Page 7

That’ll leave a bruise.

A traitorous tear slips out of the corner of my eye. Then another, and another…

The crowd goes wild.

But I do what I always do.

I shut down those feelings, swipe away the tears, and sprint to the exit with Hammer raging behind me. But all the while, I can feel Wyatt’s gaze branding me.

I’ll never speak a bad word about anyone, but you can bet your ass I’ll never forget the people who did me dirty, and Wyatt Patterson…

He did me so goddamn dirty.

3

ANCIENT HISTORY

WYATT

“Iwant to see her. Where is she?” I demand, frantically searching the makeshift medical area at the small-town rodeo.

The so-called area is really just a small corner off to the side of the cattle stalls, cluttered with a few chairs and a table with basic first-aid supplies. We’re at a small-circuit rodeo, so they do what they can, but it’s nothing fancy.

This isn’t the big leagues.

“Who ya lookin’ for, bud?” some bronco rider asks, wincing as he gets patched up.

I don’t bother looking at him. I just continue searching for her. “Dakota Cutler.”

“You mean Kodie? No one calls her Dakota.”

“I do.”

It’s been years since I said it, so her rusty name scrapes through my throat. Watching her face off with a bull in the arena, I was seconds away from jumping in there myself, ready to distract the animal.

That would’ve been a dumbass move, considering I don’t know the first thing about riding a bull, unless it’s a mechanical one, and I’ve had a few buttery nipple shots to dull thoughts of a certain woman.

I try not to be a worrier because worrying makes me miss out on the present, but the panic was unbearable, and I’d been this close.

Then I thought of my little girl, my Vi, and my daughter always comes first now, so I stayed put in the stands because she needs me. Dakota can handle herself.

She always has.

But that’d been close.

Too damn close, so I sprinted straight back to the medical area after she finished her ride.

“Thanks for patchin’ me up, sugar,” someone says behind me.

I stiffen, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment at the sound of her raspy voice. The number of times she told me to Climb higher! or Don’t drop me, Wyatt! bullet through me.

A paramedic who looks more like a male model is leading a scratched-up Dakota to one of the rickety chairs. She’s got dust on her nose and sweaty brown hair plastered to her forehead, and she’s never looked fiercer. I scan her for injuries. No blood. My shoulders sink with relief.

But I can’t stop staring.

Here I am with a pea stain on my T-shirt, and this woman’s only gotten more beautiful over the past three years.

The paramedic guides her to a plastic chair with her back to me, so she doesn’t notice me. Not yet. He quickly gets to work, carefully pouring antiseptic on her wounds.