January 15th
If joy had a sound,it would be the crack of a gate flying open, a kid shrieking with glee because a pony sneezed on them, and Jet shouting at her daughter, “Becky, donotlick that railing!”
And if joy had a smell, it would be dust, kettle corn, hay, and faint manure. Buckhorn’s signature fragrance. Eau de Rodeo.
The early year rodeo isn’t the big event. Just a warm-up tournament for locals, but the energy is buzzing. It's like the entire town collectively said, “You know what we missed? Loud noises and dirt,” and gathered accordingly.
Jet, Charlotte, Becky, and I make our way through the crowd, weaving between toddlers with balloon horses, men in belt buckles the size of dinner plates, and a group of teenage boys daring each other to ride the mechanical bull backward.
Jet flicks her hair dramatically.
“This,” she announces, “is culture. I hope you’re appreciating it.”
“I’m appreciating the secondhand dust in my teeth,” Charlotte chirps.
Becky skips ahead, her sparkly pink boots kicking up dust clouds.
“Mommy!” she shouts, pointing at a goat. “That goat’s staring at me!”
“That’s because you’re not blinking,” Jet calls. “Stop intimidating the livestock!”
We finally climb onto the cold metal bleachers, which feel specifically designed to punish people wearing thin jeans. The crowd is half full, buzzing with life. Babies crying, grandpas arguing about knot-tying technique, the announcer warming up with a microphone that screeches every few minutes like it’s being tortured.
I’m instantly happy. It hits me unexpectedly, like stepping into sunlight after weeks of rain. This is what home used to feel like. Messy, loud, real.
Then a low cheer rolls across the arena, and my body reacts before my brain catches up.
Dallas is walking toward the chute.
My body remembers him before my brain does. Not just his face, but his hands on my waist, the way he kissed me like he’d been starving and didn’t care who saw.
And suddenly I am the one who stops blinking.
Good Lord.
He’s wearing a charcoal button-down rolled to his elbows, jeans that should not be allowed in public unless accompanied by a warning sign, and that damn hat tipped just right. Dust curls around his boots, trying to flirt with him.
Jet catches me staring and whispers, “If you don’t close your mouth, a fly is gonna move in.”
I snap my jaw shut so fast my teeth clack.
If this were just a crush, I could laugh it off. But it isn’t.
It’s the fact that I know what he tastes like.
Charlotte leans in. “Faith?”
“Hm?”
“You’re sweating.”
“It’s… warm,” I mutter, even though it’s thirty-six degrees and I’m covered in three layers.
“Uh-huh,” she says.
Becky climbs into my lap suddenly, leaving a trail of kettle corn crumbs. “Miss Faith? Do you think the horses are pretty?”
“Yes,” I say honestly. “Very pretty.”
