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"Autumn."

"What? You're filthy."

"So are you."

I look down at myself. He's not wrong. My jeans have dirt streaked across the front from leaning against the rail, they’re dusted at the knees, and there's something on my left boot I don't want to identify.

I shrug, dropping my hand from his shoulder. "Worth it."

His eyes stay on me a second longer than they should, green and lit up from the excitement, before Clint's voice cuts between us.

"Stop flirting and help me with Captain."

"I'm not flirting," I shoot back automatically, turning toward him.

He's got the paint by the reins, the horse's neck dark with sweat, foam gathering at the bit. Clint's forearm runs along the horse's jaw, steadying him, and his own shirt clings to his back where it's gotten damp. Light brown hair sticks to his forehead, pushed back in a messy sweep that makes him look younger than he is.

"I wasn't talking to you," Clint says, not looking at me. "Tripp's the one staring."

"I wasn't staring," Tripp mutters, but there's no heat in it.

"Sure."

I step closer to Clint anyway, because standing still feels wrong now, like my body doesn't know what to do with the leftover energy vibrating through it. "What do you need?"

"Hold this," he directs, handing me the reins. "Don't let him eat anything. He's an asshole about it after a run."

The leather is warm and slightly slick in my palm, worn soft from use. Captain shifts his weight, bumping his nose against my shoulder, and I stiffen, before remembering what Clint said about staying calm. I breathe out slowly, letting my shoulders drop, and the horse settles.

"You're learning," Clint says, not quite looking at me while he checks the horse's legs, running his hands down them with practiced efficiency.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"Wasn't."

His hands move to the saddle, loosening the underneath strap thingy, and his shirt pulls up just enough to show a strip of stomach, tan skin streaked with dirt and sweat. I look away, focusing on Captain's ears instead, the way they flick back and forth like he's processing everything.

Briggs appears at my other side, close enough that I feel the heat of him before I register his presence. His buckskin is tied off nearby, already half-unpacked, and he's got his gloves tucked into his back pocket.

"You're still here," he says, and it takes me a second to realize he's talking to me.

"Where else would I be?"

He shrugs one shoulder, rolling it like it's stiff. "Figured you'd be sitting in the truck, bored by now."

"I'm not bored."

He studies me for a second, eyes moving over my face like he's checking for something. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing my jaw, and I freeze. He pulls back, showing me the smear of dirt on his thumb. "You got something there."

"Oh." My face heats, and I rub at the spot with the back of my hand. "Thanks."

He nods once, dropping his hand, but his eyes stay on mine a beat longer than necessary. Something shifts in his expression before he turns away and starts helping Clint.

I stand there holding Captain's reins, my heart doing something strange in my chest, my skin still warm where Briggs touched me. The noise of the rodeo continues around us, but it feels farther away now, like we're in our own pocket of space.

Tripp reappears with water bottles, passing them out without comment. I take one, the plastic sweating against my palm, and drink without realizing how thirsty I am. The water is cold and metallic-tasting, but I finish half of it before coming up for air.

"Slow down," Clint warns, glancing over. "You'll make yourself sick."