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I stand on my toes to reach his lips, giving him a sweet kiss. “You’re important to me too.”

My life might be unpredictable, but I channel Wyatt’s energy, push those thoughts aside, and head to the front door. Except, I forget to give Vienna a kiss goodbye, so I turn back around and drop one to her blonde curls as she clashes two plastic vegetables together on her play mat. Wyatt watches the entire time with a blank face, as if he’s shielding his emotions.

I almost make it to the door handle before he stops me again. “Hey, Dakota?”

“Yeah?” I glance back at him, and a stiff smile jumps to his lips.

He winks, a spark glinting in his eyes like fool’s gold. I can’t tell if that happiness is real. “Ride ’em hard, honey, and then make sure you come home to me.”

I salute him with two fingers, even though it’s a promise I can’t keep. “Yes, sir.”

Thanks to Wyatt’s drugging kisses, I forgot one very important thing before I left for the rodeo this morning—my protective vest.

Rookie mistake.

Ever since a famous bull rider died from being gored by a bull, the rodeos won’t let anyone compete without one.

“Dammit,” I mutter, frantically searching my bag in the back pens. It’s where all the competitors hang out before they ride, so it’s always a bustling area. “Where the hell is it?”

“You all good there, Cowboy Killer?”

I glance over my shoulder and see Nash, one of the younger bull riders, watching me with a grin. Everyone calls him Smiley because he’s always wearing a goofy-ass smile. He’s just turned eighteen, so he’s one of the only bull riders who’s still grinning because he’s full of naive excitement.

“No, Smiley. I’m not fine,” I say, rummaging through my bag. “I think I left my protective vest at home.”

He hops off the metal fence, striding forward in his worn boots, his baby-blue eyes assessing me. “You can borrow mine for your ride. We look to be about the same size, but just make sure you give it back, or I’ll be in a world of hurt.”

Nash’s always been a thoughtful one, but being an inner cynic, I say, “Why would you do that for me?”

He shrugs. There’s that goofy grin again. “Because we’re a team. We’re all risking our lives together, so I’ve got your back. You ride after me anyway, so I’ll make sure it’s nice and sweaty for you.” He laughs.

I can’t stand toxic positivity, but Nash’s got authentic positivity, which has my dimples popping in a rare smile. “Thanks, Nash. Really. I owe you one.”

Technically, we all compete individually, but we’re a team because we have each other’s backs in this sport.

“Damn, girl! Look at those dimples! You can smile,” he teases, waving a hand. If anyone else said something like that, I’d be scowling, but Nash pulls it off because he oozes a good-natured spirit. “And you don’t owe me a thing. It’s all good, Cowboy Killer. Best get ready for the draw.”

The draw is where all the bull riders gather to get paired with the bulls. It’s random, and we all sit on these uncomfortable wooden stools as the announcer booms out pairings, anxiously waiting to hear our fate.

Nash struts away, giving high-fives to every cowboy in sight, and I head over to the dusty warm-up area to meet my dad. The rodeo grounds are alive with energy, punctuated by the snorts of restless animals. Dust swirls around us as cowboys prepare for their rides, adjusting gear and bantering.

I find my dad by the water coolers, coiling a lasso for a calf-roper. He hands the cowboy the rope with a pat on the back. Colt Cutler never smiles, but he always lends a helping hand.

When I saunter up to him, he slaps my shoulder. “You ready for the draw? I hear Diablo’s a tough one, so watch out if you get him. That bull’s got a wicked spin and a mean snarl, so put all that two-stepping to good use. Stay loose and—”

“Flow like good tequila. Smooth and steady,” I finish, strapping on my chaps. “I know, Pops.”

He squeezes my shoulders hard, like he’s trying to transfer all his love, concern, and unspoken worries into me. My dad isn’t physically affectionate with many people, but he is with me, and I'm the same way.

I’ll never hug a stranger—not after Boone called me an awkward hugger because I let go too soon. The only two people I like to hug are my dad and Wyatt, and Vienna too, so I guess that’s three people now.

My dad gives me pointers for the next fifteen minutes while I stretch and then plants a scruffy kiss on my cheek. “I love you, darlin’. More than life itself.”

“Love you more, Pops.”

He taps the brim of my hat, his brown eyes crinkling in my favorite way, but in their depths, I can see all that worry he tries so hard to hide. Our incessant I love yous might seem like a lot, but it’s a tradition I’ll never break. If something ever happened to me, I want my last words to be I love you to my dad.

Navigating the dusty corridors of the animal stalls, I weave through the bristling horses and head toward the bull riders’ section for the draw.