"Come on," Maggie said, already standing. "You can't miss this. It's better than any rodeo."
Against my better judgment, I followed them toward the arena. As we got closer, I could see the organized chaos—ranch hands on horseback herding a group of horses through the gates, dust swirling, everyone working in practiced synchronization.
Clay was in the thick of it, of course, standing on the fence and calling out directions with the easy authority of someone who'd done this a hundred times. Hunter was manning the gates, his quiet competence a counterpoint to Clay's showmanship. Liam sat on his horse like he was born to it, helping guide the stragglers.
And Wyatt.
God help me, Wyatt was magnificent.
He rode Tempest with the kind of movement that spoke of absolute control and trust between man and horse. His hat was pulled low, shirt already dusty and clinging with sweat, and when he swung his rope to separate a particularly stubborn mare from the group, it was poetry in motion.
The moment he rode into the clearing, something low and primal uncoiled in me. A tightening. A pulse. A full-body remembering.
His hand tightened on the reins, and my scalp tingled from the phantom feeling of that hand pulling my hair. That sharp, delicious sting that shot straight down my spine as he yanked my head back and crushed his mouth to mine.
His thighs gripped the horse, and heat flared between my legs at the memory of the force of those same thighs shoving mine apart.The unyielding strength of him pinning me wide against rough boards, the scrape of wood biting into my skin.
His hips moved slow and controlled in the saddle, and my chest squeezed, remembering the brutal rhythm of his cock driving into me. Each thrust that pressed me harder into the wall, vibration rattling up my spine, breath knocked clean out of my lungs.
And then the worst part—the most visceral part—that slammed into me so hard my knees nearly buckled where I stood: the way my whole body clenched around him—tight, sudden, involuntary—and the way his entire frame jolted in response, as if he felt it everywhere, like the moment I shattered pulled him right over the edge with me.
Wyatt still rode forward, calm, oblivious, the picture of control, while I stood there, heart pounding, thighs pressing together, body remembering every violent, sensual, unstoppable second of being pinned to that wall by the only man who’s ever undone me.
A memory shouldn’t feel that real. Touch shouldn’t echo like that.
But God… it did.
Everywhere.
“Close your mouth, honey,” Louisa murmured beside me, amusement laced through her drawl. “You’re catchin’ flies—and probably every cowboy’s attention this side of the fence.”
I snapped my jaw shut, cheeks flaming so fast it was a wonder the dust didn’t sizzle.
Around the arena, the ranch crew had gathered—hands leaning on fence rails, coffee in thermoses, boots propped, and watching like it was Sunday entertainment. No one said much, but I could feel their curiosity humming in the air. They’d all seen the sparks yesterday. Hell, they were probably taking bets on when one of us would combust.
"Jimmy, that bay's got a weak left!" one called out.
"Watch that paint—she's a kicker!" another added.
Tyler was there too, the young hand who'd flirted with me at dinner, showing off as he roped a young gelding. He saw mewatching and tipped his hat with a grin that probably worked on most girls.
But I only had eyes for Wyatt.
He dismounted in one fluid motion to help guide a particularly skittish colt into the holding pen. The way he moved—confident, controlled, utterly in his element—made my mouth go dry. This was his world, his kingdom, and he ruled it with competence that was more attractive than any city suit or corporate power play.
"Ivy!" Clay called out, grinning wickedly. "Come help us sort! You used to be good at reading horses."
"I'm fine here," I called back, but Clay was already opening the gate.
"Come on, city girl. Let's see if Dallas took all the country out of you."
It was a challenge, and everyone knew it. The crowd had turned to watch, curious to see what the consultant from the city would do.
I could have declined. Should have declined. But Wyatt was watching now, his expression unreadable beneath his hat brim, and my pride got the better of me.
"Fine," I said, handing Maggie my sweet tea.
I climbed the fence in my work clothes—jeans and boots at least, though they were too clean, too obviously new. Clay handed me a sorting stick, basically a long pole with a flag on the end, used to direct horses without touching them.
