I’m pretty sure I’m going to vomit. That photo is a fabrication, another tool used to make this believable. It’s also evidence that I chose this.
We find seats in the middle section of the covered grandstand, visible but not prominent. From here, I can see the VIP section above us, separated from the regular seating by a rope and elevation. At least it’s heated, so I’m not freezing my butt off.
I scan the raised area, and that’s when I spot him.Roman Bishop. He sits there like a king surveying his subjects. Even from this distance, he’s imposing. Broad-shouldered, wearing expensive western wear, a Stetson casting shadows across his face. He’s holding a beer, but his attention isn’t on the arena. It’s on us.
On me.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and ice floods my veins. This is the man who wanted me dead without even knowing me. And now he’s watching me sit beside his son, wearing a blue sundress, playing the role of a happy bride. I watch as Roman’s gaze shifts to Calder, cold and assessing. Then he deliberately turns his attention back to the arena.
The message is clear.I see you. I know. And we’re not done here.
“He looks angry,” I say quietly.
“He is angry.” Calder’s arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me closer. “But he won’t make a scene. Roman Bishop doesn’t punish people in public. He waits. Plans.” Calder’s voice is calm, but I can feel the tension in his body. “So the fact thatwe’re still sitting here means he’s at least willing to see how this plays out.”
The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing the first event. The crowd cheers. Cowboys and cowgirls begin warming up in the arena below.
I sit rigid beside Calder, every muscle in my body screaming to run. Not away from Calder, not anymore, but away from the staring and the whispers and the words. The performance of this stretches ahead of me for hours.
“Relax,” Calder murmurs. “You look terrified.”
“I am terrified.”
“Then fake it better.” His voice hardens slightly. “Because everyone’s watching.”
I force my shoulders down. Unclench my hands. Try to arrange my face into something that doesn’t look like pure fear. It’s only at this moment, when faced with the reality of Roman Bishop, that I realize I should never have feared Calder over him.
Time passes in a blur. Barrel racing, then team roping. The crowd cheers and boos. Vendors walk up and down the aisles selling beer and popcorn. Beside me, Calder keeps up the act, his hand on my knee, occasionally pointing something out, leaning close to whisper comments that probably look intimate but are really just reminders to smile.
Then his phone buzzes.
He pulls it out and frowns at the screen. “I need to take this. Stay here.”
“Where are you?—”
“Just stay here.” His voice is firm, brooking no argument. “Don’t move. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be right back.”
He disappears down the bleachers, phone already pressed to his ear. I sit there alone, hyperaware of the people around me, of the stares and whispers that never quite stop. My hands twist in the fabric of the sundress as anxiety builds in my chest. If Ihad my freaking phone, I could at least scroll or look a little less awkward.
“Hey there, sister-in-law.”
I look up to find Levi Bishop sliding into the seat Calder just vacated. There’s dust on his chaps and a streak of dirt across his jaw, but he’s grinning like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Levi.” I glance toward where Calder disappeared. “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone.”
“I’m not anyone. I’m family.” He stretches his long legs out, completely at ease. “Besides, my brother can’t keep you on lockdown every second. You look like you could use some company. And maybe a drink.”
“I don’t?—”
“Come on. Let me buy you a shot. Call it a belated wedding present.” His grin widens. “Unless the preacher’s daughter doesn’t drink?”
There’s a challenge in his voice, but it’s playful. Not like Calder’s challenges. More like he’s testing me, trying to figure out who I really am beneath the perfect daughter exterior.
“One drink,” I say.
“That’s the spirit.” He stands, offering his hand. “Literally.”
Against my better judgment, I take it. His hand is calloused like Calder’s, but his grip is gentler. Less possessive. He guides me down the bleachers and toward one of the concession stands with a small bar set up near the back.
