Page 87 of Wild Sanctuary

We walk toward the hay bales, and behind us, I hear the bull operator fire up the motor for a test run. The mechanical whir fills the terrace, and a cheer goes up from somewhere near the bar.

Colt’s date finds him immediately. She hooks her arm through his and steers him toward the bull with the determination of a woman who has been waiting for this part of the evening since the auction. Colt goes along with a grin, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to her with a little flourish that makes her giggle behind her hand.

“He shouldn’t,” Wyatt mutters under his breath.

I turn to him with a frown. “Shouldn’t what?”

But Colt’s already swinging a leg over. The operator gives him a nod, and Colt settles into the saddle with the easy, practiced posture of a man whose body remembers this even if the rest of him has moved on. One hand goes up, and the bull starts slowly.

The terrace goes quiet the way a room does when it recognizes it’s watching someone who knows what they’re doing.

Colt rides like it’s second nature. Loose hips, his free hand balanced and steady while the bull picks up speed. His date is cheering from the sideline with her phone out. The Gazette photographer moves in close, crouching for a low angle, and the shutter clicks in rapid bursts.

The bull bucks hard, and Colt rolls with it like water over a stone. Someone whistles, setting off catcalls from the bar as the photographer keeps shooting.

He looks at home. And the camera is catching every second of it.

Wyatt watches with an expression I can’t read. His arms are folded and his jaw is tight, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself.

Colt dismounts to applause and whoops. His date throws her arms around his neck, and he catches her with a laugh and a spin that the photographer captures from three feet away. The flash goes off twice and Wyatt’s jaw tightens another fraction.

He doesn’t say anything else. But I watch him watch his brother accept a beer from someone near the roping station, his date still tucked under his arm. The Gazette photographer trails them like a man who’s found his front page, and something about Wyatt’s silence tells me this conversation isn’t over. It’s just been delayed to a later time.

“You want to try the lasso?” he asks, turning back to me.

The pivot is deliberate, but I throw him a bone.

“I haven’t roped since I was fourteen, Wyatt Hartley.”

He quirks a dark eyebrow. “Muscle memory?”

“Now that’s optimism if I ever heard it.”

The corner of his mouth moves. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one, there and gone so fast I almost miss it, but it makes my chest ache in a way that I refuse to examine.

The roping dummy is a sawhorse with a plastic steer head bolted to one end. Two coiled ropes hang from a hook on the fence post beside it. Wyatt picks one up, tests the weight, and holds the other out to me.

I take it and immediately remember that I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Loop’s too big.” He frowns, watching me fumble with the knot.

I can’t stifle a snort that says I-told-you-so. “I said it’s been twelve years.”

“Wasn’t a criticism.” He steps closer. “Here.”

His hands close over mine on the rope, adjusting my grip. He reshapes the loop with a quick, practiced motion that puts his chest behind my shoulder and his chin somewhere above my left ear.

My lungs momentarily forget how to work.

“Smaller loop. You’re not ropin’ a barn.” His voice is low and close and I can feel the vibration of it in my spine. “Swing from your wrist, not your elbow. And keep your eyes on the horns.”

His breath is warm against my skin, and goosebumps tingle down my spine.

He smells like warm skin and the cedar and clean cotton scent I recognize from his sheets, and I need him to step back immediately.

He does and I exhale quietly in relief, though his scent still teases my nostrils.

“Try it.”