I try another smile, this time not attempting to win her with my dimples, but instead a gentle look of understanding. Honey’s brows might draw in, but she mirrors my faint smile and reaches for the concealer.Finally. Just that small, positive reaction kicks my heart rate up, beating to the rhythm ofmore, more, more.
Her soft fingers lightly brush over my rough palms which are calloused from years of helping on the ranch, bull riding, and football as she slips the concealer from my hand. The skin on my arm breaks out in goosebumps, luckily covered by my jacket sleeve, and I only just manage to suppress the shiver that racks through me.
I don’t get it. How could anyone want to hurt her?
‘Thank you,’ Honey says, before she whips off her bag and stows the makeup inside.
The way her eyes assess me has the corridor darkening until the only light shining is on the two of us. Something about this moment feels too intimate. Too vulnerable. My skin itches again, heat crawling along the back of my neck and shoulders. And when the bell rings to signal the end oflunch, I’m sending up a silent prayer. Because I might not know Honey well, but I do know she wouldn’t want to be late to class.
‘Right,’ I quickly push out, shucking my backpack on and straightening up my shoulders. Readying myself to reassume the usual Sawyer Nash persona. The one that people like. ‘Better get going.’
Honey’s eyes flash, like she’s only just realised the bell has gone, her reaction delayed. ‘Sawyer, please—’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,’ I promise her, mimicking zipping my lips with a lopsided grin.
As much as I don’t want to suffer through math where I literally understandnothingand I’m pretty certain the teacher hates me, I should head to class. But it’s hard to rip myself from Honey’s aquamarine stare. I can already feel it branding in my mind.
Eventually, I find the willpower to turn away, but quickly throw over my shoulder, ‘Oh, and if you ever need anything, just come straight to me. I’m in your corner, Blue.’
1
Sawyer
‘Fractured? Your leg isfracturedand you’re telling me this just before you’re about to jump on the back of a fucking bull?’ Boone, a fellow competitor of mine in the bull-riding circuit, points ahead of us towards the chutes, stopping in his tracks. Exasperation paints his face.
Because I’m not about to ride just any bull; I’ve gone for the nastiest of the lot—he’ll be spinning and bucking, giving me hell right out of the chute gate. Just how I like them.
I didn’t get the gold buckle and title of Professional Bull Riders World Champion last year for picking the tame ones. And everyone knows that’s why the Willow Ridge Roundup Rodeo is bursting with life tonight. They want to see me—Sawyer Nash, the cowboy with no fear. So, I’m going to give them a show, no matter how fractured my leg is.
I wave Boone off, walking on as I breathe in the rodeo atmosphere. The beginnings of the late August sunset pours down on the outdoor arena, glinting off the white metal fences surrounding the pens and stalls. Lights flicker andflash, melting into the golden sunlight around the arena as people prepare for the next competition, swarming the bar for last-minute drinks. The thumping music of Brooks & Dunn echoes alongside the rustle of chaps while the scents of burnt corn dogs, spilled beer, and sun-dried mud fills the air—the smell of home.
And the best part? There’s a group of beautiful women hanging about the gate ahead, talking with the other bull riders. Waiting to wish us good luck, just like always at these events. Fuck, I love this job.
‘Dude, it’s fine,’ I try to reassure him. ‘It happened ages ago. I doubt it takes that long to heal, anyway.’ Only a hairline fracture according to the doctor. As far as I’m concerned, if I can walk on it, then I can ride on it.
Boone’s brows knit together, almost hidden under his mop of curly brown hair. ‘I’m guessing you ain’t told anyone else?’
‘Nope,’ I admit with a smug grin. I’m a seasoned pro at pretending not to be in pain. I had to become accustomed to pain almost twenty years ago at the hand of my dad. And bull riding only made that more critical. It’s become such a natural part of my life that I don’t notice it most days. ‘I’m the world champ, Boone. Silly thing like a fractured leg ain’t gonna stop me from winning.’
The wink I throw over only has him groaning and shaking his head. He’ll never get it because he has too much to lose. That’s why he might be a great bull rider, but he’ll never be the best. He’s a single dad with a big family he cares about, but that means he never picks the angriest bulls or sometimes doesn’t hang on for that last second—always playing it safe.
Me? I’ve got nothing to lose.
Nothing to worry about other than winning.
Just a need to beat fear as many times as I can.
That’s whyI’mthe one with the gold buckle.
Chuckling, I pat him on the back, eager to change the conversation. Just because he noticed my limp doesn’t mean I want to talk about it for hours—it was embarrassing enough getting knocked by that bull in front of everyone. Nor do I need anyone overhearing and trying to talk me out of today. Ialwaysride at the Willow Ridge Roundup Rodeo—it’s my hometown, where my love of bull riding began, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t also like reminding everyone what I’m capable of. Plus, all my friends—my version of family—are here to watch and I love seeing them proud of me.
I cock my head towards the sea of pretty brunettes, redheads, and blondes ahead, hoping to catch us before the show. ‘Quit your whining and let’s go get some numbers. I’d like to celebrate winning tonight with something other than my hand.’
Boone might scoff at my crude comment, but his eyes are already latched onto a beautiful blonde, long legs shooting out of a denim skirt so short it might as well be a belt. Fully support that one’s fashion sense, and if she wasn’t blonde, I might’ve been fighting him for her attention.
Instead, I let my steps fall back as he races forward, giving me the chance to admire the rest of the beauty ahead. My gaze snags on a gorgeous brunette I don’t recognise who’s currently checking me out—which is difficult when small town populations often mean I’ve known some of these women since high school. But I’d remember that face and figure, especially in the flowery sundress she’s wearing.
When the woman finally catches me watching her, I shoot her my signature smirk—one I’ve had locked down since high school—receiving a coy smile and blushing cheeks in return. Perfect. She’ll be a cute one to watch unravel under my hands. And lips. A welcome distraction from the fate of my family ranch that’s been looming over me since my dad passed away last month. I didn’t even bother bringing my phone with me today, knowing I’ve got messages from Beau, one of the head ranchers, about it all.