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“We’ll be fine, Patterson. Go. We’ve got plenty of fans here.”
He hands her over, and when our arms brush, I jerk my fists away as fast as possible. His face falls, but he walks down the hall to the bathroom, right after giving Luna a little nuzzle.
Vienna instantly starts thrashing in my arms, but it’s nothing compared to a bull. I start rubbing circles on her back, but that does absolutely shit-all for the wailing.
“Well, aren’t you a little devil? You’re cute but definitely a menace.” I wipe the snot from her button nose with her cowgirl T-shirt. “I think we’ll get along just fine, screaming and all. Seems like you’re a little spicy like me. Now, what is it? Do your teeth hurt?”
She screams louder, and now I feel bad for the little girl. Her teeth must really hurt, so I scan the kitchen for her teething ring. “It’s okay. Sometimes, I just want to scream at the world too. Let it out while you can, girl, ’cause when you’re all grown up, you’re gonna have to muster up a fake smile, and you’ll feel like you’re tacking on a cowboy emoji to hide all your hardest feelings.”
She keeps wailing, so I start singing the first song that comes to mind. She peers up at me with her wide green eyes, and it feels like I’m looking at Wyatt. After a moment of staring, her crying turns to little sniffs.
I perk up. Holy shit. I did it. I’m rarely, if ever, the person to calm people down, so this feels like a tiny accomplishment.
“There we go, and look, we didn’t even need a ceiling fan,” I coo as she settles. She might just be the most adorable kid I’ve seen. “You like eating banana pancakes while singing ‘Banana Pancakes’ too?”
All she does is blink up at me, and I find myself smiling for the first time in a long while.
Bull riding is a self-serving sport. I do it because I thrive off the adrenaline rush, and I never have to think about anyone but myself. I don’t need anyone, and no one needs me, but as I’m sucked in by her baby greens, I can’t help but be a little jealous that Wyatt’s got someone who relies on him.
No one relies on me.
She latches onto one of my brown curls, calming. “What?” I ask. “You like me talking to you? I’m Kodie. Can you say Kodie? Ko-die.”
“No,” she says in her high-pitched voice through another sniffle. “No. No. No.”
“Yeah, that’s my favorite word too, and a good one to know for when you’re older and have to tell off all those boys or girls.” I chuckle, swaying her in my arms.
She settles down as I continue to sway her, and then I turn around to find Wyatt leaning against the doorframe with a pink Barbie Band-Aid on his thumb, watching us with a small grin tugging at his lips.
I stiffen. “I didn’t realize you were done.”
He swallows visibly. “Yeah, I was just, uh, watching you two—” He cuts himself off, almost like he was caught doing something illegal. “You were singing our song.”
“Oh. I guess I was.”
He runs a hand through his messy hair, blowing out a breath. A deep V forms between his brows. “How’d you get her to stop crying?”
“I just sang to her a little and talked like a normal human.”
His lips twitch. “She must like you. Most of the time it feels like she’s trying to burst my eardrum.”
“A girl can still love you and want to strangle you at the same time,” I mutter, bopping his daughter on the nose to avoid looking at him. There was a little too much truth in that comment, so I tack on, “I better head out. I have to head to the arena for my skills session with my dad since I’m gunning for the PBR draft.”
He takes Vienna from me, and his biceps clench with the movement. He’s really filled out with all that hockey training. It’s like his forearm veins have veins.
I never really noticed his body before because it feels strange to look at him that way, so I glance at the clock on the wall. I’ve got twenty minutes before I have to be at the arena for my training session.
He cocks his head so his stubbled cheek is resting on Vienna’s. “You’re really gunning for the draft? What team?”
“The Austin Rattlers.”
Every small-circuit rodeo is a stepping stone to the big leagues. If I do well in one, it builds up my reputation. Then it grows the more I compete, and the more rodeo belt buckles I’ll get.
He blows a low whistle. “Damn.”
I can’t tell whether that’s surprise or doubt in his tone, but either way, it raises my hackles. “What?” I retort. “You don’t think I can do it?”
“No, that’s not it at all,” he murmurs. “I think you can do anything.”
