Page 43 of Stay Wild Darlin’

When the fire finally gave its last snap and fizzled to nothing, we stood—at the same time, without a word—and quietly made our way back to our separate doors. No good night. No overthinking. Just a shared silence that somehow said more than anything else could have.

19

Dalton

The drive was quiet, but not the awkward or tense kind. It was . . . peaceful.

Cora was passed out in the back seat, and Poppy didn’t fill the space with small talk. She sat there, one arm resting on the door, eyes flicking out the window every so often like she was soaking it all in.

And I, well, I soaked her in.

She wore a pair of wide-legged, flared jeans and a plain white T-shirt with the word Seattle printed in faded blue across the back. Hair pulled up, strands falling around her face.

I gripped the wheel a little tighter, eyes locked on the road ahead.

When we pulled into the guy’s gravel driveway, I let the truck idle for a second before shifting into park.

“I’m gonna run in,” I said, glancing over at her.

“Sounds good.” She nodded, then turned to look back at Cora. “Would you mind if I got her out and fed her while we looked at the horses?”

I paused and blinked a few times.

Feeding Cora. Right.

Shit, I hadn’t even thought about that. Hadn’t even considered how long it had been since she last ate.

I’d driven two hours, watching Poppy out of the corner of my eye, so caught up in the way she looked in my passenger seat that I completely spaced on the whole reason we were here—the kid in the back seat.

“Oh,” I said, scratching the back of my neck. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

She smiled, like it was nothing, and I stepped out of the truck as I headed toward the guy’s shop to grab my new rope.

My mind wasn’t on the gear anymore. It was on the girl in my passenger seat, in flared jeans and a Seattle tee, pulling my daughter out of the truck.

I shook my head, muttering under my breath like that’d help me pull it together, then headed inside the shop.

Focus, man.

The guy’s place was nothing fancy—tin building, tools hung all over the walls, the air thick with leather and dust. He knew his shit, and that’s all that mattered.

I walked in and spotted my rope right away, hanging on a hook like it was waiting for me. Thick, perfectly worn leather, deep mahogany grip with the right amount of flex. Brazilian style, custom made, tighter weave, stronger tail. I’d ordered it months ago, hoping it’d give me the edge I’d been missing.

This weekend was big. I needed something that felt solid in my hand.

“Looks good,” the older guy said from behind the counter. “Hope it rides the way you want.”

“Oh, it will.” I ran my fingers along the tail. It better.

I paid, added a couple extra coils of rope to the tab—jute, a little more pliable than what I’d use in the arena. He didn’t ask what it was for, and I didn’t offer.

That . . . was for me.

Back before Cora—before everything shifted—after a ride, after the adrenaline wore off and my body still buzzed, I liked to see it—something wrapped tight in my grip. Someone. I liked the way rope looked against soft skin. The stillness it created. The quiet kind of control it gave me.

It wasn’t about pain. It was about focus. Hell, it had been a long time, but my grip tightened on the cotton coil, and my mind wandered.

To the girl outside who was sitting barefoot in the grass, Cora nestled in her arms with a bottle in hand.