Chapter 9
Maggie
My inbox is crowded with requests from the PBR, deadlines for each event that have only now come through. They’re either highly unorganized or my patchy internet service on the road is turning out to be a bigger problem than I thought.
Country music thumps away outside my van. The after-party is in full swing with one of the largest crowds I’ve seen so far this year.
Me? I’ll be here, editing and sorting images to the early hours of the morning now that I have multiple missed deadlines. I should have cottoned on when I didn’t hear anything from the PBR for the first month of the circuit. They have been paying me consistently, so it figures they have been wanting their images.
God, I feel terrible.
An ache in my gut sends a vicious snaking sensation through my limbs. If I’m going to sort through all these images by location and event, then cowboy, I’m going to need a barrel of coffee.
Resigned to a long night, I throw on a coat and slide the van door open. I sit on the step and pull on my boots. Past the tree, the interior to Hadley’s Chevy is lit up. Probably getting his tip wet with some buckle bunny.
The thought wedges in my brain like a splinter under a fingernail.
I weave through the crowd until I come to the bar. A few of the faces sitting here have become familiar, but many are locals enjoying the rodeo that’s come to town. Like a dangerous, ferocious circus. Hell, we even have our own clowns in the bullfighters. At the end of the day, it’s income for the cowboys. Entertainment and revenue for the local folks.
There are worse communities to be a part of. But that brings me back to the one thing that ties me to rodeo that I wish didn’t. Evan Gallagher. Rodeo star. Reluctant father.
Deceased, leaving behind his wife and daughter to fend for themselves.
“Can I help you, hon?” A voice pulls me from my bleak reverie.
“Um, coffee, please.”
“Small or large? That’s all we got.”
“Two large, please.”
She raises a brow at me but turns back to fill two oversized foam cups with the steaming dark liquid. She pops a top on each and slides them over the bar to me. “Ten dollars, hon.”
A small EFTPOS machine appears in her hand, and I pull my wallet from my back pocket and tap my card. “Thanks.”
A curious expression drops over her face before she smiles. “Enjoy your long night.”
“Thanks again.”
Weaving my way back through the crowd, clutching my precious caffeine to my chest, I make it safely to the other side of the partygoers and round the truck hosting the band.
A dark figure leans on the back of the semi. His black hat down, fingers prized over a strand of grass between his teeth.
Original.I roll my eyes.
I’m not sure, but I’m guessing it’s Jones. Probably dropped off his one-night stand and here to find another.
I duck my head and pick up my pace, not wanting to waste a moment on someone who doesn’t want my help. Lord knows he needs it...
“Looks like you’ve got nothing but time on your hands, baby.”
The voice is all wrong.
It takes me a moment to place it.
Knox.
Shit.
