“Maybe.”
“Quinn,” a familiar voice calls behind me.
My eyes close briefly in annoyance. I’m not in the mood for this. I turn. “Mother.”
She walks toward us on the arm of a gray-haired man who looks old enough to be her father.
Amber sidles up next to me. “That’s your mom?” she whispers.
“Yeah. And I’m just going to apologize now. She can be a real bitch.”
Mom eyes Amber so intrusively that it makes even me uncomfortable. “You look familiar,” she says. “Have we met?”
“Fortunately, no,” Amber says. I try not to laugh. I’m happy she’s not just going to play nice.
“I think we have. I can’t put my finger on it.” Suddenly, her expression flattens like she took a punch to the gut. “Oh my god. You’re a Mitchell.”
Amber’s confidence fades in two seconds flat. “Uh… I’m not—”
“You look just like that thing” —she rolls her eyes in disgust— “Baylor Mitchell. Are you her daughter?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“But you are related. No?”
“Mom, we don’t have time for this. We’re leaving.”
“Is that any way to speak to your mother, son?” Gray-haired Man asks.
I eye him the way Mom just eyed Amber. “Who the hell are you?”
He smirks. “I’m the man you may be calling Daddy one day.”
I shake my head. Because, what the fuck?
“This is Richard Nelson,” Mom says. “As in Nelson Oil Fields.”
“Yeah, I get it. You’re fucking a millionaire. You wouldn’t have it any other way. I hope you’ll be very happy together.”
He extends a hand to Amber. “Seems we’re all acquainted except for you. You are?”
“No one,” she says, shaking his hand anyway.
“That’s not very neighborly.”
“We’re not neighbors,” I say bluntly. “And now we’re late. Come on.” I lead Amber away.
“Your mom’s a gold digger?” she asks.
“My mom is a user.”
“Aren’t we all?”
I stop. “No. We’re not. You and me—we’re nothing like her.”
Inside the gates, I guide Amber into the stands and help her navigate on her crutches to a good spot. Several men tip their hats at her. She smiles at all of them. “Do you have to flirt with everyone?” I ask when she sits.
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“The hell you weren’t.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. It looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t.
“Anyway, I have to go. The event starts in twenty minutes. I’m a little late, so I’ll be one of the last entries.”
“Good luck. I don’t suppose I’m supposed to say ‘break a leg,’ as you actually might.”
“No, don’t say that. ‘Cowboy up,’ maybe, but never ‘break a leg’.”
“How about ‘ride ’em, cowboy’?”
I laugh and walk away, but when I glance back at her in the stands, things stop being funny when I see no fewer than two men turning around to talk to her.
I go to the sign-up table, pay my fee, and fill out the waiver. I try to get her out of my head. Why did I bring her here? I spend the next forty-five minutes actively not looking into the stands. I don’t want to screw this up. Plenty of girls have watched me ride, but never any I wanted to. I’ve never wanted to ride for anyone but myself. Until now.
“Number twenty-three!” someone calls.
I secure my hat down on my head, put on my glove, and go to the chute. I got a decent draw from the chip jar. He’s a big one. His name is Clingmans Dome, after the highest point in the Smoky Mountains.
We’re set and ready to go out of the chute when I stupidly glance into the stands. She’s there, surrounded by men. She’s not even watching. Get it to-fucking-gether, I shout in my head.
“Let’s go!” I yell.
I try like hell to make sure I mark out. I’ve been DQd more than once by not having my feet above the point of the bronc’s shoulders when his front feet hit the ground after bucking out of the gate. It’d be damn embarrassing if I did that with Amber watching. If she’s even watching. I don’t dare look now. My life literally depends on my head being in the game for the next eight seconds.
I don’t know what other cowboys do, but I count in my head. The closer I get to eight, the more determined I am to stay on. But on the back of a bronc, sometimes eight seconds can seem like eighty.
He’s a feisty one. I’m twisted every which way. Trying to anticipate which way he’ll turn is difficult, but I’m able to go with it. He bucks high, and my back arches so much that I think I’ll need traction later. Then the buzzer goes off.
I work my hand out and try to time my jump down. Pickup men ride their horses alongside the bronc, allowing me an easier dismount. They get Clingmans Dome behind the gate, and I await my score. I dare to look up at Amber, who’s standing up, balancing on one foot and clapping. She smiles at me, and I feel ten feet tall.
My score is revealed. Eighty-six. It won’t win me a buckle, but it’s in my top ten, so I’ll take it.
“Woo-hoo!” Amber screams from her spot.
I tip my hat to her, and she winks. Damn. This is new. I want her in the stands every time I do this. I want her here when I win. When I get bucked off and break something. Even when I DQ. I just want her here. I scan the myriad of men surrounding her and know I’ve gotten myself into one hell of a pickle.
I make my way to her seat and stare down the guy next to her until he moves. “Want to stay and watch the barrel racing? Andie used to do it. It’s pretty exciting.”
“We can if you want, but my foot kind of hurts. I almost forgot about it and started jumping up and down during your ride.”
Pride races through me at the thought of her doing it. What did her admirers think when she was shouting for me? “Let’s get you home so you can rest your ankle.”
I try and clear a path for her so she doesn’t trip over anyone on the way out, but the stands have become crowded. I don’t want to risk her getting further injured. “Give me those,” I say, taking her crutches, then I hoist her up and over a shoulder.
“Quinn! What are you doing?”
She protests mildly, but not so much that I put her down. Soon, she’s gripping my back. In one hand, I’m holding the crutches, and my other hand is on her ass, pinning her to me so she won’t fall.
We clear the crowd, and I put her down. She rights her hair, puts her hat back on, and settles her crutches under her pits. “That was completely unnecessary. But also hot. You went all Tarzan on me.” Her gaze travels to my torso. “Got any new bruises?”
“Not today.”
“Hmm. Shame.” She walks in the direction of the truck.
I trot up behind her. “You wanted me to get hurt?”
“When you put it like that, not really. But… kinda. I mean the black and the blue and the sweat and the hat. The adrenaline rush from watching you. If I were a dude, I’d need a cold shower.”