Page 139 of Stay Wild Darlin’

That all the early mornings, the busted ribs, the rejection from my family meant something.

The money?

Yeah, it hit.

Hard.

A million dollars.

My name beside it.

Dalton Culpepper.

It didn’t feel real, not until I looked back at the stands and saw her.

Poppy.

She was crying, trying to hide it behind her smile, holding Cora against her chest like she couldn’t decide whether to cheer or run straight to me. Her white tank clung to her in the heat, her cheeks flushed pink, eyes shining like I’d handed her the whole damn world.

The money and buckle weren’t for me.

It was for us.

For a house she could paint dark green if she wanted. For a yard full of toys and a porch swing where I’d rock Cora to sleep. For late nights and early mornings and maybe—if I was lucky—more kids. A ranch. A life that didn’t feel like surviving anymore.

I wasn’t rich.

I was free.

And there she was, my girl.

The one who stuck through the shit of a year I’d had and the days I doubted myself.

I hadn’t ridden for the crowd.

I’d ridden for them.

They rushed me straight into the interview area, cameras in my face and questions flying before I could catch my breath. The first thing they asked was how I felt, and without thinking, I looked straight into the lens and pointed to the stands.

“I did it for my daughter. For my girlfriend. For the people who have helped me make this dream come true.”

The rest of the questions blurred together. I answered on autopilot, nodding, smiling, trying to sound like I was still there when all I could think about was getting through it so I could get to her.

I took the photo, held up the oversized million-dollar check with my name scrawled across it like a dream, and finally—finally—they let me go.

I barely made it behind the chutes before Papa Banks was coming toward me—boots kicking up dust, arms open wide like he couldn’t wait another second. He wrapped me up in the tightest hug.

“Son,” he said roughly, his voice shaking a little. “You did it. God dammit, Dalton, you did it.”

That one word—son—tore through me.

My family wasn’t here. No one with my blood had shown up for this. No mom in the crowd. No proud dad behind the rails. No last name carved into rodeo banners or stitched onto jackets.

I was the outsider.

Still, this man—this steady, gruff, salt-of-the-earth cowboy who didn’t throw words around lightly—called me son.

I held on tighter. Just for a second, long enough to feel it settle in my chest.