Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(7)
A fucking ring.
I scrunch my nose to calm the stinging sensation, and work to pull in a steadying breath.
None the wiser, she tucks her hands into the pockets of her fancy pants and turns to walk away. “Go sit down. I’ll bring over beer in a minute.”
I watch her go, telling myself I shouldn’t. It was stupid to think she hadn’t moved on after a decade away from this town. She’s perfect in every way—naturally, she found a wealthy man in the city to make all her dreams come true. To be the man I could never be.
“Come dance with me.” A rasping voice in my ear raises the hair on the back of my neck. Pointed fingernails drag up the goosebumped skin until Peyton’s plucking the hat from my head and placing it on hers. Evidently, that text meant fuck all.
“Can’t use my arm.” My focus remains entirely unbroken from the sight of Blair’s ass as she bends to clear a table.
She’s taken.
Just because there’s a goalie doesn’t mean you can’t score….
No. She’s not that type.
“You know what? Fuck it.” I turn to Peyton, eyeing up her skimpy, shimmery halter top. Even her cleavage is glittery. “Let’s dance.”
I let her guide me to the dance floor, wrapping my good arm around her waist as Randy Travis croons over the speaker. And I probably should’ve worn the sling, because by the end of that first half-assed two-step, my entire upper body is throbbing.
Peyton suddenly grows by about two inches, raising up on the balls of her feet, presumably for a kiss. But as much as I’m willing to dance with her, I have no interest in bringing her home tonight, no matter what the cowboy hat on her head implies. So I take a large step back, dropping my touch from her waist.
“I need a drink,” I mouth over the loud music, nodding my head toward the back wall where all the ranch hands are drinking around a large wood table. After so many years of spending every Friday night here, it’s become our designated spot. No reservation placard required.
To my dismay, Peyton’s hot on my heels. And she plunks herself into my lap when I sit down, sending sharp jolts of pain from my armpit to my fingertips. A few weeks of casual dating and a breakup text later, here I am with a stage-five clinger.
And I could look past the fiery ache in my collarbone, or my annoyance at Peyton’s bony ass on my thigh, if either thing ignited a single spark in Blair’s eyes. But the full glass of beer clunks down in front of me, sloshing over the rim, and she carries on. No hint of jealousy or questioning, no eye contact filled with longing. It turns out seeing me with another girl has zero effect on her. Meanwhile, that ring on her finger—even without knowing anything about the guy—has me silently apologizing to my liver for the oblivion I’m about to drink it into.
“Hart.” I catch a fleeting moment of her attention. “Bring over a tray of shots. Whiskey.”
Denver
(thirteen years old)
My boots clapped together, sending dust and dried mud shrapnel into the air. Seated on the tailgate of Mom’s pickup, I was watching her tack up a seven-year-old gelding. Somewhere, Dad and Austin were likely practicing their team roping. Jackson was in his own world—as always—slowly, thoughtfully brushing his mare. And I had nothing to do. Nowhere to be until it was my time to ride…in a little over three hours.
I loved rodeo. My entire family loved rodeo. So much, in fact, that my grandfather was the local rodeo association president for more than twenty years, and it was his dad before that. From April to October, each and every weekend was consumed by rodeo. Mom was one of the top barrel racers in British Columbia. Dad and Austin made a powerhouse team roping duo, with Aus heading and Dad heeling. Jackson was on track to be the top tie-down roper in the provincial high school rodeo circuit.
And then there was me. The only one not needing to groom or exercise my horse. No practice outside of jumping on unbroken horses and unruly cattle on our ranch. Despite my family’s objections, I rode steers rather than roping or wrestling them.
Folding the ten-dollar bill my grandpa had given me at breakfast that morning, I tucked it into the front pocket of my jeans and hopped off the tailgate.
“Gonna go buy a drink from the concession,” I said, glancing over at Mom.
“Okay, baby. If you see Blair, buy her one, too.”
“But Grandpa ga—”
“Denver Wells.” Her tone was blunt, tightening around me at the same time as she pulled on the horse’s cinch. “You be a decent boy and buy that girl a drink. She just had her best run of the season so far. She deserves it.”
I rolled my eyes with a huff. I had mucked out extra stalls the day before for that money, and now I had to spend it on some girl. Great.
“And Denver,” she called as I walked away. “Maybe it would be fun if you two hung out together. She doesn’t really know anybody except us here.”
Double great.
Now I had to spend my hard-earned money on her and hang out with her?
Should’ve slipped away when Mom wasn’t looking.
Regretting my decision to open my mouth, I trudged across the rodeo grounds. Navigating between stock trailers, I kept my head down. The way I figured, I couldn’t get in trouble for not buying Blair a pop if I genuinely didn’t see her on my way to the concession.