It’s the same spot we visited in downtown Dry Creek.
So, I practically drag Sawyer across the gravel lot, ignoring his amused expression, and order two of those dark chocolate cayenne brownies that ruined my life last week.
“You know,” he says while I’m balancing the brownies and a lemonade, “you’ve got the same look in your eyes you did when I showed you my bull pens.”
“That’s because both situations involve pure joy and a hint of danger,” I say around a mouthful of chocolate.
He laughs, deep and warm, and I swear my stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with sugar.
We wander down the rows of vendors, stopping at a stand called Dolly’s Dairy Products.I can’t resist.
I grab some “Got Milk” soap, a bottle of goat’s milk lotion, and an entire pint of herbed goat cheese because, well, self-control is overrated.
Everyone here is so lovely—people smile, wave, ask where we’re from.
It’s small-town charm with a heartbeat, and I’m eating it up.
Then we reachArtist’s Alley, a stretch of pop-up tents filled with handmade crafts, pottery, and paintings.
And that’s when the idea hits me.
All this color, all this creativity—it feels like my sewing projects, like the way I’ve been stitching pieces of myself back together since coming here.
I could do this.
Sell things.
Make something that lasts.
“Hey,” Sawyer says, noticing me stop.“You okay?”
“Yeah.”I smile up at him, heart buzzing with possibility.“Just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” he teases, eyes crinkling.
“Funny, that’s exactly what Angie said when I mentioned reupholstering the kitchen chairs.”
He groans softly.“You what?”
I laugh, looping my arm through his.
“Relax, cowboy.I didn’t do it—yet.”
We keep walking, our hands brushing now and then, each accidental touch sending sparks up my arm.
Every time I glance at him—broad shoulders, sun-warmed skin, that easy confidence—I can’t help but think how damn lucky I am.
Even though Sawyer’s not a competition cowboy, he’s still in his element—talking with other ranchers, shaking hands, making people laugh.
Every now and then, he glances my way like he’s checking to make sure I’m still having fun, still his.
And I am.So much it’s almost scary.
He shares his lemonade, wipes a bit of brownie off my lip with his thumb, and kisses my temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And I realize, as the rodeo crowd cheers and the sun beats down on us, that this is what happiness looks like for me now.
It looks like dust clinging to my boots, laughter bubbling out of me for no reason at all, chocolate smudged on my fingers, and a cowboy who keeps finding new ways to make me feel like I belong somewhere.
