“I’m thinking,” he says. “That’s all.”
Thinking. That’s how it starts.
I clap him on the shoulder. “Whatever you decide, you’ll be damn good.”
Clay’s grin softens. “Thanks, man.”
Before either of us can get sentimental, a posse of middle schoolers stampedes toward him, yelling, “Clay, sign my hat!” and “You almost ate dirt that second round. It was awesome!”
Clay winks at me. “Duty calls.”
He jogs off, swallowed by the crowds.
I’m left alone with a slow spreading warmth in my chest. Pride, sure. But something else too. Change. The kind that sneaks up on you.
The after-party sits behind the rodeo grounds in the fair pavilion. Really just a covered area with picnic tables, string lights, and a patio heater that hasn’t worked properly since 1997. But nobody cares. People bring crockpots and cornbread and faith, in each other, in the season, in simple joys.
Buckhorn doesn’t need fancy to make magic.
There’s a band playing by the tractor shed. Three high schoolers and one retired dentist on a banjo. Kids chase each other between hay bales. Old men argue about horse breeding. Someone’s dog has stolen an entire bratwurst and is being pursued by half the volunteer fire department.
It’s impossible not to feel good in the middle of it.
I’m just settling into the noise when my gaze snags on one person.
Faith.
Standing by the firepit, cheeks pink, hair catching the light. Laughing with Jet and her sister while Becky dances in circles around them, holding a sparkler someone definitely should not have given her.
Everything else fades out.
She turns her head and sees me.
That smile of hers falters, then softens, then pulls deep inside my ribs.
It’s the kind of smile that feels familiar and dangerous at the same time.
I take a breath, tell myself to be normal, and still find my boots carrying me straight toward her as if they didn’t hear a word.
Jet notices me then.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Rodeo Calendar 2025,” she chirps. “Here to autograph something? Perhaps Faith’s?—”
“Jet,” Faith says under her breath, mortified.
Charlotte leans in, deadpan. “He’s here for her number. You don’t have it yet, do you, Dallas? Faith said.”
Faith makes a strangled noise. “Why are you both like this?”
They don’t answer. They don’t need to.
Faith just hands me her phone, my thumb brushing hers. I type my number in, but that tiny touch is a spark straight to my bloodstream.
When I hand her phone back, my fingers linger for a fraction of a second too long.
Charlotte clocks it instantly. Jet pretends to faint.
Faith glares murder at both of them. “You’re all children.”
