One
“WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HAD A HOT-BOY BELLYACHE?”
KINSLEY
Heartbreak can happen in eight seconds or less.
Which means, at the top of my list of things to avoid is cowboys—real ones, the rodeo kind. Tonight is strictly looky, looky, no touchy.
"I still can't believe you almost bailed on me," Jessica says, appearing at my elbow with a corn dog in one hand and a drink in the other. In denim shorts, knee-length white boots and an off-the shoulder peasant shirt that shows off her olive skin, she pulls off the whole cowboy eye candy thing with ease. She's not only beautiful, but brilliant too—a pediatric PA, not to mention a wicked fast barrel racer. "Your mother would have disowned you if you'd missed this."
Cheyenne Frontier Days sprawls before me. Ten days of the largest outdoor rodeo in the world that I could navigateblindfolded. The midway pulses with its usual carnival energy—families munching funnel cakes, teenagers trying to impress each other on the mechanical bull, vendors hawking everything from custom belt buckles to hand-tooled saddles.
"My mother's in Oklahoma with a client's horse," I say as I inspect the caramel apple in my hand, totally worth the messed-up lipstick. "She wouldn't have known."
The mention of my mother sends the familiar twist through my stomach—part pride, part pressure, part something I don't want to examine too closely. I can almost see her at my age—young, fierce, probably standing in this exact spot once, before life taught her that hearts are meant to be guarded, not given.
"I would have told her." Jessica grins, unrepentant. "Callie Rose didn't raise her daughter to hide on the ranch when she could be networking a rodeo."
Mom built her reputation training barrel racing champions, turning raw talent into pure poetry in the arena. She taught me to appreciate excellence, to recognize the difference between show and substance.
She also taught me that depending on anyone beyond yourself is a luxury working women can't afford.
"I don't hide," I say automatically. "I work. There's a difference." I sink my teeth into the apple, and it's everything I imagined, Ooey, gooey, sweetness with just enough tartness to make it perfect.
"Well then, aside from work, when's the last time you were here just for fun?” Jessica arches a brow. “Not for some political handshaking, but because you wanted to watch good horses and better riders?"
I swallow the piece of apple and start to answer, thenrealize I can't. Even when I'm here, I'm working—schmoozing with ranchers who might need my lobbying services, building relationships with western industry leaders, representing clients who want access to this world's decision-makers. Fun is a luxury I've trained myself not to need.
"That's what I thought." Jessica's expression softens. "Kinsley, you know more about this life than most third-generation barrel racers. You could run a ranch, train horses, or compete if you wanted to."
"That all sounds like work to me," I say, "And my job is fun, plus I'm good at it."
"Yeah, well you can't have babies with it," She smirks, then takes a swig of her drink. "When's the last time you had a hot boy belly ache?"
"The Riley Green concert," I shoot back.
"Okay, yes—but that doesn't count. When's the last time—" Jessica stops. "Oh my gosh," she squeals, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Speaking of hot boy belly aches… Kins, look at this!"
She's bouncing on her toes and pointing to a hand-painted sign that reads: WIN A DATE WITH A COWBOY in letters decorated with horseshoes and hearts. Below it, smaller print promises "NFR Qualifiers and World Champions". A line of women stretches from the booth back to the drink stand.
"I'm totally signing up," Jessica announces, already moving in that direction.
I follow her, torn between amusement and secondhand embarrassment. "What happened to that team roper from Douglas?"
"Turned out he was still married. Apparently, 'separated'means something different in cowboy than it does in English." She waves a dismissive hand. "His loss. Come on. You should enter—then we double our chances."
"I don't have time to date," I deflect.
She grabs my arm so I can't escape. "Kinsley, I'm doing this for your own good."
"Fine," I hear myself say. “But you know I have no intentions of dating a rough stock rider.”
Jessica’s face lights up as she grins. “You know you’re guaranteed a good time with a roughie.”
I shake my head as she drags me along. “Yeah, well theythinkthey’re a good time.”
As we walk toward the booth, I tell myself this isn't about bellyaches it’s a work opportunity. A chance to observe the demographic I represent. Nothing more than that.