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My gaze traced the sharp angles of his jawline and the way his brow furrowed in concentration. I couldn’t help but admire his rugged handsomeness. Even with the weight of his rodeo dreams crumbling around him, he carried himself with a solid strength that drew me in.
Our earlier argument replayed in my mind, the heated words we had exchanged still stinging. I’d meant well, but Wyatt saw my gesture as pity and had lashed out in that defensive way of his. I knew better than to take his words to heart—it was just Wyatt being Wyatt, pushing away anyone who tried to get too close. A part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever let me in.
The announcer’s voice boomed, calling out the first rider’s name. His bull pawed and snorted in the chute; muscles coiled tight as a spring ready to explode. I crammed a mouthful of popcorn in my mouth, my eyes glued to the chute.
As soon as it flew open, the crowd detonated into cheers. The massive bull burst into the ring, a raging cyclone of hooves and muscle. The rider locked down, gripping the rope with every ounce of strength as the beast unleashed a merciless flurry of twists, bucks, and leaps.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I watched that death-defying dance unfold. This bone-jarring intensity, this raw danger—this was the lifeblood that coursed through my veins.
When that buzzer finally blared and they dismounted, I let out a breath, jumping to my feet with the rest of the crowd.
One by one, the riders took their turn, getting violently bucked, rag-dolled, and launched into the dirt. They scrambled like bats outta hell once they hit the ground, sprinting full-tilt toward the safety of the fence before the bull could wheel around and charge. A few had awfully close calls; one guy nearly got skewered before the bullfighters intervened, taunting the bull away.
The crowd gasped and cringed with every brutal blow, but we cheered louder. It was the gritty allure that drew us to the sport.
My gaze wandered over to the pickup men—the cowboys charged with protecting their fellow riders from those ill-tempered tons of muscle and horns. One had caught Maisey’s undivided attention. Rhett.
His Mattel-like features were intensely focused as he snapped his rope, pushing the bull away from the cowboy sprawled in the dirt. Rhett maneuvered his horse with precision, every flick of wrist redirecting the bull and every rope swing driving the beast toward the exit. The crowd’s roar faded into white noise as he zeroed in on that single, all-important task of getting that cowboy out of harm’s way. Only once the bull disappeared did Rhett’s stony expression finally crack, his shoulders dropping with relief now that the danger had passed. He looked like a freaking gunslinger after a high-noon showdown.
“Who are you here for?” I teased Maisey with an elbow to her ribs. “The bull riders or that pickup stud?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Right.” I laughed. “Well, I think we can both appreciate the next rider.” I nodded towards the approaching not-quite cowboy, with his cocky swagger and full smile. Grady Martin.
“Amen,” Maisey said. “He’s so pretty.” She sighed.
“Not datable.”
“No, definitely not.”
“But so pretty.”
“So very pretty,” Maisey agreed.
For once, Grady looked the part of a real cowboy instead of a wanna-be poser. From his scuffed boots and Wrangler jeans to the western-style shirt and cowboy hat somebody had probably lent him, he seemed more at home in that get-up than I’d ever seen him.
I glanced down at Wyatt and Finn, who were both smirking at their friend.
Grady lowered himself slowly onto the bull’s back. Most cowboys in this moment had expressions of extreme focus and tension, but a whisper of a smile played across Grady’s mouth. He was excited. And a total showboat.
Wyatt shouted something to Grady from his position on the rail, and Finn laughed.
Grady nodded that he was ready, and the gate flung open. The bull charged out, his back feet flying as he spun in circles.
Maisey gripped my forearm, probably as hard as Grady was gripping the rope.
His other hand was high in the air as he rode buck after buck.
I glanced at the ticking clock; it was taking its sweet time.
When it reached eight seconds, Grady swung his leg over in front of him and jumped swiftly down into the dirt. The bull fighters got the bull’s attention away from the rider, and Grady tore the hat from his head and threw it hard into the ground with a big whoop.
The crowd went wild. He shot his arms in the air, beaming from ear to ear, and the roar of the crowd got even louder.
Damn, he was good.
The bull evaded the fighters and ran around the arena, not ready to leave yet. He, too, ate up the attention from the excited spectators. He made a run at Grady, who hadn’t left the arena yet, and the crowd gasped, but Rhett steered his horse between them and swung his rope around the bull’s neck. The bull took that as his cue and back to his pen ran through the open chute, his job done for the day.
