Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(9)

“Fair. Rodeo’s more fun than soccer, anyway.”

“What about you?” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and leaned back on her elbows. “Why steer riding instead of roping like your brothers?”

“I can rope calves on the ranch. There’s no fun in it for me.” I stretched my legs out in front of me and relished the beating sun in my face, squinting up at the pale blue sky. “I need the rush.”

“Fair,” she murmured.

Another few minutes passed before either of us spoke again. Then we started talking, in small chunks of time at first. A quick mention of plans for the summer break, a comment about how few trains there seemed to be, talk about the next rodeo. By the time an hour had gone by, neither of us could shut up. Constantly talking over each other, laughing until our cheeks hurt, saying the same thing at the same time—I owed her at least six Cokes because she won every jinx. And doing the math about how many stalls I’d muck out to pay for those Cokes didn’t bother me in the least.

The patch of sun we’d been sitting in was cast with late afternoon shadow when we finally got around to discussing favorite foods—having covered nearly every other possible conversation topic already.

“No way your favorite type of ice cream is maple walnut.” I stared wide-eyed at her glowing face, freckled from the sun and rosy from laughter. “Nobody under the age of seventy eats that. I swear to God, if you say your second favorite is Neapolitan…”

“Neapolitan is pretty much the perfect ice cream.” She giggled. “Seriously, if you add walnuts to it, you’d have my dream flavor. Call up Breyer right now.”

I fake gagged. “They’re going to think it’s a prank call because nobody but you would be interested in that abomination.”

Blair’s fingertips grazed my upper arm in a halfhearted slap. “Shush, jerk. More ice cream for me then.”

“Have at ’er. I’d rather go without ice cream for the rest of my life than eat that.”

She dramatically rolled her eyes. “Oh, as if. It’s just walnuts, drama queen. You’re acting like I said to put sardines in your ice cream.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you. That’s an old lady food, too.”

A look I’d never seen darkened her eyes. Maniacal. Plotting. Terrifying.

“No…I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” A small dimple formed in her right cheek as she spoke.

Crap.

“Well, great. I’m going to be terrified of eating ice cream anywhere near you from now on.”

“You should be, Denny.” She glanced down at the dainty silver watch around her wrist, and her shoulders fell with an exhale. “You should get back. They’re probably going to be starting steer riding soon. Sorry for making you waste your time.”

“I had more fun here than I would’ve with the stupid guys up there.” My chin pointed up toward the rodeo grounds, and the small smile on her lips was contagious. I jumped to my feet and shook out each leg to wake the muscles back up. “Come on, we’ll leave the coins and come back to check after.”

I extended my hand, a little surprised by the soft warmth of her palm when she grabbed mine to pull herself up. “Come watch me ride?”

“Sure. I have nowhere else to be,” she said, looking briefly over her shoulder at me as she started toward the hill. Blair began scrambling up the slippery, dusty bank on all fours. “Just gotta be back at the old folks home by five, or I miss out on a pudding cup.”

My chest warmed, and not only from the intense cardio of climbing the hillside. “Well shoot, we can’t have that.”

“If you make me miss butterscotch pudding, you’re definitely getting sardine ice cream next weekend, Wells.” She stopped briefly on the hill to turn to me with a menacing glare and finger point, nearly losing her footing, which would’ve sent her toppling down to the bottom.

“Of course you like butterscotch. You’re an odd duck, Hart.”



* * *



—

Protective gear in place, I stood behind the bucking chute, eyeing up a steer by the name of Big Tom while my mom placed my number on my back. Despite not understanding my desire to climb on an untamed steer for eight seconds, she never missed a ride and she never tried to talk me out of competing.

“Give ’em hell, baby.” She rubbed a firm hand across my shoulder, then moved to give me a final pat on the back when I stepped onto the metal rail. Poised to climb into the chute, I smiled down at her.

Adrenaline and excitement coursed through my veins. A rush of blood through my chest. A dull, steady drumming rhythm played deep in my ears, and radiated around my skull like a sturdy helmet—something to protect against natural fear. Arguably nobody should be comfortable climbing on the back of an animal that wants to see you die. And yet, knowing the steer could maim me was part of the thrill.

Sinking down, I tucked my hand under the steer rope, sliding the leather handle along my palm until I had a steady grip. Youth steer riders were permitted to hold on with two hands, but I wanted the real deal. I wanted to prove I had what it takes to compete with the men. I would’ve hopped on a bronc or bull, instead of a steer, if they’d have let me.

Swallowing the saliva pooling at the back of my throat, I heard Grandpa’s voice in my ear. His baseball-glove-sized hand cupped my shoulder. “You got this, kiddo. Remember, three deep breaths—fix that hand—and let your body flow with the momentum. Don’t overthink it.”