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Rather than stand here and torture myself, I go in search of Paisley. I heard my sister cheering me on from the bleachers. A breeze coasts along my sweaty skin as I walk that way. The sun has set, offering a welcome reprieve from the mid-June heat. If only I could escape the loneliness gnawing at me.
“Hey, cowgirl.”
My stride stumbles to a halt next to a man I’ve never seen before. The top half of his face is shadowed under a cowboy hat, but that doesn’t mask the twinkle in his eye.
I squint to get a better look. “Um, hi?”
He’s got a smirk most girls probably fall for. “Saw you racing in barrels earlier. Very impressive.”
“Thank you?”
A raspy chuckle rumbles off his chest. My uncertainty is just that entertaining. Not sure what he expects after appearing out of nowhere.
“Got a boyfriend?”
Shock steals my voice for several seconds. Who is this guy? “No.”
“Go out with me tomorrow night.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t think so.”
He leans against the chain-link fence that separates the public rodeo grounds from the private livestock pens. “Why not?”
I blink, trying to formulate a solid excuse. “You’re a stranger.”
It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to not smack my forehead. What am I? Six?
His open palm extends forward. “I’m Wyatt.”
“Gemma.” Not a single spark ignites when I accept his proffered hand in a gentle shake.
But he beams as if we’re about to ride off into the sunset. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gemma.”
The way his tongue strokes my name sounds like a sexual innuendo. It sends a shiver down my spine, and not in an alluring way. “Is that so?”
His nod is paired with heavy eye contact. “We’re no longer strangers.”
I cross my arms. “A basic introduction doesn’t mean I’ll go out with you.”
“What’ll it take, beautiful?”
A quick shake of my head denies him outright. I like confident men, but this is a bit much. “My sister is waiting on me. This was… interesting. Bye, Wyatt.”
He clutches the space over his heart. “Can I at least get your number?”
“If we see each other again.” My boots are already kicking me in reverse, leaving him in my dust.
But once I reach the stands at the spectator side of the arena, the announcer’s voice freezes me on the spot.
“Our next bronc rider is a local legend,” he booms into the microphone. “He’s worth millions in his own right, but that wasn’t enough for him. This cowboy has made his own fame and fortune stayin’ on the roughest horses in the circuit. You might know him as Lucky Stride for catchin’ so many hot streaks. It’s landed him in the NFR finals for the past four years. Make some noise for… Chaaaaaance Benson!”
The crowd goes feral. Feet stomp against the metal bleachers while hoots fight against the hollers. It’s loud enough to drown out almost anything else the announcer might say.
“That’s the spirit, Hamel! We love to hear it. And Chance has dedicated this ride to his wildflower. Whoever she is, I hope she’s watching.”
Static fills my ears as the chute gate opens and an enormous black horse lunges out. My former best friend sits astride the ferocious mount as if they’re on a lazy stroll. He spurs the bronc’s sides in perfect rhythm with the animal’s bucks. His arm flings up and down to match the fast tempo. Thunder quakes the earth with each strike of the horse’s hooves. It’s a sight to stare at.
But more than that, Chance hasn’t dedicated a ride to me since we were kids. I’m aware this is his most recent tactic to butter me up. And unfortunately for me, it’s working. Especially since I’m unable to take my eyes off him.
