few steps, realizes it’s alone, and spins to rejoin the bunch. That’s when I drop my hands, slack the reins, sit deep, let Molly take over.
She explodes forward, blocking the cow’s path in one smooth burst. The baldy jukes left; Molly mirrors it, sliding to a hard stop, dirt spraying up in a cloud. The cow fakes right, Molly anticipates, drops her shoulder, mirrors the fake-out perfectly, hooves digging in, hindquarters sliding like she’s on ice. Dust flies thick now, coating my jeans, sticking to the sweat on my neck. The cow bolts for the back wall; Molly cuts it off, pushing it back toward the working area with short, explosive bursts, turn back, mirror turn, hard stop, forward again. I stay quiet, hands soft, letting her work. She’s in the zone, eyes locked on the cow, ears flicking, body low and balanced. Every time the baldy tries to duck or spin, Molly’s there, reading the move before it happens, shutting it down clean.
The clock’s ticking—two minutes in—and the cow’s tiring, but still fighting. One last desperate run toward the herd; Molly explodes again, sliding to a stop so sharp I feel the jolt through my seat, then mirrors the cow’s dodge perfectly, pushing it back center. The buzzer sounds at 2:30 exactly. Clean run. No penalties. Molly’s sides heaving, mane braided and perfect, coat dark with sweat. The crowd roars—loud, appreciative. I pat her neck, murmur “good girl,” and we jog out slowly, dust settling behind us.
Judges confer quickly. The announcer’s voice booms: “Cole Marshall and Molly—score of 228. That’ll hold for the lead… and folks, that’s your non-pro semi-final winner! $250,000 to the Marshall Ranch!”
The roar hits like a wave. Luke’s hollering from the stands, Dad’s clapping slow and proud, hat tipped back. Peopleslap my back as I dismount, Molly nickering soft like she knows she did good. I grin—big, real—handing her off to the groomer, shaking hands with the judges, accepting the buckle they hand me heavy and silver. $250K. The ranch is safe. More than safe. We can breathe for a while.
But all I can think about isLayla.
Not the money. Not the win. Not the buckle in my hand or the crowd still cheering. Her face. That’s all I see, her wide brown eyes lighting up when she laughed at the pool, her lips parted when she came on my fingers, the way she looked at me that last morning like she was trying not to say something big. If she was here, standing at the rail in those cut-offs, hair messy from the wind, maybe cheering louder than anyone, maybe grabbing my arm after and kissing me stupid right in front of everybody, I swear I’d feel ten feet tall.
Instead she’s back home, probably floating in the pool I built her, writing on her laptop, wondering why the hell I’m still silent on her texts. Wondering if I even care. I do. God, I do. More than I know how to say. This win feels empty without her here to see it, to tease me about being “grumpy cowboy sexy” while I’m covered in dust and sweat. I want to call her. Want to text her something real for once—“won big today, wish you were here” or “miss your laugh” or just her name. But my thumb hovers over the screen, and I lock the phone instead.
I lead Molly back to the barn aisle, her head low and content beside me. The arena noise fades, dust still swirling in the lights. $250K. A good horse. A family proud as hell.
It’s time to celebrate before we leave back home to Tennessee in the morning. The win’s still buzzing in my veins—$250K heavy in the account, Molly’s name on the leaderboard, that big silver buckle clipped to my belt like proof I did something right. But the high’s already fading, replaced by this restless itch under my skin. Seven days gone, and all I want is to load the trailer, hit the highway, and get back to the ranch. Toher.
Luke, Dad, and I head to the bar everyone goes to after the show—the one right off the arena grounds with the neon sign flickering “Lone Mesa Saloon,” gravel lot packed with dusty trucks and horse trailers. Inside it’s loud as hell, jukebox blaring some old Waylon Jennings tune, pool balls cracking, laughter and shouts bouncing off the wood-paneled walls. Smells like spilled beer, fried food, cigarette smoke as well as something that’s probably illegal but nobody cares, and that faint undercurrent of arena dirt still clinging to everyone’s clothes.
We push through the crowd, guys in chaps slapping backs, girls in tight jeans and rhinestone belts eyeing the winners and claim three stools at the far end of the bar.
“Three Jacks, keep ’em comin’,” I tell the bartender. He nods, pours fast, slides the glasses over with a clink of ice.
Dad’s already on the phone with Maggie—his voice low but proud, telling her about the run, the score, the money. Ihear her screaming through the speaker, high and excited, “Oh my God, Cole, that’s huge!” Nancy’s in the background too, softer, happy. They know what this means: new fencing, better feed, maybe even that new barn roof Dad’s been putting off. It improves the ranch, which improves their lives. Which makes me happy. Or it should. But my chest feels tight, like something’s missing from the celebration.
Dad hangs up, pockets the phone, takes a slow sip of his whiskey. Luke’s already half-turned on his stool, scanning the room for trouble or tail—probably both even though he’s got steph back home. The boy just likes to flirt.
“Have you talked to Layla at all?” Luke asks, eyeing me over his glass.
“Does she know about the big win?” he adds when I don’t answer right away.
“I’ll tell her when we get back,” I mutter, throwing back the shot. The burn hits my throat, sharp and welcome. “She’s texted, but I haven’t responded.”
“What?” Luke’s eyebrows shoot up. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to make her leave, or do you want her to stay? I’m going to be honest—you make zero sense when it comes to women.”
His words hit like a slap. Piss me off more than they should. I set the empty glass down harder than I mean to. “I don’t know what to say. I’m not a big texter. I’m not mushy and lovey-dovey—you know that—”
“Make something up,” Luke cuts in. “Or just say ‘thinking about you.’ Jesus Christ.”
I shake my head, stare at the TV mounted above the bar, some football game flickering, and the crowd roaring on thescreen. Dad’s doing the same, quiet, tired lines around his eyes. He’s been up since before dawn every day this week, same as me. We probably won’t stay long. Random guys keep hollering congratulations my way—“Nice run, Marshall!”—some slapping my shoulder as they pass. A few others give me death stares—sore losers, probably. I ignore them all.
“Hey, cowboy,” a pretty blonde says, sliding onto the stool next to me. Tight jeans, low-cut top, perfume strong enough to cut through the bar smell. She smiles wide, leans in close.
I look her up and down—habit, nothing more. “Hi,” I say, not glancing over again, eyes back on the game.
“Congratulations on your big win.” Her hand runs down my thigh—slow, bold, nails dragging just enough to make her point.
“Thanks, honey,” I mutter, throwing back another shot. Normally, I’d take a girl like this back to my hotel room and let the night end the way it always does, easy, physical, no strings. That’s the rule. That’s how I keep things simple. But all I can think about is Layla. Her mouth. Her attitude. The way she gets under my skin like she’s trying to dig a hole there. And the fact that I don’t want anyone else, I can’t even fake it long enough to try, tells me exactly how screwed I am. The whiskey burns clean, but her touch feels wrong. Cold. Not Layla’s hands, soft, sure, knowing exactly how to grip me like she owns me.
My phone starts ringing in my pocket. I fish it out, Layla’s name on the screen. My heart kicks hard. Luke’s already chatting up the blonde now, leaning past me, cracking some joke that makes her laugh too loud. I’m sitting between them, the noise pressing in, and all I can do is stare at the phone, thumb hovering over the answer button. Debating. Seven days ofsilence. One stupid “like” on her picture. One “I know.” What the hell am I supposed to say now?
