For the next couple of hours, I get to do my favorite thing in the world: talk to Gran.
The Diamond Hart Ranch is quiet tonight. The ranch hands went to town, and the cattle are far out in the pastures. Even the wind is still. It’s peaceful.
I escaped to the porch after family dinner. I know they’ll turn on the rodeo, and I need to support Kacey and watch Knox, but I need a few minutes. I haven’t watched a single rodeo outside of our trip to Estes Park, and Trey didn’t show. I felt horrible. Knox said he didn’t like his bull, so he turned out, but I could tell he was lying. Trey didn’t want to see me.
I don’t even know how he’s been doing, I’ve mostly stayed off social media and done the best I possibly could to stay busy and avoid the gaping hole in my heart—the hole I put there. I wish things were different; I wish I didn’t fear my own father. Maybe then Trey and I would stand a chance.
It’s funny how the quiet here brings me peace, but the quiet of my own home haunts me now. Trey brought life into it—happiness and a feeling of belonging I’d never known before. I see him everywhere now, from the new tile floor, paintedcabinets, even the damn closet door handle. They’re all ghosts rubbing like sandpaper against my shattered heart.
Whack.
I hear the screen door behind me before Carson leans on the railing next to me. In typical Carson fashion, he doesn’t say anything, but his quiet, steady presence is welcome. He might be the quietest one of the group, but he’s the most observant. He can tell I’m not doing great.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.
“I know.”
We both sip our drinks, soaking in the beauty of the mountains together. I think back to what Gran said. Could she be right? Is he going to show back up in the fall and want to try again?
Should I have told Trey everything? No. I know him—he’s a fixer, he would’ve tried to fix it. But with a man like Daryl, there is no fixing it. His confrontation and broken truck windows were proof of that. He doesn’t play by any rules or laws, and Trey only would’ve wound up getting hurt.
“I’m here if you need me.” Carson bumps my shoulder with his before turning and heading inside. “Rodeo’s on, they’re calf roping.”
Knowing that’s my sign to head inside before barrels and bulls, I finish my drink and prepare myself to see the one man I can’t forget.
“Yes!” Kacey cheers on the couch next to me after Knox rides his bull. He’s been on fire these last few weeks and I’m happy for him. He climbs over the chute, and that’s when I see Trey. Smile on his face, bumping knuckles with Knox.
Ugh.
He looks good. Rougher, but good. He’s let his facial hair grow, and it doesn’t look like he’s had a haircut since I’ve seen him last. Even when he’s not his pretty boy self, he’s still irresistibleas ever. There is something about a man in a cowboy hat, chaps on, ready to do some cowboy shit that is hot as hell. There’s a reason women love cowboys, and it starts the moment they tip that damn cowboy hat.
Three more bull riders go before the camera is back on Trey. He’s in the chute with his helmet on, getting his bull rope set. I can feel more than one set of eyes on me as I spin one of my rings around my finger.
“He said he has a good bull,” Chet says.
How the fuck does he know that? Has he talked to him? How is he?
I keep my eyes on the TV as the announcer hypes up the crowd. Trey nods, and the gate flies open.
I suck in a breath. This bull is wild, jumping high in the air with a lot of hang time.
He kicks hard, but Trey matches him jump for jump. Dark blue chaps fly; the bullfighters are poised and ready to move in. AVolbeatsong plays over the speakers, drowning out Knox’s shouts from the back of the chutes. The crowd grows louder and louder as the clock hits 7 seconds, and Trey spurs him twice before the buzzer goes off.
I hold my breath as he pulls the tail of his bull rope. Even after a qualified ride, the dismount can be just as dangerous. In typical Trey fashion, he flies through the air before landing on his feet like a damn cat.
Relief floods through me, but it’s short-lived when I notice his body language . . . he isn’t throwing his arms out, hyping up the crowd or celebrating with the bullfighters. I watch as he bends to pick up his rope, then exits the arena.
Physically he looks fine, but the lack of fanfare, and big smile when he takes off his helmet. That’s not like him; he made a great bull ride. They marked him 87.5 points, and he didn’tcelebrate at all. This can’t be my fault, right? I’m sure he’s fine. He’s Trey Bennett—women would walk across hot coals for him.
A low whistle draws my attention. “You sure did a number on him, didn’t you?” Chet says.
“Chet,” Carson snaps.
I fall back into the couch cushions with a huff and ignore them both. Because he can’t be right, can he? Is this my fault?
Chapter 36
Jessie
